Sohlberg and the Gift (44 page)

“I’m here to see Leif Noer.”

“Is he expecting you?” she said with a suspicious frown.

Sohlberg smiled when he noticed that the young woman’s short red hair appeared to bristle at his continuing presence and existence. “Yes,” he said loudly. “Absolutely.”

“I don’t see you’re down for an appointment.”

“I don’t do appointments. So . . . young lady . . . please call him right now and tell him Sohlberg is here to see him.”

Her frown got as hostile and disdainful as she thought she could get away with a uniformed police officer standing less than five feet away from her. She dialed and hissed Sohlberg’s message and then added: “Yes. That’s right. He’s right in front of me. Please tell the boss immediately. Okay . . . I’ll wait. . . .” A few seconds later the red-faced beauty bared her perfect white fangs with a forced smile. “Go down that hallway. Turn right at the door.”

Leif Noer welcomed Sohlberg with a friendly wave from a low sofa chair by a panoramic floor-to-ceiling window.

“Come in . . . would you like some green tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable,” said the former police inspector. His slanted eyes and bullet-shaped shaved head gave him an Asian look. The Fu Manchu beard imparted a sinister or sagacious look based on how tightly Noer squinted his eyes. The tighter the squint the more fierce and dangerous the overall appearance.

“Something’s been bothering me,” said Sohlberg.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Noer. “Tranquility is a treasure in these hectic modern times. Please have a seat.”

Sohlberg sat down on another low sofa by the window. He noticed that twelve monumental but serene Buddha statutes surrounded the room as did a dozen bonsai trees of all shapes and sizes. He could see the traffic circle below and Kristoffer Aamots gate on the left and Vitaminveien on the right. Meanwhile Noer dipped a bamboo brush into a little ceramic pot brimming with jet black ink.

“Tell me Chief Inspector . . . what troubles you?” Noer glided the fat brush over narrow sheets of white paper to produce exquisite Japanese characters.

“What would happen if it came out that a well-known and rising politician leaked information that led to the destruction of her main rival in her own party?”

Silence. The brush continued its graceful zen movements.

“Wouldn’t you say Noer . . . that she would be seen by the public and her own party members as committing a self-serving betrayal of her colleague?”

“I could only say that you . . . Chief Inspector Sohlberg . . . are putting the cart before the horse. What proof have you of this atrocious betrayal?”

“More than plenty if someone tipped off a couple of journalists. They’d connect the dots and fill in the blanks. I know that they’d find plenty of evidence.”

“So you want to leak a leak about a leak?”

“Noer. Stop playing games with me. I know that the party pays you quite a lot for your services.”

“Security is no crime. Protecting the physical safety of my clients is quite legal. The same goes for sweeping their residences and offices for wiretaps and other little bugs. Then of course you have investigative services. That’s legal too . . . specially when you are trying to root out corrupt individuals from an organization . . . even from the government itself.”

Sohlberg sighed. “I’m sure your client’s public relations people came up with those great talking points that you’re now parroting for me. But I know a lot. For example . . . I know for a fact that your buffoons started following me so that your client would know for sure that I was pursuing the Astrid Isaksen bait that she threw out at me.”

“Who . . . what client . . . what
bait
?”

“When your client sent Astrid Isaksen to ask me . . . ‘
why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?
’ You and your client knew that I would not be able to resist looking into that juicy mystery.”

“I don’t understand . . . my so-called client sent who to ask you what?”

“Your client . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal the new leader of the Venstre party . . . sent Astrid Isaksen to ask me . . .
‘why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?’
”

“Really? . . . But you have no proof.”

“But I do. Yes Noer. I do. You see . . . I met yesterday with Astrid Isaksen. I showed her a picture of Liselotte Bjørkedal. Guess what Astrid said?

“‘
That’s the nice lady who helped me and my Daddy
.’”

“So? . . . Can’t a politician help a constituent?”

“Yes,” said Sohlberg. “But you must admit
that’s a mighty peculiar turn of events
. . . . That’s exactly what Astrid Isaksen said to me when she baited me. And that was the first mistake that you and your client made. You never counted on Astrid Isaksen imitating your client by repeating a favorite phrase of Liselotte Bjørkedal.”

“Excuse me but that’s a phrase that could be said and is said a thousand times a day by any number of persons.”

“Wrong. That’s a typical if not trademark phrase of Liselotte Bjørkedal. I heard it by pure chance on the television . . . during an N.R.K. news report . . . the camera cut to Liselotte Bjørkedal at a Venstre party rally where she attacked Norway’s open immigration policies and the Norwegian oligopolies that fuel our country’s grossly overpriced goods and services. She said:

“‘It’s a sad if not pathetic day when Norwegians have to travel to Sweden to buy butter and fix their cars because such simple goods and services are too expensive in Norway.
That’s a mighty peculiar turn of events.
’

“You see Noer . . . that’s when I realized that I had heard that odd phrase before. My blood ran cold. . . .

“
‘A mighty peculiar turn of events.’

“I thought to myself . . .
‘Wait a minute . . . that’s the exact same phrase that Astrid Isaksen used when she first met me.’
”

“So? . . . Big deal. It’s just a coincidence.”

“No,” said Sohlberg with force. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence in a criminal investigation.”

“Sohlberg . . . what an imagination you have. Impressive.”

“What’s impressive is the hard evidence that I have as to Liselotte Bjørkedal. I had a mole of mine look up a mountain of evidence from public records which showed several things . . . first . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal was Berge’s boss . . . she’s the one who assigned him to prosecute the Janne Eide murder case. . . . Second . . . public records show that your company is a well-paid vendor of the Venstre party. Third . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal served for decades in the parliament’s intelligence committee . . . she’s close friends with all types of people from Russia’s old K.G.B. and the new Federal Security Service. She’s also friends with top people at Britain’s M.I. Five
and
M.I. Six . . . just the sort of shady characters who can get access to the foreign bank documents and accounting records that incriminated Kasper Berge.”

“Big deal. Like you said . . . all that is in the public record . . . and yes . . . the Venstre party is a client of my company . . . no one’s hiding anything.”

“Wrong. What’s hidden is the true purpose of the expenditures on your firm.”

“Look at me Sohlberg. I’m yawning . . . yawning with boredom. Is that all you have?”

“I also have proof that your politician used the company
Norge Tourist Now!
to pay the rooms and meals and ski lift tickets at the Hovden ski resort for Astrid Isaksen and her aunt and the aunt’s boyfriend.”

“So what
if
that is true?”

“The four week stay at the luxury resort was part of your client’s brilliant scheme to keep me on the investigation that ultimately took down Kasper Berge. Your client wanted to keep me away . . . from asking too many questions from Astrid Isaksen. After all . . . you or your client knew that I was prone to get suspicious about who was really behind Astrid Isaksen.”

“What a fantasy.”

“Your client is also the one who sent me all those documents showing how Berge and Liv Holm and Ludvik Helland were looting Eide’s estate. Liselotte Bjørkedal used her position in parliament and her contacts at the Director General of Public Prosecutions to get hold of those documents. She’s also got plenty of pals in other government agencies here and abroad who can get those records . . . legally and illegally.”

“What baloney.”

“Noer . . . you knew that sooner or later I would try to interview Astrid Isaksen to find out who had really sent her to visit me at the Zoo. So your client paid for Astrid Isaksen to go on that long four week vacation at a luxury resort that she and her family could never afford. . . . Why? . . . Because you and your client did not want me asking the girl any questions about who put her up to visiting me and baiting me.”

Noer laughed hard enough to interrupt his
shodo
calligraphy. He resumed his artwork after a belly laugh. “Any other fantasies you care to throw out?”

“I understand that the Venstre party gave a job to Jakob Gansum.”

“What’s wrong with that? . . . Helping out a poor citizen who was falsely accused and tried for a murder he did not commit. Since when is that a crime?”

“Well . . . the clincher for me is the rumor that’s swirling around.”

“You . . . the great detective . . . base your work on rumors?”

“It’s been my experience that every rumor . . . like many a lie . . . is based on a grain of truth.”

“And just exactly what is the rumor that clinches everything for you?”

“That Liselotte Bjørkedal is going to name
you
as the director of the Norwegian Police Security Service.”

The bamboo brush shook with Noer’s laughter. The brush splattered tiny black dots on the pristine paper. “Look Sohlberg . . . look what you made me do. Look at all those spots. . . . Interesting . . . they look great! . . . Now . . . me? . . . The head of P.S.T.”

“Yes,” said Sohlberg who was aghast that the corrupt former inspector was likely to become the director of P.S.T.—the secretive state security agency that is the equivalent of MI-5 in England or the FBI in the USA. “Oh . . . yes . . . Noer . . . laugh all you want. But you are indeed in the running to get that job as your reward . . . or . . . perhaps . . . as a payoff resulting from the subtle blackmail that you now have on Liselotte Bjørkedal thanks to your work on ruining Kasper Berge.”

“Please. How ridiculous.”

“Every journalist I spoke to confirms that you are being considered for director of P.S.T. and that you are the real front-runner for the job.”

Noer’s eyes became as soft and gentle as armor-piercing anti-tank missiles. He put down the brush and whispered:

“So what if I get the job? . . . Trade-offs and rewards . . . they happen all the time. That’s how things get done in politics and government and business. You’re not going to tell me that I’m going to do a worse job that the last P.S.T. director . . . who stupidly blabbed out top secret information . . . at a party in the Russian Embassy about the P.S.T. running agents inside Pakistan and Afghanistan.”

Sohlberg shrugged. “I never said you’d be worse than her. Quite the opposite . . . I’d say you have the best qualifications for highly-effective counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism.”

“So . . . what is your problem Sohlberg . . . just what do you want?”