Chameleon People (40 page)

Patricia let out a deep sigh and said: ‘I can understand that. Just give me a little time to think about the connections and to check something in a book. Ring me back in ten
minutes.’

Then she put the receiver down without waiting for an answer. I sat and wondered what book would be able to say anything about all this.

I rang Patricia back exactly ten minutes later, and she did not make me wait.

‘The good news is that I think I can tell you quite a lot about one aspect of the case, and where Miriam is – or at least, where she was yesterday. The problem is that I am not sure
how useful it will be.’

This was a sensational, if somewhat confusing, start. I asked her to tell me immediately, and to let me decide whether I could use the information or not.

‘Well, let’s start at the beginning – in other words, with Per Johan Fredriksen. I think it is overwhelmingly likely that the Soviets wanted him dead to minimize the risk that
any spy allegations might upset the agreement, which is very important to them. The man in the hat not only came to Norway to commit murder, he also set out to do so on Saturday night. But I am far
less certain as to whether he actually did or not. I think he was the man who just stood by and watched, and that someone else got there before him. In which case, the man or woman who killed
Fredriksen did it for very different reasons.’

Patricia asked if I was following her so far. I said yes, fascinated, and asked her to continue. Which she did, in a low and intense voice.

‘The interpreter saw the connection when she heard that the newly arrived agent was out the evening that Fredriksen was killed. She got cold feet after that, possibly after doubting the
excellence of the Soviet Union for some time. Coming to Norway could have been quite a shock, particularly if she had never been abroad before. She had got to know your fiancée at the
university, and had met up with her at yesterday’s lecture. And either then, or at some point later in the day, the interpreter gave your fiancée an envelope with some documents that
would prove the connection. It is most likely that they met later on in the day and were seen. Or they may have been seen at the university, if the interpreter was already being followed. Whatever
the case, your fiancée was then followed and watched, and they saw her going out, somewhat carelessly, with the envelope in her hand. They struck immediately. I am pretty certain that must
be what happened.’

I agreed that it must have been what had happened – although I had not made this connection myself.

‘It is worth noting that the interpreter smelt a rat and was nervous. She walked out with you after the meeting and left the embassy. She may have gone to her flat, but it is more likely
that she went to a friend’s or stayed the night in a hotel. Her experience of the KGB and Soviet police meant that she did not trust the Norwegian police, but she did trust you as she had met
you and heard about you from your fiancée. She didn’t know if everything had worked out, but tried, without any luck, to ring the halls of residence and then you, when she
couldn’t get hold of your fiancée. In the end, she called your fiancée’s mother, whom she knew of by name, and asked her to give you a message about where and when to meet
her. Either the interpreter was extremely unfortunate, or they were already on her trail, which is more likely. What is certain is that she definitely had someone hot on her heels and was shot just
before she could speak to you.’

I was very impressed, and said so. Then I asked the most important and vital question that she still had not answered: ‘But WHERE is Miriam?’

‘That is of course the most important question now. The book I wanted to check was quite simply a dictionary. I have now gone through all the words that start “bas” and there
is only one word that fits here, and that is basement. I would assume that means the embassy basement. It would not be easy for them to find a suitable hiding place in the vicinity at such short
notice, and if the basement was anywhere else, the interpreter would be far less likely to know about it. However, it would be risky for them to move Miriam today, as now they must presume that the
embassy is being watched.’

‘So in other words, it is more likely that they might kill her instead?’

Patricia sighed on the other end.

‘Clearly that is a possibility, yes. I think they kidnapped her without knowing who she was, simply because they wanted to get the documents back and they had seen her. They should by now
have discovered that she is your fiancée. To kill a Norwegian citizen entails a risk, but to kill the fiancée of one of the country’s best-known policemen would be even worse.
They probably do not know how much you and the police actually know and can prove. The interpreter’s handbag may prove to be crucial here.’

‘But there is nothing of interest in the handbag,’ I retorted, confused.

Patricia sighed again, but then hurried on with renewed vigour.

‘Unfortunately not. But they do not know that, or what she might have told you, and nor do they know if she is alive or not. They are no doubt wondering how much the Norwegian police know,
how much you can prove, and how to deal with the situation. The chances are that Miriam is still being held somewhere in the basement. But it is impossible to prove it and to get her out of there
will therefore not be easy. It quickly becomes a matter of how much you believe what I say is right, and if you are willing to risk your career to save your fiancée. A police raid against
the embassy would cause a scandal, and if no hostage was found, heads would roll and tensions between the two countries would escalate. On the other hand, it would also be a scandal if a hostage
was found in their embassy, and that could quite literally cause heads to roll in the Soviet Union.’

There was a heavy knock at the door as I was listening. I hastily whispered: ‘Thank you for all your help – I will think about it,’ and then put the phone down.

Danielsen and my boss were already on their way in as I put down the receiver. They both looked very serious indeed.

‘Danielsen has some very bad news, and I have some very onerous information,’ my boss told me.

My blood turned to ice and my muscles froze. I sat there, immobile, and stared at Danielsen.

‘She is dead,’ he said, gravely.

‘Who?’ I almost shouted.

Danielsen realized his blunder and threw up his hands. ‘I am so sorry for putting it so badly. We know nothing more about your fiancée. But unfortunately the interpreter died during
the operation at the University Hospital about half an hour ago. She did not regain consciousness. The bullet wounds would have been fatal, no matter how soon she had got to hospital, they
said.’

I felt a paradoxical relief as soon as he said that it was the interpreter who had died. I had been terrified that he was talking about Miriam and it was a relief to know that nothing I could
have done at the National Theatre would have saved the interpreter’s life. But I also felt pained on the part of the interpreter, and realized that this further reduced the chances of getting
Miriam back. So I looked back at my boss, without saying anything.

‘My news is not necessarily bad, but both pieces of information are onerous. First, on hearing about the shooting at the National Theatre, the Government has postponed the ratification of
the Barents Sea agreement in the Storting indefinitely. And second, the Soviet Embassy has just informed us that they take it very seriously indeed that one of their staff has been shot, and have
requested a meeting with the head of the investigation as soon as possible.’

‘They have got something to hide and are playing with high stakes. I think we should first allow ourselves a couple of hours to think about this, and then all three of us should go,’
I said.

They both nodded. But my boss said that we could not delay it too long, with due respect, as he put it, to the embassy, the press, the Government and my fiancée. He suggested that he and
I pay another visit to the head of the police security service at two o’clock, and that Danielsen should then come with us to the Soviet Embassy at four.

Danielsen and I quickly agreed. This would give the investigation three hours to produce some evidence – and me three hours to think about the decision I would have to make should no
evidence materialize.

Nothing more happened between one o’clock and a quarter to two. I sat in my office and waited for a telephone call with good or bad news about Miriam. I had no idea where
it would come from though, and, of course, it did not come.

So I sat there alone thinking about what Patricia had said. I found no other explanation that fitted as well as hers, and it seemed more and more likely that she was right. But I could not be
sure, and to confront the Soviet Embassy without any evidence was a horrifying prospect.

At the same time it felt like I had a duty to try everything I could to bring Miriam back, without worrying about what the consequences might be for me. She had apparently been kidnapped because
of her connection to me, while trying to help me solve the hardest murder case I had ever worked on.

And yet: the thought of being shown to be bluffing, having accused the Soviet Embassy of kidnapping, was terrifying, not least after my last meeting with the vice-ambassador. My career, thus far
successful, could crash-land in a scandal if this got out, and result in me being fired. This was a day when I could lose everything: my fiancée, my position and my reputation.

The visit to Victoria Terrace at two o’clock did little to help. Asle Bryne again expressed his guarded sympathy for the situation I found myself in, but could not offer any assistance. He
nodded, almost eagerly, to the theory that Soviet agents were behind the kidnapping and today’s murder, and believed that the ‘communists’ were in all likelihood also behind the
murders of both Per Johan and Vera Fredriksen. But he had no evidence to substantiate it.

When the question of how the spy allegations had ended up in the press was raised, Asle Bryne again lit his pipe and categorically denied that the leak could have come from the ranks of the
police security service. He refused, slightly apologetically and very demonstratively, to give the identity of the police security service’s source with regard to the Fredriksen spy claims.
However, when I asked him directly, he could confirm that the source had not been the interpreter, whom he maintained was totally unknown to him and the police security service.

I was back in the office by half past two and once again, sat alone with my dilemma. At a quarter to three, I rang Patricia to tell her about the latest development. I could hardly hope that she
had any evidence. And indeed, she did not. She did, however, go to unexpected lengths to advise me as to what I should do.

‘You have to do it. I am more and more convinced that I am right, and it could save your fiancée’s life,’ she said.

I said that I had to think about it, and that it felt like leaping into the unknown.

‘Remember that you can always rely on my support, even if everything goes wrong,’ she said, finishing our telephone call at five to three.

Again I sat there and pondered. To begin with, I was deeply touched by Patricia’s care and consideration for both Miriam and myself. Then I thought about what she had said in parting, and
again, I wondered what her motive was. It struck me that Patricia, from her perspective, was perhaps manufacturing a win-win situation, where she would either become my hero because she was right,
or would be the only person who would still support me if I lost both my fiancée and my job. I could not bring myself to believe that she really would think the latter, but whatever the
case, it was a far more painful alternative for me than for her. So in the midst of it all, I harboured a vague doubt as to Patricia’s intentions. And in a strange way, I was now fighting
with a bad conscience about both Patricia and Miriam.

Two further conversations did not make things any easier or the pressure any less. Miriam’s mother rang to ask me if there was any news. I told her that the interpreter had died and that I
was going to the embassy in an hour, but there was no news, for better or worse, about Miriam herself. Her mother finished by saying: ‘We’re losing hope. But we are very grateful for
everything you are doing.’ There is no doubt that she meant well, but it did not make my situation any easier. I sat with the telephone in my hand, feeling ever gloomier and more and more
uncertain.

Two minutes later, a woman from the switchboard knocked on my door. She said that the newspapers had started to ring and asked if it was true that my fiancée had disappeared, and if so,
might it have something to do with the Fredriksen case, the day’s murder and the oil agreement?

I asked her to come with me to Danielsen’s office. We quickly agreed on a two-line standard response: we confirmed that my fiancée was missing and that an investigation was
underway, but that it was too early to comment on what had happened.

The switchboard lady then took this back with her. I stood and looked questioningly at Danielsen. He shook his head a fraction.

‘Nothing more to report, I’m afraid. We do not know any more about your fiancée, but we do know a bit more about the interpreter. According to the embassy, she lived in a
studio flat not far from the embassy itself, but her landlady had not seen her since yesterday morning. A hotel on one of the side streets off Karl Johan called after the announcement of her death
to say that they thought she had booked in there overnight. A slightly out-of-breath young woman had suddenly shown up there the evening before, without a reservation and without any luggage. She
had paid in cash and seemed very nervous. She said she was called Hanne Hansen and spoke very good Norwegian, but did not have any ID and the receptionist noticed some Russian letters on her
jacket. She went down to the reception twice in the evening and once again in the morning to make some short phone calls. Otherwise, as far as the hotel knew, she stayed in her room until she
checked out at a quarter past eleven. A man had called in the morning and explained that his mentally unstable wife had run away, but they refused to give out any information about their guests.
This enquiry could well have been about the interpreter and would indicate that they were looking for her. But it is still not hard evidence.’