The newspapers ran riot. They screamed about gang warfare, blood in the streets, fricking LA, and so on. The opposition politicians went on about a failed crime policy, failed drug policy, failed chairman of the City Council, failed City Council. One Centre Party loony said Oslo was a failed town and should be wiped off the map, it was a disgrace to the country. The person who got the most stick was the Chief of Police, but as we know shit sinks, and after a Somali had shot dead two relatives in the tribe at point-blank range down by Plata, in broad daylight, and no one was arrested, the head of Orgkrim handed in his resignation. The Councillor for Social Services – who was also head of the Police Commission – said that crime, drugs and the police were primarily the state’s responsibility, but she saw it as her duty to ensure that Oslo’s citizens could walk through the streets in safety. That was kind of her. And behind her stood her secretary. It was my old friend. MILF without the M. She looked serious and businesslike. Though all I saw was a hot bitch with riding breeches round her knees.
One night Andrey came early, said we were finished for the day and I should go with him to Blindern.
When he drove straight past the old boy’s place I began to think very nasty thoughts. But then, fortunately, Andrey turned into the neighbour’s plot, which of course he also owned. Andrey escorted me in. The house was not as empty as it looked from the outside. Behind the peeling walls and cracked windowpanes it was furnished and heated. The old boy was sitting in a room with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and some of that classical-type music was belting out of large speakers on the floor. I sat on the only other chair in the room, and Andrey closed the door as he left.
‘I’ve decided to ask you to do something for me, Gusto,’ said the old boy, placing a hand on my knee.
I glanced at the closed door.
‘We’re at war,’ he said, getting up. He went to the shelves and pulled out a thick book with a brown, stained cover. ‘This text is from six hundred years before Christ was born. I can’t read Chinese, so I have only this French translation, which was made more than two hundred years ago by a Jesuit named Jean Joseph Marie Amiot. I went to an auction and had my bid of one hundred and ninety thousand accepted. The book’s about how to fool the enemy in war and it’s the most quoted work on the subject. Stalin, Hitler and Bruce Lee had it as their bible. And do you know what?’ He replaced the book and pulled out another. ‘I prefer this one.’ He threw the book over to me.
It was a thin volume with a shiny, blue cover, evidently quite new. I read the title: Chess For Beginners.
‘Sixty kroner at a sale,’ the old boy said. ‘We’re going to perform a move called castling.’
‘Castling?’
‘A sideways switch of king and castle to provide a defence. We’re going to form an alliance.’
‘With a castle?’
‘Think City Hall castle.’
I thought.
‘City Council,’ said the old boy. ‘The Councillor for Social Services has a secretary called Isabelle Skøyen, who in effect runs the town’s drug policy. I’ve checked a source and she’s perfect. Intelligent, efficient and extremely ambitious. The reason she has not climbed higher, according to my source, is her lifestyle, which is bound to attract headlines. Just a question of time. She parties, speaks her mind and has lovers in Oslo East and Oslo West.’
‘Sounds absolutely dreadful,’ I said.
The old boy sent me an admonitory look before continuing. ‘Her father was spokesperson for the Centre Party, but was thrown out when he tried to enter national politics. And my source tells me Isabelle has inherited his dreams and since the odds are best for the Socialist Party she’s left her father’s little party of farmers. In short, everything about Isabelle Skøyen is flexible and can be adapted to suit her ambition. Furthermore, she is single with a not insubstantial debt on the family farm.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ I asked as if I were part of the violin administration.
The old boy smiled as though he considered the remark charming. ‘We’re going to threaten her to come to the negotiating table, where we will entice her into an alliance. And you’re in charge of the threats, Gusto. That’s why you’re here now.’
‘Me? Threaten a woman politician?’
‘Precisely. A woman politician you’ve copulated with, Gusto. A council employee who has used her position and status for sexual exploitation of a teenager with considerable social problems.’
At first I couldn’t believe my ears. Until he produced a photo from his jacket and placed it on the table in front of me. It looked as if it had been taken from behind a tinted car window. It was of Tollbugata and showed a young boy getting into a Land Rover. The number plate was visible. The boy was me. The car belonged to Isabelle Skøyen.