The Last Pilgrim (56 page)

“Has something happened?” he asked.

“Not much happens at my age, Mr. Bergmann. Except that you have come here unannounced to conduct an interrogation.”

Bergmann was about to speak, but Waldhorst gestured dismissively. “I don’t want to have to call the police, Mr. Bergmann. May I remind you that you are a Norwegian police officer on German territory?”

Bergmann pointed to Udo Fritz, who stuck his hand between the bars of the gate and introduced himself. He then had a brief conversation with Waldhorst in German. Bergmann understood enough to realize that Fritz was practically groveling before the old officer.

“Your wife . . . Is she feeling better?” said Bergmann, stopping himself from saying anything more.

“No,” Waldhorst said quietly as he shook his head, “Gretchen isn’t doing much better, Mr. Bergmann.”

“Gretchen . . . Is she Johanne Caspersen?” he asked and then waited for a reaction.
I’ve got you now,
he thought, unconsciously rocking back on the balls of his feet, like a child who couldn’t contain his excitement.

Waldhorst shook his head and frowned, as if he really didn’t understand what Bergmann meant.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Johanne Caspersen? Who’s that?”

Bergmann tried for a conciliatory smile, but he could feel his cheeks burning. He’d intended to catch Waldhorst off guard, to expose him with this revelation. Instead, all he saw was an old man looking genuinely puzzled.

“We can come back tomorrow,” Fritz told Waldhorst. “It’s getting late.”

“All right, fine,” said Waldhorst. “I’m not in the mood to invite you in.” He turned his back to them. “Good-bye, gentlemen.”

“Vera Holt didn’t kill Krogh,” said Bergmann. “That’s why I came back here. I need your help.”

“Yes?” said Waldhorst. He stopped but did not turn around.

“Why did you say that you loved Agnes Gerner?”

“That was just a foolish remark,” said Waldhorst. “Nothing but foolishness.”

“So you didn’t mean it?”

Waldhorst turned and came back over to them, leaning his hand on the gate.

“I said what I said. I can’t very well take it back.” A brief smile appeared on his face before his expression again turned somber.

“If you loved her,” said Bergmann, “and if it’s true that Carl Oscar Krogh killed her back in 1942 . . . Are you sure that the newspaper reports about the discovery in Nordmarka didn’t have a strong effect on you?”

Waldhorst’s hand trembled as he took his keys out of the pocket of his knitted jacket. For a moment he looked confused, as though wondering what to do with the keys, as if he were senile.

“Were you in Oslo during Whitsunday, Mr. Waldhorst?” asked Bergmann.

“As I told you, I haven’t been back to Oslo since 1945, Mr. Bergmann. And the last time I went abroad, it was only as far as Austria. So, if you’ll excuse me . . . But do come back tomorrow, after lunch, and I’ll try to help you.”

“I’m not leaving,” said Bergmann.

“And I have no intention of letting you come in.”

“You must have driven all the way to Oslo,” said Bergmann.

Again Waldhorst turned around and headed back toward the house.

Bergmann turned to face Udo Fritz, who threw out his hands again. That seemed to be the only thing he was capable of. He looked as if he wanted to go home as soon as possible.

“In Lillehammer, you told Kaj Holt that Krogh was the German agent,” Bergmann said to Waldhorst. He had a sudden feeling of déjà vu. He was sick and tired of people being difficult.

“The German agent!” Bergmann had to shout because Waldhorst had already reached the front steps. “Was it Krogh who killed Holt?”

Waldhorst had by now climbed the stairs. He stuck his key in the lock and shook his head. The door wasn’t locked, but apparently he’d forgotten that.

“No,” he said at last, holding on to the doorframe. The old man now looked even older, if that were possible. “Krogh was in a very difficult position . . . His father was teetering on the verge of bankruptcy, and he wanted to help him financially,” said Waldhorst. “But Krogh didn’t kill poor Kaj Holt.”

For a moment none of them spoke.

“It was the Swedes,” said Waldhorst, raising his hand to his head and running his fingers through his hair. “The Swedes killed Kaj Holt.”

“He was killed because you told him something he wanted to know,” said Bergmann.

“Only a fool runs off at the mouth,” said Waldhorst. He gasped for breath, as if talking from a distance of ten yards was nearly killing him. “If Holt had let the Swedes have their way with Krogh, he might still be alive today.”

“Krogh was a traitor. A traitor who allowed the Swedes to get rid of Holt.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Waldhorst. “Much worse. And don’t condemn him because of what happened to Holt. Krogh had no idea. Holt was his boss but also his friend, a friend he really did betray.”

“Was that why Krogh was so upset by Holt’s death?” asked Bergmann. “But his wife was sent to reinforce the idea that Holt was suicidal.”

Waldhorst smiled wanly, as if he suddenly felt sad. He came back down the steps and walked toward the gate, waving his hand. When he reached them, his face was even paler than before, and beads of sweat had formed on his forehead.

“Karen Eline Fredriksen was the mistress of Håkan Nordenstam, a Swede in what was called the C-Bureau. He was one of Kaj Holt’s best Swedish contacts.” Waldhorst fixed his eyes steadily on Bergmann to show that he was speaking the truth.

“So, was it this Nordenstam who killed Holt?” asked Bergmann.

Waldhorst shook his head.

“If there’s nothing else, I really need to rest,” he said. He leaned on the wrought-iron gate as he said something in German to Fritz. Bergmann understood only two or three words and didn’t even try to assemble them into something coherent.

“I need you to tell me if you know who killed Kaj Holt.”

“Why?” said Waldhorst. He was so pale now that Bergmann was afraid he might die right before their eyes.

“Because I might have gotten it all wrong,” said Bergmann.

“The man who killed Holt died a long time ago. There’s no point in trying to track him down. All of this is pointless, Mr. Bergmann. As for Krogh, he was like a fish you catch and then release. That’s what war is like. Everything is for sale—life, death, loyalty, truth, everything. It’s true what they say: money can buy anything. Except for doomed love.”

Waldhorst turned on his heel and once again walked back to his house. It was obvious that the old man was making an effort not to look upset. The heavy door slowly closed behind him.

“Who killed Agnes Gerner?” Bergmann shouted so loudly that it could be heard all the way down the street. He noticed the German policeman shift nervously from one foot to the other. “Who killed Agnes?” he shouted again, even louder this time. “Was it you, Mr. Waldhorst?”

CHAPTER 70

Sunday, September 27, 1942

Villa Lande

Tuengen Allé

Oslo, Norway

Agnes Gerner put her hand on the door handle but didn’t open the door. A shiver raced down her spine, but she shook it off. It was just her soaking wet clothes making her feel cold. Then the same thought occurred to her again. Why had she come back here to Villa Lande? Couldn’t she simply leave? Disappear?

But where would she go?

She heard a sound behind her and turned around. The cab had long since driven off, and the street was quiet, almost deserted.

It’s nothing,
she told herself.
Just my imagination.
There were no shadows behind the tree, no strange cars on the street. All she saw was the rain pouring down.
She had no idea why not, but she had to accept the fact that Waldhorst hadn’t followed her.

“But where?” she murmured to herself. “Where can I go?”

She didn’t know where Number 1 was. Maybe he too had been taken to Victoria Terrasse. Could she go to the apartment on Kirkeveien, to seek refuge with the old couple who lived there? The man had put his hand on her shoulder and given her hope that all of this would someday be over.

She felt her stomach knot up. Without warning, in a flash of hope, she imagined the Pilgrim helping her get to Sweden. Then in a few weeks’ time, they would meet in Stockholm. Maybe they could even celebrate Christmas together. Just the two of them. They could run away together, away from this war, this . . . It couldn’t be . . . It was a lie. Waldhorst was nothing but a liar! He had faked those papers. He was trying to tighten the noose around her neck, but he wasn’t going to get away with it.

The door opened before she pressed down on the handle. Shivering and confused like a fledgling bird, Agnes found herself staring into the face of Johanne Caspersen. She tugged a bit at her apron but didn’t say a word.

Agnes brushed past her and took off her coat, tossing it on the floor behind her as she went into the living room. The maid followed close behind, merely stepping over the discarded wet coat. Agnes continued on to the library and went inside, slamming the door behind her.

A pack of Turkish cigarettes that
Brigadeführer
Seeholz had left behind lay on the table. She shook one of the few remaining cigarettes out of the pack. It landed on the table, and she could barely manage to pick it up. She rummaged through her purse for a lighter, then sat down and stared straight ahead. What Waldhorst had said about the Pilgrim couldn’t be true. It wasn’t possible. Things like that didn’t happen to her. She wasn’t easily fooled, or she never drew the shortest straw. She’d never been like that. And she refused to let that happen now.
No,
she thought as she went over to stand by the windows and took a deep drag on the strong cigarette. Last night not a soul in this room would have believed that she was working for the Brits, so she wasn’t about to let that little
Hauptsturmführer
believe it either. Feeling numbed, almost intoxicated by the strong tobacco, she suddenly felt sure that this whole nightmare would simply pass, that she’d find a way out at the last minute. She would talk to Gustav when he came back from Berlin, and Waldhorst would find himself on the Eastern Front before he could say “Pilgrim.”

The door opened. Agnes ignored the maid.

“Aren’t you supposed to go out to Rødtangen, Ms. Gerner?” said Johanne.

“Do you think I’d go out there all alone?”

Agnes walked back through the living room and into the kitchen, with the maid following her. She sat down at the kitchen table and stared out the window at the front gate, half expecting to see Waldhorst arrive at any moment.

“No,” she told the maid. “There will be no trip to Rødtangen today.”

“Mr. Lande will not be pleased. October starts next week, and Rødtangen is always closed up before October.”

Agnes stared at the maid for what felt like several minutes.

“I am Mr. Lande’s future wife,” she heard herself say, “and I alone know whether he will be displeased or not. And if he is displeased, there are ways to please him.” She touched the ring that Gustav had given her, turning it around and around on her finger, as if it would protect her from evil—from Peter Waldhorst, who was certain to come after her once he’d collected himself. An awful thought whirled through her mind: How could Waldhorst know that she was pregnant with the Pilgrim’s child? They could have found out his code name by torturing someone who’d been arrested. They could have even found out his real name. But not the fact that she was pregnant.

She pushed the thought away.

“I am Gustav Lande’s future wife,” she whispered to herself. She repeated those words five times in a row, as if speaking them out loud might make them true. “I am Mr. Lande’s future wife.”

Johanne stared at her as if she were an animal that had strayed into the house.

“Cecilia has been looking forward to going to the woods,” she said.

The woods,
thought Agnes. It might clear her head to go out there.

“We’ll take the car up to Nordmarka instead,” she said. “A walk in the woods would do us all good.”

She went out to the front hall and picked her wet coat up off the floor. Bewildered and unable to think rationally, she stood there listlessly. How could Waldhorst know? She pictured the Pilgrim’s face, how it had grown hard over the past few months. The maid said something to her, but Agnes couldn’t make out the words. She turned to look at her. Had Johanne just said something about Waldhorst? Agnes couldn’t tell. She wasn’t hearing a single sound. She could have screamed and not even heard herself.

They stared at each other for a long moment. The maid’s lips were moving, but Agnes heard nothing. But it looked as if the maid’s lips were forming that name.

Waldhorst.

Followed by a whole sentence: “Mr. Waldhorst has asked me to keep an eye on you.”

No,
thought Agnes.
That can’t be what she said.

She turned on her heel and went up to Cecilia’s room, first stopping by her bedroom to put on a dry coat. The child was sitting by the window, leafing through a photo album full of old pictures of her mother.

Agnes noticed that her hearing had now returned. She could hear the sound of the thin album pages turning. She went over to Cecilia and stroked her hair. She said they were going to drive up to Nordmarka and take a walk in the woods. They’ll go to Rødtangen some other day.

“But it’s raining,” said Cecilia. She had stopped at one of the photographs of Gustav sitting next to his wife. It had been taken sometime in the early thirties.

“Rain is nice,” said Agnes. Only now did she notice that Lande’s wife was very pregnant in the photograph. She and Lande were sitting on a big rock, smiling at the photographer. Cecilia ran her finger over her mother’s stomach. Then she touched her mother’s face.

Cecilia must have gone downstairs, because when Agnes turned around, the little girl was no longer in the room. Agnes looked at the white walls, the bookcase, the countless porcelain dolls on the two dressers, the small canopy bed, the old teddy bear sitting on the wicker chair in the corner.