shaven in the morning. His steel-grey hair fell in soft curls and the fringe was slightly too long.
‘No,’ Warren Scifford said and stopped outside the door of the Hotel Opera’s presidential suite. ‘I don’t know who the man in the CCTV footage was.’
His face was blank and his look direct, without giving away anything. There was nothing to express indignation at being asked the question, no fake or real surprise at what Adam was intimating.
‘It just seemed that way,’ Adam insisted, playing with the key. ‘It definitely looked like you knew him.’
‘Then I gave the wrong impression,’ Warren said, without so much as blinking. ‘Shall we go in?’
There had been nothing reminiscent of native Indians about the American’s outburst in the gym hall, but now he had obviously pulled himself together. He went into the suite and stood in the middle of the room, with his hands in his pockets. He stood there for a long time.
‘So we’re assuming that she was in the dirty laundry basket on the way out,’ he eventually summarised; he seemed to be talking to himself. ‘Which would mean that she was hidden away somewhere when the two agents came in at seven o’clock.’
‘Or had hidden herself away,’ Adam said.
‘What?’
‘She might have been hidden away,’ Adam explained. ‘But equally she might have hidden herself. One is more passive than the other.’
Warren wandered over to the window and stood there with his back to Adam. He leaned his shoulder nonchalantly against the window frame, as if he was admiring the view of the Oslo Fjord.
‘So you think that she might be involved in this herself in some way?’ he said suddenly, without turning. ‘That the President of the United States of America might orchestrate her own disappearance in a foreign country. I see.’
‘I didn’t say that,’ Adam replied. ‘I simply suggested that there could be many explanations. That all possibilities must be kept open in an investigation like this.’
‘That can be ruled out,’ Warren said calmly. ‘Helen would never put her country in a situation like this. Never.’
‘Helen?’ Adam repeated, astonished. ‘Do you know her that well?’
‘Yes.’
Adam waited for him to explain. But he didn’t. Instead, he started to walk around the large suite, still with a saunter, still with his hands in his pockets. It was difficult to know what he was looking for, but his eyes darted here, there and everywhere.
Adam sneaked a look at his watch. It was twenty past five. He wanted to go home. He wanted to ring Johanne and find out what was going on, and not least, where she was. If he could get away soon, he might still have a chance of persuading her to come home with Ragnhild before bedtime.
‘I think we can assume that the agents only checked the room superficially before they ran out to raise the alarm,’ Adam said, in an attempt to encourage the American to be more communicative. ‘And there are lots of possible hiding places. The cupboards over there, for example. Have the men been questioned, by the way? Have they been asked what they did in here?’
Warren stopped in front of the double doors of the wardrobe, which were light oak. He didn’t open them.
‘This really is a beautifully designed room,’ he said. ‘I love the way Scandinavians use wood. And the view…’ He threw out his arm and moved over to the window again. ‘It’s magnificent. Apart from that building site down there. What’s that going to be?’
‘The opera house,’ Adam said, and took a few steps towards him. ‘Hence the name of the hotel. But listen, Warren, all this secrecy is not helping anyone. I understand that the case may have implications for the US that we might not, or cannot, understand. But-’
‘We will tell you what you need to know. Don’t worry.’
‘Cut the crap,’ Adam hissed.
Warren spun round. He flashed a smile, as if Adam’s outburst amused him.
‘Don’t underestimate us,’ Adam said, his cheeks flushed with unfamiliar rage. ‘You’d be making a mistake. Don’t underestimate me. You should know better.’
Warren shrugged and opened his mouth to say something.
‘You knew that man in the film,’ Adam snarled. ‘None of us who were there are in any doubt. And you don’t need to be a detective with nearly thirty years’ experience to realise that he must have been in the room all night. It’s not the President’s hiding place that you’re looking for. She could have been anywhere. Under the bed, in the wardrobe.’ Adam pointed around the room. ‘For that matter, she could have hidden herself behind the curtains. And considering the
‘They were scared,’ Warren said.
‘Who was?’
‘The agents. They haven’t said so themselves, of course. But that’s what happened. Frightened people don’t do a good job.’
‘Frightened?
Warren finally took a step back. His indifferent expression had been replaced by something that resembled scepticism. Adam interpreted it as arrogance.
‘This is not like you,’ the American said.
‘You don’t know me.’
‘I know your reputation. Why do you think I asked for you, in particular, to be my liaison?’
‘I have in fact wondered about that,’ Adam said, calmer now.
‘The Gurkhas are soldiers. Secret Service agents aren’t.’
‘Whatever,’ Adam muttered.
‘But you’re right. I do want to find out where the man in the suit might have hidden.’
‘Then in heaven’s name let’s look!’
Warren shrugged again and pointed to the adjoining room. Adam nodded and walked towards the open door. He stood for a moment and waited for Warren to go in first. The American had stopped in the middle of the floor. He was staring at a point on the ceiling.
‘The ventilation system has been checked,’ Adam said impatiently. ‘A metal grate two metres further in means that it wouldn’t be possible to get any further. And it hasn’t been tampered with.’
‘But what about this vent here?’ Warren asked, his voice getting higher as he leant his head back. ‘There are visible marks on the screw heads. Can you see?’
‘Of course there are marks,’ Adam said, standing by the door to the office of the suite. ‘The police have taken it out to see if the ventilation pipes were used as an escape.’
‘But now we know better,’ Warren said and pulled a chair over. ‘Now we’re not looking for an escape, but rather a hiding place. Isn’t that so?’
He climbed up on to the chair, carefully placed a foot on each arm and pulled out a Swiss Army knife from his jacket pocket.
‘Doesn’t the Secret Service use dogs?’ Adam asked.
‘Yes, of course.’
Warren had teased out a tiny screwdriver from the red knife.
‘Wouldn’t the dogs have reacted to the smell of a person in the ceiling?’
‘Madam President is allergic to dogs.’ Warren groaned as he started to unscrew the four screws that held the perforated metal grate in place on the ceiling. ‘The Secret Service use sniffer dogs well in advance of her arrival, so there’s enough time to vacuum afterwards. Can you give me a hand, please?’
He undid the last screw in the metal grate. It was square, and about half a metre across. He just managed to catch it when it suddenly came loose.
‘Here.’ He passed it to Adam. ‘I assume that fingerprints and the like were secured a long time ago.’
Adam nodded. Warren hopped down on to the floor with remarkable grace.
