Death In Oslo

XX

‘I’ve got other things to take care of,’ he said and switched his phone from his right to his left hand as he got into the passenger seat of a uniformed Oslo Police car. ‘I’ve been at work since half past seven this morning, and now I’m going home.’‘You’re the best,’ the voice at the other end said. ‘You’re the best, Adam, and this is the closest we’ve come to anything concrete.’

‘No.’

Adam Stubo was completely calm when he put his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment and whispered to the driver: ‘Haugesvei 4, please. Off Maridalsveien, just before you get to Nydalen.’

‘Hello,’ the voice on the other end called.

‘I’m still here. I’m on my way home. You’ve given me the job of liaison, and I’m trying to do it to the best of my ability. It’s unprofessional, quite frankly, to then suddenly pull me into-’

‘Not at all. On the contrary, it is very professional,’ the Chief of Police, Bastesen, retorted. ‘This case demands that we use only the best people in the country at all times. Regardless of shifts, rank and overtime.’

‘But-’

‘We have of course cleared it with your bosses. You can take this as an order. Come immediately.’

Adam closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He opened them again when the driver braked suddenly at the roundabout by Oslo City. A young lad in a clapped-out Golf jumped in too fast in front of them.

‘Change of plan,’ Adam said, exhausted, and closed the conversation. ‘Drive me to the police HQ. Some people obviously think that today has not been long enough.’

There was a loud rumble. Adam patted his stomach and smiled apologetically to the driver.

‘And please stop at a petrol station,’ he added. ‘I have to eat something, a hotdog or three.’

XXI

Abdallah al-Rahman was hungry, but he still had a couple of things to do before he could have his evening meal. First he wanted to see his youngest son.

Rashid was fast asleep, with a soft horse under his arm. The boy had eventually been allowed to watch the film he had gone on about so much, and was now lying on his back with his legs wide open, his face the picture of peace. He had kicked off his blanket some time ago. His jet-black hair was getting too long. His curls lay like rivers of oil against the white silk.

Abdallah sank down on his knees and spread the blanket carefully over the boy again. He kissed him on the forehead and adjusted the horse so it would be more comfortable.

They had watched Die Hard with Bruce Willis.

The nearly twenty-year-old American film was Rashid’s favourite. None of his older brothers could understand why. For them, Die Hard was incredibly old-fashioned, with hopelessly out-of-date special effects and a hero who wasn’t even tough. But for six-year-old Rashid, the action scenes were perfect: cartoon-like and unreal and therefore not frightening. Another bonus was that in 1988, terrorists were Eastern European. They hadn’t yet become Arabs.

Abdallah looked up at the old film poster hanging above Rashid’s bed. The night light, which the boy was still allowed to keep on because he was scared of the dark, cast a reddish glow over Bruce Willis’ bruised face. It was partially covered by Nakatomi Plaza, an explosive tower of fire. The actor’s mouth was open, almost aghast, and his eyes were fixed on the unthinkable: a terrorist attack on a skyscraper.

Abdallah got up to leave. He stood for a while in the doorway. Bruce Willis’ mouth was a gaping black hole in the semi-dark. Abdallah thought he could see a yellowish-red reflection of the massive explosion in his eyes; a nascent fury.

That’s how they reacted, he thought to himself. Just like that. Thirteen years after the film was made. Shock and disbelief, helplessness and fear. And then came the anger, when American society realised that the unthinkable was now reality.

The terrorist attack on the 11th of September 2001 had been the work of madmen. Abdallah had seen that immediately. He got a distraught phone call from one of his contacts in Europe and managed to turn on the television in time to see United Airlines Flight 175 crashing into the South Tower. The North Tower was already in flames. It was just after four in the afternoon in Riyadh, and Abdallah had not been able to sit down.

For two hours he stood in front of the TV screen. When he finally pulled himself away from the news to answer some of the telephone messages that had been streaming in, he realised that the attack on the World Trade Center would be as fatal for the Arabic world as the attack on Pearl Harbor had been for the Japanese.

Abdallah closed the door to his son’s room. There was more to do before he could eat. He started to walk towards the part of the palace where his offices were, towards the east wing, where the morning sun was allowed to stream in at the start of the working day, before it got too hot.

The building was now quiet and dark. The few employees that he felt it was necessary to have out here lived in a small complex he had had built two kilometres closer to Riyadh. Only the private servants stayed in the palace after office hours. And even they had their sleeping quarters some distance from the main buildings, in the low sand-coloured houses by the gate.

Abdallah crossed the square between the two wings. The night was clear, and as always, he took time to stop by the carp pond and look at the stars. The palace was situated far enough from the city lights for the sky to look like it had been perforated by millions of white dots; some were small and sparkling, others big shining stars. He sat down on one of the low benches and felt the evening breeze against his cheeks.

Abdallah was a pragmatist when it came to religion. His family upheld the Muslim traditions, and he made sure that his sons received instruction in the Koran, as well as a rigorous academic training. He believed in the Prophet’s word; he had done his hajj and paid zakah with pride. But for him the relationship between himself and Allah was personal. He said his prayers five times a day, but not if time was short. Which it was more and more frequently, but he didn’t let it bother him. Abdallah al-Rahman was convinced that Allah, to the extent that He was bothered by such things, would have the greatest understanding of the importance of taking care of his affairs, over and above following the salah rules down to a T.

And he was strongly opposed to mixing politics and religion. To worship Allah as the only God and acknowledge the prophet Mohammad as His messenger was a spiritual matter. Politics, on the other hand – and therefore business – was not about the spirit, but about reality. In Abdallah’s opinion, the split between politics and religion was not only necessary from the point of view of politics. It was equally important, if not more so, to protect what was pure and sublime about faith from the cynical, often brutal, processes required by politics.

He was a cynic when it came to business, with no other god than himself.

When al-Qaeda launched its devastating attack on the US on the 11th of September 2001, he was just as horrified as most of the world’s six billion inhabitants.

He was appalled by the attack.

Abdallah al-Rahman saw himself as a warrior. His contempt for the US was just as potent as a terrorist’s hate for that country. And killing was a means that Abdallah accepted, and at times used. But it was to be used with precision, and only when necessary.

Arbitrary violence was always evil. He had in fact known several of those who died in Manhattan. Three of them were on his pay roll. Without knowing it, of course. Most of his American companies were owned by holding companies that in turn were affiliated with international conglomerates, which effectively concealed the actual ownership. Via the usual routes, Abdallah made sure that the families of those killed would not suffer financially. They were Americans, all of them, and they had no idea that the generous cheques they received from the deceaseds’ employers actually came from a man who was from the same country as Osama bin Laden.

Arbitrary violence was not only evil; it was also inconceivably stupid.

Abdallah had problems understanding why such an intelligent and well-educated man had become involved in