mouth moved very slightly, without a sound, as he calculated something. ‘It’s only twenty-seven hours since the disappearance of the President was discovered,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘Just over twenty-seven hours. And within that time we have set up an investigation organisation that is unparalleled in this country. Oslo Police have put in all their resources, and a bit more.’
He turned up his shirt sleeves before grabbing hold of his left index finger with his right hand.
‘They are working closely with us,’ he said and shook his finger as if it was the PST he was holding on to, ‘as there is reason to believe that this case may be connected to our daily work and field of responsibility. What’s more…’ he clasped two fingers with his right hand, ‘the NCIS is heavily involved, with their specialist knowledge. Not least in terms of technical work. In other words, every man and beast that creeps and walks has been put on the job. And the staff are
‘But-’ Warren Scifford straightened his tie. He was smiling broadly now. Peter Salhus held up a hand in warning.
‘Jack Bauer will not be coming,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘His deadline passed…’ he looked at his watch again, ‘three hours ago. We will have to put our faith in good and modern, if not quite so spectacular, police work. Norwegian police work.’
The silence lasted for several seconds. Then Warren Scifford started to laugh. His laugh was warm, deep and contagious. Adam chuckled and Peter Salhus grinned.
‘And what’s more, you’re mistaken,’ he added. ‘As you will be informed at the meeting with the Chief of Police in an hour’s time, there have absolutely been developments.’
‘I see.’
‘The question is whether…’
The Director General of the PST leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. He appeared to be studying a spot on the ceiling. This went on for so long that Adam looked up to see if there really was anything there. He felt dishearteningly superfluous.
No one had actually told him what he was supposed to do. The Chief of Police had seemed distracted when he’d quickly introduced them to each other about an hour ago. He had obviously forgotten that they already knew each other, and after a few minutes, had abandoned them without giving any further instructions. Adam had the feeling that he was to function as an alibi; a piece of meat thrown to the Americans to keep them happy.
And he hadn’t had time to phone home yet.
‘The question is whether I decide to be straightforward or not,’ Peter Salhus concluded suddenly, looking the American straight in the eye and holding his gaze.
Warren did not back off.
Did not blink.
‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said at last. ‘I think I should.’
He pushed one of the glasses over to Warren Scifford. The American didn’t touch it.
‘First of all,’ Salhus said, ‘I want to stress that I have the utmost confidence in Oslo Police. Terje Bastesen has been in the force for nearly forty years, and was an officer before he became a lawyer. He can seem a bit…’ He cocked his head and searched for a suitable phrase.
‘Very Norwegian,’ Warren suggested.
‘Perhaps,’ replied the Director General of the PST, without smiling. ‘But don’t underestimate him. I think that we have to pin our hopes on the police in this case. Here at the PST we’ve spent the past twenty-four hours going through all the intelligence we received prior to the President’s visit. We have combed through every report and analysis to see if there’s anything we might have missed, something we didn’t attach importance to but that might have told us something. Something that might have warned us. And we’ve gathered all relevant information about any known groups, vague constellations, individuals throughout Europe…’
He clasped his hands behind his head.
‘Nothing. At least not at the moment.’
Warren Scifford took off his glasses and pulled a cloth from his back pocket. Slowly, almost lovingly, he polished his lenses.
‘We had something,’ he said quietly. ‘Before nine/eleven, that is. The information was there. It existed and we had it. We just didn’t pay any attention to it. The intelligence that could have saved the lives of nearly three thousand people just drowned in the great sea of information. All the…’
He put his glasses on again, without finishing his sentence.
‘That’s the way it is,’ Salhus nodded, ‘in this business. I have to admit that yesterday morning I dreaded one thing more than anything else: the moment when one of my staff came to me with some information that we’d overlooked. The piece of the jigsaw puzzle we’d put to one side because we couldn’t get it to fit. I was absolutely positive that would happen. But, until now…’ He threw open his hands, and repeated: ‘Nothing.’
Then, after a short pause, he added, pushing: ‘And what about you? Have you found anything?’
His voice was light and the question friendly. Warren responded with an imperceptible arch of the eyebrow. Then he picked up the glass of mineral water, but didn’t take a drink.
‘You said something about witnesses,’ he said and looked at Adam Stubo.
‘So, you have got something,’ Salhus commented.
Warren emptied the glass in one go. He took his time. When he had finished, he dried his mouth with a handkerchief and put the glass down. When he looked up at the Director General of the PST, his face was blank.
‘Witnesses,’ he reminded him.
‘I was trying to gain your confidence.’
‘You have my confidence.’
‘No.’
‘Yes, absolutely. In our business there’s a big difference between confidence and being loose-tongued. And you know that. The moment I see that you and your people need any of the information that we have, then you’ll be given it. You. Personally. You have my word. And right now,
Salhus got up and went over to the window. It had been a lovely morning, with bright sunshine and only a few fluffy summer clouds. But they were getting darker now and were preparing to attack from the south. He could already see a bank of rain moving up the Oslo Fjord. He stood for a while, watching the weather.
The feeling of being superfluous was so strong now that Adam considered getting up to leave. He should have phoned home long ago. When he had made his decision early that morning, he had been convinced that the only right thing to do was to follow orders. He had been seized by an uncharacteristic rage when he woke up and crept out of bed. His stomach was knotted and he couldn’t eat. Adam couldn’t remember a time when he had ever voluntarily skipped a meal. And now there were rumbles coming from under his shirt. He just wanted to leave. This case was so unlike anything he’d ever dealt with before that he had nothing to offer. If the intention was that he should shuttle Warren Scifford between various public offices in Norway, then the job was an insult.
The note he’d left for Johanne could perhaps have been friendlier.
He had to phone home as soon as possible.
‘Stubo,’ the Director General of the PST said suddenly, and turned round. ‘This is something for you.’
Adam looked up. Bewildered, he sat up straight in his chair, like a pupil who has been caught daydreaming.
‘Really?’
Peter Salhus took five minutes to tell them about the various witnesses. Around thirty people had contacted the police to report what they had seen and they all said the same thing. Two men and a woman who looked like Madam President in a blue car. Half of them thought it was a Ford. The others were only certain about the colour. But they all said that the driver of the car had made no obvious efforts to be discreet.
‘And there we have a problem,’ he concluded, and pointed at the map he had drawn.
The sketch of Norway looked like a well-worn mitten that had been hung up to dry. Peter Salhus put his pen down and crossed his arms. The two other men leant over the drawing.
