“Intuition is nothing more than the subconscious reworking of known facts,” he said, before he remembered where he’d heard it.
He leaned over the table.
“The man was terrified,” Adam said bitterly. “He was shocked when I turned up. I was so…”
He held his index finger and thumb a half inch apart.
“… so close to getting him to break down. Then something happened, I’m not quite sure what, but he…”
He slowly sat back in the chair.
“He somehow got a hold of himself again. I don’t know how or why. I just know that he behaved in a way that… Shit, Sigmund! You… of all people in this building should trust my instincts! The child is up there! Karsten Åsli is holding Emilie hostage and we’re pissing around with helicopters and God knows how many people and cars looking for a retard in the woods!”
Sigmund smiled, nearly shyly.
“But you can’t be sure,” he said. “You have to admit it. You can’t be completely certain. It’s not possible.”
“No,” said Adam finally. “Of course I can’t be completely certain. But find out more about this son. Please.”
Sigmund gave a quick nod and left. He left his cigar behind. Adam picked it up and studied it. Then he threw it in the wastepaper basket and remembered that he had to call the plumber in Lillestrøm. No need for Cato Sylling to make an unnecessary trip to Oslo.
Turid Sande Oksøy still had not gotten back to him. He had called three times and left a message on the answering machine.
SIXTY
Aksel Seier was sitting in the Theatercafé, staring at a beautiful open sandwich that the waiter had put on the table in front of him. He’d completely forgotten that smørbrød was an open sandwich and he wasn’t sure how to eat it. He surreptitiously glanced around. An elderly woman at the next table was using her knife and fork, even though her smørbrød was not piled as high as his. He hesitated before picking up his cutlery. The tomato fell onto the plate. He carefully removed the lettuce leaf from under the pâté. Aksel Seier didn’t like lettuce. The smørbrød was delicious. And the beer. He drank it greedily and ordered another glass.
“With pleasure,” said the waiter.
Aksel Seier tried to relax. He felt in his breast pocket. He had used a credit card twice now. It was fine. He had never possessed a credit card in his life. Cheryl at the bank had insisted. Visa and American Express. Then he would be safe, she said. She must have known what she was talking about. His Visa card was silver. “Platinum,” Cheryl whispered. “You’re rich, you know!” Normally it would take over a week to get everything straightened out, but she had managed in less than two days.
Everything happened so quickly.
He felt dizzy. But then he hadn’t slept for a day and a half. The flight had been fine, but the throbbing of the engine made it impossible to sleep. For a while at Keflavik, he thought they had arrived. When he started to look for his luggage, a nice lady in uniform had kindly guided him to the next plane. He looked at the watch that Mrs. Davis had chosen in Hyannis. Slowly he counted back six hours. It was nine o’clock in the morning in Cape Cod. The sun would be high over the sound to Nantucket Island and it was low tide. If the weather was good, you’d be able to see Monomoy stretching along the horizon to the southwest. A good day for fishing. Maybe Matt Delaware was already out in his boat.
“Anything else, sir?”
Aksel shook his head. He fumbled for his credit card, but when he finally managed to get his wallet out of his pocket, the waiter had disappeared. He would no doubt come back.
He had to try to relax.
No one was looking at him. No one recognized him.
That was what he had been most afraid of. That someone would realize who he was. He’d regretted coming back the moment he landed at Gardemoen, and more than anything else, he wanted to get on the next flight back. Cancel the sale. Move home again and take back his boat, cat, and glass soldiers. Everything would be just as before. He had a good life. Safe, at least, especially once the nightmares stopped suddenly one night in March of 1993.
Norway had changed.
People spoke differently as well. The youths sitting in front of him on the bus into Oslo spoke a language he barely understood. Everything would be fine once he was installed in the Continental. Aksel Seier could only remember the names of two good hotels in Oslo, the Grand and the Continental. The latter sounded better than the first. It was no doubt expensive, but he had money and a platinum card. When he put his American passport on the counter, the lady spoke English to him. She smiled when he answered in Norwegian. She was friendly. Everyone was friendly and the waiter here in the Theatercafé spoke the Norwegian that Aksel could remember and understand.
“Are you passing through?” asked the thin man as he put the bill on the table.
“Yes. No. Passing through.”
“Perhaps you are staying at the hotel,” said the waiter as he took the card. “I hope you have a pleasant stay. We really are heading toward summer now. Lovely.”
Aksel Seier wanted to go back to his room and sleep for a couple of hours. He had to get used to being here. Then he would go for a walk in town in the evening. He wanted to see how much he could remember. He wanted to get a feel for Norway. See if Norway recognized him. Aksel didn’t think so. It was a long time ago. He would contact Eva tomorrow. But not until tomorrow. He wanted to be well rested when he met her. He knew that she was ill and was prepared for anything.
Before he went to sleep, he would call Johanne Vik. After all, it was only three o’clock in the afternoon. She was probably still at work. Maybe she was still angry with him for just disappearing, especially as she’d come all the way to the U.S. to meet him. But she had left her card, both in the mailbox and pinned to the door.
She must still be interested in chatting, at least.
SIXTY-ONE
Johanne had a strange feeling that it was already Friday. When she left the office at two o’clock under the half-pretence that she was going to the bookstore, she had to tell herself more than once that it was still only Wednesday, June 7. At Norli’s bookstore she picked up a paperback copy of The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November, the last of Asbjørn Revheim’s six novels. Johanne thought she had read it before, but having read the first thirty pages, she realized that she must have been wrong. The book was a kind of futuristic novel, and she wasn’t sure if she actually liked it or not.
It was nearly time for the news. She turned on the TV.
Laffen Sørnes had been spotted on a main road northeast of Oslo. He was on foot. The descriptions from three separate witnesses were identical, down to the smallest detail, from his camouflage clothes to the arm in a cast. Before anyone managed to apprehend him, the fugitive had vanished into the woods again. The police were being assisted by two Finnish bear hunters. TV2 had helicopters in the area, whereas NRK, for the time being, were complying with the police’s request to stay on the ground. But they had five different teams there, none of whom really had anything to say.
Johanne shuddered as she flipped between the two channels.
The telephone rang. She managed to turn down the volume on the TV before lifting the receiver. The voice at the other end was unknown.
“Am I talking to Johanne Vik?”
“Yes…”
“I’m sorry to disturb you in the evening. My name is Unni Kongsbakken.”