Anne Holt - The Blind Goddess

The police had reason to believe that the parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice was involved with, had quite possibly masterminded, a group whom they suspected of the illegal importation of narcotic substances.

“Another way of saying that the guy’s a mafia boss,” Håkon whispered in Hanne’s ear. “Now we’re getting the refined legal version!”

The shocked and excited buzz died down immediately when the commissioner resumed speaking.

“As we see it at the present time,” she said, coughing discreetly behind her hand, “as we have reason to believe, the organisation consisted of two groups. The deceased lawyer Hans E. Olsen was responsible for one, the deceased lawyer Jørgen Ulf Lavik for the other. We have reason to suspect that the under secretary directed both of them. He has been arrested and charged with the importation and distribution of unknown quantities of narcotic substances.”

She cleared her throat again, as if reluctant to continue.

“How much?” one of the journalists ventured, without getting a reply.

“He has also been charged with the murder of Hans E. Olsen.”

Now a ton of pins could have dropped unnoticed amidst the hail of questions.

“Has he confessed?”

“What grounds do you have for your suspicions?”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Have you made any seizures?”

It took nearly ten minutes to bring the meeting to order. The head of the CID kept thumping the table, and the commissioner had sat back down in her chair, pursing her lips in mute refusal to answer anything until the room was quiet again. She looked older than ever.

“Don’t see why she seems so tense,” Hanne murmured to Håkon. “She ought to be damned pleased. It’s a long time since anyone in our building has been able to claim such a triumph!”

The head of the CID finally succeeded in achieving silence.

“There’ll be an opportunity for questions after reports from the various interested parties. But not before. We ask for your patience and cooperation.”

Whether the general muttering from the journalists was an indication of assent was difficult to know. But at least the commissioner was able to continue.

“It seems that these activities have been in progress for some years. We think since 1986. It’s too early to speculate on the possible total quantities.” She coughed again.

“That cough comes on whenever she lies or feels threatened,” said Håkon sotto voce . “From the information in the attaché case, I made it fourteen kilos in all. And that was just Lavik’s half of the business!”

“I made it fifteen,” Hanne said with a grin.

The commissioner began speaking again.

“As for the particular circumstances surrounding the use of…”-her coughing now seemed almost a parody of itself-“the… use of… hmm… the profits from this illegal enterprise, I will hand over to the minister of justice himself.”

She heaved a sigh of relief as all eyes turned to the young minister. He looked as if he’d received news of his father’s collapse, his mother’s death, and his own bankruptcy all on the same day.

“Provisionally, and I repeat provisionally, it seems that some of these… some of these… hmm… profits, let’s call them, have been used for… irregular expenditure by our Military Intelligence Service.”

Everyone realised immediately why the minister of defence was also there. His presence, seated beyond the end of the table at the far left of the row of VIPs, almost as if not really belonging, had raised some eyebrows. But no one had had a chance to give the matter more thought.

It was hopeless now to try to stem the flood of questions. The head of the CID banged on the table again in an attempt to do so, but just looked increasingly impotent. The commissioner pulled herself together with a determined effort and, in a voice that was totally unexpected from so slight a figure, took command of the proceedings.

“One question at a time,” she declared. “We’re at your disposal for an hour. It’s up to you to get the most out of it.”

After a quarter of an hour most of them had a fairly good overview. The gang, or mafia, as everyone, including the VIPs on the panel, had now switched to calling it, had been organised on a strict “need to know” basis. The aim had evidently been that each one should know only his direct superior. The under secretary was thus safe from all of them except Olsen and Lavik. But this pair of subordinate officers had gradually felt over-confident, had gone too far, and adopted too active a role. There was reason to assume that they had taken considerable advantage of their unique opportunities to smuggle dope into prisons. The most effective payment method in the world. And enticement.

For a moment at least Fredrick Myhreng caused a hush to fall.

“Is it true there’s been illegal political surveillance?” he shouted from the third row.

The speakers on the podium glanced across at one another, but none of them replied-in fact they scarcely had the opportunity before Myhreng persisted doggedly:

“My information is that there’s rumoured to be near enough thirty kilos of hard drugs. That’s an absolute fortune! Has it all been appropriated by the Intelligence Service?”

The fellow wasn’t stupid. But nor was the commissioner. She stared at him for a moment.

“We have reason to believe that significant sums have been utilised by those in charge of certain surveillance operations, yes,” she said slowly.

The more enterprising of the crime reporters immediately tucked their heads in their jackets to speak into the neat little mobile phones in their inside pockets, exhorting their editors to summon their political commentators. Everything so far would have been of considerable interest for them, too, though they wouldn’t normally have expected to concern themselves with a press conference arranged by the police. But there could be widespread political repercussions when a politician of such eminence turned out to be a crook. Now that information about the use of the money had come out, it was only a matter of minutes before the first of the political commentators slipped in through the door and crept over to his colleague for a muffled briefing. He was gradually followed by another fourteen or fifteen of them. The hubbub from the crime reporters subsided, and some of them headed for the door after passing on the baton.

A flashy type from Dagsrevyen with the face of a forty-year-old but hair and clothes more befitting someone half his age held a giant microphone wrapped in winter fur towards the minister of defence.

“Who in the Intelligence Service was privy to this? How high up did the authorisation go?”

The minister wriggled in his chair and cast a pleading glance at his colleague from the Ministry of Justice. But no assistance was forthcoming.

“Well, it seems… As far as we can tell at present… Nobody knew where the money came from. Very few had any knowledge of the money at all. Further investigations are still in progress.”

The reporter from Dagsrevyen wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily.

“Do you mean, Minister, that the Intelligence Service has spent many millions on one thing or another without anyone being aware of it?”

That was exactly what the minister did mean. He waved his arms and raised his voice.

“It is important to emphasise that this was not officially sanctioned. We have no evidence to suggest that many were involved, so it’s incorrect to speak of the Intelligence Service per se in this respect. We’re talking of a few guilty individuals, and it’s those few individuals who will be called to account.”