Blood Brothers (21 page)

“Plus it saved him about six million dollars,” added Noelle.

“That too,” agreed Sergei.

“I’ll need to put someone on the stand to testify about what you’ve found,” said Ben. “Haugeland sounds like a natural choice. Is his English as good as advertised?”

“It is,” replied Noelle. “He’s fluent. He’s got an accent, of course, but he’s completely understandable.”

“Good,” Ben said. “Do you think he’d be willing to come to America to testify?”

Noelle took a bite of her grilled salmon and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “I haven’t asked him, but I think he would.”

Ben looked at her in surprise. “Really? I hope you’re right. It’s one thing for him to give us quiet access to the company’s records and explain some stuff to us off the record. Flying to America and testifying under oath that his boss has been committing fraud is something else, particularly since that boss is likely to be right there in the courtroom with him.”

“That’s true,” said Elena, “but I’m sure that if Henrik thought that testifying was the right thing to do, he would do it, even if it meant personal sacrifice.”

“That’s quite an endorsement,” responded Ben. “How do you know that?”

“Henrik Haugeland is a remarkable person,” she replied. “I don’t know if Noelle told you, but he and his wife adopted eight Russian street children because they thought it was the right thing to do. If he was willing to do that, I’m pretty sure he’d be willing to fly to Chicago and face Karl Bjornsen in a courtroom.”

“I wish more people thought that was the right thing to do—and were willing to actually do it,” Sergei said. “Adopting street kids, I mean. My cousin is a street cop in Moscow, and she has to deal with these kids all the time. A lot of them have virtually no education and have all sorts of problems—health issues, addiction issues, behavior issues. She says the worst part of her job is seeing some nine- or ten-year-old on a street corner and knowing that there’s basically no hope for him or her. Their lives have already been destroyed. What inspired a couple of Norwegians to take in kids like that—
eight
of them, no less?”

“Love,” replied Elena. “They have a lot of love for these children, and it’s amazing how it turns their lives around.”

Sergei leaned forward slightly and the late-evening sun glowed in his dark-brown eyes. “The kids’ lives or the Haugelands’?”

“Both, really. They are an amazing couple. I think you’d enjoy meeting them and seeing them with the two children they still have at home.”

“I’d like to,” said Sergei. “By the way, I’d heard that they were Christian. Did that come up?”

“I think they said something about that.” There was a brief pause in the conversation, and Elena realized that all three of them were watching her. “You know, one of the things I like about religion—um, particularly Christianity—is that it encourages people to help those who are less fortunate, like those Russian street kids. That’s a great teaching. I wish more people took it to heart.”

“Mm-hmm,” Noelle said, but no one else said anything.

“It’s, um, really great to meet people who take their beliefs seriously,” Elena continued awkwardly. “They remind me of my Aunt Darya—you met her, Sergei. She was one of the first real environmentalists in the old Soviet Union. She was always bugging the local officials to stop dumping untreated sewage and chemical-plant waste into the river near her hometown. When they wouldn’t listen to her, she personally marched up to the mayor while Gorbachev was visiting and dumped a bucket of river sludge on the floor right in front of them. She said, ‘This is what you’re doing to our beautiful river!’ She went to jail for that, but the mayor was so embarrassed that he cleaned up the river before another national leader came to town. People like her and the Haugelands really make a difference. They make me want to find a cause I care about and make the world a better place.”

Sergei leaned back in his chair, and for an instant Elena thought she saw something like regret in his eyes. Or was it disappointment? But he smiled and said, “I remember Aunt Darya. She is an impressive woman, and a powerful conversationalist.”

Elena chuckled. “She likes to talk,” she explained to Ben and Noelle. “Sergei spent three hours in her apartment last summer while my mother and I went to visit a sick relative.” She turned back to Sergei. “She really liked you, by the way. You listen well.”

The conversation moved off into anecdotes about colorful relatives and then on to other topics. The sun sank behind the shops of Aker Brygge as the four friends talked and laughed. The awkwardness and coldness that Elena had half expected to exist between her and Sergei never appeared. In fact, quite the opposite; he was as funny and easy to talk to as ever. It felt as if they had never been apart. There was no overt romance between them, of course, but Elena wondered what would happen if they wound up alone together at some point over the next couple of days.

After a round of coffee drinks, they paid the check and headed back to the hotel. They chatted for a moment more in the lobby beside the elevators, and then Ben said, “Well, I think I’m going to head back to our room and do a little more work on my interview outline for Henrik Haugeland. Would you mind looking it over, sweetheart? You know him and I don’t.”

“Sure,” replied Noelle. “Do I get a backrub while I’m reading?”

Ben grinned. “You drive a hard bargain.” He pushed the “Up” button on the elevator call panel. “Have a good night, guys,” he said to Sergei and Elena as the doors opened. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Elena glanced at Sergei and he looked back at her. He stifled a yawn. “I think I’m going to turn in. I had a rough flight and I’m beat.”

“Me too,” said Elena. “I’ve had a busy day.” They joined the Corbins in the elevator and they all rode up in silence.

Ben was in a good mood the next afternoon. Haugeland would make a good witness. He knew Bjornsen Norge’s accounting system extremely well and took the same view of what they had found in its files that Noelle had expressed at dinner. At least as important, he was an unbiased and articulate witness with no ax to grind. Bert Siwell would have a hard time undermining his credibility at trial. Best of all, he was willing to come to Chicago to tell his story to a jury.

Ben had already sent a quick e-mail report to Gunnar, who would still have been fast asleep when the interview ended, and now he sat with Noelle at an outdoor cafe on Karl Johans, Oslo’s main street and a popular tourist destination. Slottet, the main royal palace, stood at one end of the street, and the Storting, or parliament building, stood at the other. A popular park ran along one side of Karl Johans, and dozens of shops, restaurants, and cafes lined the other. Ben and Noelle both ordered some strong, black Norwegian coffee and enjoyed watching the crowds stroll past.

Noelle had just started plotting what to do with Sergei and Elena, both of whom were safely away doing other things, but Ben’s cell phone rang. He looked at the number on the screen and took the call. “Hello, Gunnar. Did you get my e-mail?”

“I just read it over breakfast,” Gunnar’s voice rumbled over the phone. “That’s good news about Henrik. I’m glad that he’s able to help, but your e-mail isn’t the reason I called. I received another e-mail this morning, this one from Finn Sørensen. Have I ever told you about him?”

“I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“He’s a botanist at the University of Oslo and an old friend. He is the scientist who first studied the plant from which we make XD-463. He’s also the one who first told me about it and helped my company buy some seeds from the Norwegian government.

“He wrote to tell me that a research team has found the cave that held the original seeds and leaves. He says it’s not too far from Oslo and is worth a trip. An archaeological team from the University of Oslo is getting ready to study it right now. Since Dr. Sørensen knows them, he volunteered to cut through some red tape and arrange a guided tour for me. But since I won’t be in Norway in the next week, I thought you might want to go, if you have time. You really shouldn’t leave Norway without taking at least one hike in the mountains.”

“It would be like visiting France without touring at least one winery, wouldn’t it?” replied Ben. “Let me check with Noelle.” He covered the mouthpiece on his phone and said, “They’ve found the mountain cave where the Neurostim plants came from, and Gunnar’s offered to arrange a tour for us. What do you think?”

“I’ve done plenty of sightseeing already, but you go ahead. I need to spend a few hours number crunching and organizing what I’ve found so far, so you’ll be on your own for a while tomorrow anyway.”

Ben nodded and uncovered the mouthpiece. “Sure, I’d love to. How’s tomorrow?”

“I’ll e-mail and ask. I’ll also give him your cell-phone number so that you can talk directly.”

Over the remainder of the afternoon, it was decided that Ben, Sergei, and Elena would drive as far into the mountains as Elena’s rental car could handle. Dr. Sørensen would meet them at a logging shack—the point where he said the roads got really bad—and take them the rest of the way. Ben and Sergei went shopping for hiking boots and mosquito repellent, while Noelle stayed behind and congratulated herself for having the foresight to say no to Gunnar’s offer.

The next morning’s drive into the mountains was scenic, but nerve racking—especially for the driver. The modern highways around Oslo gave way to a winding two-lane road that had a sheer drop on one side—protected by an entirely inadequate-looking guardrail—and a towering mountain on the other, its splintered stone face held in place by wire netting intended to prevent boulders from crashing down on motorists below. Elena drove as quickly as she felt she could, but she soon found herself leading a motorcade of frustrated Norwegian drivers.

They reached the logging shack a little after one o’clock and found Dr. Sørensen waiting for them. He was a rangy man of middle height who dressed and looked like a lumberjack on the verge of retirement. An old and battered Land Rover was parked behind the shack. He walked over as they parked and got out of the car. “Finn Sørensen,” he said, greeting each of them with a firm, somewhat abrupt handshake.

They clambered into his Land Rover and set off up a rough logging road at a bone-jarring speed. As he drove, Dr. Sørensen kept up a running monologue, speaking at a near-shout to make himself heard over the sound of the engine and the constant rattle and thump of the stony, deeply rutted track. He gave them an animated lecture on the area’s history from the last ice age to the present. “Down there,” he said, pointing to a stream a hundred feet below the road, “we excavated mammoth bones and teeth last year. Maybe you heard of the famous finds on Wrangel Island? These fossils may be even more recent than those—from the time of the pyramids. We were much excited because of this and because where mammoths live, hunters may live also. This is how we found the cave that I take you to. We searched for caves and other places where mammoth hunters might camp. One of my students found this cave just last week.”

“Are we close to it?” asked Elena, who was riding shotgun and had an uncomfortably clear view of the stream. If she had reached out her window and dropped a rock, it would have landed in the water far below.

“It is still about five kilometers,” the scientist replied, “but soon we must walk. This road does not go very much closer.”

A few minutes later, he stopped the car in the middle of the road—there was no place to pull over—and set the parking brake. They got out and followed him into a thick pine forest. There were no paths, no buildings, and no sign that any human being had ever set foot there before them. After the constant noise and vibration of the drive, the woods seemed preternaturally still. The wind whispered through the pine needles, and they could hear the faint tinkle and babble of dozens of tiny streams and rills that raced downhill from the melting snow a thousand feet above them. The only other sounds were their footsteps and an occasional comment from Dr. Sørensen, who now led them single file up a steep slope and thus could not lecture effectively.

After an hour and a half of vigorous hiking, they reached a sudden break in the forest, stepping out into a long, narrow clearing filled with broken stumps and downed trees. Shocks of brilliant-green grass and clusters of wildflowers pushed up through gaps in the fallen timber. A sparkling brook flowed through a little gully in the middle of the grass and flowers before vanishing among the pines. It looked as if someone had driven a giant bulldozer through the area a year ago.