Holmenkollveien. 17 May 2000.
The janizary music came and went with the wind. Harry opened his eyes. Everything was white. White sunlight gleaming and flashing like morse code between the flapping white curtains, white walls, white ceiling and white bedding, soft and cool against hot skin. He turned. The pillow retained the mould of her head, but the bed was empty. He looked at his wristwatch. Five past eight. She and Oleg were on their way to Akershus Fortress parade ground where the children's parade was due to start. They had arranged to meet in front of the guardhouse by the Palace at eleven.
He closed his eyes and replayed the night one more time. Then he got up and shuffled into the bathroom. White there too: white tiles, white porcelain. He showered in freezing cold water and before he realised it he was singing an old song by The The.
'… a perfect day!'
Rakel had put out a towel for him, white, and he rubbed his skin with the thick woven cotton to get his circulation going as he studied his face in the mirror. He was happy now, wasn't he? Right now. He smiled at the face in front of him. It smiled back. Ekman and Friesen. Smile at the world and the world…
He laughed aloud, tied the towel around his waist and walked slowly on damp feet across the hall to the bedroom door. It took a second before he realised it was the wrong bedroom because everything was white again: walls, ceiling, a dressing-table with family photographs on and a neatly made double bed with an old-fashioned crocheted bedspread.
He turned, was about to leave and had reached the door when he suddenly went rigid. He froze, as if part of his brain was ordering him to keep going and forget while another part wanted him to go back and check whether what he had just seen was what he thought it was. Or, to be more precise, what he feared it was. Exactly what he feared and why, he didn't know. He only knew that when everything is perfect, it can't be better and you don't want to change a thing, not one single thing. But it was too late. Of course it was too late.
He breathed in, turned round and went back.
The black and white photograph was in a simple gold frame. The woman in the photograph had a narrow face, high, pronounced cheekbones and calm, smiling eyes, which were focused on something slightly above the camera, presumably the photographer. She looked strong. She was wearing a plain blouse, and over the blouse hung a silver cross.
They have been painting her on icons for almost two thousand years.
That wasn't why there had been something familiar about her the first time he had seen a photograph of her.
There was no doubt. It was the same woman he had seen in the photograph in Beatrice Hoffmann's room.
Part Nine