The kingdom of Norway was ready to celebrate.
A policewoman stood shivering outside a hotel in the centre of Oslo. She had been standing there all night. As discreetly as possible, she looked at her watch at steadily shorter intervals. Someone would be coming to replace her soon so she could knock off. She had managed to snatch the occasional conversation with a colleague who was posted about fifty or sixty metres away, but apart from that, the night had been interminable. For a while she had tried to pass the time by guessing who was a bodyguard. But then, at around two in the morning, the steady stream of people coming and going had stopped. As far as she could see, there was no security on the roofs. No dark, easily identifiable cars with secret agents had cruised by since the American president had been dropped off and escorted into the hotel around midnight. They were, of course, still there. She knew that, even if she was only a constable who had been sent to decorate the outside of the hotel in a newly cleaned uniform – and to get cystitis.
A cortège of cars was approaching the main entrance of the hotel. The street was normally open to all traffic, but now it was closed, with loose metal barriers creating a temporary square outside the modest entrance.
The constable opened up two of the barriers, as she had been instructed to do in advance. Then she retreated to the pavement. She edged her way towards the entrance. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of the President up close, on her way to the national-day breakfast. That would be a welcome reward for a hellish night. Not that she was usually bothered about that sort of thing, but the woman was the most powerful person in the world, after all.
No one stopped her.
Just as the first car pulled up, a man came sprinting out of the hotel door. He had a bare head and was not wearing an overcoat. He had a walkie-talkie in a holster over his shoulder, and the constable could see the top of the butt of a gun just inside his open jacket. His face was remarkably devoid of expression.
A man in a dark suit got out of the passenger seat of the first car. He was small and compact. Before he was fully out of the car, the man with the walkie-talkie, who had come to meet him, grabbed hold of his arm. They stood like this for a few seconds, the larger man with his hand on the smaller man’s arm, as they had a whispered conversation.
The small Norwegian did not have the same poker face as the American. His mouth fell open for a few seconds, before he pulled himself together and straightened up. The policewoman took a couple of tentative steps closer to the car. She still couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Four other men had come out of the hotel. One of them was having a muted conversation on a mobile phone while he stared blankly at a ghastly polished steel sculpture of a man standing waiting for a taxi. The three other agents were gesturing to someone the policewoman couldn’t see, and then, as if on command, they all looked in her direction.
‘Hey, you! Officer! You!’
The policewoman gave an uncertain smile. Then she lifted her hand and pointed to herself with a questioning expression.
‘Yes, you,’ one of the men repeated, and bounded over to her. ‘ID, please.’
She produced her police ID from her inside pocket. The man looked at the Norwegian coat of arms. Without even turning the card to check the photograph, he handed it back.
‘The main door,’ he hissed, as he turned to run back. ‘No one in, no one out. Got it?’
‘Yes, yes.’ The policewoman swallowed, wide-eyed. ‘Yes, sir!’
But the man was already too far away to hear that she had eventually remembered how to say it politely. Her colleague who been on the same night shift was also heading towards the main entrance. He had obviously been given the same instructions as she had, and seemed uncertain. All four cars in the cortège suddenly accelerated, spun out of the square and disappeared.
‘What’s going on?’ whispered the constable, positioning herself in front of the double glass doors. Her colleague looked utterly confused. ‘What the hell is going on?’
‘We’ve just got to… We’ve just got to watch this door, I think.’
‘Yeah, I realised that. But… why? What’s happened?’
An elderly lady tried to get the doors to open from inside. She was wearing a dark red coat and a funny blue hat, with white flowers around the rim. Pinned to her chest she had a 17th of May ribbon that was so long it almost touched the ground. She eventually managed to fight her way out.
‘Excuse me, ma’am. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a while.’ The policewoman gave her friendliest smile.
‘Wait?’ the woman exclaimed in a hostile voice. ‘I have to meet my daughter and granddaughter in quarter of an hour! I’ve got a place at-’
‘I’m sure it won’t be long,’ the policewoman assured her. ‘If you could just…’
‘Can I be of help?’ asked a man in a hotel uniform, as he strode quickly over from the reception desk. ‘Madam, if you’d like to come this way…’
‘Oh, say! can you seeee, by the dawn’s early liiight…’
A deep voice suddenly resounded through the morning air. The policewoman spun round. A large man in a dark coat carrying a microphone was approaching from the north-west, where the blocked road led to a parking place on the south side of the main railway station. He was followed by a brass band.
‘What so prouuudly we hailed…’
She recognised him immediately, and the musicians’ white uniforms were unmistakable as well. She suddenly remembered that, according to plan, the Sinsen Youth Brass Band and the man with the powerful voice were going to help make the President feel at home at seven thirty sharp, before she was taken to the palace for breakfast.
A roll of drums grew into a roll of thunder. The singer took a deep breath and gathered his strength for a new burst: ‘At the twilight’s last gleeeaming…’
The brass band was trying to play something that resembled a march, whereas the singer obviously preferred a more theatrical style. He was always a note or two behind, and his exaggerated movements were somewhat in contrast with the musicians’ military posture.
Madam President had still not appeared. It was a while since the cortège had driven off. The Americans had barely managed to bark out their instructions before dashing back into the hotel foyer, and were now nowhere to be seen behind the closed doors. Only the old woman with the hat was still there, fuming behind the glass. Someone had obviously immobilised the door-opener. The young policewoman was standing on her own and had no idea what to do. Her colleague had vanished without her knowing where to. She wasn’t even sure if it was right for her to take orders from a foreigner. And no one had come to relieve her, as agreed.
She should perhaps call someone.
Maybe it was the cold, or the nerves that were inevitable with such a high-profile job. Whatever the reason, the forty-strong brass band and the theatrical singer continued doggedly with their rendition of ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ on the closed road that was doubling up as an unsuccessful parade ground, with only a lone policewoman as audience.