Home>>read The Redbreast free online

The Redbreast(28)

By:Jo Nesbo


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