The Last Pilgrim (44 page)

“Are you sick?” he asked, stubbing out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. The blackout curtain had been drawn over the window facing the back courtyard, and only a single candle lit up his face. The Pilgrim appeared in the doorway to the maid’s room. Agnes tried to suppress the feeling, but she couldn’t help the girlish joy that filled her when she saw him. He gave her a brief smile, and she saw that old glint in his eyes, the look he’d had before the war came to Norway. A moment later, his face shut down and his expression turned hard. But it was enough for Agnes. She didn’t need anything more. It was enough to keep her alive for another week.

“I think it’s just something I ate,” she said.

Holt got up and nodded toward the maid’s room. The Pilgrim stepped aside to let them pass. Agnes had almost forgotten what he smelled like. It had been over a week since they’d last met. And they might never see each other again.

Holt closed the door and motioned her toward the desk chair. He set the Sten gun on the bed. The room was so small that the Pilgrim had to sit on the bed to make room for all three of them. At the foot of the bed was another door, which probably led down a back stairway to the courtyard.
So that’s why Holt chose this particular maid’s room,
thought Agnes.

“I like the maid they’ve hired,” she said, sitting down.

Holt laughed quietly, pressing his finger to his lips. He perched on the edge of the desk next to Agnes. Even a child would have realized he was a hunted man. His face lacked all color in the dim light coming from the ceiling lamp, and the dark smudges under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in a while. He ran his hand over the blackout curtain and then looked at the dust on his fingers.

“You don’t look well yourself,” whispered Agnes.

“We’re losing too many,” he said, his voice as dry as sandpaper. “And I take that personally.”

“It’s not your fault,” said the Pilgrim, sitting on the bed.

Holt buried his face in his hands and kept them there for several minutes. His shoulders shook, indicating a sudden fit of sobbing.

“Kaj . . .” said the Pilgrim softly.

Holt wiped his hands on his undershirt. Then he got up and put on a shirt that was draped over a chair. Finally he seemed to regain his composure.

Agnes stared at the Pilgrim, who was semireclining on the bed, looking more handsome than ever.
How I’ve loved you,
she thought.
How I still love you. But you’d kill me if you knew what I know. How I’ve betrayed you. And Kaj, and all the others. How could I get pregnant? And I can’t tell a soul. Not now. Maybe later. Maybe never.

“All right,” said Holt, almost whispering. “Agnes, London has chosen you. They say you have what it takes. And I trust London and your handler, who was once mine.” He stared at her with newly regained strength, as if he’d drawn energy from a source deep inside. A little smile tugged at his lips. She could see the boy he once had been, a devil-may-care lad, but above all, honest.

Agnes nodded, cursing Christopher Bratchard.
May you burn in hell,
she thought.

“London says that Research Director Torfinn Rolborg has to go. And there’s nobody else who can do that except you, Agnes.”

“But how . . .”

Holt placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I’ll explain.”

She nodded.

“Now that you’ve been here, and you’ve met with me personally, there’s no going back. Understand?”

He motioned toward the Pilgrim, who was kneeling on the floor, bending down to pull up two floorboards under the bed. He carefully removed two paper packages and handed them to Holt. Agnes shook her head when the Pilgrim offered her an English cigarette. Their eyes met.
In my belly,
she thought.
I have you inside my belly.

Holt set the packages on the desk and opened them. In the first was the strangest thing Agnes had ever seen. A completely black steel rod, maybe thirty centimeters long, with a short shaft and a trigger mechanism at the base. It looked like a big silencer, but she knew it had to be some sort of gun.

“Show me how it works,” said Holt, handing the steel rod to Agnes.

“What is it?” she asked as she took it. It felt oddly light, as if made of air.

“They call it a Welrod,” said Holt close to her ear. “It’s the first and only one we have. So . . .” He squatted down next to her. “It has to work.”

Agnes didn’t respond as she studied the gun for a whole minute, maybe more, pulling out the circular bolt in the end and pressing her finger on the heavy trigger.

“Okay,” said Holt. “As you may realize, there’s no time to test-fire it. You’ll need to shoot Rolborg in the chest from a distance of two feet. Reload, then shoot him in the head. Reload, another shot to the head. Don’t get any blood on yourself. The only way out is through the main entrance. If there’s blood on you, you’re finished. There’ll be one round in the chamber. You’ll have to reload for each shot.”

“Stop,” she said. “Stop . . .”

Holt smiled faintly to himself and shook his head. Then he started over from the beginning, more calmly this time.

“What about the noise?” asked Agnes.

“I could have shot you right now, and the Pilgrim wouldn’t have heard a thing if he were sitting in the kitchen. We’ll get the gun inside the building. Security is tight down there. But don’t worry about that. We have a man on the inside. He’ll leave the Welrod in the toilet tank in the ladies’ room. First, you’ll be searched by the guard. Then you’ll need to ask to go to the bathroom before your interview. And put on a good act, for God’s sake. You must know that I’m placing a huge responsibility on your shoulders.”

“But how . . . how will I get to Knaben?” She shook her head, totally confused. Was she going to Knaben’s headquarters? She had no idea what Holt was trying to tell her. What interview?

“It’s just the opportunity we needed,” said Holt. He pulled out the desk drawer and showed her a newspaper clipping from
Aftenposten
. It was a short job announcement from Knaben Molybdenum Mines, Inc., Oslo Division: “The Research Department seeks a new assistant secretary. Bring your papers with you.” Then a few key words about qualifications and the like. The interview times were listed as Thursday or Friday of the following week.

“Rolborg will be conducting the interviews personally, even though it doesn’t say that here. Our man says that the secretary will be working for him.”

“Our man?” said Agnes. “Couldn’t he . . .”

“Our man isn’t capable of killing anyone,” whispered Holt. “Even if I could convince him that Rolborg isn’t a human being—just a monstrous Nazi whose discoveries will take the lives of thousands of good men—even then he wouldn’t be able to do it. But London says that you, Agnes, have what it takes to remove this monster for good.” He placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed hard. “And haven’t you said yourself that you wanted to make a difference in this war?”

“You need to think this through. Improvise,” said the Pilgrim. “My suggestion is to have . . .” He stopped.

An image of Johanne Caspersen inexplicably appeared in Agnes’s mind.
How could I?
she thought, and then cursed herself for having such thoughts.

“But this is a suicide mission,” she said. “I might run into Gustav or the administrative director or . . .”

None of them spoke for a long time.

“You’ve never met Rolborg, have you?” Holt then asked.

She shook her head.

“And Gustav Lande is seldom at the office on Rosenkrantz Gate. He spends most of his time in his office in Majorstua, and when he’s not there, he’s traveling around the country. Isn’t that so? He has a large number of other business interests, some of which are even bigger than Knaben. So what’s the chance that you’d run into him there on that particular day?”

She nodded.

“And besides, you’ll be unrecognizable, Agnes. I promise you that. You won’t look anything like yourself. You’ll be blonde, with blue eyes . . .” He stopped himself, but smiled like a boy. As if this whole operation were a trivial affair.

“I see,” said Agnes.

Holt placed a stack of papers on her lap. Identification documents that lacked a photograph.
That’s what the camera on the bookcase is for,
she thought. She paged through the fictional life that had been created for her.

“You’ll try out the disguise, we’ll take your picture, and voilà . . .” He pointed to the identification papers.

So, that’s it,
she thought. Everything seemed to have been decided. She needed to do this. She had to do it. She had no choice. She glanced at the Pilgrim, only two feet away.
For your sake,
she thought.
This is for us, for our freedom, for our . . .

She felt a sudden stabbing sensation in her chest. This was real, wasn’t it? Suddenly everything Kaj Holt had said seemed disconnected, randomly and hastily put together; it appeared that he wanted to have Rolborg removed, no matter what the cost.

“With these papers, they’ll have to give you the job. You’ll change here, try out everything here first. Stay here all night if you have to, but get yourself completely ready here before the operation. We have the entire night ahead of us now, and by the time we’re done, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep. Do you understand?” Holt took out a blonde wig that had to have been made from real hair, along with two cans. She couldn’t see what they contained.

“What about someone from England? Couldn’t they . . .” Agnes began, but then stopped herself.

“It’s a matter of time,” said Holt, now sounding a bit annoyed. Then he regained his composure and spoke more gently. “He’s already done too much damage. He’s been given a lot of leeway by Lande, who in turn has been granted the same by Seeholz. He enjoys the full trust of the Germans. You know that. And very few others in Norway—maybe nobody except Rolborg—know the exact location of the molybdenum deposit. They might have to spend years searching for it up there in Hurdal.”

“They’ll figure it out,” said Agnes, stroking the Welrod. “Not many people know about him . . . about Rolborg . . . and I . . .”

Holt touched her shoulder.

“You’re the only one who can get to him without us losing everybody involved. Do you understand? He’s guarded at all times, except beyond the reception area in Knaben’s offices. And you’re a woman. No one is going to suspect a woman of shooting someone, Agnes.”

“All right,” she said, hardly hearing her own words. Those seemed to be the only words she had left, an automatic reply: all right.

Holt took her face in his hands, which smelled of tobacco and sweat and nervousness.

“I’m counting on you. I know you were meant to do this, Agnes.”

She nodded, then closed her eyes. Again she pictured the hideous face of the maid. The sound of her hand slapping her cheek rang in her head.

CHAPTER 49

Thursday, June 19, 2003

Gustav Freytag Strasse

Berlin, Germany

Peter Waldhorst laid his knife and fork down on his plate to signal he was done eating. He took the sheet of paper that Tommy Bergmann was holding out to him. It was a scanned copy of the photograph that Finn Nystrøm had e-mailed to him. The photo from Midsummer Eve 1942. Waldhorst took his reading glasses out of the breast pocket of his short-sleeved shirt. Bergmann was seated across from the old man, who was now staring at the old photo.

“You knew the woman sitting on the right. Agnes Gerner,” said Bergmann.

Waldhorst didn’t say a word as he shifted the paper in his hand, gripping it so hard that his fingertips turned white.

“Was I ever really that young?” he said finally.

Bergmann didn’t reply. Waldhorst had been avoiding the topic for so long that he was starting to have doubts that this trip had been worth the effort.

“Judging by your expression in the photo, it seemed that you must have known her quite well. Am I right?”

“What do you mean?” said Waldhorst without looking up.

“You look like a man in love,” said Bergmann.

Waldhorst glanced up then, a little smile on his face. Looking into his eyes, Bergmann could see the innocent boy he had once been.

“You’re certainly making a lot of assumptions, Mr. Bergmann.”

“But you do remember the case, don’t you? The two women and a child who were reported missing?”

“I don’t remember much about it,” said Waldhorst. “I was in the Abwehr back then, you know. This was a police matter. And keep in mind how much is going on during a war. Three missing people are quickly forgotten, Mr. Bergmann. Statistics. Nothing more.”

“Why did you transfer to the Gestapo only three months after they were killed?”

Waldhorst took off his glasses and held them up to blow on the lenses. Then he carefully polished them on his shirttail. He showed no sign that he would answer the question. Instead, he looked out at the lake, as if the sight of it might give him inspiration or provide the answers to Bergmann’s questions. From the highway on the other side of the lake came a faint roar that seemed to hover like a blanket over the veranda. The only other sound was the chirping of birds in the trees down by the water.

“This may sound crazy, but the Gestapo was a good place for me at the time. The Abwehr was already hanging on by a thread in 1942. Perhaps you know the story. Canaris . . . and, well, you know.”

“Yes,” said Bergmann.

“I wanted to stay alive.”

Bergmann didn’t say a word.

“War is a matter of survival,” said Waldhorst. “Once it starts, the only thing that matters is the struggle to survive.”

“Agnes Gerner didn’t survive. Nor did Cecilia Lande or Johanne Caspersen.”

“No, they didn’t,” said Waldhorst.

“Who killed them?” asked Bergmann.

“Didn’t you tell me that Carl Oscar Krogh killed them?” said Waldhorst, with a wave of his hand.

Bergmann wondered whether Waldhorst had ever killed anyone, whether that hand of his had killed.
Undoubtedly,
he thought. Waldhorst had killed people and sent even more to their deaths.