The Last Pilgrim (47 page)

At the provisional checkpoint beyond the entrance stood a Wehrmacht corporal armed with a handgun and a private holding a Schmeisser across his chest. The bored corporal waved her forward and asked for her papers. He studied them briefly, then took her purse and rummaged through it. He barely looked at her when he ordered the private to pat her down.

“Your business?” he asked. By this time, Agnes had managed to conceal her nervousness. It was as though Agnes Gerner no longer existed, had never existed.

The echo of her heels across the marble floor resounded under the high arched ceiling and meshed with the sound of quiet conversations and ringing telephones. As she stood at the reception desk of Knaben’s Oslo offices, she
was
Ms. Irene Bjørnsen from Hamar and no one else.

Without looking around the large reception area, she stated her name and her purpose for being there.

The middle-aged receptionist regarded Agnes for a few seconds with a skeptical expression, as if she wanted to let her know that it wouldn’t help to dress like a whore to get a job at this firm. Research Director Rolborg wasn’t that sort. He wasn’t like other men.

“Did you bring your papers and references?”

Agnes smiled her most trustworthy smile and pulled the folder out of her purse.

“Identification papers?”

Agnes smiled again as she shoved the papers across the counter.

“Miss,” said a voice beside her. A man was looking her straight in the eye. For a moment, she feared he could see the false pupils of glass behind the lenses of her spectacles.

“I’m sorry, miss . . .” he began, still gazing straight into her eyes. Agnes smiled at him. He blushed.

“Standing orders, miss, I assure you that . . .” He let the sentence die out and reached for her purse.

Only now did Agnes realize that the man beside her was a plainclothes security officer. For a moment she felt as though she were going to collapse onto the marble floor, but all he did was take a look inside her purse, not even bothering to rummage through it. The stiff toilet paper rubbed against her abdomen whenever she moved, but now it didn’t make her feel sick. She was glad when she got her purse back for the second time that day. The security man nodded to her, but seemed a little too interested in her eyes.

“There’s someone ahead of you,” said the receptionist, “and one person already waiting, up the stairs to the left. The name is on the door. Please have a seat. You’ll be called in by his private secretary.”

“I see,” Agnes said quietly, her body stiffening. “So the private secretary will also be present?”

“Yes,” said the receptionist in a tone that revealed her surprise that anyone would ask such a question. “Of course.”

Agnes was not prepared for this. She just hadn’t thought that far ahead. None of them had. Her perfectly crafted plan fell apart when the receptionist said, “Of course.”

Agnes hadn’t even had a chance to test-fire the pistol, and each round had to be loaded individually. And now she was supposed to kill two people.
How?
she wondered. Which one first? And a woman at that. Maybe a mother.
No . . . a Nazi,
she thought. Like her mother’s husband. Like the research director himself.

The receptionist gave her another skeptical look with her head cocked, as if Agnes were something the cat had dragged in.

“Excuse me?” Agnes said, straightening her glasses and smiling as best she could. “Where is the bathroom?”

The woman pointed to the right and then went back to reading Agnes’s papers, shaking her head as she did so. Agnes nodded to the security man, who sat in one of the visitors’ chairs to the left of the entrance. She now realized that he had simply stared at her with the same look she got from most men. She walked with assured steps toward the door of the ladies’ room, which was marked with a brass nameplate. She felt the security man’s eyes watching her back—and imagined his gaze probably moving farther down. She grasped the door handle without trembling, and once inside she rapidly scanned the tiled room. There were no feet visible in the stalls, and no other women were at the mirrors. Agnes caught sight of herself, a blue shadow, in the mirrors as she took the two steps toward the first stall by the door. When she had closed the door behind her, she stood with her back leaning against it. She again felt how hard her heart was pounding in her chest.

Just as her heartbeat began to calm down, the bathroom door opened. Automatically she held her breath. She waited as though frozen in place for the person to step inside.

The security man,
she thought.

The door closed and the sounds from outside vanished. Everything was quiet.

A woman,
Agnes thought.
Yes, it’s a woman.

Thin stiletto heels crossed the floor. Agnes pressed herself against the blue wall of the stall, which extended almost all the way up to the ceiling, and breathed through her nose. The footsteps in the restroom stopped.

It was impossible to hear anything clearly, to distinguish one sound from another. The throbbing in her head was intolerable. For a second she thought there was more than just the one woman outside the stall. Maybe it was the sound of a handbag being opened, but maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the snap of a holster—maybe the corporal outside had simply lured her into a trap, or Kaj Holt’s contact on the inside was a traitor.

A minute later the footsteps moved away slowly and disappeared out the door.

The pistol was exactly where it was supposed to be. Agnes didn’t waste any time. She replaced the lid on the large toilet tank, making so little noise she barely heard it herself. She hurried to tear the plastic off the Welrod, which suddenly felt like it was several feet long. Then she threw the plastic in the trash can and covered it with some toilet paper. She wadded up some paper towels and scattered them on top.

She studied the strange steel barrel for a few seconds. She quietly prayed to God that it still worked and that there was a round in the chamber. She opened her purse. It fit perfectly, just as Kaj Holt had said it would.

She crossed herself and left the restroom.

CHAPTER 53

Thursday, June 19, 2003

Schönefeld Airport

Berlin, Germany

Schönefeld Airport, located just outside the former East Berlin, was small and dilapidated, but Tommy Bergmann didn’t care. His mind was on other things as he flicked his cigarette butt into an overflowing ashtray outside the departures hall.

Peter Waldhorst’s last words were still ringing in his ears: “I loved her.” Why had he said that?

Bergmann stopped and set down his suitcase a few steps inside the airport terminal, right between a horde of hungover Englishmen and a young couple weeping and clutching at each other in a tight embrace.

He turned around. First once. Then again. Then he studied the screens displaying the upcoming departing flights in yellow lettering. Two police officers came strolling through the hall. Bergmann fixed his gaze on one of the cops’ holsters, then on the German shepherd who was staring with sorrowful eyes past the muzzle fastened over its snout.

He had an inexplicable feeling that Peter Waldhorst had pulled a veil over his eyes, a kind of smoke screen that made it impossible for him to see clearly.

I loved her,
Bergmann repeated to himself.
I loved her?

If Krogh had really killed Agnes Gerner, and Waldhorst . . .

He heard a voice over the PA system call out Oslo and his name.
It’s time,
he thought, glancing at his watch. How long had he actually sat at that sidewalk restaurant? Hadja had called him on his cell, but he hadn’t answered. Suddenly he could feel pressure on his bladder from the three or four beers that he’d imbibed in an attempt to think about something else. At the gate he was met with a disapproving look. The woman behind the counter glanced demonstratively at the clock.

“I’m sorry,” said Bergmann and headed for the restroom on his left.

“
Mr.
Bergmann,” she said loudly behind him.

Bergmann kept going. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if he missed his flight. Maybe it was meant to be.
I loved her,
he thought as the urinal filled up with Berlin beer.

He was studying his face in the mirror when his cell phone rang. The bags under his eyes had shrunk a little, and his skin almost seemed to have a healthy glow. Once again—probably for the last time—he heard his name over the PA system.

“What is it?” said Bergmann into the phone, heading straight past the angry flight attendant toward the gate, where the Norwegian Air flight was still waiting for him.

“We’ve gotten the search warrant for Vera Holt’s residence.”

“Not bad,” said Bergmann, standing in the aircraft door. There was no backing out now.

“We’ll do it tomorrow morning,” said Reuter.

Bergmann walked down the center aisle, momentarily enjoying being the object of every idiot’s envious interest.

“No, we’ll do it tonight,” he said. “As soon as I’ve landed.”

Reuter said nothing.

“I thought you were in such a hurry?” said Bergmann. He found his seat, dropping his carry-on in the middle of the aisle to leave the problem of stowing it to the already irritated flight attendant.

“Boarding completed,” the loudspeaker above him announced in English.

“Okay. Call me when you land,” said Reuter.

“And bring Halgeir with you,” said Bergmann.

There was a grunt from Oslo. None of them liked Halgeir Sørvaag, but he was unbeatable when it came to getting through locked doors and hitting the jackpot during searches.

“So, did you meet this Waldhorst?” Reuter asked.

The plane had already backed out of the gate and was approaching the runway. The flight attendant came marching down the aisle and gave Bergmann a withering look to indicate he had to turn off his phone.

“We’ll talk about it when I get there. I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay, but . . .” Reuter said.

“What is it?” Bergmann said with a sigh.

“Something really strange has come up. It might not be important, but . . .”

“Is there anything that isn’t strange about this case?” Bergmann said.

“We got the final report from Forensics today.”

“On Krogh?”

“No, on the three skeletons from Nordmarka.”

Bergmann sat up in his seat. “Yes?” he said softly.

“It wasn’t the maid who was buried up there in the woods.”

Goosebumps appeared on Bergmann’s bare arms.

“Not the maid? Not Johanne Caspersen?”

“For all I know,” said Reuter, “she may still be alive.”

There was a pause. Neither of them knew what to say.

Bergmann turned off his phone and put it in his pocket. Exhausted, he leaned back on the headrest as the plane taxied out to the runway. An image began to form in his mind’s eye. A girl, a woman, and a man had been found in Nordmarka, Reuter had said. The maid must have gotten away, but how? Then on an impulse he dug out the photo in his inside pocket. The picture of Waldhorst and Agnes Gerner facing each other at the table on Midsummer Eve in 1942. Next to Agnes was a dark-haired man, ten years older. Gustav Lande.

Gustav Lande! It struck him like lightning.

Lande was the man in the photo back at Waldhorst’s apartment. The man standing on the rocks. The woman beside him must have been his first wife. Obviously pregnant with the little girl who was later killed.

But why?
Bergmann wondered as the plane took off.
Why does Peter Waldhorst have a photo of Gustav Lande and his pregnant first wife?

CHAPTER 54

Friday, September 25, 1942

Knaben Molybdenum Mines, Inc.

Rosenkrantz Gate

Oslo, Norway

Her eyes were focused on the back of the two picture frames on the desk. What else would a man with an office like this have, other than photos of his wife and children?

Agnes Gerner cursed herself for allowing such a thought to enter her mind. She cautiously shifted her position on the chair, which was set at an angle in front of the desk. The stiff toilet paper felt like metal inside her panties. She grimaced, then tried to hide it behind a smile.

Seated next to her on an identical chair was Rolborg’s private secretary. Agnes took her eyes off the photographs and, clutching her purse on her lap, shifted her gaze to the woman on her right.

“So, it looks like we’ll be working together. I will be your immediate supervisor,” said the private secretary, sounding a bit nervous. She let her words die out as she turned to face Research Director Rolborg. He was reading through Agnes’s papers and didn’t look up. As he read, he grunted something to himself. His pale skin was tight across his cheekbones, like a death mask.

Agnes could tell that her own face was pale—and cold, as if she knew that this would be the death of her too. How could she have been so naïve as to think that she’d get out of this alive? There was only one way out, and that was back the way she’d come in.

For a moment she was sure she would faint. Her eyes rolled back as she thought about the director having children, three or maybe four.

“My dear, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” said the secretary, whose name Agnes couldn’t for the life of her remember, even though they’d been introduced only a few minutes before. The secretary got up to put her hand on Agnes’s shoulder. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take your coat? It’s terribly warm in here, don’t you think?”

Agnes’s whole body seemed to stop functioning for a moment. Feeling as though her heart had stopped pumping blood, she sank farther and farther into a bog, a swamp.

“Would you like a glass of water?” asked the secretary, who was not at all as Agnes had imagined her. She had kind eyes and a gentle voice with a trace of a southern Norwegian dialect. She was probably married and had children.

Agnes nodded silently toward the secretary. She was no longer thinking rationally. She was about to be overwhelmed by a surge of sentimentality, and her goal was becoming less and less clear. The job she was supposed to do now seemed impossible to carry out. She heard the secretary fill a glass with water in the bathroom that adjoined the office. She glanced over at Research Director Rolborg, whose nose was now buried in the papers of the previous candidate he’d interviewed.