`I've never been to Oslo.'
`You have a treat in store. Now for Erich Lindemann. We can take a separate cab. Speed is essential now.'
`Someone,' said Newman inside the cab on their way to the Radhuspladsen, 'is going to pinch the Sudwind.' He sounded envious. 'Superb boat. Equipped with everything. That transceiver, the most powerful Verey pistol – and did you see the fuel drums roped down at the stern?'
`I did.'
`That means the Nordsee probably has the same. They are twin vessels. Which means Dr Berlin could be heading for almost anywhere in Western Europe.'
`That had occurred to me.'
Tweed said no more until the cab dropped them at the entrance to Lindemann's HQ. It had been a short ride. He gave the driver a generous tip, glanced at the plate on the wall. Export-Import Services North. He ran up the shabby stairs, knocked on the door.
It was opened by a tall, severe-looking woman, thin, erect, in her late fifties. She didn't seem pleased to see him.
`Mr Tweed. I wasn't expecting you.'
'So I'm a pleasant surprise. This is Bob Newman. Miss Browne.'
`With an 'e',' she informed Newman, looking even less pleased. 'I suppose you'd better come in.'
`Some place we can talk privately,' Tweed said. 'And where is Lindemann?'
`I really haven't the slightest idea. The inner sanctum, I suggest…'
Inner sanctum. Tweed groaned inwardly. She really was the embodiment of an ex-senior Civil Servant. She showed him into an austere and excessively tidy room. The only objects on Lindemann's desk were two telephones. Tweed walked round the desk, sat in Lindemann's chair. He could see that didn't please her. Short of time, he decided there was only one approach.
`How long has he been away? I'm in a hurry. I need direct answers. Please. And do sit down.'
`I usually require written authority before I report on Mr Lindemann's movements..'
`I'll ask just once more, Miss Browne, then you're on the first plane back to London. How long has he been away?'
`About three to four weeks. He left almost as soon as he returned from his week's leave.'
`Left for where?'
`He didn't say. He leaves me in sole charge.'
`So you must have some way of contacting him?' Tweed was convinced she was hiding something. He had a stroke of inspiration. 'Or has he contacted you? I must know.'
`Well, yes. He called me only yesterday. To ask if there had been any developments. I said no – it seems to be quiet at the moment.'
`Where did he phone from? Don't say you don't know. You have been here a long time. You know Scandinavia well. I think you must – do – know where he called from.'
Miss Browne fiddled with her long bony fingers, clasping them in her lap. She was making up her mind. Tweed stared at her in silence, began slowly drumming his fingers on the desk.
`He didn't say where he was, but I could hear voices in the background. I know the languages now. They sounded Norwegian. When he's in Oslo he stays at the Grand Hotel. May I ask – is my position at risk?'
`Not now it isn't. And I wish to make a phone call. Could I use this phone?'
`I'll give you a line.'
Alone behind the desk, he dialled Monica's number. She, at least, sounded pleased to be talking to him. 'You must be psychic,' she said. 'Not five minutes ago Kuhlmann phoned. He wants you to call him back at this number. Still Action This Day?'
`Yesterday. I must go now. Be in touch.'
He dialled the number he had memorized, which was Lubeck-Sud. Kuhlmann came straight on the line. He sounded grim and weary. Lack of sleep.
`Tweed, the pathologist has examined what's left of Sue Templeton, that American girl. He found a lot of skin under the fingernails of her right hand. The poor girl put up a fight. Main thing is, the killer must have one hell of a scratch on his person – probably on his face. Thought you should know. Getting anywhere?'
`Thanks. And yes. Because of that, I'm in a rush.'
'OK.' Kuhlmann paused. 'Put a bullet through the bastard for me.'
`You are about to look down on the Ninth Wonder of the World,' Tweed said to Newman. 'The approach to Oslo Fjord. It's quite magnificent.'
They were flying at thirty thousand feet aboard the DC-9, Orvar Viking. At Kastrup Airport they had grabbed a late breakfast and then caught the flight by minutes. The cloud bank over Copenhagen had dissipated soon after takeoff. They flew up the west coast of Sweden.
Tweed had pointed out to Newman – and Nield who sat behind them – the Skaw, the northernmost tip of Denmark, stretching out into the Skagerrak. A flat, claw-like peninsula, it had a barren deserted look from that height. Newman peered out of the window as the machine began its long descent.
The pilot had made an announcement that the air was exceptionally clear, the view coming up rarely seen. Below on the azure blue sea Newman could make out tiny specks of white – the wakes of invisible vessels heading north. Was one of them the Nordsee, he wondered. Then he leaned closer to the window.
It was his first sighting of Norway. The most southerly of the islands guarding the entrance to the huge fjord came into view. Newman stared down, fascinated. They were like ragged-edged pieces of a jigsaw thrown down at random on to a gigantic table of blue ice.
The descent continued. The islands became larger, some covered with dense fir forest. Between them vessels plied their way northward, heading for distant Oslo. Houses began to appear on a few islands. Newman had never seen so many islands clustered together, drawn back from the main channel wending its way towards the Norwegian capital.
The aircraft flew on, dropping all the time, following the course of the fjord. Suddenly they were lost inside a cloud like fog. They were flying very low now. Newman went on staring out of the window. He stiffened as they flew out of the fog. Just below rose a whole series of hump-backed hills, range upon range. It was quite different from what he had expected.
The plane swung in a vast arc, diving inside the fog and emerging without warning. The hills, covered with dense forest, looked to be too close. The plane climbed abruptly. Then the machine descended, flew across a stretch of water. 'We're going to end up in the drink,' Newman was thinking. The wheels touched down. The airport was located at the very edge of the fjord. Newman let out a sigh of relief.
'Marvellous,' crowed Tweed.
'Bloody marvellous,' Newman agreed.
Tweed wasted no time once they reached the exit hall. He asked for chief of security, was ushered with Newman into a small square office lined with green filing cabinets and occupied by a short well-built Norwegian in a pale blue shirt and navy blue trousers who rose from behind his desk.
'I'm Iversen, chief of security. Who are you?'
'Tweed. Special Branch. From London.' He slapped down a folder on Iversen's desk. 'I need to speak urgently to Captain Georg Palmer of Norwegian Intelligence. He's out at Huseby Gardekasernen – near Roa.'
Tweed took out his notebook while Iversen checked the folder and handed it back. 'Here's the phone number,' Tweed said. 'May I?' He took a pad on the desk and wrote down the number.
'I'll talk to him first,' Iversen said, picked up the phone, dialled the number and spoke in Norwegian, then switched to English. 'Yes, sir, your description fits him perfectly. I'll put him on the line.' He held out the phone. 'I can leave you alone..
'Not necessary, thank you.' Tweed spoke into the phone. 'I am at Fornebu, as you'll now know. Just arrived. Need to talk to you, Georg. No, don't come to Fornebu. Can we meet at the Grand Hotel? In about a couple of hours from now? I have to check certain things first. Yes, I'm glad to be back. Look forward to seeing you again. 'Bye.'
He thanked Iversen and outside in the entrance hall they found Nield waiting. He gestured towards the western side of the airfield.
