The 11th of September 2001 was marked with a black star.
Al realised that he was sweating, even though the room was chilly. His brother was still sleeping heavily. His fingers shook as he turned to the date that his mother died. When he saw what his brother had written there, he was finally certain.
His eyes rested on the writing for a few moments. Then he closed the diary and put it back in its place. His hands were steadier now and nimble. He closed the suitcase and the locks.
Just as quietly as he’d come, he tiptoed back to the door. He stood there looking at the sleeping body, as he had so many times in his childhood, watching his sleeping brother from his bed at night, when he couldn’t sleep. The memories were so vivid. After long, exhausting days in the firing line between his parents and Fayed, Ali would sit up and watch his back as it rose and fell in the other corner of their room. Sometimes he was awake for hours. Sometimes he cried quietly. All he really wanted was to understand his defiant, wronged brother, the surly, wild teenager who always made their father so angry and their mother so desperate.
Standing there by the door of the room where his brother was sleeping, Al Muffet felt as sad now as he had back then. Once upon a time he had liked Fayed. Now he realised there was nothing left between them. He didn’t know when it had happened – at what point everything had been lost.
Perhaps it was when their mother died.
He closed the door carefully behind him. He had to think. He had to find out what his brother knew about the kidnapping of Helen Lardahl Bentley.
IV
‘Anything new?’
Johanne Vik turned towards Helen Lardahl Bentley and smiled at her as she lowered the sound on the TV. ‘I’ve just turned it on. Hanne had to go to bed. Good morning, by the way. You really do look very…’
Johanne stopped and blushed, then got up. She brushed the front of her shirt with her hands. The crumbs from Ragnhild’s breakfast showered the floor.
‘Madam President,’ she said, and stopped herself from wanting to curtsy.
‘Forget the formalities,’ Helen Bentley said briskly. ‘This is what one might call an extreme situation. Call me Helen.’
Her lips were no longer as swollen and she managed to smile. She still looked battered, but the shower and clean clothes had worked wonders.
‘Is there a bucket and some detergent anywhere?’ she asked, looking around. ‘I want to try to limit… the damage in there.’
With a slim hand, she pointed to the sitting room with the red sofa.
‘Oh, that,’ Johanne said lightly. ‘You can forget that. Mary’s already done it. Some of it has to be dry-cleaned, but it’s-’
‘Mary?’ Helen Bentley repeated mechanically. ‘The housekeeper.’
Johanne nodded. The President came closer.
‘And you are? I’m sorry, last night I wasn’t quite…’
‘Johanne. Vik. Johanne Vik.’
‘Johanne,’ Helen Bentley said, holding out her hand. ‘And the little one…’
Ragnhild was sitting on the floor with a pan lid, a ladle and a box of Duplo bricks. She was making happy noises.
‘My daughter.’ Johanne smiled. ‘She’s called Ragnhild, but we generally call her Agni, because that’s what she calls herself.’
The President’s hand was dry and warm and Johanne held it just a fraction too long.
‘Is this some kind of…’ Helen Bentley looked like she was afraid of offending someone and hesitated, ‘collective?’
‘No, no. I don’t live here. My daughter and I are just visiting. For a few days.’
‘Oh, so you don’t live in Oslo?’
‘Ye-es. I live… This is Hanne Wilhelmsen’s flat. And Nefis. Hanne’s partner. Life partner, that is. She’s Turkish, and has taken Ida, their daughter, with her to Turkey to visit the grandparents. But they’re the ones who actually live here. I’m just-’
The President raised a hand and Johanne stopped talking immediately.
‘That’s fine,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘I understand. Can I watch the news with you? Do you get CNN here?’
‘Would you… like any food? I know that Mary’s already…’
‘Are you American?’ the President asked, in surprise.
There was something new in her eyes. Up until now she had had a wary, neutral expression, as if she was constantly keeping something back and that way was always on top of the situation. Even yesterday, when Mary had dragged her up from the cellar and she wasn’t able to stand upright, there was something strong and proud about her face.
But now there was a glimmer of something that could be fear, and Johanne could not understand why.
‘No,’ Johanne assured her vigorously. ‘I’m Norwegian. Completely Norwegian!’
‘But you speak American.’
‘I studied in the US. Should I get something for you? Something to eat?’
‘Let me guess,’ the President said, and the wisp of fear had vanished again. ‘Boston.’
She drawled the ‘o’ out so that it sounded more like an ‘a’.
A fleeting smile crossed Johanne’s face.
‘Well, if there isn’t a party here,’ Mary muttered as she limped in from the hall with a loaded tray in her hands. ‘Not even seven o’clock yet and we’re in full swing. Doesn’t say anything in my papers about night shifts, you know.’
The President stared at Mary with fascination as she put the tray down on the coffee table.
‘Coffee,’ said the housekeeper, pointing. ‘Pancakes. Eggs. Bacon. Milk. Orange juice. Help yourself.’
She put her hand over her mouth and whispered to Johanne: ‘I’ve seen the thing about pancakes on TV. They always eat pancakes for breakfast. Strange people.’
She shook her head, stroked Ragnhild’s hair and pottered back out into the kitchen.
‘Is this for you or me?’ the President asked and sat down by the food. ‘Actually looks like there’s enough for three here.’
‘Please eat,’ Johanne said. ‘She’ll be offended if everything’s not gone when she comes back.’
The President picked up a knife and fork. It seemed she was unsure about how to tackle the robust breakfast. She prodded a pancake that was rolled up with masses of jam and sour cream. Sugar had been sprinkled on the top.
‘What’s this?’ she asked quietly. ‘Some kind of crêpe Suzette?’
‘They’re Norwegian pancakes,’ Johanne whispered. ‘Mary thinks it’s the same kind that Americans eat for breakfast.’
‘Mmm. It’s good. Really. But very sweet. Who’s that?’
Helen Bentley nodded towards the TV screen, where a news programme from the day before was being repeated. NRK and TV2 were still broadcasting special news programmes round the clock. At around one in the morning, they turned the pile around and showed the evening’s newscasts in repeat until the first real news at half past seven.
Wencke Bencke was in the studio again. She was having an animated discussion with a retired policeman. He had set himself up as an expert on criminal cases, following a not entirely successful career as a private detective. Both of them had been ferried between the major stations in recent days and they always produced the goods.
They couldn’t stand one another.
‘She’s a… writer, in fact.’ Johanne grabbed the remote control. ‘I’ll find CNN,’ she mumbled.
The President froze. ‘Wait! Wait!’
Johanne stopped in surprise and sat there with the remote control in her hand. She looked from the President to the TV screen and back. Helen Bentley sat with her mouth open and her head cocked, deep in concentration.
‘Did that lady just say Warren Scifford?’ the President whispered.
‘What?’ Johanne turned up the volume and started to listen.
‘… and there is absolutely no reason to accuse the FBI of using illegal means,’ Wencke Bencke said. ‘As I said, I have personally met the man heading the FBI agents who are now working with the Norwegian police, Warren Scifford. He has…’