The Lion's Mouth (40 page)

However, all of a sudden, a touch of uncertainty washed over him. His eyes wandered and he toyed anxiously with his cigarette.

“Our analysts claim that it is exceptionally damaging for Pharmamed that this vaccine case has leaked out. Not so much because the company may be held accountable – it’s likely that, from a legal point of view, the current company would be seen as an entirely separate entity; after privatization and all that. But there is the matter of the name.”

No one asked what he meant, even though none of them understood.

“The name Pharmamed. The company has experienced phenomenal growth since the Berlin Wall came down. Today it is
worth billions. And it is still called Pharmamed. I must admit I don’t quite understand why they can’t simply change the name, at least in a worst-case scenario, but apparently that would cost enormous sums and pose additional difficulties into the bargain. Reputable names are invaluable, I’m told. This scandal might stick to the entire company, and that would be catastrophic in such an
exceptionally
demanding industry as pharmaceuticals. So, if we keep to our original theory, regarding …”

Hermansen rubbed his face roughly; his skin became red and angry and, for the first time, he looked exhausted.

“… this matter of the shawl.”

Indicating to the Police Chief to dim the lights, he placed an acetate on the overhead projector. The sketch of the headless man behind Birgitte Volter, with the shawl over her face and a revolver directed at her temple, the one they had all seen on the very first Saturday of the investigation, suddenly took on a new meaning.

“Let us for the moment assume that we were right. The intention was not to kill Birgitte Volter. The intention was to threaten her. And what could be more effective than to—”

“To demonstrate to her that they had managed to enter her house and steal the Nagant without anyone noticing anything!”

Billy T. was almost shouting.

“But,” the Chief of Police stammered, “she had the scarf over her face! She couldn’t see the Nagant!”

The Security Service Chief looked at him with a resigned expression in his eyes.

“The perpetrator may have shown it to her first. As I said last time we looked at this drawing, this thing with the shawl was meant to frighten her even more. Viewed in the context of this theory, she was killed by accident. The intention must have been to get her either to stop or perhaps simply tone down the work of the Grinde Commission.”

“You could be right,” Billy T. said. “You could indeed be right.”

The level of noise increased as his audience turned to one another, eager to discuss the new and, to put it mildly, astounding turn the case had taken. Hermansen looked unsettled as he scanned the room, and did not seem to derive any pleasure from interrupting their chatter.

“However – and, I might almost say, unfortunately – this is not the only lead we’re following. The case took yet another remarkable turn yesterday.”

The room fell silent.

“What?” Tone-Marit Steen exclaimed. “Does it have something to do with this?”

“With the murder of Prime Minister Volter, yes. With Pharmamed, no.”

He gave a quick and concise résumé of Brage Håkonsen’s intrusion into the case. The whole story was over and done with in about seven minutes, including the crashed light aircraft that no one could yet say for certain had been an act of sabotage directed at Göran Persson, the Swedish Prime Minister; Tage Sjögren’s trip to Norway at a crucial point in time; and Brage Håkonsen’s relatively impressive store of weapons, and the fact he had in his possession cut-and-dried plans for assassination attempts on sixteen named, distinguished, Norwegian citizens, whose only apparent connection was that they either occupied an extremely high position on the social ladder or had a broadminded attitude toward immigrants.

Finally, he sighed loudly and added, “I would like to write the guy off as a romantic fool. My boys claim he’s far too cowardly to ever make a serious attempt at murder. He had the opportunity to shoot his way to freedom when he was arrested, for God’s sake; he was in a place where there were substantial piles of guns, enough to equip a respectable troop of commandos. But he didn’t dare. Nonetheless …”

He got to his feet again. He seemed stiff. Everybody was beginning to feel tired; the meeting had lasted for nearly three hours and each and every one of them was longing for coffee and a smoke.

“… he says he knows who did it. And he seems to know what he’s talking about.”

Hermansen recounted the story of how Brage Håkonsen could relate in detail how the revolver had been returned.

“In that case, he knows more than we do,” Tone-Marit asserted. “We’ve stared for hours at the video from the central post office, and it’s been impossible to find anything of interest. When they had that CCTV installed, they should have made sure the quality was good enough to be of some use!”

“So, Brage claims he knows. But he wants to make an exchange.”

“An exchange?” The Senior Public Prosecutor had not opened her mouth for the entire interminable meeting. Now there was a sudden flash from underneath the thick glasses. “Should we let him go, in exchange for a name? Out of the question.”

“In the meantime, we’ve explained to him that’s not the way our system works,” the Security Service Chief said tersely. “He knows it’s not normal practice.”

“And neither is the murder of a Prime Minister in this country,” Billy T. murmured. But he didn’t have the appetite to argue with the Senior Public Prosecutor. From bitter experience, he knew that nothing good ever came of that.

“Well, we’ll take a break now,” the Police Chief announced. “Half an hour, then we’ll sit down again and run another lap. I think it would be sensible to amalgamate Billy T.’s group with Tone-Marit’s.”

“Yesss,” Billy T. exulted, giving Tone-Marit a smacking kiss.

“Half an hour,” the Police Chief reiterated. “Not a minute longer.”

“Sometimes you really are so
childish
, Billy T.,” Tone-Marit said angrily, fiercely drying her cheek.

12.30,
PMO

S
he couldn’t settle properly. In many ways, it seemed like spreading gossip, and nothing could be more foreign to her. She had worked as secretary to the Prime Minister for eleven years, and her lifestyle reflected her responsibilities: she was quiet and circumspect, with no indulgences and a social circle smaller than most. Plenty of people had tried to pump her for information over the years – friends and acquaintances, and a journalist or two – but she was well aware of how she should conduct herself. The post had its own code of honor. Even if everybody else disregarded old-fashioned conventions, she would not betray her ideals.

The uncertainty had been painful to endure. For several days she had mulled it over, without coming any closer to a decision about what she should do. She was no longer entirely certain what had persuaded her. Perhaps it had been her friend’s genuine despair and confusion. Probably, though, it was knowing that the disloyalty she was about to disclose was many times more reprehensible than the indiscretion she would be committing by confiding everything in the Prime Minister.

Tryggve Storstein had been attentive and obliging, and had thanked her with a warmth in his voice that contrasted sharply with the discouraged, almost sorrowful expression that had crossed his face when she had stepped back through the door, still not convinced that she had done the right thing.

She liked the new Prime Minister. Of course, it was too early to say for sure, and nor did she wish to have a definite view about whether she liked her boss or not. But it was impossible not to feel
comfortable in his company. Although he could appear absent-minded, almost out of place behind the massive, curved desk where he sat with a constant frown and the fleeting, odd and embarrassed little tug on his mouth when he cleared his throat or asked her about something. Usually he fetched everything for himself. It was as though he found it awkward to have servants; he had admitted as much one day when they had bumped into each other at the coffee machine in the kitchen: “I feel so stupid when someone does this sort of thing for me. People ought to be able to make and fetch coffee for themselves.”

Her friend had actually wept. She had whispered and sobbed quietly, her flame-red nails dancing nervously like big, spot-less ladybirds across her face as she stutteringly blurted out what was on her mind. When she had approached her, it was because she too felt totally bewildered, and because Wenche Andersen was not only an old friend, but also in a position of some authority; if not formally, then at least by virtue of her experience and competence. Her friend had only worked in the Minister of Health’s office for four years. In fact, she had got the job on Wenche Andersen’s recommendation, which added to her sense of responsibility.

“He was very pleased that we told him,” she reassured her in a low voice on the phone, but she put the receiver down abruptly when one of the undersecretaries entered.

Prime Minister Storstein had explicitly asked that the episode not be mentioned to anyone else. That had been on Friday, and since then nothing had happened. Not as far as Wenche Anderson knew at any rate, and that was probably as it should be.

The phone rang again as soon as she replaced the receiver.

“Prime Minister’s office.”

It was the car leasing company. She listened attentively for several seconds.

“Put it in a plastic bag, and whatever you do, don’t touch it any more than you already have. Drive it across to the police station immediately. Ask for Tone-Marit Steen. Steen, yes. With two ‘e’s. I’ll phone and let them know you’re on your way.”

The pass. They had found Birgitte Volter’s pass. It had been lying trapped in a crevice of the seat in one of the government limousines, and had not turned up until today’s thorough vacuuming.

Wenche Andersen lifted the receiver once again to contact the pleasant young officer who had interviewed her what now seemed like eons ago. As she dialed the number, she noticed her hands. It looked as if everything but the skin had shriveled; the skin itself lay in delicate folds, but the tendons and tissue beneath appeared to have lost all their strength. As Wenche Andersen slowly stroked the back of her hand, it struck her for the first time in ages that she was growing older.

Yet again she felt that stab, the longing to turn back the clock.

13.00,
SECURITY SERVICE SECTION
,
OSLO POLICE STATION

“I
f we bring him before the court now, all hell will break loose, don’t you understand that?”

Severin Heger had never raised his voice to his boss before, but right now he was desperate.

“If this gets out, then we will have burned all our bridges! I’ve never heard of anyone managing to process a remand application without the press getting hold of it. For God’s sake, Hermansen, you’re worried enough about things leaking out downstairs in this building, but that’s
nothing
compared to what happens in a courtroom.”

The Security Service Chief began thrusting his lower jaw back and forth, making a clicking noise – a bad habit his wife thought she had managed to wean him off several years earlier. Then he
started crunching his teeth together from side to side. He was ruminating so intently that it sounded as though he might literally crack up.

“I appreciate your point,” he mumbled, tearing at a corner of the desk blotter. “But we can’t hold him without a custody order. He’s been languishing here since Saturday morning as it is, and strictly speaking, we can’t keep him beyond today.”

Severin Heger clasped his hands and tried to sit still.

“Can’t we ask one of the permanent judges?” he asked quietly. “One of the ones we usually use. And then we can process the custody hearing quietly some time late this evening, when the courthouse is empty.”

Ole Henrik Hermansen gazed at a spider constructing a beautiful abode in a corner of the ceiling by the door. The enthusiastic insect rushed to and fro, then suddenly hung in mid-air, held by a thread so gossamer-fine that it was invisible to the naked eye. A midge was battling for its life in the center of the web, to no avail, as the spider had caught sight of it and was approaching threateningly, climbing its imperceptible, self-built funicular.

“Spring will be here soon,” the Security Service Chief grunted. “I’ll see what I can arrange. We can’t choose our judges, Severin. But we can go through the documents with a fine-tooth comb. I’ll ring the Chief Justice and see what I can do with regard to the timing. Late afternoon would at least be better than now.”

“You really
must
manage to fix it,” Severin Heger said, leaving his boss’ office to prepare the paperwork.

16.03,
PMO

T
ryggve Storstein had not yet settled in to his new office. There was not a single personal item in the spacious, rectangular room overlooking the city. Not even a photograph of
his wife and children. Not even a coffee cup with “Dear Dad” or “Good Boy” on it. Even though he was entitled to both. At least, his children thought so; but the mug with “World’s Greatest Dad” in green writing on an orange background was lying inside the drawer marked “Private”. He did not feel comfortable; this did not feel like his domain. Not the office. Not the job. Not all these people running around who were supposed to be his administrative “machinery”. The office was too large, the view over the checkered clamor of the city too splendid. It made him dizzy. However, he had accepted, and he had meant it. He was the right person for this job, even though the suits so far had seemed too roomy, and he sometimes floundered, getting his wife to knot three ties in readiness for him every Sunday night. He would get used to everything. He just needed enough time. Who knew, he might even get used to nobody any longer using his first name.

“Send her in,” he muttered into the intercom when Wenche Andersen quietly declared that the Health Minister had arrived.

“Tryggve!”

Trotting determinedly across the floor toward him, she opened her arms for a hug. He avoided this by sitting down to concentrate on some insignificant papers. He did not look up until she was seated.