‘That can’t be right,’ Adam said.
‘It is,’ Salhus replied. ‘It is completely correct.’
Then he too leant forwards and added: ‘These are the sightings we’ve received. But even if we take into account the usual reservations that some of them are wrong and others simply lies, it still doesn’t make sense. You’re absolutely right.’
Adam went slowly over the map again, moving from point to point. The Director General of the PST had scribbled down the times of all the observations beside the red dots.
‘This is the E6 heading towards Sweden,’ Adam said and ran his finger over Ostfold county. ‘And here is the E18 to Kristiansand. And here…’ His finger traced the route to Trondheim.
‘It’s not my area of responsibility,’ Salhus said quietly, scratching his beard. ‘I’m sure the police will sort it out. For all I know, they may have already done so. It’s pretty obvious.’
‘The whole thing’s a wild goose chase,’ Adam exclaimed. ‘It’s all just nonsense!’
‘Yes.’
Warren Scifford hadn’t said a word while Salhus was drawing and explaining. Now he picked up the map in his right hand and stared at the pearl string of sightings across the whole of southern Norway. He then queried: ‘You know the distances. Have you worked out how many Fords and women dressed in red might be involved?’
‘At least two,’ Salhus replied. ‘Probably three. It’s physically possible to get from here…’ he took the map and pointed, ‘to here within the given time frame. You could also drive between these two towns…’ his finger moved from Larvik to Hamar, ‘in three and a half hours. But it would be tight. As everyone was celebrating Norway’s national day, there wouldn’t be much traffic, so it is possible.’
‘Two groups,’ Warren Scifford muttered. ‘Probably three.’
‘Driving around Norway, making sure that they were seen,’ Adam said. ‘Why would anyone go to all that trouble? They must know that it would only be a matter of time before they were exposed.’
The light was no longer as bright. The wind had picked up and suddenly a heavy shower battered the window. A seagull perched on the windowsill. Its beady black eyes stared intently at something in the room. Then it opened its beak to screech.
‘Time,’ Salhus said loudly. ‘They wanted to waste time and create confusion.’
The seagull took off and swooped down towards the ground. It had started to hail. The hailstones were as large as peppercorns and rattled on the glass panes.
‘But everything has its positive side,’ Salhus said suddenly and with forced cheer. ‘There are several excellent pictures of the driver. Or drivers. From at least two petrol stations, from what I’ve heard. And even if the whole manoeuvre is lookalikes out for a ride, it would be very interesting to know who sent them. Ask the Chief of Police about it, Warren. As I said, this is not my business. Talk to the police. But before you go…’ Peter Salhus bit his lip and hesitated before adding: ‘Why are you actually here?’
Warren Scifford looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
‘Why did they send you?’ Salhus asked. ‘As far as I understand, you head a kind of… behavioural psychology anti-terrorist group. Is that right?’
The American nodded indifferently.
‘So you’re not a head in the FBI. You’re not head of any operative group whatsoever. But still they send-’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. We are highly operative.’
‘But I still can’t understand,’ Peter Salhus insisted and leant forwards across the desk, ‘why they didn’t send a-’
‘Well observed,’ Warren Scifford interrupted. ‘Very well observed. You do, of course, have a point.’
For the first time, Adam thought he saw something helpless in the self-assured man. His eyes wavered for a second, a pull at his mouth aged him, even made him look old. But he said nothing. The hailstorm had stopped just as abruptly as it had started.
‘So what’s the point?’ Peter Salhus asked quietly.
‘That my colleagues don’t believe the answer to this mystery lies in Norway,’ Warren Scifford replied and took a deep breath. ‘The point is that they’ve sent me because they don’t want me at home. They’re convinced that we can find the answer in the chaos of intelligence that we already have, combined with our own ongoing investigation. It is… intense. To say the least. Heavy-handed, you Europeans might say.’
He picked up the glass again, paused, then put it back down. It was empty.
‘The FBI believes that the President’s disappearance is a terrorist plot that only the US can deal with,’ he continued. ‘In that context, Norway is nothing more than a little… a very little and insignificant…’ He smiled briefly, almost apologetically, and shrugged. ‘I’m sure you understand. And as I and my men differ slightly from the top leaders in our view of what constitutes a terrorist, what terrorists are trying to achieve and…’
He stopped suddenly again. He sat up straight in the chair, smoothed down the front of his jacket, then leant forward and looked Salhus straight in the eye.
‘Internal FBI conflicts are hardly of any interest to you,’ he said. ‘And I don’t need to discuss them, either. But I’m not giving away too much when I say that the US’ main suspect in this case is unambiguous: al-Qaeda. They have money. They have a network. They have a motive. And as is well known, they have attacked us before.’
‘But not yours,’ Salhus commented.
‘What?’
‘Your suspicions are not focused on al-Qaeda.’
Warren Scifford didn’t answer. He ran his fingers through his hair. A vague scent of shampoo wafted around him.
‘You’re director general of the security services,’ he said, finally, a bit too loud. ‘What do you think?’
Now it was Peter Salhus’ turn not to say anything. He beat a rhythm on his desk with a pen.
‘I thought as much,’ Warren Scifford said.
‘I haven’t said anything.’
‘Not in as many words. But both you and I know that this is far removed from al-Qaeda. Osama bin Laden wants to spread fear, Salhus. Al-Qaeda are holy warriors, driven by a burning hate. They want spectacular scenes of absolute… terror. They are
‘Terrorism,’ Salhus said and put the pen back in a drawer, ‘is defined roughly as an illegal action where the victim of violence or threats of violence is not the main target, but a means to impact on a larger group of people. Through terror and fear, quite simply. Is kidnapping the American president not an act of terrorism? As far as I can make out from the news broadcasts…’ he nodded at the ancient TV screen, ‘terror is rife in your country right now.’
‘Or uncertainty,’ Adam said and coughed. ‘A tortuous uncertainty. Which is perhaps even worse. To me, this seems very different from what I would normally associate with terrorism. It seems more like someone…’ He held his breath, searching for the right word, as he looked at Salhus’ sketchy map of Norway, scattered with red dots. ‘Like someone is playing with us,’ he said, finally. ‘It feels like someone is taking us for a ride. Which isn’t really Osama bin Laden’s style.’
The two other men looked at him. Salhus nodded in surprise and then shrugged. He was just about to say something when Warren Scifford suddenly got up.
‘We have to go.’
Adam still felt uncomfortable when he took Salhus’ hand at the door. The American had his mobile phone pressed to his ear and was heading for the lift.
‘You’re absolutely right,’ Salhus said very quietly, in Norwegian. ‘They’re playing with us. Someone has the motive, the resources and the opportunity to take us for a ride, big time. And I’m damned if your friend over there doesn’t have an idea of who it is. If you get so much as a hint of what this is all about, contact me immediately. OK?’
Adam gave a weak nod and was astonished to discover that the Director General of the PST’s hand was cold and sweaty.
IX
