here who doesn’t get the nub of this?’ He made a
relatively unsuccessful attempt to add a brief
chuckle.
‘The officer showed presence of mind in what
was a potentially threatening situation for the
President,’ Brandhaug said. ‘If the person in the
booth had been an assassin, which he was obliged
to assume, in line with instructions laid down for
this particular scenario, he would have saved the
President’s life. The fact that the individual turned
out not to be an assassin doesn’t change anything.’
‘That’s right,’ Anne Størksen said. ‘In such
situations instructions take precedence over
personal assessment.’
Meirik didn’t say anything, but nodded in assent.
‘Good,’ Brandhaug said. ‘The “nub”, as you call
it, Bjarne, is to convince the press, our superiors
and everyone who has had any dealings with this
case that we have had not a second’s doubt that our
liaison officer acted correctly. The “nub” is that
we must behave as if to all practical intents and
purposes he performed an heroic deed.’
Brandhaug could see Møller’s consternation.
‘Were we not to reward the officer, we would
already have half-admitted that he made an error of
judgment in shooting the agent, and, accordingly,
that the security arrangements during the
President’s visit were wanting.’
Nods of assent around the table.
‘Ergo . . .’ Brandhaug said. He loved the word. It
was a word clothed in armour, almost invincible
because it called upon the authority of logic. From
this it follows that.
‘Ergo, we give him a medal?’ It was Rakel again.
Brandhaug felt a twinge of irritation. The way she
said ‘medal’. As if they were writing the
manuscript of a comedy in which all sorts of
amusing suggestions were pounced on with
enthusiasm. That his presentation was a comedy.
‘No,’ he said slowly, with emphasis. ‘Not a
medal. Medals and distinctions do not have the
gravitas. Nor do they give us the credibility we are
after.’ He leaned back in the chair, his hands
behind his head. ‘Let’s promote the guy. Let’s
make him an inspector.’
A long silence ensued.
‘Inspector?’ Bjarne Møller stared at Brandhaug
in disbelief. ‘For shooting a Secret Service agent?’
‘It may sound a little macabre, but give it some
thought.’
‘It’s . . .’ Møller blinked and seemed to be on the
point of saying a great deal, but he chose to keep
his mouth shut.
‘He does not have to perform the same duties that
usually pertain to the rank of inspector,’ Brandhaug
heard the Chief Constable say. The words came
with some hesitation. As if threading cotton
through the eye of a needle.
‘We have given this a little thought too, Anne,’ he
answered with gentle emphasis on her name. It was
the first time he had used her Christian name. One
of her eyebrows gave a slight jerk, but otherwise
he didn’t see anything to suggest that she objected.
He continued: ‘The problem is that if all the
colleagues of this trigger-happy liaison officer of
yours consider the promotion conspicuous and start
to think of the title as window-dressing, then we
haven’t got very far. That is, we haven’t got
anywhere at all. If they suspect a cover-up,
rumours will immediately begin to fly, and we will
give the impression that we have consciously tried
to hide the fact that we, you, this policeman,
committed a blunder. In other words, we have to
give him a post where it seems reasonable that no
one can keep too close an eye on what he is
actually doing. Put another way, a promotion
combined with a move to a screened operation.’
‘A screened operation. A free hand.’ Rakel gave
a wry smile. ‘Sounds like you’re thinking of
sending him over to us.’
‘What do you think, Kurt?’ Brandhaug said.
Kurt Meirik scratched behind his ear while
chuckling quietly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We can always find a home for
an inspector, I reckon.’
Brandhaug bowed. ‘That would be a great help.’
‘Yes, we have to help each other when we can.’
‘Terrific,’ Brandhaug said with a broad smile and
a glance at the clock on the wall to indicate that the
meeting was over. Chairs scraped.
15
Sanksthanshaugen. 4 November 1999.
OVER THE SPEAKERS, PRINCE WAS PARTYING LIKE IT
WAS 1999.
Ellen looked over at Tom Waaler, who had just
that minute shoved a cassette into the machine and
turned up the volume so loud that the bass was