Death In Oslo

XI

The model of the Hotel Opera was made to a scale of one to fifty. It was mounted on a free-standing solid column, like a miniature accommodation platform. The details were impressive. The small swing doors in the entrance moved. The windows were made out of the thinnest glass possible, and even the curtains had the right pattern. When Warren Scifford bent his knees and peered into the foyer, he could see the yellow sofas facing each other with tiny tables in between. The lamps gave a yellow glow and the royal-blue armchairs looked temptingly comfortable.

‘But this is not the building as it stands,’ he mumbled and scratched his stubble.

‘No,’ replied the Chief of Police, Terje Bastesen. ‘It was made in connection with the renovations. The hotel management have of course been extremely…’ he searched for the right word, ‘obliging. The roof can also be removed.’

His hands were coarse and he was shaking slightly. As he put his fingers gently round the roof, it slipped. A rasping sound made a young policeman who had been in the background, in the corner of the room, rush forwards. He lifted the roof with the utmost care to reveal the hotel’s ninth floor.

‘Look at that,’ Warren Scifford exclaimed. ‘And that is where she was staying.’

The presidential suite was in the left wing of the hotel, facing south. Even when the roof had been removed from the model, the windows overlooking the fjord stayed in place. There were sliding doors leading out on to the roof terrace, which was bordered with minute flowerpots. The suite was tastefully furnished down to the smallest detail, like a doll’s house for a rich man’s spoilt daughter.

‘So you come in here…’ Bastesen used a laser pen to point; the red spot danced and shook, ‘straight into the reception room. Then you can go through here…’ the spot hopped to the east, ‘to the office. Well, it’s supposed to be some kind of office. And here we have…’ He bent down and peered short-sightedly at the model. ‘Here we have a PC and a minuscule printer. And as you can see, the bedroom is at the far end of the reception room. We assume that the Presi-that Madam President was sleeping when the kidnappers came in.’

‘Kidnappers,’ Warren Scifford repeated, carefully touching the bedclothes with his index finger. ‘As far as I know, there is no information to indicate how many there were.’

The Chief of Police nodded and popped the laser pen back in his breast pocket.

‘No, that is correct. What I’m saying is based on the message. We’ll be in touch, it says. “We”. Not “I”. We’ve got her. We’ll be in touch.’

Warren Scifford straightened up and was handed a piece of laminated paper.

‘I take it this is a copy,’ he said.

‘Of course. The original has been sent for analysis. It was your men who found it, and they… they had the sense not to touch it until it could be handled correctly.’

‘Times New Roman,’ Scifford stated. ‘The most common font of all. I assume there are no fingerprints? And it’s the sort of paper that can be found in every office and home?’

He didn’t even bother to look up to see the Chief of Police’s affirmative nod. Instead, he handed the sheet back and focused on the model again.

‘By the way, they’re not my men,’ he said, slowly moving a couple of steps to the left to get a new perspective on the entrance to the presidential suite.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You said that it was my men who found the note.’

‘Yes…’

‘They’re not my men. They’re from the Secret Service. And as I assume you know, I am…’ His hair flopped over his forehead as he bent down and closed one eye. He squinted along the corridor outside the presidential suite. ‘I am from the FBI. Different organisations.’

His voice was cool. He had still made no eye contact with the Chief of Police. But he did put his hand on the other man’s arm, as if he wanted to move an obstinate schoolboy.

‘Give me some room,’ he muttered, and once again became totally focused on the model of the Hotel Opera. ‘Is this as exact as it appears to be?’

The Chief of Police didn’t answer. A flush spread over his cheeks. He blinked several times before brushing some dust off his uniform jacket and clearing his throat.

‘Mr Scyfford,’ he said. His voice was deeper and raspier.

‘Scifford,’ the FBI agent corrected. ‘Ski, like the planks you use to walk on snow with in winter. Not sky as in clouds.’ He pointed at the ceiling.

‘I apologise, and take note of the correct pronunciation,’ the Chief of Police said slowly. ‘But before we go any further, I would just like to clarify a couple of things. First of all-’

‘Just a moment, please.’ Warren Scifford lifted a hand. ‘There’s a camera installed here, is that correct?’

He fished a pen out of his pocket and pointed towards the corridor.

‘Yes,’ Bastesen replied hesitantly. ‘And over here. Just where there’s a bend in the corridor. That way the whole corridor is kept under surveillance. From both sides. There’s also a camera here…’ He pointed to the area by the lifts. ‘And here, on the stairs. The emergency exit. But before we go any further, I just want-’

‘Please wait. Just a moment.’

Warren Scifford circled the model in deep concentration. Every now and then he stopped, bent down so his face was level with the wall and squinted down the corridor. His dark grey wavy hair was constantly falling over his face. He pursed and smacked his lips, before going round again. Slowly.

‘I’ll obviously have to go and see the actual hotel,’ he said without moving his eyes from the model. ‘This evening, preferably. But you’re right. The whole corridor does seem to be covered. What about the terrace?’

‘Well, it’s not possible to get up there from the outside, unless you-’

‘Nothing is impossible,’ Warren Scifford interrupted, adding with a smile that was impossible to interpret: ‘My question was about the camera coverage.’

‘Well, Madam President didn’t want cameras in the suite. Apparently she was very insistent. Both we and-’

Warren Scifford raised both his hands. The Chief of Police allowed himself to be interrupted again. The young policeman, who had withdrawn to the corner by the door again, looked uncomfortable, and was staring at the floor. The room was starting to feel stuffy, really too hot. Bastesen was sweating in his uniform. The flush on his cheeks had spread over his whole face. His thin hair was sticking to his forehead. Scifford had thrown off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves some time ago. His tie was hanging loose and the top button of his shirt was undone. His eyes were deep-set and dark brown, with unusually long lashes. His curls and unkempt hair made him look younger than he presumably was. He looked directly at the Chief of Police. Bastesen stared back.

‘I know my president,’ Warren Scifford said deliberately. ‘I know her very well and I therefore feel it is unnecessary for you to inform me of her habits. I think we would both benefit from keeping this… conversation… strictly to what I need to know. To put it simply, you answer my questions. OK?’

The Chief of Police took a deep breath. Then he suddenly smiled, unexpectedly. He took his time unbuttoning his jacket and pulled it off. He didn’t seem to be embarrassed by the large sweat marks under his arms as he brushed his hair back with both hands. He then gave an even broader smile, put his hands behind his back and slowly rolled backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, like an old-fashioned bobby. His shoes squeaked.

‘No,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That’s not OK.’

Warren Scifford lifted an eyebrow.

‘I think that what is most important right now,’ Bastesen continued, ‘is that you understand what your role is here. And what my role is.’

He stood up on his toes for a moment, before rolling back down and continuing. ‘I am the Chief of Police here in Oslo. A crime has been committed here, in my town and my country. In Norway, an independent state. The investigation of this crime falls under my governance. And the fact that the victim is a… a prominent person from another country…’ His hands were no longer shaking as he carefully touched the flowerpots on the terrace outside the presidential suite. It was so quiet in the room that they heard the sound of the paper against his skin. ‘… means that out of common courtesy to you as a close ally, and respect for the importance of this case, we will keep you informed. And that is the key word. Information. You will provide us with the information necessary to solve the case as speedily as possible. We will inform you of developments in the case and what is going on. To the extent that it does not jeopardise the investigation.’

The sudden increase in the volume of his voice made the policeman in the corner jump. Then there was silence.

Warren Scifford pulled at his ear lobe. He was tanned for the time of year. There was a white bracelet round his left wrist where a watch had presumably prevented the sun from touching his skin.

‘Sure,’ he said in a friendly voice, and nodded.

‘I hope so,’ Bastesen said, and this time he did not return the smile. ‘And if I may get to the point now?’

Scifford just nodded.

‘She didn’t want any sort of surveillance in the suite itself. And that was why we were so particular about the corridor.’

He turned his laser pen on again and pointed.

‘As you already know, the cameras show no movement whatsoever either in or out of the room between twenty to one, when Madam President returned from an official dinner, and twenty past seven in the morning, when your men…’ He stopped himself and started again: ‘Twenty past seven in the morning, when the Secret Service thought it necessary to enter the suite. She was due to report to them at seven a.m. The cortège that was to take her to breakfast at the palace was due at seven thirty. And as far as the terrace is concerned…’

He walked around the model and pointed to the sliding glass doors.

‘It was of course difficult to install a camera on the terrace without this conflicting with the President’s explicit wish not be under surveillance in her room. It was a problem. So we fitted the doors with sensors.’

Bastesen allowed a short pause before he concluded: ‘An alarm would have gone off if the doors had been opened. And they weren’t. The sensors have, obviously, since been tested and are in perfect order. So we have to conclude that no one went in or out through these doors.’

‘No one has come in and no one has left.’ Warren Scifford ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Quite apart from the fact that Madam President has disappeared and someone has left a note in her room.’

If the Chief of Police had been better at English, he would have noticed the biting sarcasm. However, he now just gave an affirmative nod.

‘That aside, yes.’

‘The air vents,’ Warren Scifford said mechanically, without looking away from the model. ‘Emergency exits. Other windows.’

‘They are all being investigated. Everything will, of course, be examined in detail. But we have already spoken to the hotel’s technical operations manager and he has ruled out any possibility that the air vents may have been used to get in or out of the room. He said that they’re not big enough, and furthermore, they’re blocked by fixed grates at fairly regular intervals. As far as the windows go, they’re all alarmed, as I said. And they, quite simply, have not been opened. Emergency exits?’

He swept the red spot over a door from the office into the corridor.

‘Well, the lock is sealed with one of those green plastic cases that have to be broken before the door can be opened. The mechanism is intact. The door has not been opened. And in any case, the exit is covered by the cameras in the corridor, and as I said…’

‘No one went in,’ Warren Scifford repeated, ‘and no one went out.’

There was a knock at the door. The policeman looked at Bastesen, who nodded.

‘Ambassador Wells and the Minister of Foreign Affairs are waiting for Mr Scifford,’ a young woman said in Norwegian. ‘I got the impression that they were getting a bit impatient.’

‘They’re asking for you,’ Bastesen translated, and handed Scifford his jacket.

He didn’t take it. Instead he loosened his tie even more, and produced a notebook from his back pocket.

‘I suggest that for the time being, we have three meetings a day,’ he said and wiped his nose with a finger. ‘I would also like to have a liaison person.’ His smile was almost boyish, as if he was apologising without really meaning it. ‘If that suits you and your people,’ he added. ‘If you think that is the best way to exchange information.’

Bastesen nodded and shrugged. He was still holding Scifford’s jacket.

‘And I would really like to have…’ Scifford scribbled a name down on a sheet of paper and gave it to the Chief of Police, ‘her. Do you know the name?’

Bastesen’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he studied the piece of paper.

‘Yes, but that’s impossible, I’m afraid. She doesn’t work for us. She never has done, even though she…’ He hung the jacket over the back of a chair. ‘She has helped the police on a couple of occasions,’ he continued. ‘Completely informally. But in the current situation, it would not be possible to use-’

‘Well, I almost insist,’ Warren Scifford replied.

His voice was different. The arrogance was gone. The drawling, slow manner of speaking had been replaced by an almost pleading tone.

‘No,’ Bastesen repeated and tried to give the American his jacket again. ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible. But I’ll find the best person for you, immediately. I think you should go now. Apparently they were very impatient.’

‘Wait,’ Scifford said and scribbled down another name on his pad. ‘Can I have him, then? He should at least…’

‘Adrian Stubburt,’ Bastesen read out slowly and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘I don’t know anyone by that name. But I-’

‘Adam Stubo,’ came from the door.

Both men turned round. The policeman blushed.

‘I’m sure he means Adam Stubo,’ he stuttered. ‘He’s in the NCIS. He lectured us in-’

‘Adam Stubo,’ Bastesen repeated, waving the first piece of paper that Scifford had given him. ‘He’s in fact married to this lady here! Do you know them?’

Warren Scifford straightened his collar. Finally he put his jacket on.

‘I’ve met Stubburt on two occasions,’ he said. ‘But I don’t know him. Johanne Vik, on the other hand… I knew Johanne well once upon a time. Can I use Stubburt?’

‘Stubo,’ Bastesen corrected him. ‘Stubooooo. I’ll see what I can do.’

They walked towards the door together. Bastesen stopped abruptly, his face full of curiosity as he put a hand on the American’s arm and exclaimed: ‘That’s right! Johanne Vik has a connection with the FBI. Something that I’ve never really worked out. Is that how you know each other?’

Warren Scifford didn’t answer. Instead he tightened his tie, straightened his jacket and went to meet his ambassador.