Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

After a short answer, my boss then said: ‘Good, we are on our way’, and put down the receiver.

‘Asle Bryne remembers you and has asked both of us to go over there as soon as possible,’ he said as he stood up.

I got to my feet without protest. I remembered Asle Bryne, the head of the police security service, well from my previous visits to Victoria Terrace, and was grateful that my boss was going to be there. Although it did not make the matter any less serious.

It had been a year and a half since my last visit and the head of the police security service’s office had not changed one bit. Asle Bryne was sitting behind his desk with a pipe in his mouth. He gave a brief nod, but made no attempt to shake hands.

‘So,’ he said, then disappeared behind a small cloud of smoke.

I looked at my boss, who started by saying that this conversation must be kept strictly between us.

I nodded quickly, but did not see any reaction from Asle Bryne.

My boss obviously did not expect to get one. He gave a brief and to-the-point account of the latest developments, including the eyewitness and the murder of Fredriksen’s daughter. He concluded diplomatically by saying that there was in all likelihood no link to Fredriksen’s contact with the Soviet Embassy, but the possibility could not be ruled out. There was therefore a need now to ask Bryne some questions in connection with the murder investigation.

‘I see,’ was all Asle Bryne said, and then he looked at me.

I was not sure whether he filled his pipe with more tobacco on purpose or not, but the net result was that it was even harder for me to see his facial expressions through the smoke.

I felt like I had been left out in the thin, cold air. The journey from hearing the sensational news that Fredriksen was suspected of being a spy to the office of the head of the police security service had been so short that I had barely had time to think.

I tried to feel my way forwards and asked if Fredriksen had had direct contact with the Soviet ambassador.

It was a bad start. My boss rolled his eyes, and Bryne looked even less sympathetic when he spoke.

‘Obviously the ambassador himself is never directly involved in things like this, that would be far too compromising in the event it was discovered. At various times and places, Fredriksen had contact with three different, lower-ranking diplomats this year. The pattern was suspicious – they met as if by chance at different times and places where they were unlikely to be seen. And we have found information that can only come from closed meetings of the Standing Committee on Foreign Affairs in various Russian sources after these meetings, without me being able to go into any detail. So we know that someone or other, either the Ministry of Foreign Affairs or the Standing Committee, has passed on confidential documents that could threaten national security. We do not know for certain that it was Fredriksen, but it seems natural to assume there is a link.’

I found the answer somewhat vague, but doubted that any question to follow this up would make it any clearer. So I fired a double question instead: if any of Fredriksen’s contacts had been younger women, and what they thought might be his motive for espionage.

‘No, as far as we know, he has only met with male diplomats. We have of course considered the possibility of sexual liaisons, but have no indication that that was the case. Nor have we seen evidence of any monetary transactions. His motive is one of the mysteries that it may be very hard to establish now that Fredriksen is dead. As the case stands, there seems to be no better solution than to let it die quietly along with the spy, and thank our lucky stars that the leak was stopped before it could cause even greater damage.’

Asle Bryne blew out another little cloud of smoke. He did not look in the slightest bit glad about this or, indeed, anything else. To a certain extent I could understand him. If Fredriksen really had been a spy, his death had denied the police security service a considerable and much-needed boost.

‘Was the arrest imminent at the time of his death?’ I asked, trying to be more friendly.

Bryne’s clean-shaven chin moved up and down inside the cloud of smoke. ‘Within less than twenty-four hours. How we knew that, I cannot say. We knew that Fredriksen was due to meet one of his Soviet contacts on Sunday afternoon. We hoped and believed that he would have documents with him, and were of the view that we had enough on him to make him confess when caught in such a compromising situation.’

I then asked how long they had had Fredriksen under surveillance, and what had made them start in the first place.

The question did not make Bryne any more communicative. He answered curtly it was a matter of two or three months, and he could not say what had triggered it.

I was not very satisfied with the answer. So I threw down my only trump card. ‘During my investigation of Fredriksen’s murder, I have on several occasions been followed by a man. And I apologize, but I must ask if he is doing so on behalf of the police security service?’

My boss was completely still, whereas Bryne started in his chair. ‘That is absolute nonsense, young man. I practically never comment on who we have under surveillance, but will make an exception to say that we do not have any of our highly esteemed colleagues in the Oslo police under surveillance. The incompetent fools at the military intelligence agency might decide to do that, but I can assure you that the police security service never would.’

I felt I was on thin ice, but was still not convinced. ‘The man wears a suit and hat, is around five foot nine and has one distinguishing physical feature: the little finger on his right hand is missing the top joint. Are you absolutely sure that you know nothing about him?’

I thought at first that it was a bull’s eye and that my theory that the man in the hat was working for the police security service was right after all. A twitch rippled across Bryne’s otherwise stony face and with a sudden movement he put down his pipe. Then I realized that something was not right. Bryne knitted his thick brows and looked at me with something akin to paternal sympathy. His voice was far softer and more considerate when he spoke.

‘The man you are talking about definitely has no connection whatsoever with the police security service, and is not someone I am acquainted with; I do, however, know who he is. And this strengthens our theory regarding Fredriksen and the seriousness of the matter.’

Both my boss and I stared intently at Bryne, who appeared to have regained his composure. He lit his pipe again and took a couple of thoughtful puffs before opening a drawer in his desk. From it he pulled a photograph and an index card, which he lay down on the desk between us.

‘I am guessing that this is him,’ Bryne said.

My boss looked at me. I looked at the photograph. And I replied that it was definitely him.

The man in the hat had been photographed, in his suit and hat, from the side, from a street corner. Judging by the signs in the background, the photograph had been taken in London. It was indisputably the same man that I had seen behind me in Aker Street. And it appeared that he really was not good news.

According to the index card, the man in the hat was Alexander Svasnikov, who was also known by a number of aliases. He was forty-two years old, had a PhD in languages from the University of Moscow, but had worked for the KGB since 1965, at least.

‘The man with the missing pinky joint normally changes both his first and second name whenever he is posted to a new country. Here in Norway he is called Sergey Klinkalski. Here at the security service we simply call him Doctor Death, after the still-missing Nazi doctor. Svasnikov is, of course, not a medical doctor, but rather a polyglot genius who can learn most languages in no time at all. He has been stationed at embassies in Madrid, London, Bonn and Amsterdam for short periods. And in all cases, these stays have coincided with the unsolved murders of Soviet defectors living in that country. Svasnikov has always had diplomatic immunity and none of the murders can be linked to him in any way. And after a few days he moves on. As far as we know, he has never been to any of the Nordic countries before, so since his arrival we have been wondering what brings such a shark to these cold waters. Svasnikov has never been in a country without someone dying there in the most dramatic way within the space of a few weeks.’