The woman at the neighbouring table shrugged.
‘Now, at least, I’ve definitely earned a rest,’ the man said, and went in search of something that might resemble a bed.
XVIII
Helen Lardahl Bentley woke up from a heavy sleep. She had no idea how long she had been out cold, but she remembered she had been sitting on the flimsy chair by the wall when the attack started. When she tried to sit up, she noticed that her right arm and shoulder had been hurt. A large bump on her temple made it difficult to open her eye.
The fall should have woken her. Maybe she had lost consciousness when she hit the floor. She must have been out of it for a long time. She couldn’t get up. Her body wouldn’t listen to her. She had to remember to breathe.
Her mind was spinning. It was impossible to focus on anything. She caught a glimpse of her daughter as a child, a little fair-haired three-year-old, the most beautiful one of all – and then she vanished. Billie was sucked into the light on the wall, which was like a deep red hole, and Helen Bentley remembered her grandma’s funeral, and the rose she had laid on the coffin; it was red, and dead, and the light was so bright that it hurt her eyes.
Breathe. Out. In.
The room was far too silent. Abnormally still. She tried to scream. All she managed was a whimper, and it was muffled, as if there was a huge pillow in the room. There was no echo from the walls.
She had to breathe. She had to breathe properly.
Time went into a vortex. She thought she could see numbers and clock faces all over the room, and she closed her eyes against the shower of arrows.
‘I want to get up,’ she shouted in a hoarse voice, and finally managed to haul herself up into a sitting position.
The leg of the chair dug into her back.
‘I do solemnly swear,’ she said and crossed her right leg over the left, ‘that I will faithfully execute…’
She twisted round. It felt as if her thigh muscles were about to explode when she finally managed to get up on to her knees. She leant her head against the wall for support, and vaguely registered that it was soft. She leaned her shoulder into the wall too, and with great effort got to her feet.
‘… the office of the President of the United States.’
She had to take a quick step to the side to avoid falling. The plastic strips had cut even deeper into her wrists. She suddenly felt light-headed, as if her skull had been emptied of everything other than the echo of her heartbeat. As she was only a few centimetres from the wall, she stayed upright.
There was only one door in the room. On the opposite wall. She had to cross the floor.
Warren had betrayed her.
She had to find out why, but her head was empty; it was impossible to think, and she had to cross the floor. The door was locked. She remembered that now. She had tried it earlier. The padded walls swallowed what little sound she managed to make, and it was impossible to open the door. But still, it was the only hope she had, because behind the door was the possibility of something else, someone else, and she had to get out of the soundless box that was about to be the death of her.
With extreme care, she put one foot in front of the other and started to cross the dark, heaving floor.
XIX
After a while, Adam Stubo started to understand why Warren Scifford had been given the nickname ‘The Chief’.
He didn’t have much in common with Geronimo. His cheekbones were high, his eyes were deep set, his nose was small and his facial hair was profuse, so that he already had a visible grey shadow. The man had been clean-shaven in the morning. His steel-grey hair fell in soft curls and the fringe was slightly too long.
‘No,’ Warren Scifford said and stopped outside the door of the Hotel Opera’s presidential suite. ‘I don’t know who the man in the CCTV footage was.’
His face was blank and his look direct, without giving away anything. There was nothing to express indignation at being asked the question, no fake or real surprise at what Adam was intimating.
‘It just seemed that way,’ Adam insisted, playing with the key. ‘It definitely looked like you knew him.’
‘Then I gave the wrong impression,’ Warren said, without so much as blinking. ‘Shall we go in?’
There had been nothing reminiscent of native Indians about the American’s outburst in the gym hall, but now he had obviously pulled himself together. He went into the suite and stood in the middle of the room, with his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a long time.
‘So we’re assuming that she was in the dirty laundry basket on the way out,’ he eventually summarised; he seemed to be talking to himself. ‘Which would mean that she was hidden away somewhere when the two agents came in at seven o’clock.’
‘Or had hidden herself away,’ Adam said.
‘What?’
‘She might have been hidden away,’ Adam explained. ‘But equally she might have hidden herself. One is more passive than the other.’
Warren wandered over to the window and stood there with his back to Adam. He leaned his shoulder nonchalantly against the window frame, as if he was admiring the view of the Oslo Fjord.
‘So you think that she might be involved in this herself in some way?’ he said suddenly, without turning. ‘That the President of the United States of America might orchestrate her own disappearance in a foreign country. I see.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Adam replied. ‘I simply suggested that there could be many explanations. That all possibilities must be kept open in an investigation like this.’
‘That can be ruled out,’ Warren said calmly. ‘Helen would never put her country in a situation like this. Never.’
‘Helen?’ Adam repeated, astonished. ‘Do you know her that well?’
‘Yes.’
Adam waited for him to explain. But he didn’t. Instead, he started to walk around the large suite, still with a saunter, still with his hands in his pockets. It was difficult to know what he was looking for, but his eyes darted here, there and everywhere.
Adam sneaked a look at his watch. It was twenty past five. He wanted to go home. He wanted to ring Johanne and find out what was going on, and not least, where she was. If he could get away soon, he might still have a chance of persuading her to come home with Ragnhild before bedtime.
‘I think we can assume that the agents only checked the room superficially before they ran out to raise the alarm,’ Adam said, in an attempt to encourage the American to be more communicative. ‘And there are lots of possible hiding places. The cupboards over there, for example. Have the men been questioned, by the way? Have they been asked what they did in here?’
Warren stopped in front of the double doors of the wardrobe, which were light oak. He didn’t open them.
‘This really is a beautifully designed room,’ he said. ‘I love the way Scandinavians use wood. And the view…’ He threw out his arm and moved over to the window again. ‘It’s magnificent. Apart from that building site down there. What’s that going to be?’
‘The opera house,’ Adam said, and took a few steps towards him. ‘Hence the name of the hotel. But listen, Warren, all this secrecy is not helping anyone. I understand that the case may have implications for the US that we might not, or cannot, understand. But-’
‘We will tell you what you need to know. Don’t worry.’
‘Cut the crap,’ Adam hissed.
Warren spun round. He flashed a smile, as if Adam’s outburst amused him.
‘Don’t underestimate us,’ Adam said, his cheeks flushed with unfamiliar rage. ‘You’d be making a mistake. Don’t underestimate me. You should know better.’
Warren shrugged and opened his mouth to say something.