which, balanced atop a pile of papers, a coffee
machine was coughing up a viscous substance.
‘Thanks boss, but I —’
It was too late and Harry took the steaming cup.
‘I’m especially looking forward to a visit from
the Secret Service, with whom I’m sure we will
have a cordial relationship as we get to know each
other better.’
Møller had never quite learned to handle irony.
That was just one of the things Harry appreciated
about his boss.
Møller drew in his knees until they supported the
bottom of the table. Harry leaned back to get the
crumpled pack of Camels from his trouser pocket
and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Møller, who
quickly took the hint and pushed the brimming
ashtray towards him.
‘I’ll be responsible for security along the roads to
and from Gardemoen. As well as the President,
there will be Barak —’
‘Barak?’
‘Ehud Barak. Prime Minister of Israel.’
‘Jeez, so there’s another fantastic Oslo agreement
on the way, then?’ Møller stared despondently at
the blue column of smoke rising to the ceiling.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it, Harry.
Or I’ll be even more worried about you than I
already am. It was on all the front pages last
week.’
Harry shrugged.
‘Unreliable paper boy. Inflicting serious gaps in
my general knowledge. A grave handicap to my
social life.’ He took another cautious sip of coffee,
but then gave up and pushed it away. ‘And my love
life.’
‘Really?’ Møller eyed Harry with an expression
suggesting he didn’t know whether to relish or
dread what was coming next.
‘Of course. Who would find a man in his mid-
thirties, who knows all the details about the lives
of the people on The Robinson Expedition but can
hardly name any head of state, or the Israeli
President, sexy?’
‘Prime Minister.’
‘There you are. Now you know what I mean.’
Møller stifled a laugh. He had a tendency to laugh
too easily. And a soft spot for the somewhat
anguished officer with big ears that stuck out from
the close-cropped cranium like two colourful
butterfly wings. Even though Harry had caused
Møller more trouble than was good for him. As a
newly promoted PAS he had learned that the first
commandment for a civil servant with career plans
was to guard your back. When Møller cleared his
throat to put the worrying questions he had made
up his mind to ask, and dreaded asking, he first of
all knitted his eyebrows to show Harry that his
concern was of a professional and not an amicable
nature.
‘I hear you’re still spending your time sitting in
Schrøder’s, Harry.’
‘Less than ever, boss. There’s so much good stuff
on TV.’
‘But you’re still sitting and drinking?’
‘They don’t like you to stand.’
‘Cut it out. Are you drinking again?’
‘Minimally.’
‘How minimally?’
‘They’ll throw me out if I drink any less.’
This time Møller couldn’t hold back his laughter.
‘I need three liaison officers to secure the road,’ he
said. ‘Each will have ten men at their disposal
from various police districts in Akershus, plus a
couple of cadets from the final year at police
college. I thought Tom Waaler . . .’
Waaler. Racist bastard and directly in line for the
soon-to-be-announced inspector’s job. Harry had
heard enough about Waaler’s professional
activities to know that they confirmed all the
prejudices the public might have about the police.
Apart from one: unfortunately Waaler was not
stupid. His successes as a detective were so
impressive that even Harry had to concede he
deserved the inevitable promotion.
‘And Weber . . .’
‘The old sourpuss?’
‘. . . and you, Harry.’
‘Say that again?’
‘You heard me.’
Harry pulled a face.
‘Have you any objections?’ Møller asked.
‘Of course I have.’
‘Why? This is an honourable mission, Harry. A
feather in your cap.’
‘Is it?’ Harry stabbed out his cigarette furiously
in the ashtray. ‘Or is it the next stage in the
rehabilitation process?’
‘What do you mean?’ Bjarne Møller looked
wounded.
‘I know that you defied good advice and had a
run-in with a few people when you took me back
into the fold after Bangkok. And I’m eternally
grateful to you for that. But what is this? Liaison
Officer? Sounds like an attempt to prove to the