The Last Pilgrim (51 page)

Bergmann had just made it to the last page when he heard cursing coming from the bedroom. Sørvaag yelled that he’d hit his head on the desk. Bergmann smiled to himself as he took the last piece of paper out of the shoebox. It seemed to be from the same notepad as many of the other pages, but this one had been crumpled up at some point. He read the few words on the wrinkled page: “We have a rotten apple in the basket.”

“In the basket?” he murmured.

Next to this sentence someone seemed to have written something in pencil but then erased it until the paper had almost torn. Bergmann got up and held the paper up to the single rice-paper lamp hanging from the ceiling. The pencil had been pressed into the paper so hard that it was still possible to make out the letters in reverse on the back. Someone with different handwriting than Holt—in almost childlike script—had written a name in big letters.

KROGH.

Bergmann practically collapsed on the sofa.

So Iver Faalund was right. Krogh was the rotten apple. But who had written his name on this old piece of paper and then erased it? Vera Holt? Bergmann sighed. If that were the case, then the only two people claiming that Krogh was a traitor were an old alcoholic in Uddevalla and a psychotic woman who had previously been convicted of murder. Not exactly ideal, but Bergmann had no choice but to believe this was the case.

“We’ve got her,” said Reuter as he stood in front of Bergmann. Sørvaag held the computer hard drive up, as if it were the spoils of war from another era.

These few scribbles change everything,
thought Bergmann.

And yet they changed nothing.

Peter Waldhorst must have known all along, of course. Because what else could he have told Kaj Holt in Lillehammer except that Krogh was the man who had stabbed the Resistance in the back in the fall of 1942?

And Vera had figured that out.

And Bergmann really
had
overlooked something completely banal: the fact that a drunkard in godforsaken Uddevalla and a crazy woman on Kolstadgata might know the truth. And that only served to strengthen his belief that Krogh had ordered Holt’s death.

“All right. We’ve got her,” said Bergmann. “But I think you might want to wait to call the boss.”

He held out the loose page to Reuter.

Reuter frowned, trying to catch Bergmann’s eye. But Bergmann merely nodded and stood up. Then he practically stuffed the piece of paper into Reuter’s hand.

They stood there staring at each other for a long moment. Then Reuter smoothed out the page and took his reading glasses out of his breast pocket.

“Kaj Holt must have written this,” said Bergmann. “He mentions the name Vera somewhere in the other papers.”

“‘We have a rotten apple in the basket,’” Reuter read almost in a whisper. He repeated the words to himself. Then he took a step back.

“Look at what was written next to it, but then erased,” said Bergmann.

Reuter held the page up to the ceiling light, then turned it around twice.

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“I think Vera Holt knows something that no one else in Norway does,” he said.

“The knife,” said Reuter.

Bergmann nodded.

“Of course,” said Reuter. “That’s why she killed him with the knife. The Hitler Youth knife.”

“And that’s why Krogh had to kill Agnes Gerner,” said Bergmann.

“So the liquidation was not a mistake,” Reuter murmured to himself. “Maybe he’s right after all, that guy of yours in Uddevalla.”

“Maybe Kaj Holt learned two things in Lillehammer,” said Bergmann. “When Waldhorst told him who the traitor really was, he found out who killed Agnes Gerner and the two others, and he also found out who betrayed the Milorg and the British network in Oslo in the fall of 1942. The same man was responsible in both cases: Carl Oscar Krogh.”

Reuter stared at Bergmann, a sad look in his eyes.

“That was why Krogh fled to Sweden,” said Bergmann. “He must have duped more than just his own comrades. Or maybe he was whisked out of Norway by the Germans, and then returned to the right side. In March 1943 he placed the blame on someone else: Gudbrand Svendstuen. And he personally crossed the border to liquidate him. Then he quietly waited in Stockholm for the war to be over.”

“This is unbelievable,” said Reuter.

CHAPTER 59

Friday, September 25, 1942

Hammerstads Gate

Oslo, Norway

Agnes Gerner pressed her face against the door of her apartment as she listened to the footsteps coming up the stairs.
Dear God,
she prayed,
have mercy on me.

The scent of Christopher Bratchard’s aftershave from King’s Cross station in London suddenly filled her nostrils. She remembered his words. As if he knew that this would happen. That a responsibility too heavy for her to bear would be placed on her shoulders. And that it would be the death of her.

“May God have mercy on your soul,” she whispered.

But the footsteps didn’t stop.

Nine steps left. She had counted every one of them. There could only be nine more to go.

Nine steps left in her life.

The glass capsule was pressing against her gums.
Now,
she thought.
I’ll do it now.

Eight steps, seven, six, five, four. But there was only one person. That was what she couldn’t understand.

Silently she counted down. As the number of steps diminished, her pulse quickened until she could no longer distinguish her heartbeats. They had become one huge roar inside her body.

How could it all end like this?

“How?” she whispered as the doorbell rang.

She sank down on the doormat and clasped her hands. Then she bowed her face to her hands and said a prayer. The same prayer she’d always said as a child. When her father was alive, when they lived here, in this very city.

“Agnes?” said a voice through the door.

She felt as if someone had struck her in the head.

Her hands were wet with tears.

The glass capsule was still intact. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and moved the capsule so that it was positioned between her teeth.

Just before her jaws crushed the glass, she heard the voice again.

“Agnes?”

Finally she recognized who it was. She looked down at her left hand.

Yours forever,
she thought.

She spat the capsule into her purse and closed it. Then she stood up and opened the door.

Gustav Lande was standing on the threshold. His face seemed to merge with the beige of his coat. His tie was loose, his hat was askew, and his hair hung limply over his forehead. The smell of booze was unmistakable.

He didn’t even seem to notice that Agnes had been crying.

“Have you heard?” he said.

For a long moment he merely stood there, staring at her as though he were a child who had just lost a parent. Like his own daughter.

Agnes drew him inside.

“Yes,” she whispered. And then she thanked God.

“I never want to lose you,” he said. “Promise me that I’ll never lose you.”

For several minutes they stood there in the open doorway.

“I promise,” said Agnes.

CHAPTER 60

Early Friday Morning, June 20, 2003

Police Headquarters

Oslo, Norway

After they’d searched Vera Holt’s apartment and taken the items they’d confiscated over to police headquarters, Tommy Bergmann retired to his office. He turned off the light and sat idly in his chair with his feet propped up on his desk, watching the blinds fluttering in the draft coming through the open window. The warm breeze on that summer night should have put him in a good mood, creating the seductive illusion that summer may last forever this time. But the unexpectedly warm temperature only left him feeling more dejected.

He could no longer put it off.

After a few more minutes he got out his cell phone and opened the message from Hadja.

“I miss you too,” he whispered.

He sighed with resignation. For a long time he tried to think of how to reply to her message, but finally ended up typing:
Are you home?
Then he sent it off. He glanced at his watch. It was almost one in the morning, but there was nothing to be done about that.

He had just sat down on the window seat after lighting a cigarette when his cell phone rang. A gust of wind stroked his arm gently, almost like Hadja’s voice.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said.

“I’m working the night shift. So I have to be awake.” She sounded happy, clearly relieved that he’d gotten in touch with her.

He didn’t reply, unsure what to say.

“Have you been traveling again?” she asked.

“Berlin.”

“That’s what I thought. You have such an exciting job.”

He laughed.

“Maybe.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about you,” she said.

“Yes,” said Bergmann, as if that was any kind of answer.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

“Is something wrong?” asked Hadja.

“No,” he said. “Or rather . . . I’d like to come over and see you, if that’s okay.”

She paused.

“Oh . . . sure, all right.” He could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

He got a lift from a patrol car up to Hadja’s place. The two officers were young and carefree, just like he used to be, and they provided a few minutes of pleasant distraction. The conversation flowed easily. One of them knew his name because a story had made the rounds among the uniformed officers about an arrest he and Bent had once made. Bergmann did his best to keep the myth alive and contributed yet another anecdote from the old days.

He got out at Maridalsveien and watched the patrol car’s red taillights disappear, standing just as he’d done in his bedroom that night when Hadja had been with him. But this time he wasn’t feeling nearly as euphoric.

A great despondency washed over him when he saw her standing in the doorway. She gave him a wave but stayed where she was, in the glaring light of the lobby. He took a deep breath and headed toward the entrance. Dressed in her white uniform, she reminded him of Hege. And yet they were so different.

For a moment they just stood there looking at each other without saying anything.

“Do you think I’m moving too fast? That’s not my intention, Tommy. I’m just not very good at hiding my feelings. I throw myself into things.”

He frowned and fumbled for his pack of cigarettes.

“That’s a weakness of mine,” she said, raising her hand to touch his cheek.

He stood there, rocking back and forth. He could have told her that he wanted it to continue, that he would do anything in the world for her. But it wouldn’t end well. Not now.

He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She shook her head, trying to look him in the eye. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“It’s just that . . .” he began.

“You’re not finished with her,” she said in a low voice.

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“Hadja . . .” he said, his voice barely audible.

“It’s Hege.”

“It’s just that there are still a lot of things I need to work out, Hadja.”

She nodded and blinked, her eyes filling with tears. She blinked again and tears spilled down both cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he said, slowly raising his hand to her cheek.

“Go,” she said, her eyes closed. “Please, just go.”

CHAPTER 61

Friday, June 20, 2003

Ullevål Hospital

Oslo, Norway

Tommy Bergmann, Fredrik Reuter, and Georg Abrahamsen walked slowly toward the entrance of Building 32 at Ullevål Hospital.

The old brick buildings that housed the psychiatric patients had always depressed Bergmann. They reminded him of something from his past that he hadn’t been able to place. Maybe it was a memory that he’d repressed, or from so long ago that he wasn’t able to summon it forth. Some days he woke up with the remnants of a dream in his head, flickering fragments of himself in early childhood, running across a bottle-green linoleum floor in the hallway of a building like this one.

It did nothing to improve his mood that he’d lain awake until four in the morning; it may even have been closer to five. He hadn’t dared to take things further with Hadja, hadn’t dared to take things further with himself. And that had made for a long, sleepless night.

Vera Holt was sitting in the visitor’s room on the third floor in a hospital gown. Two nurses and a man in a suit were with her. Her eyes were blank and glassy looking, and the wary smile tugging at her lips looked as if it might dissolve into a scream at any moment.
Maybe that’s just my imagination,
Bergmann thought as he took her hand, which felt cold and clammy.

“Vera Holt,” she said in a whisper, giving him a nod. Her skin was so pale that he thought it might be possible to see right through her if a lamp was placed behind her. Though her hair had been newly washed and smelled of shampoo, it still looked limp and lifeless, the cat food likely not providing her with sufficient nutrition. He noticed that her fingernails had been cut way down—maybe to ensure that she wouldn’t harm herself—and her hands were crisscrossed with thin scars.

The balding young man in the suit got up to stand next to her. He introduced himself as Junior Attorney Erik Birkemoe. He told them that he was Vera Holt’s defense attorney. He and Reuter exchanged a few words about the search of her apartment and her status as a suspect in the case.

“Have you seen Baltus?” said Vera, looking down at the table.

“Baltus?” said Reuter with a frown.

Vera didn’t reply. She stared vacantly into space.

“The cat,” whispered Bergmann.

“Oh, yes,” said Reuter. “We gave him some food, and . . .” He left it at that. Vera gave him a distracted smile that made her seem simultaneously present and far away.

“So we’ve carried out a search of Vera Holt’s apartment,” said Reuter after everyone had taken a seat. His tone seemed excessively formal; Bergmann thought that he perhaps wanted to compensate for the fact that Vera had started off the interrogation by asking about her cat.