The Redbreast(109)

option. Once there, he ordered gin and tonic as she

elucidated her problem with what he could only

assume was a mother’s biologically determined

desperation. He nodded gravely, did his utmost to

express his sympathy with his eyes and was finally

emboldened to place a fatherly, protective hand

over hers. She stiffened, but he went on as if

nothing had happened, telling her that unfortunately

he was not in a position to overrule a department

head’s decisions. Naturally, though, he would do

whatever was in his power to prevent her having

to appear before the Russian court. He also

stressed that, bearing in mind the political

influence of her ex-husband’s family, he fully

shared her concern that the Russian court’s ruling

might go against her. He sat there, staring

spellbound into her tear-filled brown eyes, and it

seemed to him that he had never seen anything to

surpass her beauty. Nevertheless, when he

suggested extending the evening to include dinner

in the restaurant, she thanked him and declined.

The rest of the evening, spent in the company of a

glass of whisky and pay-TV, was an anticlimax.

The next morning Brandhaug called the Russian

ambassador, explaining that the Norwegian

Foreign Ministry had had an internal discussion

about Oleg Fauke-Gosev’s custody case. Would he

send him an update on the Russian authorities’

wishes in the matter? The ambassador had never

heard of the case, but promised to accede to the

Foreign Office head’s request and also to send the

letter in the form of an urgent summons. The letter

in which the Russians requested Rakel and Oleg to

appear before a Russian court arrived a week

later. Brandhaug immediately sent a copy to the

head of the legal department and one to Rakel

Fauke. This time her phone call came one day

later. After listening to her Brandhaug said that it

would be contrary to his diplomatic code of

behaviour to try to influence the matter, and in any

case it was injudicious of them to discuss this on

the telephone.

‘As you know, I don’t have any children myself,’

he said. ‘But from the way you describe Oleg he

sounds like a wonderful boy.’

‘If you had met him, you would —’ she began.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. By chance I saw in

the correspondence that you live in

Holmenkollveien, and that is only a stone’s throw

from Nordberg.’

He noticed the hesitation at the quiet end of the

telephone line, but he felt the momentum was with

him.

‘Shall we say nine o’clock tomorrow evening?’

A long pause ensued before she answered. ‘No

six-year-old is up at nine o’clock.’

So they agreed on six o’clock instead. Oleg had

brown eyes like his mother and was a well-

behaved boy. However, it annoyed Brandhaug that

the mother would not drop the topic of the court

summons or send Oleg to bed. Yes, one might

almost suspect that she was keeping the boy there

on the sofa as a hostage. And he did not like the

boy staring at him either. Brandhaug knew,

ultimately, that Rome was not going to be built in a

day, but he still tried as he stood on the step to go.

He looked deep into her eyes and said, ‘You are

not only a beautiful woman, Rakel, you are also a

very brave person. I would just like you to know

that I hold you in great esteem.’

He wasn’t sure how he was to interpret her

expression, but he took the risk anyway and leaned

forward to plant a kiss on her cheek. Her reaction

was ambivalent. The mouth smiled and she thanked

him for the compliment, but her eyes were cold as

she added, ‘I apologise for keeping you so long,

herr Brandhaug. Your wife must be waiting.’

His invitation had been so unambiguous that he

decided to give her a few days to reflect, but no

telephone call came from Rakel Fauke. On the

other hand, unexpectedly, a letter from the Russian

embassy did come, requesting an answer, and

Brandhaug realised that his enquiry had breathed

new life into the Oleg Fauke-Gosev case.

Regrettable, but now it had happened he saw no

reason not to exploit the opportunity. He

immediately rang Rakel in POT and acquainted her

with the latest developments in the case.

Some weeks later he found himself once more in

the timbered house in Holmenkollveien, which was

larger and even darker than his own. Their own.

This time after bedtime. She seemed a lot more

relaxed in his company than before. Furthermore,

he had manoeuvred the conversation on to a more

personal track, which meant that it did not appear

altogether too obtrusive when he mentioned how

platonic the relationship between him and his wife

had become and how important it was to forget the