The Last Pilgrim (28 page)

After only ten yards or so, the driver gave a resigned sigh. Agnes opened her eyes to see headlights flashing in the rearview mirror. It had been too good to be true. Her whole life flashed before her in a matter of seconds.

It’s only a car,
she told herself. But there was no doubt about it. The car was German, and it had been waiting specifically for her to get into the taxi. She suspected that it would have waited all night, in the event that she had decided to spend the night with Lande. And she had in fact considered doing just that when the effect of all the alcohol was at its height.

The headlights flashed a few more times in the rearview mirror. Agnes felt her heart lurch. Her hands were suddenly very cold as she fumbled in the dark for the tiny box inside her clutch. She took off the lid and placed the capsule in the palm of her hand. The driver pulled over, muttering to himself, “Permit, registration, ID.” Then he turned around to look at her.

“I hope you have your papers in order, miss.”

A shadow appeared on the driver’s side of the cab. A German soldier leaned down to speak to the driver. Agnes stared straight ahead, trying for a weary expression, as she held the glass capsule tightly in her right hand. Somebody tried to open the passenger door.

“Öffnen Sie bitte,”
said the soldier.

Bitte?
thought Agnes. “Please” was a strangely polite word for a soldier to use after stopping a cab in the middle of the night. The driver turned around and unlocked the door behind him.

“Danke,”
said a voice in the dark. Agnes recognized who it was and clutched the capsule even harder.

SS Brigadier Seeholz got into the cab. The driver turned around to hand over his papers.

“Nein, nein, weiter,”
said Seeholz with a wave of his hand. The driver kept his expression impassive as he faced forward and started up the engine. The cab lurched as it set off, suggesting that the driver was much more nervous than he looked.

Agnes smiled at Seeholz.

“So, it’s you,
Herr Brigadeführer
.” She quickly placed her left hand on his and tilted her head to one side. “What a pleasant surprise.”

He looked away, his expression impossible to read.

Out of the corner of her eye, Agnes saw that he was staring out the window. She and the driver briefly exchanged looks. Even in the darkness of the cab, she could see that he was frowning, uncomprehending. She relaxed her tight hold on the cyanide capsule.

“I’m a married man,” said Seeholz. “You don’t need to worry, Ms. Gerner.”

Agnes had no idea what to think. But his words, and his tone of voice, suddenly eased her concern.

They rode in silence along the darkened street with its slumbering patrician mansions on the left side and the black rails of the Holmenkollen tram line on the right.

“What number is it on Hammerstads Gate?” asked the driver, slowing down. Agnes felt her hand that was holding the capsule begin to sweat. For some reason her heart was pounding again. Maybe Seeholz had gotten into the cab to find out where she lived.

“Number twenty-four,” she told him.

Seeholz turned to look at her, nodding. Then he went back to staring at the deserted streets. Agnes silently counted to herself, like a child. She quickly counted to ten, then started over. And then again.

As the cab pulled to a stop in front of her building, Seeholz took hold of her left wrist. Her only thought was how to raise her other hand to her mouth so she could swallow the capsule.

“Be careful with Mr. Lande, Ms. Gerner,” said Seeholz. “I would hate to see him get his heart broken. He’s a very vulnerable person, so if you’re playing with him . . . Well, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

Agnes managed a strained smile.

“That’s actually all I wanted to say to you,” he said, giving her a brief, cynical smile. As if the Devil himself were sitting next to her in the dark, clearly amused.

“So this is where you live, Ms. Gerner?” Seeholz leaned forward a bit to get a better view of the building. “Let me guess. On the third floor, right?”

Her heart sank.

She tried to look surprised, as though unfazed by the situation. Judging by Seeholz’s expression, she had succeeded.

“I apologize. I like these sorts of guessing games, and you look like a girl who would live on the third floor.” Again he smiled that barely perceptible smile of his.

In a flash Agnes realized that Seeholz intended to do what she feared most. Slowly he removed his hand from hers, which was resting on the seat, and reached for her right hand. She recalled how he had kissed her hand when he left the party earlier in the evening. He was about to do it again, and if he discovered the capsule she was holding, she was dead.

God have mercy on my soul,
she thought.

Seeholz was about to touch her hand.

One last time,
she thought.
I have to look at him one last time.

“Oh, wait a moment,” he said suddenly. Instead of taking her hand, he picked up his black hat from the seat, then turned to open the door on his side.

Agnes opened her clutch and dropped the capsule inside. A second later she was sitting there pretending to look for her keys. Just as she wrapped her fingers around them, Seeholz opened the door on her side. Agnes calmly snapped closed her clutch. He took her right hand. Her fingers, which only a moment ago had held the cyanide capsule, were so sweaty they almost slid out of his grasp. Seeholz paused for a fraction of a second, like a wild animal that can smell the fear of its prey. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.

Two seconds away from death,
Agnes thought as she walked as steadily as she could toward the front entrance, certain that he was watching her. She hadn’t yet heard the car door close behind her. The street was utterly silent, as if holding its breath.

The key slipped into the lock on the first try. Agnes willed her hand not to shake, clenching her teeth almost hard enough to crack the enamel.

When she stepped inside, she almost fainted. Her high heels felt like towers under her feet, and the blood drained from her head. She stood there in the dark with her back pressed against the door, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before attempting to climb the stairs to the third floor. Seeholz would no doubt be looking for an apartment on that floor where the blackout curtains hadn’t yet been closed. A window without blackout curtains would look different even without any lights on.

With cautious, quiet steps she went upstairs. At first she wasn’t quite sure what was different about her apartment. She stood in the dark entryway and looked around. Her shoes were lined up on the floor under the hat shelf. Two coats hung on hooks, as they always did. Her hats were in their usual place. And the door to the living room stood open.

But there was something about the darkness that was different. Even with the entire city cloaked in darkness, there was always still a shimmer of light on a May night. Light that would have cast a faint glow over the floor in the entryway. Were the blackout curtains closed? Agnes was positive that she hadn’t touched them before she left. She stood motionless, listening for any sounds that might indicate someone was in the living room. Had Seeholz tricked her? Had he been toying with her?

Down in the street she heard a motorcycle start up abruptly, followed by the brigadier’s Mercedes. After the small cortege headed off, silence descended all around her.

Without making a sound, she took off her right shoe, holding on to the wall to keep her balance, and then her left. Barefoot, she moved along the wall in the entryway, cursing the Pilgrim and his boss for not giving her a gun so she could defend herself. If she’d only had a pistol, she’d be able to get out of this situation alive.

Finally she stood in the doorway to the living room. Her heart was hammering in her chest as she peered into the dark room; she noticed that the blackout curtains had indeed been drawn. Her pulse thundered so loudly in her temples and ears that she wouldn’t have been able to hear herself scream.

Who did that?
she thought.
Who could have done it?
She was suddenly aware of a familiar smell in her apartment. The faint scent of aftershave.

“Why didn’t you come?” said a voice from the dark living room.

She took a step back, momentarily afraid that the parquet floor would give way beneath her. Then she recognized the voice as reason took over, cutting through the roaring in her ears.

Agnes felt for the light switch. When the ceiling light came on, she surveyed the room—the piano, the sofa, the chair next to the bookcase—but no one was there. Then she turned to her left, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the light. There he stood, wearing a suit she’d never seen before, his hair newly cut, his skin smooth, his eyes looking rested. He gave her a mischievous smile.

“I’m happy to sit in the park,” said the Pilgrim. “But not all alone.”

“Good Lord,” said Agnes. “Carl Oscar . . .” She took a few hesitant steps forward and sank onto the sofa. “Good Lord, how you scared me.”

The Pilgrim remained standing.

“We had agreed to meet.”

“I couldn’t get hold of you. I’ve been trying for days,” she said. “Gustav Lande called me on Wednesday.”

“Lande?” The Pilgrim crossed the room and sat down on the chair.

Agnes told him everything, including the fact that Lande had invited her to his summer house for the following weekend. She’d soon have him wrapped around her little finger.

The Pilgrim got up and knelt down in front of her. He reached up to take her head in his hands and smiled.

“That’s fantastic,” he said. “
You’re
fantastic.”

And you’re crazy,
she thought.
And I’m crazy for loving you.

“You can’t come here ever again, Carl Oscar,” she said, keeping her voice so low she could hardly hear her own words. “Do you understand? Never.”

He stroked her cheek, over and over, as if she were a child in need of comforting.

“Dearest Agnes. Nothing’s going to happen,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that Number 1 was getting hysterical . . . he’s . . . I’m a little worried about him. Forget what I said, okay?”

“Carl Oscar. You need to promise you won’t come here.” Agnes caught his hand and sat up straight. She took a cigarette from a case lying on the coffee table.

“Why?” he asked.

“Just promise me.” She struck a match and stared at the flame.

He nodded.

“Say it.”

“I promise,” said Carl Oscar Krogh. “Trust me. I promise.”

“Brigadier Ernst Seeholz knows where I live. He even knows which apartment is mine.”

Agnes picked up the cigarette and ashtray and went into the bedroom. She lay down on the bed, listening to the faint sounds of the Pilgrim as he showered. She rested her hand holding the cigarette on the nightstand and covered her eyes with her left arm.
How close was I to dying?
she wondered.

By the time she awoke in the morning, the Pilgrim had already left. Only his scent lingered in the sheets. She realized that she’d once again let him come inside her. Then she turned over and went back to sleep.

She awoke much later that morning and recalled her dream of the young German on the terrace who was ostensibly the manager of a paper company. They had danced and danced, but no one else was around. She saw only a dark room with no music playing. Finally he put his hands around her neck and squeezed, harder and harder. There was something very strange about him—his elegant hands, like those of an office worker, and his oddly close-set, yet beautiful eyes.

What was his name again?

She took a piece of paper from the nightstand and found a pen in her purse.

“Peter Waldhorst,” she wrote, then crumpled up the paper and tossed it onto the floor of the bedroom.
How long are you going to play dead, waiting to make your move on me?

She looked up at the ceiling. It hadn’t been painted in years. In the farthest corner of the room, she noticed a spider web. A fly had landed in the web and was trying to break free.

Doomed,
thought Agnes.

You are doomed.

CHAPTER 34

Wednesday, June 11, 2003

Lofsrudhøgda

Mortensrud

Oslo, Norway

Tommy Bergmann pressed the intercom labeled “Torkildsen Hajd-Said.” No response.
Okay,
he thought and then slipped inside after an older Pakistani man who had a key. Maybe she hadn’t gotten home yet. He looked at his watch. It was 8:05. He paused on the third floor landing to check her message. She’d written between 8:00 and 8:30. He continued on up to the sixth floor. As he climbed the last stairs, he felt his pulse pounding harder than it ever did when he went running with Arne Drabløs.

The apartment was in the middle of the corridor. “Sara & Hadja” it said on the ceramic doorplate that Sara had probably made in school. Bergmann closed his eyes for a second before ringing the doorbell, which vibrated under his finger. He took a deep breath, and his nose suddenly filled with the unfamiliar aromas lingering in the hall from the suppers cooked by the various tenants.

He gave a start when the door opened.

Hadja stood in the doorway, dressed in a short white bathrobe. On her head was a pink towel twisted into a turban. A path of wet footprints was visible on the floor behind her, presumably leading to the bathroom. A fresh scent of soap and perfume streamed out into the corridor.

“Please forgive me,” she said and then burst out laughing. Bergmann couldn’t help laughing too. “I don’t usually open the door like this, but my replacement was late, and I had to run to the store and take a shower, and . . . well, you know.” Bergmann could see a couple of grocery bags. Two bottles of wine stuck out from a third bag.

“Could I . . . ?” Bergmann gestured toward the door.

“Oh, good Lord. Please come in,” she said, taking a few steps back. “It was my invitation, after all.”