new piece of information.
Every intelligence officer on the planet, every contractor who’d ever been in the business for the past twenty years, knew or at least had heard of McGarvey. The man was a legend, and legitimately a legend if only half of what was said about him was only half true.
Formidable, the thought crossed DeCamp’s mind. A professional who would be bound by his training and experience to follow certain procedures — modi operandi that had worked in the past. It was a weakness that DeCamp thought would work to his advantage. And a plan had begun to form in his mind that by morning had solidified so strongly that he had walked back to the town hall to watch the preparations for the ceremony.
The hall was closed for now, but a small crowd of curious Norwegians had gathered outside and he had mingled with them, looking for sight lines, judging angles. He dropped his wallet and turned and made his way through the crowd to the street where he stopped and looked back to see what would happen.
No one had paid him any attention, their eyes focused on the workmen and media coming and going. After the ceremony, when Dr. Larsen and the others came outside, the people waiting would be even more mesmerized.
He walked back to retrieve his wallet that had lain undisturbed where he’d dropped it, made something of a small show finding it and picking it up, even excusing himself twice, and still no one really noticed him.
Just before lunch, strolling in the city park across the street from the Grand, he’d used his Nokia encrypted cell phone to place a call to Wolfhardt in Dubai. When he got through he explained how he meant to carry out the kill.
And the German had understood at once. “You need a plausible diversion,” he’d said.
“One of Schlagel’s admirers.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Someone with a history,” DeCamp said. “A police history.”
“I have just the man. In fact he is already there in Oslo. I’ll overnight his dossier to you.”
“At the Grand, under the name Edward Grecinger.”
“Yes,” Wolfhardt said. “Suite four-oh-seven.”
And DeCamp held his anger and vulnerability with the German in check. For now. “I’ll look for it.”
Eve’s fear, which had turned into a vague sense of unease, stayed with her through breakfast and the last of the news conferences before the ceremony, these mostly with Norwegian and Swedish television and radio stations. Halfway through one of them the reporter motioned for her cameraman to interrupt filming for a moment.
“Are you feeling well, Doctor?” the reporter asked, obviously concerned.
Eve knew what the woman meant and she shook her head. “Just a little tired,” she said. “The past few weeks have been chaotic, and I think maybe I’m feeling a little jet-lagged. Sorry.”
The woman reporter smiled. “No need to apologize, Doctor. Nearly every Nobel laureate I’ve interviewed on the day of the ceremony was in the same shape. Except, of course, for Mr. Gore. But then he was a politician and quite used to the pace. May we continue?”
“Yes.” Eve had nodded, and she concentrated not only on what she was saying, but how she was speaking.
The worst part so far, she’d confided to McGarvey, was the constant stream of people wanting to meet with her, and fellow environmental scientists were even worse than the politicians and businessmen because they insisted on talking shop, mostly about new carbon dioxide capture technologies. She wanted to tell them that when her water turbines began to come online, carbon dioxide would cease to be an issue. Any trends toward global warming would come mostly from naturally occurring cyclical events. But scientists were specialists and had trouble seeing beyond their own disciplines.
The ballroom on the mezzanine had been partitioned for the last three news conferences, and Don had remained at the rear of the ornate hall during all of them, avoiding any contact with McGarvey who stood to one side where he could watch not only Eve but the closed door and, she supposed, the faces of the reporters and technicians. He was dressed in a light-colored sport coat and knowing that he carried a gun in a holster beneath the jacket didn’t help her uneasy mood. The mere fact that he needed to be here with her was bothersome. And some of that mood, she guessed, had shown on her face
An older man in a leather jacket raised his hand. Eve pointed at him and he got to his feet, his cameraman focusing on him at first.
“Thank you, Doctor Larsen. I’m Arvid Morkum, TV 2, and I would like to add my congratulations.”
Eve nodded. “Thank you,” she said. She had been introduced by Jacobsen, who’d withdrawn to the side leaving her seated alone at a small table, a single microphone in front of her.
“As I’m sure many of my colleagues were, I was impressed watching the special program on the Fox network for its succinct explanation of exactly how your World Energy Needs project will not only produce electricity but, according to your work, reduce the number and severity of tropical cyclones around the globe, as well as have a decisive effect on global warming.”
Eve forced a smile even though she suspected what was coming next. “Is there a question in there, Mr. Morkum?”
A few of the reporters twittered.
“The televangelist Jeremiah Schlagel led a demonstration outside of the television studio even while you were inside, claiming that what you are trying to accomplish goes against — the reverend’s words — God’s will. How do you feel about his crusade?”
“His is a point of view apparently not shared by the Nobel Prize committee.”
Several of the people in the audience laughed out loud, but Morkum was not amused. “Aren’t you taking the man and his message seriously?”
“Not at all.”
“Then can you explain why you have hired a former director of the Central Intelligence Agency to act as your personal bodyguard? And my follow-up question is, are we to see a repeat of the strong-arm tactics used by Mr. McGarvey at the Fox studios in Washington?”
Jacobsen, who’d been standing to one side, spoke up. “Pardon me, Mr. Morkum, but I do not believe that is a relevant question at this news conference.”
The TV 2 camera swung toward him, and then panned to McGarvey.
“I believe it is,” Morkum said. “Outside the hotel at this very moment, a small group of the Reverend Schlagel’s followers are preparing to wage a demonstration against Dr. Larsen the moment she steps out the door.” He turned to McGarvey. “Would you care to comment, sir?”
McGarvey shook his head. “No.”
“Is it true that you entered Norway on a diplomatic passport and that you carry a firearm?”
McGarvey held his silence. Everyone’s attention was on him now, and Eve had to admire his control.
“Isn’t it also true, Mr. McGarvey, that you and Dr. Larsen were together during the attack on the Hutchinson Island nuclear facility in Florida? And can you explain your presence there? Certainly it was not a coincidence.”
Jacobsen stepped forward. “This concludes today’s final news conference. I’m sure that you will all understand Dr. Larsen’s need to prepare for this evening’s ceremonies and her lecture. Press kits have been provided for your information. You will find them on a table just outside of this room. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
Morkum was protesting, but the doors were opening and most of the other reporters, rather out of politeness or not, were getting to their feet and heading away.
“I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Larsen,” Jacobsen said.
Eve looked up as McGarvey came over. “I didn’t expect anything like that,” she said.
“There will be no further trouble, I would hope,” Jacobsen said to McGarvey.
“More protest demonstrations probably,” McGarvey assured him. “But your police will keep the peace.”
“Dreadful.”
As the newspeople, including Morkum and his cameraman, were clearing out, Don came forward, scowling. “That was good,” he said.
“Dr. Larsen will remain in her suite until it’s time to leave for city hall,” McGarvey told the Nobel committee chairman. “I assume a car will pick her up.”
