Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
‘I do understand, and of course agree, that you must go. But I do not like it one bit,’ she said eventually.
I felt a kindness in Patricia’s concern for me. Out loud I said that if someone wanted to kill me, this was hardly the way to go about it.
‘I don’t think that the perpetrators want to kill you, and I agree, I don’t think they would do it this way if they did. But I still do not like it because everything is so
unclear. But there is no option. So good luck and be careful!’ Patricia said in a rush.
She did not put the telephone down straightaway. I had time to say that I really appreciated her concern and promised to be careful.
In a strange way it felt as though we both knew that if we were wrong, this might be the last time we spoke.
So I added two more sentences, apologizing for not having trusted her and thanking her for all the help she had given me in this case and previous investigations.
Patricia said she was sorry that she had not been able to help me enough in time to avoid this dangerous situation. I thought I heard a quiet sob when she said this.
Then we both put down the telephone at the same time.
It was now ten to eleven. I realized that it would be impossible to get anything done before half past eleven, and in any case I had no other leads to follow up. I could not
bear just sitting here alone with nothing to do, so I decided to have some lunch before I went.
My lunch was not a grand affair. It consisted of a cup of coffee and two Danish pastries that I had bought from the bakers on the way in this morning. The pastries were softer than expected and
my appetite really wasn’t there. It felt strange to be eating what could be my last meal in this way, on my own.
There was a knock at the door. I jumped up and opened it.
DI Danielsen was standing outside. He raised a hand in apology and said that he hoped he was not disturbing me. Unfortunately he had nothing new to tell me about the case. He just wanted to say
that he was back on duty and would carry on working on the kidnapping case. He also hoped that everything was all right and expressed once more that the kidnapping of a policeman’s
fiancée really was a desperate situation.
I thought to myself that Danielsen was possibly also someone who had several faces, and that only when it mattered did you get to see the nicer ones. I felt a twinge of guilt at not telling
Danielsen about the tip-off I had just received in connection with the case he was investigating.
So I said that I had nothing new to tell either, but would be glad of his company. He came in and sat down. I offered him one of the pastries. We talked for about ten minutes about this and that
– the investigation and life in general.
He said that Miriam’s mother had made a very personable impression and seemed to be a very nice future mother-in-law.
I said that I would indeed be a very fortunate husband, if only Miriam came back. Then I asked how his parents were keeping.
Danielsen looked rather surprised and very happy when I asked this. He said that his father would soon be eighty, and was slow on his feet, but that his mind was still up to speed. His mother
was only seventy-six and still cheerful and in good form, despite having a spot of arthritis. They were both pleased and proud that he had achieved such a high rank at such a young age, but were
constantly worried that his job might be dangerous. And they were a little too eager to have grandchildren, but you just had to put up with that.
I knew that Danielsen was an only child, so there was not much more to ask him about. I had a fairly clear picture, though, especially when I calculated that his parents must have been somewhat
older when they had him.
Fortunately, in return, he asked how my parents were. I told him that they were in good health and that they too worried, from time to time, about the dangers inherent in my job, but that
fortunately they also had another child and a grandchild to worry about most of the time.
We finished our short lunch at ten past eleven. I said that unfortunately I had to get on with the investigation and he was tactful enough not to ask where I was going.
When Danielsen had left, I got up and checked that my service gun was loaded and in its holster under my jacket. Then I left the station with quick steps and a pounding chest. It was only a
quarter past eleven – and already my heart was hammering.
I got to the National Theatre at twenty-six minutes past eleven. It was fairly busy, as it was a Friday and the weather had improved. People hurried by in different directions,
on their way to and from work, or to the tram or bus. I stood with my back to the National Theatre and looked down the main thoroughfare, Karl Johan Street.
It was both exciting and frightening to stand there in a crowd of people in a public space, without knowing who I was waiting for. And it was no less exciting and no less frightening that I also
had to keep my eyes peeled for a possible attack from any direction. I glanced over my shoulder a couple of times, without seeing anything to alarm me.
I had no idea who the person I was waiting for was, nor where he or she would come from. My guess was that it was someone I had never seen before, but I kept looking for familiar faces all the
same.
I fantasized for a few seconds that Miriam herself would suddenly appear out of the crowd and throw her arms round my neck. And if she did, I told myself, I would throw her up in the air and
then carry her in my arms to the Theatre Cafe for a slap-up lunch. But I realized this was nothing more than a dream.
The situation reminded me a little of what I had experienced in my flat last night. The minutes ticked slowly by to three, two, one minute to half past eleven. The difference being that at home
I did not fear for my own safety, and that I had known who I was waiting for. Out here, anything was possible and the dangers were unpredictable.
It was half past eleven on the nose when I spotted her. I knew I had seen her before, but it took a couple of seconds to place her. I still could not remember her name, but I remembered very
well where I had seen her. Less than twenty-four hours ago.
The interpreter from the Soviet Embassy was walking with quick, neat steps through the people on Karl Johan Street, dressed in a thin jacket, with a handbag in her right hand.
Her face was grave and focused, but she gave a careful smile when she saw me. She was no more than ten yards away, and moved faster to get out of the crowd.
I took three steps forward to meet her.
We were only three or four yards away from each other when I heard the gunshot.
The interpreter gasped and froze mid-step. She stood there swaying on one foot for a moment after the first shot. Then she fell to the ground without a sound after the second shot, which came a
mere second later.
And like that, everything had changed and any sense of security was gone. A voice shouted: ‘Murder! They’re shooting!’ and suddenly people were screaming and running in all
directions. I threw myself down and pulled out my pistol. I shouted: ‘I’m a policeman – who fired the shot?’ But even as I shouted I realized it was hopeless. I had not even
managed to see where the shots came from. And people were running everywhere in panic and fear of their lives. I saw several hats disappearing into the sea of people, but it was impossible to tell
if one of them belonged to the man who had followed me earlier in the week.
In a matter of seconds, there were only two people left who were not fleeing. I lay curled up where I had thrown myself down. The interpreter lay lifeless where she had fallen.
I feared that I would be shot myself any moment, but could not see a potential assailant with anything that resembled a gun within range. It appeared that he had used the chance to be swallowed
up by the crowd and escape.
There was suddenly a movement that made me jump. It was the fallen interpreter. Her hand was reaching in my direction. Her fingers had lost hold of her bag, which was now lying beside her hand.
My first worry was that it might get lost – and then that she might die.
I was instinctively wary of moving closer to the spot where she had been shot. But then, when there was no perpetrator in sight, I took the few steps needed towards her.
It looked like one bullet had hit her in the back, and the other in her cheek. There was blood in both places. Her left eye had closed, but the right was still open. She was not dead – and
she recognized me.
‘Bas . . .’ she whispered, as soon as she recognized my face. Then her voice stopped. But her eye was still staring at me.
I put my arm around her and said: ‘What is it you want to tell me?’
‘Ba . . .’ she tried again, but her voice gave out. And at the same time, her right eye also slowly closed.
I heard a siren somewhere behind me and hoped that it was an ambulance.
Then I slipped into a peculiar timeless state. I could not say whether five seconds had passed or ten minutes when a man in white suddenly stood there beside me and asked if she was still alive.
I did not remember right then that I had touched her. But I heard myself say that she had lost a lot of blood and was not conscious, but that she still had a faint pulse.
Then I took my pistol in one hand and her handbag in the other and withdrew as they lifted her up onto a stretcher and carried her into the ambulance. In my state of shock, I hoped that the
interpreter would survive and be able to tell me more. And I hoped that if she did not survive, her bag could tell me something more.
It was ten past twelve. I was sitting in my office with my boss, Danielsen and the handbag.
I had told them the story and criticized myself for not having informed them where I was going. The two others were very understanding. My boss was to the point and said we could talk more about
that another day. Danielsen went a bit further and said that, given the situation, he perfectly understood.
Then we looked through the handbag, but all we learned was that there was little there that was of any help. The bag contained her passport, a purse with three ten-krone notes, two one-krone
coins and a photograph of an elderly couple we assumed were her parents. That was it. According to her passport, Dr Tatiana Rodionova was twenty-six years old, five foot five, unmarried and
childless. She had, if her passport was to be believed, not been abroad before coming to work in Norway.
There was much to indicate that she had intended to tell me the truth about who had killed Per Johan Fredriksen and about what had happened to Miriam – and at the same time, defect. But as
yet, no one knew who had shot her. And unless she survived and regained consciousness, no one could know what she had hoped to say to me.
What she had tried to say remained a mystery. The man in the hat had had several names, but as far as we knew, none of them started with ‘Bas’. As was the case with the
vice-ambassador and any of the names on the embassy list.
All we had was a possible connection to the Soviet Embassy, but no means of proving that it existed or what kind of connection it was. We received a brief message from the University Hospital
that the interpreter was being operated on, and was still in a critical and unstable condition.
Naturally, there were a large number of enquiries from the press about what had happened. Eyewitnesses were telling their stories, and their theories, to anyone who wanted to listen.
At twenty past twelve, my boss gave a concise summary of the situation, having first asked if I needed some hours or days off after this shocking experience. Danielsen would contact the embassy
about the interpreter and lead the investigation into her attempted murder, which was connected to the abduction of Miriam.
My boss would himself first ring the prime minister’s office and then send out a press release to confirm that a Soviet citizen linked to the embassy had been seriously injured when she
was shot by an unknown gunman near the National Theatre.
I should stay in the vicinity of the police station for the rest of the day, and continue my investigation into the murders of the Fredriksen father and daughter, should there be any development
there.
I said that I hoped this could be an important new lead, but that I needed a bit of time to collect myself. Danielsen and my boss then left, each heading in a different direction.
I sat on my own in the office for a couple of minutes. I tried to pull myself together and reflected on the remarkable contrast between the quiet in here and the cacophony of the world
outside.
Then I rang Miriam’s mother. I told her in brief what had happened and promised to call her back as soon as there was any other news.
She said she hoped that the interpreter would survive and was relieved to hear that I was unharmed. Then she asked the obvious question: ‘So it is obviously the Soviets who have taken
Miriam, but who knows where she is and if she is still alive?’
I promised I would do my utmost to find out. Then I finished the call so that I could telephone Patricia.
Patricia really was sitting guard today. Once again she picked up the receiver on the first ring, and apparently recognized my breathing, because she started to speak before I
had said a word.
‘So glad that you have not been hurt. I heard on the radio that there had been a shooting and that a foreign woman was the only one injured. I presume that was the interpreter you met
yesterday?’
I felt a wave of relief when Patricia said this, but also a hint of irritation that she had not said anything when I called her earlier, if she had known what was coming.
I told her quickly what had happened at the National Theatre.
This was met with silence.
‘Some of the connections are becoming clearer now, finally. But there is still more uncertainty than I would like,’ Patricia said eventually.
I told her my opinion without beating around the bush – in other words, that I knew she was reluctant to conclude anything until she was absolutely certain, but, in a situation that was
critical for both me and the country, I would ask her to be open now about what she thought.