The Redbreast(124)

hadn’t been for the fact that Kurt Meirik was the

head of POT, it would never have worked. The

first thing he’d had to do was get this Harry Hole

off the scene, out of the way, out of the city, to

some place where he couldn’t be contacted by

Rakel or anyone else.

Brandhaug had rung Kurt and said that his contact

at Dagbladet had told him that there were rumours

doing the rounds in press circles about ‘something’

having happened during the presidential visit in the

autumn. They had to act before it was too late, hide

Harry somewhere the press couldn’t get hold of

him. Didn’t Kurt think so too?

Kurt had humm-ed and haa-ed. At least until it all

blew over, Brandhaug had insisted. To tell the

truth, Brandhaug doubted that Meirik had believed

what he said for one moment. Not that he was

unduly worried. A few days later Kurt called him

to say that Harry Hole had been sent to the front, to

some God-forsaken place in Sweden. Brandhaug

had literally rubbed his hands with glee. Nothing

could upset the plans he had made for Rakel and

him now.

‘Our democracy is like a beautiful, smiling, but

slightly naive daughter. The fact that the powers

for good in a society stick together has nothing to

do with elitism or power games; it is simply the

only guarantee we have that our daughter,

Democracy, will not be violated and that the

government will not be taken over by undesirable

forces. Hence loyalty, this almost forgotten virtue,

between people like us is not only desirable but

also absolutely vital. Yes, it is a duty which . . .’

They had moved to the deep armchairs in the

sitting room and Brandhaug had passed round his

box of Cuban cigars, a gift from the Norwegian

consulate in Havana.

‘Rolled on the inside of Cuban women’s thighs,’

he had whispered to Anne Størksen’s husband and

winked, but he didn’t appear to have understood

the point. He made a dry, stiff impression, this

husband of hers, what was his name again? A

double name – my God, had he forgotten? Tor

Erik! That was it, Tor Erik.

‘More cognac, Tor Erik?’

Tor Erik smiled a thin, compressed smile and

shook his head. Probably the ascetic type who jogs

fifty kilometres a week, Brandhaug thought.

Everything about the man was thin – the body, the

face, the hair. He had seen the look he had

exchanged with his wife during the speech, as if

reminding her of a private joke. It didn’t

necessarily have anything to do with the speech.

‘Sensible,’ Brandhaug said sourly. ‘Better safe

than sorry?’

Elsa appeared in the door to the sitting room.

‘There’s a telephone call for you, Bernt.’

‘We have guests, Elsa.’

‘It’s someone from Dagbladet.’

‘I’ll take it up in my office.’

It was from the newsdesk, some woman whose

name he didn’t know. She sounded young and he

tried to picture her. It was about the demonstration

that evening outside the Austrian embassy in

Thomas Heftyes gate, against Jörg Haider and the

extreme right Freedom Party, who had been

elected to help form the government. She only

wanted a few brief comments for the morning

paper.

‘Do you think this would be an appropriate time

to review Norway’s diplomatic links with Austria,

herr Brandhaug?’

He closed his eyes. They were fishing, as they

were wont to do from time to time, but both he and

they knew that they wouldn’t get a bite; he was too

experienced. He could feel that he had been

drinking; his head was light and his eyes danced on

the back of his eyelids, but it was no problem.

‘That is a political judgment and it is not up to

civil servants in the Foreign Office to decide,’ he

said.

There was a pause. He liked her voice. She was

blonde, he could sense it.

‘I wonder whether with your broad experience of

foreign affairs you might predict what the

Norwegian government will do?’

He knew what he ought to answer. It was very

simple.

I don’t make predictions about that sort of

thing.

No more, no less. You didn’t need to be in a job

like his for very long before you had the feeling

you had already answered all the questions in

existence. Young journalists generally thought they

were the first to ask him precisely the question they

asked because they had spent half the night

working it out. And they were all impressed when

he seemed to pause for thought before answering a

question he had probably answered a dozen times

before.

I don’t make predictions about that sort of

thing.

He was surprised he hadn’t said these words to

her already, but there was something about her