such banal terrorism.
Abdallah knew the al-Qaeda leader well. They were about the same age and were both born in Riyadh. They moved in the same circles when they were young; a group of rich men’s sons who mixed with the innumerable princes of the house of Saud. Abdallah liked Osama. He was a friendly boy, gentle and attentive, and far less flashy than a lot of the other boys, who wallowed in their wealth and did little to look after their family fortunes that welled up in the country’s vast desert. Osama was academically gifted and bright and the two boys had often ended up in a corner having quiet discussions about philosophy and politics, religion and history.
When Abdallah’s brother died and his carefree life as the younger son was over, he lost contact with Osama. But that was probably a good thing. The man who was later to become a terrorist leader experienced a political- religious awakening towards the end of the 1970s, a process that was speeded up when the Soviet Union decided to invade Afghanistan.
They had gone their separate ways and had not seen each other since.
Abdallah got up from the bench. He stretched his arms up towards the stars and felt his muscles being fully extended. The cool evening breeze was soothing.
He wandered slowly over to the east wing.
He believed that al-Qaeda’s attack on the US was driven by pure hate, which always made him puzzle at his childhood friend’s lack of insight into the Western psyche.
Abdallah knew the limitations of hate. During his convalescence in Switzerland, following his brother’s death, he had come to understand that hate was an emotion he must never indulge in. Already then, as a sixteen-year-old, he recognised that rationality was a warrior’s most important tool, and that reason was irreconcilable with hate.
Hate only reproduced itself.
The destruction of three buildings and four planes, and the deaths of around three thousand people had unleashed a hate and fear so great that the people accepted gross misconduct on the part of their authorities.
In Abdallah’s view, the American people had willingly compromised their constitution in the hope that they would not be attacked again. They accepted tapping and arbitrary arrests, raids and surveillance to a degree that would have been unthinkable a hundred years earlier.
The Americans had closed ranks, Abdallah mused, in the way that people always close ranks against an external enemy.
He opened the big, beautiful carved door to his office. The lamp on his desk was on, and bathed the many carpets that lay on the floor in a golden light. There was a faint humming from the computer and a fragrant smell of cinnamon made him open a cupboard by the window. Here he found a newly made pot of tea, ready on a stand. The last servant always made sure that this was done before leaving the office wing so that Abdallah could complete his evening duties in peace. He poured himself a glass.
This time they would not close ranks.
The thought made him smile. He drank half a glass of tea before sitting down at the computer. It took him a matter of seconds to pull up the ColonelCars’ website. There he read that it was with great sadness that the management had to announce the death of the company’s CEO, Tom Patrick O’Reilly, in a tragic accident. The management expressed their deepest sympathies to the director’s family and reassured their clients that their extensive international operations would continue to be run in the spirit of the deceased, and that 2005 already looked set to be a record year.
Abdallah had his confirmation and logged out.
He would never again think of his old university friend Tom O’Reilly.
XXII
The man who had just collected his dead mother’s personal belongings from the hospital locked the door behind him and went into his sitting room. For a moment he stood there, at a loss, staring down at the anonymous bag that contained his mother’s clothes and rucksack. He was still holding it in his hand and didn’t quite know what to do.
The doctor had taken time to talk to him. He had comforted him by saying that it had been quick and his mother would hardly have known that anything was wrong before she collapsed. She had been found by another walker, he told him, but unfortunately the old woman had died before she got to hospital. The doctor’s smile was warm and open and he said something to the effect that he hoped he would die in much the same way, in the forest one May day, as a healthy eighty-year-old with an alert mind.
Eighty years and five days, thought the son, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. No one could complain about getting to that age.
He put the bag down on the dining table. In a way it seemed undignified to unpack it. He tried to win over his reluctance to go through his mother’s belongings; it felt like breaking his childhood rule number one: don’t poke your nose in other people’s business.
The rucksack lay on top. He opened it gingerly. A tin lunch box was the first thing he saw. He took it out. The lid had once sported a picture of the Geiranger Fjord in brilliant sunshine, and an old-fashioned luxury steamship. Now all that remained of it was some dirty blue water and grey sky. He had given her a new bright red plastic lunch box a couple of years ago. She immediately went and exchanged it for a hand whisk, as there was no point in replacing a perfectly usable lunch box.
He emptied the rest of the contents of the rucksack on to the table, and smiled at the thought of his mother’s grim face every time he tried to force something new on her. A worn map of Nordmarka. A compass that certainly didn’t point north; the red arrow wavered back and forth as if it had drunk some of the alcohol it lay in.
Under the rucksack was her walking jacket. He lifted it up and held it to his cheek. The smell of the old woman and the forest brought tears to his eyes again. He held the jacket out and carefully brushed away the leaves and twigs that were caught on one of the arms.
Something fell out of the pocket.
He folded the jacket and put it down beside the contents of the rucksack. Then he bent down to pick up whatever it was that had fallen to the floor.
A wallet?
It was made of leather, and was quite small. But it was unexpectedly heavy. He opened it and caught himself laughing out loud.
He mustn’t laugh, so he gulped and sniffed and opened his eyes wide to stop the tears.
But he couldn’t stop laughing and had problems breathing.
His obstinate eighty-year-old mother had met her death with a Secret Service ID card in her pocket.
The wallet could be opened like a small book. The right side was adorned with a gold-coloured metal badge with an eagle on it, spreading its wings over a shield with a star in the middle. It reminded him of the sheriff’s badge he’d got from his father for Christmas when he was eight, and now he was no longer laughing.
On the left-hand side, in a plastic pocket, was an ID card. It belonged to a man called Jeffrey William Hunter. A good-looking man, judging by the photo. He had short, thick hair and a serious expression in his big eyes.
The middle-aged man, who had just lost his only remaining parent, was a taxi driver. His shift had long since started, but his car stood idle outside. He had not sent a message to say that he couldn’t work. In fact, he had thought that driving around in town would be just as good as sitting here at home, alone with his grief. Now he was no longer so sure. He examined the painstakingly made badge. He could not for the life of him fathom why his mother was in possession of something like that. The only answer that he could come up with was that she had found it in the forest. Someone must have lost it there.
There were plenty of Secret Service agents in town right now. He had seen them himself, around Akershus Fort, when there was that official dinner there the other night.
He studied the unknown man’s face again.
It was so serious that it almost looked sad.
The taxi driver suddenly stood up. He left his mother’s belongings lying on the table and grabbed his keys from the hook just inside the front door.
