Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

It was both exciting and frightening to stand there in a crowd of people in a public space, without knowing who I was waiting for. And it was no less exciting and no less frightening that I also had to keep my eyes peeled for a possible attack from any direction. I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times, without seeing anything to alarm me.

I had no idea who the person I was waiting for was, nor where he or she would come from. My guess was that it was someone I had never seen before, but I kept looking for familiar faces all the same.

I fantasized for a few seconds that Miriam herself would suddenly appear out of the crowd and throw her arms round my neck. And if she did, I told myself, I would throw her up in the air and then carry her in my arms to the Theatre Cafe for a slap-up lunch. But I realized this was nothing more than a dream.

The situation reminded me a little of what I had experienced in my flat last night. The minutes ticked slowly by to three, two, one minute to half past eleven. The difference being that at home I did not fear for my own safety, and that I had known who I was waiting for. Out here, anything was possible and the dangers were unpredictable.

It was half past eleven on the nose when I spotted her. I knew I had seen her before, but it took a couple of seconds to place her. I still could not remember her name, but I remembered very well where I had seen her. Less than twenty-four hours ago.

The interpreter from the Soviet Embassy was walking with quick, neat steps through the people on Karl Johan Street, dressed in a thin jacket, with a handbag in her right hand.

Her face was grave and focused, but she gave a careful smile when she saw me. She was no more than ten yards away, and moved faster to get out of the crowd.

I took three steps forward to meet her.

We were only three or four yards away from each other when I heard the gunshot.

The interpreter gasped and froze mid-step. She stood there swaying on one foot for a moment after the first shot. Then she fell to the ground without a sound after the second shot, which came a mere second later.

And like that, everything had changed and any sense of security was gone. A voice shouted: ‘Murder! They’re shooting!’ and suddenly people were screaming and running in all directions. I threw myself down and pulled out my pistol. I shouted: ‘I’m a policeman – who fired the shot?’ But even as I shouted I realized it was hopeless. I had not even managed to see where the shots came from. And people were running everywhere in panic and fear of their lives. I saw several hats disappearing into the sea of people, but it was impossible to tell if one of them belonged to the man who had followed me earlier in the week.

In a matter of seconds, there were only two people left who were not fleeing. I lay curled up where I had thrown myself down. The interpreter lay lifeless where she had fallen.

I feared that I would be shot myself any moment, but could not see a potential assailant with anything that resembled a gun within range. It appeared that he had used the chance to be swallowed up by the crowd and escape.

There was suddenly a movement that made me jump. It was the fallen interpreter. Her hand was reaching in my direction. Her fingers had lost hold of her bag, which was now lying beside her hand. My first worry was that it might get lost – and then that she might die.

I was instinctively wary of moving closer to the spot where she had been shot. But then, when there was no perpetrator in sight, I took the few steps needed towards her.

It looked like one bullet had hit her in the back, and the other in her cheek. There was blood in both places. Her left eye had closed, but the right was still open. She was not dead – and she recognized me.

‘Bas…’ she whispered, as soon as she recognized my face. Then her voice stopped. But her eye was still staring at me.

I put my arm around her and said: ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘Ba…’ she tried again, but her voice gave out. And at the same time, her right eye also slowly closed.

I heard a siren somewhere behind me and hoped that it was an ambulance.

Then I slipped into a peculiar timeless state. I could not say whether five seconds had passed or ten minutes when a man in white suddenly stood there beside me and asked if she was still alive. I did not remember right then that I had touched her. But I heard myself say that she had lost a lot of blood and was not conscious, but that she still had a faint pulse.

Then I took my pistol in one hand and her handbag in the other and withdrew as they lifted her up onto a stretcher and carried her into the ambulance. In my state of shock, I hoped that the interpreter would survive and be able to tell me more. And I hoped that if she did not survive, her bag could tell me something more.

It was ten past twelve. I was sitting in my office with my boss, Danielsen and the handbag.

I had told them the story and criticized myself for not having informed them where I was going. The two others were very understanding. My boss was to the point and said we could talk more about that another day. Danielsen went a bit further and said that, given the situation, he perfectly understood.

Then we looked through the handbag, but all we learned was that there was little there that was of any help. The bag contained her passport, a purse with three ten-krone notes, two one-krone coins and a photograph of an elderly couple we assumed were her parents. That was it. According to her passport, Dr Tatiana Rodionova was twenty-six years old, five foot five, unmarried and childless. She had, if her passport was to be believed, not been abroad before coming to work in Norway.

There was much to indicate that she had intended to tell me the truth about who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen and about what had happened to Miriam – and at the same time, defect. But as yet, no one knew who had shot her. And unless she survived and regained consciousness, no one could know what she had hoped to say to me.

What she had tried to say remained a mystery. The man in the hat had had several names, but as far as we knew, none of them started with ‘Bas’. As was the case with the vice-ambassador and any of the names on the embassy list.

All we had was a possible connection to the Soviet Embassy, but no means of proving that it existed or what kind of connection it was. We received a brief message from the University Hospital that the interpreter was being operated on, and was still in a critical and unstable condition.

Naturally, there were a large number of enquiries from the press about what had happened. Eyewitnesses were telling their stories, and their theories, to anyone who wanted to listen.

At twenty past twelve, my boss gave a concise summary of the situation, having first asked if I needed some hours or days off after this shocking experience. Danielsen would contact the embassy about the interpreter and lead the investigation into her attempted murder, which was connected to the abduction of Miriam.

My boss would himself first ring the prime minister’s office and then send out a press release to confirm that a Soviet citizen linked to the embassy had been seriously injured when she was shot by an unknown gunman near the National Theatre.

I should stay in the vicinity of the police station for the rest of the day, and continue my investigation into the murders of the Fredriksen father and daughter, should there be any development there.

I said that I hoped this could be an important new lead, but that I needed a bit of time to collect myself. Danielsen and my boss then left, each heading in a different direction.

I sat on my own in the office for a couple of minutes. I tried to pull myself together and reflected on the remarkable contrast between the quiet in here and the cacophony of the world outside.