Anne Holt - 1222

‘ In Norway? ’

‘Souhaila Andrawes,’ I said drily. ‘One of the most wanted terrorists from the 1970s. She lived here for several years with her husband and children in a nice little apartment in Oslo before she was discovered and unmasked. And many people also feel that Mullah Krekar isn’t exactly an honoured guest in our country. But nobody has managed to dig him out yet. Not that I’m taking a stand on…’

I shrugged my shoulders instead of completing the sentence.

‘This is something completely different,’ muttered Geir, looking around for something else to drink. ‘I’m going for another beer. Do you want anything?’

I did, really. A big glass of good red wine would be wonderful.

‘Just a Farris,’ I said. ‘With ice, please.’

‘I won’t be long. Don’t go. Don’t go!’

I had no intention of going anywhere.

Geir was right. The case of Mullah Krekar was something completely different from our current situation. The only threat he posed was that he was still legally resident in Norway, many years after the first attempts to throw him out came to nothing. It was true that Mullah Krekar had given various ministers with responsibility for foreign affairs a headache, but he was hardly a danger to others. At least not in this country.

I could understand Geir’s scepticism. I was sceptical myself. But my terrorist theory was the only one that could explain this absurd mystery. The whole thing was so huge, so spectacular and so unnecessarily risky that I couldn’t imagine the Norwegian authorities going along with something like this unless…

‘You’re still here,’ said Geir, putting down the glasses before closing the door. ‘I’ve been thinking.’

And you interrupted my train of thought, I wanted to say.

I picked up my drink and felt the coldness of the glass. The ice cubes clinked delicately and the wind was now so far away that I could hear the faint hiss of the carbon dioxide.

‘You know,’ said Geir, settling down, ‘there could be something in what you say. Terrorists have more bargaining power than other prisoners. Much more. They have information about future attacks on civilian targets, about terror cells, about… And besides…’

He looked thoughtful and seemed to be examining something in the foam on the top of his beer.

‘The Americans are stupid,’ he said calmly.

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘Just imagine the dilemma that would have arisen,’ he said, addressing the air in front of him and putting down the glass of beer without having a drink, ‘if a terrorist were seized on Norwegian soil. A Norwegian terrorist blasting his way into a Norwegian embassy, for example. Or the Norwegian forces in Afghanistan having… You see what I mean!’

He was animated now, resting his elbows on his knees. His breath smelled of beer and snuff, and he thought for a few seconds before he carried on, making a point of emphasizing certain words.

‘I’m not talking about some idiot who carries out the odd attack on the synagogue in Oslo. I’m talking about a real terrorist. One that the Americans want. One they want more than anything! One who has helped to strike a blow against American interests.’

Suddenly he leaned back and folded his arms.

‘They would never have got him,’ he said in a surprisingly low voice.

‘I…’

‘They can’t have him! Norway would not be able to extradite a terrorist to the USA, however good the Americans’ reasons for putting him on trial might be. We couldn’t do it, however much we might want to. Neither we nor our closest allies for the past sixty years could do that. A tricky situation for both parties, to say the least. They would never have got him.’

‘Because they have the death penalty for terrorism,’ I said slowly.

‘Yes. Yes!’ He slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘Which means that we -’

‘The USA could promise not to make use of that law,’ I interjected. ‘Norway extradites prisoners to countries that have the death penalty as long as we receive guarantees that the death sentence will not be imposed or carried out.’

‘But they-’

‘The USA is a country we trust,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘There is no doubt that someone like… a central figure within al Qaeda, for example, would have been handed over. Al Qaeda has killed thousands of Americans. They have the right to demand it, for fuck’s sake!’

Now I was the one raising my voice. I don’t know who was most surprised, Geir or me. He smiled sweetly. Picked up his glass. Had a drink.

‘I doubt whether the Americans would have made such a promise,’ he said after an embarrassing pause. ‘And then everything immediately becomes more complicated. But let’s not fall out. This isn’t actually my main point.’

‘So what is your main point?’

With everything that had happened over the past couple of days, I had forgotten that Geir Rugholmen was a solicitor. To me he was a man of the mountains. A local hero in shabby mountain clothes, a resident of Finse.

That was the way I had come to know him.

The way I liked him.

‘I thought your speciality was property,’ I said, more sourly than I had intended.

‘That’s right,’ he said, inserting a new plug of snuff. ‘But my wife is also a solicitor. She deals with completely different issues from me.’

There was an invitation in his words. I was supposed to ask what his wife did.

‘You said you had more ideas.’

‘If we toy with the idea that you’re right,’ he said, poking at the snuff with his tongue, ‘and that there actually is a terrorist down in the cellar…’

Once he had actually spoken the words out loud, he started to laugh. His laughter was even more girlish than before. Panting, almost giggly.

‘Sorry,’ he said, raising one hand, ‘but it’s just so…’ He shook his head and swallowed, pulling himself together. ‘Well,’ he continued firmly. ‘If we really are dealing with a terrorist here, then it isn’t the Norwegian authorities he should be most afraid of, or hard-hitting interrogations, or a difficult journey over the mountains.’

I knew I was tired and I did actually have a damaged auditory nerve, but I was beginning to wonder if I was suffering from auditory hallucinations. Since the storm had abated I had been able to hear a faint rushing sound in my ears. It was as if the sound of wind and whirling snow had attached itself to my eardrum for good. But the deep, monotonous hum that I could hear far, far away had nothing to do with the weather. I swallowed and opened my mouth wide so that my ears popped. Geir didn’t appear to notice.

‘Our friend the terrorist ought to be afraid of the Americans,’ he said, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Not only do they have an ugly history when it comes to liquidations outside their own country, but they -’

‘That was during the Cold War. Everything was different during the Cold War, and we ought to be more sympathetic towards -’

‘Hanne!’

Geir slammed his fist down on the desk. The glass of beer was still half full. It fell over. He leapt to his feet and backed away to avoid getting wet.

‘Shit. Shit! What’s the matter with you?’

‘With me? I’m not the one who just knocked a glass over!’

‘Are you the American ambassador to Norway, or something? Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Haven’t you realized that the Americans literally kidnap prisoners in other countries and put them in their horrendous camps? If a terrorist really has been caught or sought refuge on Norwegian soil, then it’s the Americans he ought to be afraid of! They would go to any lengths.’

He pushed the spilt beer across the desk with his hand. It splashed onto the floor. A sweet aroma of malt and alcohol pervaded the room.