“Thanks for agreeing to see us,” Harry said.
“No one turns down a meeting with this young lady,” Jørn Glenne said with his smile still in his eyes, squeezing Harry’s hand just hard enough for it to be taken as a challenge. “But if I’d known she was going to be bringing backup...”
Kaja and Glenne laughed.
“Let’s grab a coffee,” Glenne said, putting his paddle on the table.
“What about your partner?” Kaja asked.
“My trainer, bought and paid for,” he said, showing them the way. “Connolly and I are going to be meeting up in Juba this autumn. I need to get in practice.”
“An American colleague,” Kaja explained to Harry. “They had a never-ending table-tennis tournament while we were in Kabul.”
“Fancy coming along?” Glenne asked. “I’m sure your lot could find a job for you there.”
“South Sudan?” Kaja asked. “What’s it like there now?”
“Same as before. Civil war, famine, Dinkas, Nuers, cannibalism, gang rape and more weapons than the whole of Afghanistan put together.”
“Let me think about it,” Kaja said, and Harry could see from the expression on her face that she wasn’t joking.
They got coffee in the canteen-like cafeteria and sat down at a table next to a grimy window looking out onto Bjølsen Valsemølle and the Akerselva. Jørn Glenne started speaking before Harry and Kaja had a chance to ask any questions.
“I agreed to talk to you because I fell out with Roar Bohr in Kabul. A woman was raped and murdered; she was Bohr’s personal interpreter. A Hazara woman. The Hazaras are mostly poor, simple peasants with no education. But this young woman, Hela—”
“Hala,” Kaja corrected. “It means the circle around the full moon.”
“...had taught herself English and French pretty much unaided. And she was in the process of learning Norwegian as well. Brilliant at languages. She was found right outside the house where she lived with other women who worked for the coalition and various aid agencies. Of course, you lived there too, Kaja.”
Kaja nodded.
“We suspected it was the Taliban or someone from her home district. Honour is obviously a huge thing for Sunni Muslims, and even more so for the Hazaras. The fact that she was working for us infidels, socialised with men and dressed like a Westerner may have been enough for someone to want to make an example of her.”
“I’ve heard about honour killings,” Harry said. “But honour rape?”
Glenne shrugged his shoulders. “One could have led to the other. But who knows? Bohr stopped us investigating it.”
“Really?”
“Her body was found a stone’s throw from the house where we’re responsible for security. It was basically an area that was under our control. Despite that, Bohr handed the investigation to the local Afghan police. When I objected, he pointed out that the military police, which in this case meant me and one other guy, were under his command and charged with the security of Norwegian troops in the country, and that was all. Even if he knew perfectly well that the Afghan police lacked the resources and forensic tools that we take for granted. Fingerprinting was a new-fangled concept, and DNA-testing the stuff of dreams.”
“Bohr had to consider the political implications,” Kaja said. “There was already a lot of ill will about Western forces taking too much control, and Hala was Afghan.”
“She was a Hazara,” Glenne snorted. “Bohr knew the case wouldn’t be given the same priority it would have got if she’d been a Pashtun. OK, there was a post-mortem, and they found traces of fluni-something-or-other. The stuff men put in women’s drinks if they want to rape—”
“Flunitrazepam,” Kaja said. “Also known as Rohypnol.”
“Right. And do you think any Afghan would spend money drugging a woman before he raped her?”
“Mm.”
“No, damn it, it was a foreigner!” Glenne hit the table with his hand. “And was the case ever solved? Of course not.”
“Do you think...” Harry took a sip of coffee. Tried to find an alternative, more indirect way to phrase the question, but changed his mind when he looked up and met Jørn Glenne’s gaze. “...that Roar Bohr could have been behind the murder, and made sure that the people with the least chance of catching him were given responsibility for the investigation? Is that why you wanted to talk to us?”
Glenne blinked and opened his mouth. But nothing came out.
“Listen, Jørn,” Kaja said. “We know Bohr told his wife he killed someone in Afghanistan. And I’ve talked to Jan...”
“Jan?”
“The camp instructor for Special Forces. Tall, blond...”
“Oh, him. He was crazy about you too!”
“Anyway,” Kaja said, lowering her eyes, and Harry suspected she was acting embarrassed to give the laughing Glenne what he wanted. “Jan says they have no record of any confirmed or claimed kill for Roar. As the officer in command, obviously he wasn’t on the front line much, but the fact is that he has no kills from earlier in his career when he was actually on the front line.”
“I know,” Glenne said. “Officially, Special Forces weren’t in Basra, but Bohr was there for training with an American unit. According to rumour he saw a lot of action, but still remained a virgin. And the closest he got to the action in Afghanistan was that time Sergeant Waage was taken by the Taliban.”
“Yes, that,” Kaja said.
“What was that?” Harry asked.
Glenne shrugged. “Bohr and Waage were on a long drive and stopped in the desert so the sergeant could have a shit. The sergeant went behind some rocks, and when he didn’t come back after twenty minutes and didn’t answer when he was called, Bohr said in his report that he got out of the car to look for him. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t budge.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because there’s not that fucking much that can happen in a desert. Because one or two Taliban farmers with basic rifles and a knife were sitting behind the rocks waiting for Bohr to come looking. And Bohr obviously knew that. And he was safe in the bulletproof car with open ground between him and the rocks. He knew there wouldn’t be any witnesses to prove he was lying. So he locked all the doors and called the camp. They told him it was a five-hour drive from there. Two days later an Afghan unit found a trail of blood on the pavement, several kilometres long, a few hours farther north. Sometimes the Taliban torture prisoners by dragging them behind a cart. And outside a village even farther north, a head was found on a stake stuck in the ground by the side of the road. His face had been scraped off on the pavement, but DNA analysis in Paris confirmed that it was Sergeant Waage, of course.”
“Mm.” Harry toyed with his coffee cup. “Do you think that about Bohr because you’d have done the same thing if it had been you, Glenne?”
The military police officer shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not under any illusions. We’re human, we all take the path of least resistance. But it wasn’t me.”
“So?”
“So I judge other people just as hard as I would have judged myself. And maybe Bohr did that as well. It’s tough for a commanding officer to lose any of his troops. Bohr was never the same after that, anyway.”
“So you think he raped and murdered his interpreter, but what broke him was the fact that the Taliban took his sergeant?”
Glenne shrugged again. “Like I said, I wasn’t allowed to investigate, so all I’ve got are theories.”
“And what’s your best one?”
“That the business of the rape was just a cover-up to make it look like sexually motivated murder. To get the police to look among the usual suspects and perverts. Which is a fairly thin file in Kabul.”