Assassin

74

It had been mid-afternoon in Washington, DC when the bomb detonated at the King Haakon Hotel. It took diplomats from the local US embassy a couple of hours to establish that there had been nine US citizens listed among the hotel guests. None of them had suffered anything worse than mild shock, along with a few cuts and bruises, most of which had been acquired in the scrum as the hotel's occupants tried to leave the stricken building. The news was passed to relieved officials at both the State Department and White House, who could now relax knowing that there would be no domestic political repercussions from the incident and that media coverage would be limited.

Sure, it was an outrage, but there were no signs of involvement by any known terrorist group. All the evidence suggested that this was a criminal attack, to be handled by local police. It wasn't headline news in Peoria.

So the aide who handed Harrison James a briefing document on the bombing did not think she was giving him anything of any great significance or sensitivity.

'We drafted a statement, right there on the top sheet,' she said.

'Fine,' said James, not bothering to look at it. He was up to his neck in final preparations for the President's trip to England.

The aide turned to leave. She had almost reached the door when James, as an afterthought, casually asked, 'They got any idea who did it yet?'

'No name,' she said. 'But the police released a photograph of a guy they said was wanted for questioning. They said he was armed and dangerous. Seems he killed some other folks, too, making his getaway.'

'Hope they catch him then,' said James.

A few minutes later, sighing with irritation, he told himself he'd better look at the damn briefing package before he took it into the President. The statement was fine, though he knew Roberts would add a flourish or two of his own. The information was pretty straightforward. James raised an eyebrow when he read the account of the gunfight on the opera house roof and the apparent disappearance of the hotel bomber. Then he turned a page and saw the shot the police had released. The copy in front of him had been taken from an internet download. The quality was poor. But Harrison James did not need high resolution to recognize that face.

Now the bombing had his attention.

He called Tord Bahr, from one private mobile phone to another, keeping the conversation off the White House and Secret Service logs.

'We have a situation,' he said. 'And I want you to make it go away.' Plenty of men Harrison James had worked for swore by the principle of deniability. The less their subordinates told them, the safer they felt. Lincoln Roberts took a very different view. The first time they'd discussed working together, he'd told James, 'I don't see any excuse for ignorance. When there's something I need to know, tell me. And if I don't need to know it, well, tell me anyway.'

So James told his boss about the picture of Samuel Carver holding the phone from which he'd triggered the Oslo bombing. Roberts didn't rant and rage. He didn't demand immediate action. He didn't blame anyone for risking his life with a mass-murderer. He sat at his desk, steepled his fingers and took a moment to reflect, like a university professor considering a philosophical proposition. The first word he said was: 'Interesting…' He thought some more and added, 'I guess there are two possibilities here. Either my ability to judge another man has totally broken down, or they got the wrong guy.'

'I'd say your judgement is pretty good.' The President smiled. 'Yeah, that's what I'd say, too. But I could be wrong. And if anyone finds Carver, I'd sure feel better if it was us.' Tord Bahr spent the night getting nowhere. Carver had disappeared. No one knew where he was. There were no satellite images, no communications intercepts, no leaks or leads from anyone, anywhere. He finally crashed out at three in the morning. At five he was woken by a call from his office and told that the Norwegians had just announced that the suspect in the Oslo bombing had died when cornered by police. Bahr sank back on to his pillow with his face wreathed in something perilously close to an actual smile. He wasn't bothered that the man's name had been given as Paul Jackson. A guy like Carver would have multiple aliases. All that mattered was that the face of the man the Norwegians were talking about was unmistakably his. If Carver was dead, he couldn't possibly cause any trouble to anyone. The big brown clouds that had threatened an almighty shitstorm had passed and the sun was shining on Tord Bahr's little world.

Bahr thought about trying to grab a couple of hours' more sleep, but it wasn't in his nature to take it easy. Instead he got up and went for a three-mile run. He showered, dressed and ate his customary bowl of granola and fruit. He got to work shortly before seven and spent an hour working on the final details of the President's trip, talking to his people in London and Bristol, and to the Brits with whom they were working, most of whom struck Bahr as pompous, arrogant, lazy and incompetent. Plus, the way they spoke, every last one of them sounded gay.

He had just put the phone down on some asshole police commander when he got a call on his cellphone.

'Tord Bahr?' said a British voice, one that sounded oddly familiar.

'This is he.'

'Hi, this is Samuel Carver.'