`I found Casey. He's where the police choppers take off from. In the private section.' He fingered his small black moustache. `I think you ought to talk with him. We can walk. The exercise will do you good.'
Tweed blinked as they emerged into brilliant sunshine. Newman took a deep breath. The air was crisp, invigorating. As they walked he looked towards the hills rising up behind Oslo. The air had a sharp, crystalline clarity, bringing the hills covered with forest closer than they were.
`I like this place,' he said.
`The pace is slower here,' Tweed said as he trotted briskly towards the Sea King he could now see. 'There's no place in Europe like it. In some ways, you feel you're living in the nineteen-thirties. In the nicest possible way. Well, Casey, what's the position?'
`The Nordsee is approaching the entrance to Oslo Fjord. About eighty nautical miles south of the first island.'
`How long ago was that?'
`One hour. We landed here, refuelled – so we're ready for a long flight if necessary…'
`Which it might well be,' Tweed agreed.
`Then we took off again, flew back down the fjord and over the Skagerrak. Just to make sure he hadn't changed course.'
`Which he could still do,' interjected his co-pilot, Wilson. `South-west would take him out into the North Sea. And he had reduced speed a lot. For the first time since we tracked him from Lubeck.'
That was quite a speech for Wilson. And a shrewd point he'd made, Tweed was thinking.
`Has he spotted you, would you say?' he asked Casey.
`Bound to have done so by now. Not during the night – but there's so much traffic off Sweden we had to move in closer. Other choppers were around, but only one Sea King. Us.'
`Can you wait here while we drive into Oslo? Have you had a meal?'
`Easily,' Casey replied. He looked up at the sky. 'Night will be coming within a few hours. Maybe that's what he's waiting for. And we had an excellent meal at the restaurant. Go about your business, Tweed. We can wait. You can always call the airport – they know where we are.'
'I am in a rush…'
They took a cab into Oslo and Newman stared out of the window, taking in the new experience. The highway followed the upper reaches of the fjord, giving views of marinas crammed with sailing craft and the intensely blue water beyond. Arriving at the Grand Hotel on the main street, Karl Johans Gate, Tweed bustled inside, carrying his case.
Newman paid off the cab and lingered for a moment with Nield, taking in the atmosphere. Tweed had been right. The pace was slower. None of the 'must get there yesterday' frenzy of London or New York.
Karl Johans Gate stretched due west. In the distance an elegant ochre and pale grey building stood on a small hill. The Royal Palace, Newman guessed. Across a park on another street an old cream and grey tram trundled through the city. The Norwegians strolled, made way for other people. Yes, I like this place Newman thought.
Inside Tweed was questioning the chief receptionist.
`We need three rooms with baths. You can manage that? Good. I'd also like the room number of my friend, Erich Lindemann.'
`Mr Lindemann isn't staying with us. He always does when he is in Oslo…'
`You mean he checked out today?'
`No, sir. Mr Lindemann hasn't stayed with us for the past two months.'
So much for Miss Browne and her knowledge of Scandinavian languages, Tweed thought. I'll bet she can't speak a word of one of them. But, of course – Lindemann is the linguist. He wouldn't want an assistant who could understand what he was saying on the phone.
`I have another friend who is staying here. Miss Diana Chadwick.'
`Now she is with us.' The receptionist glanced over his shoulder. 'Room 736. But she's out. Her key is on the rack.'
`Don't mention I enquired when she comes back. I want to surprise her.'
Newman and Nield came inside at that moment and registered. On their way up in the elevator Tweed warned them not to unpack, to be ready for departure at a moment's notice. He had just dumped his bag in his own room when the phone rang. A Captain Palmer was waiting to see him.
`Send him up, please. And ask room service to send up two pots of coffee.'
Palmer was a tall, thin, wiry-looking Norwegian in his early thirties. Dressed in a plain grey business suit, he shook Tweed's hand warmly, sat down and crossed his legs. He had thick sandy hair, a long nose and dark observant eyes with a hint of humour in them.
`Too long since we met, Tweed. I gather this is an emergency, so let us dispense with the greetings. What can I do to help?'
`A large power cruiser is approaching the entrance to the fjord. White colour with brass trimmings. Called Nordsee. I've had it shadowed by a Sea King, now waiting at Fornebu. If I send out my chopper again it might frighten off the man aboard from heading for his ultimate destination…'
`Which is?'
`I've no idea yet. I wonder whether you could arrange for at least one police launch from Sandvika to keep an eye on the Nordsee's movements. It appears to be heading for Oslo, but I need to know any alteration in course. And discretion is the order of the day.'
Palmer shook his head. 'Not a police launch. They only patrol the fjord near Oslo. What we need is the Coastguard. They operate in the outer reaches of the fjord. I can make the call now from here. We should have one vessel watching your prey within thirty minutes. A more precise description of the Nordsee would help.'
`I'm not good on boats…'
Tweed called Newman in his room, asked him to come, and when he arrived explained what was needed. While the two men talked he phoned down to ask if Diana had arrived back. She hadn't. Palmer then took over the phone, dialled and spoke rapidly in Norwegian. He put down the receiver.
`A Coastguard vessel will be on station shortly. The commander will report to me personally by radio direct to my HQ. I will then call you if there are developments.'
`I believe you're supposed to make a report of all incidents?' Tweed remarked.
`That is so.' Palmer shook hands again and went to the door. He turned before he left. 'But then again, I often have the most extraordinary lapses of memory.'
The next few hours – while Tweed waited for Diana to come back to the hotel – were tense. Night fell and Tweed arranged a roster for dinner. While he ate with Newman and Butler Nield stayed in the reception hall, seated in a chair. The instructions Tweed gave were precise and surprised the others.
`She may already have her bag packed and try to leave when she knows I'm here. If necessary, you are to forcibly restrain her in her room. Then call me via reception.'
They ate in the Grand Cafe, attached to the hotel, a large and rather old-fashioned place which overlooked the main street. Newman looked round, fascinated by the other diners. He'd noticed some of them at their tables an hour earlier. He remarked on the fact to Tweed, who sat gently drumming his fingers.
`Yes,' Tweed agreed, 'it's like pre-war customs in England I've read about. Gone forever. People – the locals – come and sit here for ages talking. It's part of their way of life.'
`And you're bothered about something? Diana?'
`Diana, yes. It's getting so late. But also, no report from Palmer. Something has gone wrong. I sense it.'
'This has happened before at this stage of the game… `True. This particular game though is the most dangerous I've ever played in the whole of my career so far.'
They were about to leave the Grand Cafe when Nield appeared at the door and beckoned to Butler, who jumped up and walked over to him. They conversed briefly; Nield vanished in the direction of the entrance hall and Butler returned to their table.
`She's just collected her key and gone up in the elevator.'
`Then I'd better get up and see her.' Tweed's tone was so grim, there was a ruthless expression on his face Butler had rarely seen. Tweed stared at him. 'I'm going to grill the hell out of her. You and Pete had better come
