The Blind Goddess (17 page)

He did better this time, feeling the loose brick almost immediately. He extracted it carefully and lifted it out of the water. His sweating back, freezing arm, and heavy thudding heart were all
trying to persuade him to abandon the task, but gritting his teeth he thrust his hand down into the water again. Now he’d located the spot, he was able cautiously and delicately to draw out
an object the size of a small but sturdy case. There was a handle on one end facing outwards, and he made sure he had a proper grip on it before pulling it out of the hidden cavity.

When the case, in fact a large box, came to the surface, his numbed fingers could cope no longer. He dropped his prize and lunged forward in a desperate attempt to catch it. But he lost his
balance, his left foot slid off the ledge, and he disappeared under the water together with the box.

He couldn’t see anything, and his ears, mouth, and nose filled with water. The cumbersome overalls were quickly sodden and he could feel his boots and clothing dragging him down towards
the bottom. He was in a complete panic, a fear not so much for himself as for the box. But as its further descent was partially blocked by his own body, he was able to react fast enough to save it.
With a supreme effort he stretched up and reached the edge of the door above and heaved the box out into the snow. He was really frightened now. He flailed around, but could already feel his
movements becoming torpid, his arms and legs not obeying his commands. With another huge effort he grabbed the bucket hook again, mentally crossing his fingers for the bolts in the thin plywood to
hold. Hauling himself upwards, he managed to get high enough to stretch one arm over the side of the door aperture. He took the risk of letting go of the bucket hook and thrust the upper part of
his body through the opening. Moments later he was standing dripping wet and gasping for breath in the moonlight. His heart had intensified its protests and he had to clutch at his chest to ease
the intolerable pain. Leaving the well door open, he picked up the box and staggered back to the cottage.

He ripped off his clothes to stand naked in front of the fire. He almost felt like climbing right into it, but in fact crouched down on the wide hearth as close to the flames as he could get.
Eventually it occurred to him to fetch a quilt. It was cold and rough, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. The clawing at his breast had stopped, though his skin was burning and
prickly. His teeth were chattering as if possessed—he regarded that as a good sign. It was already at least fifteen degrees Celsius in the room, and in half an hour he’d recovered
sufficiently to put on an old tracksuit, a sweater, woollen socks, and felt slippers. He got himself another cup of coffee, and settled down to open the box. It was made of metal but had a rubber
seal and coating and a waterproof lock.

Everything was there. Twenty-three sheets of code, a bound nine-page document, a list of seventeen names. It was all in a plastic envelope, a safety measure that was redundant in view of the
watertight nature of the box itself. He took the envelope out. Beneath it the box was completely filled by seven bundles of banknotes, two hundred thousand kroner in each. Five lay crosswise, the
other two lengthwise. One million four hundred thousand kroner.

He extracted a quarter of one pack, at random, leaving the rest there. He locked the box carefully and set it back down on the floor.

The papers were totally dry. He looked first at the list of names, and then poked it into the fire. He held it until it burst into flames, and had to let go hastily in order not to scorch his
still numb fingers. Then he turned to the nine-page document and started leafing through it.

The organisation couldn’t have been simpler. He was the unknown godfather in the background. He had selected his two assistants with great care. Hansy Olsen because he had a useful
relationship with the criminal classes, an innate understanding of money, and a flexible attitude to the law. Jørgen Lavik because he appeared to be Olsen’s absolute antithesis:
clever, successful, sober, and cold as ice. The young man’s recent hysteria seemed to indicate that he had been mistaken. He had felt his way step by step, with extreme caution, as if he were
seducing a virgin. An equivocal remark here, a few ambiguous words there, and in the end he got both of them. He had never participated in any of the actual work himself. He was the brains, and he
had the investment capital. He knew all the names and planned all the moves. After long experience of defence cases he recognised where the traps lay. Greed. It was greed that caused their
downfall. Smuggling drugs was easy. He had found out where the stuff came from, and what connections could be relied on. So many clients had told him mournfully about the little error that had
brought them down: excessive greed. The answer was to keep every operation within limits. Not to aim too high. It was better to have a steady flow of modest earnings than to be tempted by a couple
of successes to go for the “big haul.”

No, the problem wasn’t on the import side; the risks lay in the distribution. In an environment full of informers, stoned buyers, and avaricious pushers, you had to tread warily. That was
why he’d never had any direct involvement with the lower echelons of the organisation.

Only once or twice had things gone wrong. The runners were caught, but the operation had been so small that the police didn’t suspect a larger outfit behind it. The lads had kept their
mouths shut, taken their sentences like men, and had a promise smuggled in of a significant bonus when they came out in the not-too-distant future. Four years was the longest sentence, but they
knew they were earning a good salary for every year inside. Even if the runners had chosen to grass, they wouldn’t have had that much to say. At least that’s what he’d thought
until a short while ago, before he’d realised that his two crown princes had exceeded their mandate.

He’d cleaned up a considerable amount of money. On top of a significant legitimate salary, it made him pretty well off. He’d used some of it gradually and circumspectly, but never in
a way that couldn’t be justified from his valid finances. The money in the well was his. There was also a corresponding amount hidden away in a Swiss bank account. But the major portion of
the surplus was in an account he couldn’t use himself. He could put money in, but not take it out. That account was for the Cause. He felt proud of it. The pleasure of being able to
contribute to the Cause had effectively suppressed a lifetime’s conviction of right and wrong, of criminality and legality. He saw himself as chosen, and doing what was right. Fate, which had
held its protective hand over their operations for so many years, was on his side. The few mistakes they had made were inevitable, and recent events merely a warning from that same Fate to wind up
the business. That could only mean that his task was accomplished. The greying man looked upon Fate as a good friend, and heeded its auguries. He’d earned countless millions; now others could
take over.

The bonuses for the unlucky couriers had depleted the capital somewhat, but it was worth it. Only his two colleagues had known who he was. Olsen was dead. Lavik was keeping quiet. At least for
the time being. He would take things slowly—he had plans for all eventualities.

Hansy Olsen was his first murder victim in peacetime. It had been remarkably easy. And it had been imperative, no different in essence from the occasion when two German soldiers had lain in the
snow in front of him, each with a bloody hole in his uniform. He’d been seventeen then, making his way to Sweden. The shots had continued to ring in his ears as he searched them both for
valuables and then trudged on full of national fervour to Sweden and freedom. It was just before Christmas 1944, and he knew he was on the winning side. He had killed two of the enemy, and felt no
remorse over it.

Nor had the murder of Hans E. Olsen given him any sense of guilt. It had been a simple necessity. He’d experienced a kind of elation, a joy rather like the feeling of triumph after a raid
on his neighbour’s apple orchard over fifty years ago. The weapon was old, unregistered, but in perfect condition, bought from a long-deceased client.

He’d finished reading through the document. He rolled it up and screwed it round tight like a spill before throwing it on the fire. The twenty-three pages of code went the same way. Ten
minutes later there were no documents anywhere in the world that could connect him to anything other than respectable activities. No signatures, no handwriting, no fingerprints. No proof.

He stood up and fetched some dry clothes from the cupboard. Replacing the box in the well was a more straightforward job than getting it out. He emptied the coffee grounds on the fire before
changing back into the clothes he’d come in, hung his wet things in an outside shed, and locked the cottage. It was two o’clock, and he would be back in town in time to have a shower
and turn up at the office. Cold and tired, admittedly, but that was acceptable. His secretary thought so, anyway.

TUESDAY 3 NOVEMBER

F
redrick Myhreng was in top form. While Hans Olsen was still alive, he had given him a few reasonable three-column articles, in exchange for a
couple of beers. He’d sought out journalists with the enthusiasm of a small boy collecting returnable bottles. Even so, Myhreng preferred him dead. He had the full confidence of his editor,
had been released from other work to concentrate on the mafia case, and met with encouragement from colleagues, who could see that he was making a niche for himself. “Contacts, you know,
contacts,” he grinned when people wondered what he was actually doing.

He lit a cigarette and the smoke blended with the exhaust fumes that formed a leaden haze to a height of three metres above the road. He leant against a lamppost, turned up the collar of his
sheepskin jacket, and imagined himself James Dean. He breathed in a flake of tobacco as he inhaled and it caught in his windpipe, making him cough so violently that tears came to his eyes, his
spectacles misted over, and he couldn’t see a thing. Gone was James Dean, and he shook his head vigorously, opening his eyes wide to peer through the lenses.

On the opposite side of the busy street was Jørgen Ulf Lavik’s office. A solid brass plate announced that Lavik, Saetre & Villesen occupied the second floor of the imposing
turn-of-the-century brick building. Very central and very practical, only a stone’s throw from the law courts.

Lavik was interesting. Myhreng had checked on quite a number of people now. Phoned around a bit, checked through old tax records, visited a few watering holes, and generally made himself
amenable. He had started with twenty names on his pad; now there were five. It had not been easy sorting them out, and he had done it principally by instinct. Lavik became increasingly prominent,
eventually heading the list. With a thick line underneath. He spent suspiciously little money. Perhaps he was just very frugal, but there were limits. His house and cars could have belonged to an
average-income legal assistant rather than a partner in the firm. He didn’t own a boat or a country cottage either, despite the fact that his tax returns for the last few years showed that
the firm was flourishing. He’d done well out of a hotel project in Bangkok that he was still involved in. It looked as if it was going to be a sound investment for his Norwegian clients, and
had led to further projects abroad, most of which had produced handsome dividends both for the investors and for Lavik himself.

As a defence lawyer it seemed he was quite successful. His reputation among colleagues was good, his statistics for acquittals were impressive, and it was difficult to find anyone who spoke ill
of him.

Myhreng was not exceptionally intelligent, but he was clever enough to know it. He was also inventive and intuitive. He’d had a thorough training from a wily old fox of an editor on a
local paper, and knew that investigative journalism consisted mainly of hard graft and failed leads.

“The truth is always well hidden, Fredrick, always well hidden,” the old newspaperman had cautioned him. “There’s a lot of muckraking before you get to it. Dress smartly,
never give up, and have a thorough wash when you’ve finished.”

It couldn’t do any harm to have a chat with Lavik. It would be best not to have an appointment. Catch him on the hop. He stubbed out his cigarette, spat into the gutter, and zigzagged
across the road between hooting cars and a stationary lorry.

The woman in reception was surprisingly plain. She was getting on in years, and reminded him of a librarian from an American children’s movie. Receptionists were supposed to be attractive
and friendly—not this one. She looked as if she was going to tell him to be quiet as he tripped on the threshold and stumbled into the waiting room. But equally unexpectedly, she smiled. Her
teeth were dull and unnaturally even. Obviously dentures.

“The door sill is too high,” she apologised. “I’m always telling them. It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a real accident. Can I help you?”

Myhreng put on his flattering-old-ladies smile, which she immediately saw through, and her mouth contracted into a pattern of stern wrinkles like angry little darts.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Lavik,” he said without discarding his ineffectual smile. She consulted the book, but obviously couldn’t find his name there.

“No appointment?”

“No, but it’s rather important.”

Fredrick Myhreng said who he was, and she pursed her lips even more. Without a word she pressed a button on her telephone and conveyed his message, presumably to the man in question.

She didn’t come off the line immediately, but then with a quaint gesture she motioned him towards a row of chairs and asked him to wait. Mr. Lavik would see him, but he wouldn’t be
free for a few minutes.

It was actually half an hour.

Lavik’s office was bright and spacious. The room had parquet flooring and just three pictures on the walls. The acoustics were poor, and more wall decoration might have helped. The desk
was remarkably clear and tidy, with just three or four files on it. There was a solid wooden filing cabinet in one corner beside a small safe. The chair for clients was comfortable, but Myhreng
could see that it was from a well-known furniture chain and cheaper than it appeared. He had the same kind himself. The bookcase contained very little, and Myhreng assumed the office must have its
own library. He found it slightly bizarre that one shelf was full of old children’s books, in enviably good condition, to judge from the spines.