think I’ve gone mad, Edvard? What would I want
with Daniel’s body?’
Edvard took the last two drags of the cigarette,
dropped the end in the snow and trod it in with his
boot. He always did that, he didn’t know why, but
he couldn’t stand the sight of smoking cigarette
ends. The snow gave with a groan as he twisted his
heel.
‘No, I don’t think you dragged Daniel here,’
Edvard said. ‘Because I don’t think it’s Daniel.’
Dale and Gudbrand recoiled.
‘Of course it’s Daniel,’ Gudbrand said.
‘Or someone with the same build,’ Edvard said.
‘And the same unit insignia on the uniform.’
‘The sacking . . .’
‘So you can see a difference in the sacking, can
you?’ Edvard jeered, but it was Gudbrand he was
watching.
‘It’s Daniel,’ Gudbrand said with a swallow. ‘I
recognise the boots.’
‘So you think we should just call the corpse-
bearers and ask them to take him away again, do
you?’ Edvard asked. ‘Without taking a closer look.
That was what you were counting on, wasn’t it?’
‘Go to hell, Edvard!’
‘I’m not so sure it’s my turn this time, Gudbrand.
Take off the sacking, Dale.’
Dale gaped at the other two, who were glowering
at each other like two rampant bulls.
‘Do you hear me?’ Edvard shouted. ‘Cut away the
sacking!’
‘I’d prefer not to —’
‘It’s an order. This minute!’
Dale continued to hesitate. He looked from one to
the other and at the rigid corpse on the ammunition
chests. Then he shrugged his shoulders, unbuttoned
his jacket and put his hand inside.
‘Wait!’ Edvard shouted. ‘Ask if you can borrow
Gudbrand’s bayonet.’ Now Dale really was at sea.
He looked quizzically at Gudbrand, who was
shaking his head.
‘What do you mean?’ Edvard asked, still face to
face with Gudbrand. ‘Your standing orders are that
you must always carry a bayonet, and you don’t
have one on you?’
Gudbrand didn’t answer.
‘You, the ultimate killing machine with a bayonet,
Gudbrand. You haven’t simply lost it, have you?’
Gudbrand still didn’t answer. ‘In that case, yes,
you’ll have to use your own, Dale.’
Gudbrand felt an irrepressible urge to tear the
large staring eye out of the section leader’s head.
Rottenführer, that’s what he was! Or rather a ‘Rat-
führer’. A rat with a rat’s eyes and a rat’s brain.
Didn’t he understand anything?
They heard a ripping noise behind them as the
bayonet cut through the sacking, then a gasp from
Dale. Both men whirled round. There, in the red
light of the dawning day, a white face with a
hideous grin stared up at them with a third black
gaping eye in the forehead. It was Daniel alright,
no question about it.
14
Ministry of Foreign Affairs. 4
November 1999.
BERNT BRANDHAUG LOOKED AT HIS WATCH AND
FROWNED. Eighty-two seconds, seven more than
usual. Then he strode over the threshold to the
meeting room, sang out his hearty ‘Good morning’
and smiled his famous white smile to the four faces
turned towards him.
Kurt Meirik, POT, sat on one side of the table
with Rakel (complete with unbecoming hairslide,
power suit and severe expression). It struck him
that the suit seemed a little too expensive for a
secretary. He still held to his intuition that she was
divorced, but perhaps she had married well. Or
did she have wealthy parents? The fact that she
was here again, at a meeting that Brandhaug had
signalled should take place in total privacy,
suggested she was higher up in POT than he had at
first assumed. He determined to find out more
about her.
Anne Størksen sat on the other side of the table
with the tall, thin Crime Squad boss, what was his
name? First of all it took him more than eighty
seconds to get to the meeting room, and now he
couldn’t remember a name – was he getting old?
He hadn’t even thought this through to the end
when the previous night’s events came back into
his mind. He had invited Lise, the young Foreign
Office probationer, out to what he called a little
working lunch. Afterwards he offered her a drink
at the Continental Hotel where, under the auspices
of the Foreign Office, he had a permanent room at
his disposal for meetings which required a little
more discretion. Lise had not been difficult to ask
out, she was an ambitious girl. But it had gone
badly. A one-off, a drink too many perhaps, but
surely he wasn’t getting too old. Brandhaug shoved