Anne Holt - Death In Oslo

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.

‘Jesus, Marianne! Jesus Christ!’

The policewoman turned around. Her colleague came tearing out of a side entrance. He had lost his hat, and she adjusted the peak of her own cap as a reprimand.

‘The woman’s disappeared, Marianne.’ He was gasping for breath.

‘What?’

‘I overheard two… I just wanted to know what was going on, that’s all, and-’

‘We were told to stand here! To watch the door!’

‘I don’t need to take orders from them! They don’t have jurisdiction here. And we were supposed to knock off over half an hour ago. So I just went in there…’ he pointed frantically, ‘and the hotel staff, like, they didn’t stop me, uniform and all that, so I-’

‘Who’s disappeared?’

‘Bentley! The bloody president!’

‘Disappeared?’ she echoed in a flat voice.

‘Vanished! And no one knows where! That is… I heard two of the guys talking together and…’

He stopped and pulled out his mobile phone.

‘Who…’ Marianne stuttered, covering one of her ears: the brass band was reaching a climax. ‘Who are you calling?’

‘The papers,’ her colleague whispered. ‘We’ll get at least ten thousand kroner for this story from VG.’

She grabbed his phone from him in a flash.

‘We will not,’ she hissed. ‘We have to get hold of… to get hold of…’ She looked at the mobile phone as if it would give her the answer ‘Who should we…?’

‘… and the hooome of the braaave! ’

The song was sung. The singer gave a hesitant bow. Someone in the brass band laughed. Then there was silence.

The policewoman’s voice was uncertain and shrill. Her hand shook as she held out the phone to her colleague and continued: ‘Who… who the hell should we ring?’

The Minister of Justice’s personal assistant was alone in the office. She took three lever arch lever files from a metal cabinet in the locked archive: one yellow, one blue and one red. She laid them on the minister’s desk and then went to put on some coffee. She went to the stationery cupboard and got pens, pencils and pads for the meeting room. With a deft hand, she switched on three computers, her own, the minister’s and the Secretary General’s. She picked up a stopwatch from her desk before going back to the archive. She pushed aside one set of bookshelves without much problem. A panel with red numbers on it came into view. She started the stopwatch, then punched in a ten-figure code and checked the time. Thirty-four seconds later she punched in a new code. Stared at the stopwatch. Waited. Waited. Ninety seconds later, another code. The door opened.

She picked up the grey box and let the rest stay where it was. Then she went through an equally rigorous routine to lock everything and closed the door of the archive.

It had taken her exactly six minutes to get to the office. She and her husband had been on their way to visit a niece in Bærum to celebrate national day with egg-and-spoon races and waffles at Evje school when her mobile phone rang. As soon as she saw the number on the display, she asked her husband to turn round. He had driven her straight to the Ministry without any questions.

She was the first one there.

She sank slowly into a chair and smoothed down her hair.

Code Four, the voice on the mobile phone had said.

It could just be a practice – they had rehearsed the routines regularly for the past three years. It could of course just be a practice.

On the 17th of May?

A practice on Norway’s national day?

The PA jumped when the door burst open with a bang. The Minister of Justice walked in without greeting her. He took short, measured steps, as if he was trying to control the urge to run.

‘We’ve got procedures for situations like this,’ he said a bit too loudly. ‘Have you set everything in motion?’

He talked in the same way that he walked – staccato, tense. The PA was not sure if he was addressing her or one of the three men who came through the door behind him. She nodded, to be on the safe side.

‘Good,’ the minster said and continued to march towards his office. ‘We’ve got routines. We’re up and running. When are the Americans getting here?’

The Americans? the PA thought and felt a hot flush surge through her body. The Americans. She couldn’t help looking over at the fat file containing the correspondence in connection with Helen Bentley’s visit.

The Director General of the PST, Peter Salhus, did not follow the other three. Instead he came over to where she was sitting and held out his hand.

‘It’s been a while, Beate. I only wish it were under better circumstances.’

She got up, brushed down her skirt and took his hand.

‘I’m not quite sure…’ Her voice broke and she coughed.

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’

His hand was warm and dry. She held it for a moment too long, as if she needed the reassurance that his firm handshake could give. Then she nodded briefly.

‘Have you got the grey box?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

She handed it over to him. All communication to and from the minister’s office could be scrambled, coded and distorted with only a few extra tricks and no additional equipment. But it was seldom necessary. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been asked about it. Perhaps a conversation with the Minister of Defence – just in case. But the box was only to be used under extraordinary circumstances. It had never been necessary, other than during practices.

‘Just a couple of things…’

Salhus absent-mindedly weighed the box in his hand.

‘This is not a practice, Beate. And you must be prepared to be here for some time. But… Does anyone know that you’re here?’

‘My husband, of course. We-’

‘Don’t ring him yet. Wait as long as you can before saying anything. It will all get out pretty soon. But until then we have to use what time we have. We have called in the National Security Council, and we would like them to be in place before this…’ His smile did not reach his eyes.

‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘Shall I come in with drinks?’

‘We’ll sort that out ourselves. Over there, isn’t it?’

He grabbed the full pot of coffee.

‘There are cups, glasses and mineral water in there already,’ the PA told him.

The last thing she heard as the door closed behind the Director General of the PST was the minister’s hysterical voice: ‘We’ve got procedures for this! Has no one been able to get hold of the Prime Minister? What? Where in God’s name is the Prime Minister? We’ve got procedures!’