“Would you pour while I read?”
“Of course.”
He tore open the envelope and looked at the large rectangle of photo paper. It was a birth certificate of Viktor Per Kleppe, born 18 May 1938. Father—Per Trygve Kleppe. Born 2 October 1891 at Egersund. Exporter of iodine and seaweed products. Mother —Kirstin Ragna Cappalen. Born 13 May 1917 at Flekkefjord. Housewife.
The second photostat was much smaller. It registered the death of Viktor Per Kleppe, born 18 May 1938. Died 12 January 1942. Cause of death, pneumonia. Medical Registrar, Andreas Vostervoll. Stavanger.
MacKay looked up at the vice-consul.
“Is there a grave? A tombstone?”
“Yes. I checked it personally, as Mr. Magnusson required.”
“Are the parents still alive?”
“Afraid not. The father was killed by the Germans. The mother died in 1950.”
“Can I see the tombstone myself ?”
St. Clair looked at his watch then looked up with pursed lips.
“It’s 10.30pm, old chap. It would mean me contacting the chief of police and the parson at the church.”
“I’m sorry to trouble you but I think we’ll have to do that. Could I possibly have a photograph too?”
“I’ll see what the police can do. You stay on here. I’ll use the manager’s office. Give you some peace.”
It was just after midnight when they stood outside the tall wrought-iron gates of the church. The parson opened them wide, and with his torch swinging ahead of them, led them through the churchyard like an usherette at a cinema.
The three graves were side by side under an elm tree. MacKay bent down and flashed the torch at the tombstones one after the other. As he straightened up he realized that some KGB man must have done that twenty years earlier, so that they could apply for a genuine Norwegian passport. It was all too easy. A passport application with a photostat of a genuine birth certificate of somebody who was dead. And who had died at an age that meant it was unlikely that a passport had ever been applied for. In no country did they take the simple precaution of relating a death certificate to its relevant birth certificate.
An understandably crotchety Registrar was roused from his bed at one am to notarize the photocopies of the birth and death certificates. His curiosity held under control only because of the pressure of the police chief, he waved the papers to speed the drying of the official black ink and handed both documents to MacKay. The vice-consul paid the fee in cash.
At police headquarters MacKay waited for his call to Nolan to come through. It was a public line and insecure, but his news was too urgent to wait for the more secure facilities which could only have been provided in Oslo. He finally got the connection on a line that crackled with static, and surged from loudness to almost complete inaudibility.
“Can you read me, Nolan?”
“Yes, but it’s very faint.”
“Kleppe’s not Norwegian by birth. The passport was applied for with false documents.”
“False what?”
“Documents.”
“Have you got proof?”
“Yes. Notarized documents.”
“Anything else?”
“He’s almost certainly Russian.”
“Any proof ?”
“Only circumstantial. Enough to build on.”
“When do you come back?”
“Depends on transport. And I need to sleep.”
“Need to what?”
“Sleep.”
“Who can I liaise with on transport?”
“British vice-consul, Mr. St. Clair.”
“OK. Hit the sack. I’ll arrange the transport.”
“Cheers.”
“What?”
“Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
They let him sleep until noon, and St. Clair drove him to the airfield. A venerable Trident awaited him, and his travel papers showed that they would land at Glasgow, and he would there transfer to the PanAm plane to New York.
They landed to re-fuel at Goose Bay and there was a message for him. A room had been booked for him at the Barclay where friends would be waiting for him. He stuffed the paper in his pocket, pulled the blanket over his head and went back to sleep.
At Kennedy, one of Nolan’s men was waiting for him and took him straight through immigration without any formalities. The CIA agent was not the talkative type and MacKay sat hunched up in the back seat looking out of the car windows. It was mid-evening and the traffic was heavy as they crossed the bridge, and heavier still as they crawled up Lexington. The driver dropped him under cover at the Waldorf and he took his bag and crossed the road. There was a message from Nolan to go up to his suite.
When he knocked, Nolan answered the door, holding the telephone body in one hand and the receiver crooked on his shoulder. He was talking still, as he pushed the door to with his foot and nodded MacKay to a chair. When Nolan had finished he walked over to sit down opposite MacKay. Without speaking, MacKay handed over the envelope, and Nolan opened it carefully and studied the documents. He looked up at MacKay.
“This is the real nail, Jim. We can pull him any time on this. Excuse me a moment, I must phone immigration.”
Nolan gave the number and details of Kleppe’s passport, and put a stop on its use at all ports and airports. He looked again at the documents as he came back and sat down.
“This is the first piece of evidence we have that would stand up in court. Magnificent.”
“What have you got?”
“Look. Harper wants you to make out your report before I fill you in. He thinks they will have more force if they are done independently. There’s a secretary in the next room if you’d like to dictate it. Do it as it comes, and she’ll do a draft, and then you can hack it around. Is that OK?”
“Sure.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Too much already. It’s early morning down in my guts.”
Nolan laughed, and walked with him to the next room, introduced him to the secretary, and left him.
It was midnight New York time when MacKay signed his final version, the notarized documents stapled to the four typewritten sheets.
Nolan filled him in on the events of the past few days and when he had finished MacKay sat silently for several minutes. Then he leaned back.
“You’ve
