Harry knew that their arguments were weak and,
quite rightly, the Public Prosecutor had answered
that he at least wanted to see something that
resembled circumstantial evidence before he
would give the go-ahead.
No clues. It was time to start panicking.
Harry closed his eyes. Even Juul’s face was still
imprinted on his retina. Grey, closed. He had sat
slumped in the armchair in Irisveien with the dog
lead in his hand.
Then the wheels touched down, and Harry could
confirm that he was among the thirty million
fortunate ones.
The policeman whom the police boss in Vienna
had kindly placed at his disposal as driver, guide
and interpreter was standing in the arrivals hall
with dark suit, sunglasses, bull-like neck and an
A4 piece of paper with mr hole written on it in
felt-pen.
The bull-neck introduced himself as Fritz
( Someone has to be called Fritz, Harry thought)
and led Harry to a navy-blue BMW which a
moment later was whizzing north west on the
motorway towards the city, past the factory
chimneys spewing out white smoke and past well-
behaved motorists who tucked into the right as
Fritz accelerated.
‘You’ll be staying at the spy hotel,’ Fritz said.
‘The spy hotel?’
‘The venerable old Imperial. That’s where the
Russian and the Western agents defected during the
cold war. Your boss must be floating in funds.’
They arrived at the Kärntner Ring and Fritz
pointed.
‘That’s the spire of Stephansdom you can see
across the rooftops to the right,’ he said.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it? Here’s the hotel. I’ll wait
while you check in.’
The receptionist at the Imperial smiled when he
saw Harry eyeing the reception area with
admiration.
‘We’ve renovated it at a cost of forty million
schillings so that it’s exactly as it was before the
war. It was almost completely destroyed by
bombing in 1944 and it was fairly run down a few
years ago.’
When Harry left the lift on the second floor it was
like walking on springy peat, the carpets were so
thick and soft. The room was not particularly big,
but there was a broad four-poster bed that looked
as if it was at least a hundred years old. On
opening the window he could smell the bakery of
the cake shop across the street.
‘Helena Mayer lives in Lazarettegasse,’ Fritz
informed him when Harry was back in the car
again. He hooted at a car switching lanes without
signalling.
‘She’s a widow and has two grown-up children.
She worked as a teacher after the war until she
retired.’
‘Have you spoken to her?’
‘No, but I’ve read her file.’
The address in Lazarettegasse was a property that
must have been elegant at one time. But now the
paint was peeling from the walls in the spacious
stairwell, and the echoes of their shuffling steps
mingled with the sound of dripping water.
Helena Mayer stood smiling by the entrance to
her flat on the third floor. She had lively brown
eyes and apologised for the stairs.
The flat was slightly over-furnished and full of all
the knick-knacks people collect over the course of
their lives.
‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘I only speak
German, but you may talk to me in English. I can
understand well enough,’ she said, turning to
Harry.
She brought in a tray with coffee and cakes.
‘Strudel,’ she explained, pointing to the cake dish.
‘Yum,’ Fritz said and helped himself.
‘So you knew Gudbrand Johansen,’ Harry said.
‘Yes, I did. That is, we called him Uriah. He
insisted on that. At first we thought he wasn’t all
there. Because of his injuries.’
‘What sort of injuries?’
‘Head injuries. And his leg, of course. Dr
Brockhard was on the point of amputating it.’
‘But he recovered and was sent to Oslo in the
summer of 1944, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, that was the idea.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, he disappeared, didn’t he? And I don’t
suppose he turned up in Oslo, did he?’
‘Not as far as I know, no. Tell me, how well did
you know Gudbrand Johansen?’
‘Very well. He was extrovert and a good
storyteller. I think all the nurses, one after the
other, fell in love with him.’
‘You too?’
She laughed a bright, trill laugh. ‘Me too. But he
didn’t want me.’
‘No?’
‘Oh, I was good-looking, I can tell you – it wasn’t
that. Uriah wanted someone else.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, her name was Helena too.’
‘Which Helena is that?’