Death In Oslo

webs that normally scared the life out of her.

He wasn’t even able to cry. An icy claw was hooked somewhere just inside his breast bone, which made it difficult to think and impossible to speak.

But who would he speak to anyway? he thought, emotionally drained. Who could help him now?

He tried to straighten his back and take a deep breath.

The flag on the postbox had been raised.

Fayed had talked about a letter.

Letters.

He could barely manage to stand up. He should move the car, remove all traces of Fayed Muffasa, and then pull himself together so he could welcome his daughters home from school. It was three o’clock, and certainly Louise was going to be home early.

His legs could only just carry him as he walked down the drive. He looked around. There was no sign of human life anywhere, except the hum of a motor saw somewhere far in the distance.

He opened the postbox. Two bills and three identical envelopes.

Fayed Muffasa, c/o Al Muffet.

Then the address. Three identical, thickish envelopes that had been sent to Fayed, at Al’s address.

His mobile phone rang. He put the letters back in the postbox and stared at the display. Unknown number. No one had phoned him during this horrible day. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He wasn’t sure that he even had a voice any more. He put the phone back into his breast pocket, took the letters from the postbox and started to walk slowly back towards the house.

The person who was calling didn’t give up.

He stopped when he got to the steps and sat down.

He had to galvanise his energy to move the damned car.

The telephone kept ringing and ringing. He couldn’t bear the noise any more; the high, shrill tone made him shiver. He pressed the button with the green phone.

‘Hello,’ he said. His voice was barely there. ‘Hello?’

‘Ali? Ali Shaeed?’

He said nothing.

‘Ali, it’s me. Helen Lardahl.’

‘Helen,’ he whispered. ‘How did…’

He hadn’t watched TV. He hadn’t listened to the radio. He hadn’t been near his computer. All he had done all day was despair over his dead brother and try to work out what kind of a life his girls would have after this.

Finally, he started to cry.

‘Ali, listen to me. I’m on a plane, crossing the Atlantic. That’s why the connection is bad.’

‘I didn’t let you down,’ he shouted. ‘I promised you I would never tell anyone, and I haven’t broken that promise.’

‘I believe you,’ she said calmly. ‘But you realise that we’re going to have to investigate this. And the first thing I want you to do is-’

‘It was my brother,’ he said. ‘My brother spoke to my mother on her deathbed, and…’

He stopped and held his breath. He could hear the hum of an engine in the distance. A cloud of dust rose behind the hillock with maple trees. A dull, rotating noise made him turn to the west. A helicopter was circling over the trees. The pilot was obviously looking for a place to land.

‘Listen to me,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘Listen to me!’

‘Yes,’ Al Muffet said and stood up. ‘I’m listening.’

‘The FBI are coming. Don’t be frightened. OK? They got their orders directly from me. They’re coming to talk to you. Tell them everything. If you’re not involved in this, everything will be fine. I promise you.’

A black car swung into the drive and drove slowly up towards the house.

‘Don’t be frightened, Ali. Just tell them what there is to tell.’

The phone was cut off.

The car stopped. Two dark-suited men got out. One smiled and held out his hand as he approached.

‘Al Muffet, I presume!’

Al took his hand, which was warm and firm.

‘I hear that you’re a friend of Madam President,’ the agent said and did not let go of his hand. ‘And a friend of the President’s is a friend of mine. Shall we go inside?’

‘I think,’ Al Muffet said, and swallowed, ‘I think that you should take care of these.’

He handed him the three envelopes. The man looked at them without giving anything away, and then took them by the corner between his fingers and indicated to his colleague to find a plastic bag.

‘Fayed Muffasa,’ he read quickly, his head cocked. Then he looked up. ‘Who’s that?’

‘My brother. He’s in a chest in the cellar. I killed him.’

The FBI agent looked at him, long and hard.

‘I think it’s best we go in,’ he said and patted Al Muffet on the shoulder. ‘Seems there’s a lot to sort out.’

The helicopter had landed and all was quiet again.

XVI

There was only one hour left of Thursday the 19th of May 2005. The intense summer heat had lasted the whole day, leaving a balmy, still evening in its wake. Johanne had opened all the windows in the sitting room. She had had a bath with Ragnhild, who was exhausted and had fallen asleep happily as soon as she was put down in her own familiar bed. Johanne felt almost as euphoric as the one-year-old. Coming home felt like purification. Just walking through the front door had almost made her cry with relief. They had been held by the PST for so long that Adam had eventually called Peter Salhus and threatened to rip up the pile of confidentiality papers they had signed if they weren’t allowed to go home immediately.

‘I think we can forget the idea of any more children,’ Adam said, as he padded, flat-footed, over the floor, dressed in only a pair of wide pyjama bottoms, which had been cut open at the groin, just in case. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything so painful in all my life.’

‘You should try giving birth.’ Johanne smiled and patted the place next to her on the sofa. ‘The doctor said you’d be OK. See if it’s comfortable to sit down here.’

‘… proved to be a conspiracy in America’s own ranks. At a press conference at Gardermoen, President Bentley stated…’

The TV had been on since they got home.

‘They don’t know for certain yet,’ Johanne said. ‘That there are only Americans involved, I mean.’

‘That’s the truth they want us to know. The most convenient truth right now. It’s the truth that will allow oil prices to fall, in other words.’

Adam lowered himself down on to the sofa as carefully as he could, and sat with his legs wide open.

‘… following a dramatic shoot-out in Krusesgate in Oslo, where the American FBI agent Warren Scifford…’

The picture they showed must have been his passport photograph. He looked like a criminal, with a surly expression and half-closed eyes.

‘… was shot and killed by a Norwegian intelligence officer who has not been named. Sources at the American embassy in Norway have said that the plot involved only a very small number of people, and that all of these are now being questioned by the authorities.’

‘The most impressive thing, really, is that they managed to cook up this story so quickly,’ Johanne said. ‘Especially the fact that the President wasn’t kidnapped at all, but had “disappeared” in order to help uncover the planned assassination. Do they have scenarios like that ready, just in case?’

‘Maybe. But I doubt it. We’ll witness a masterful smokescreen over the next few days. And if they don’t have the stories there already, they certainly have experts in the field. They’ll put something together and tighten all the nuts and bolts, so that in the end they have a story that most people will be happy with. And then the conspiracy