the group in question will not be enjoying the
attentions of the police.’
Meirik: ‘The discarded cartridges would suggest
they’re amateurs, yes.’
‘The terrorist and the amateur agree that the
terrorist finances the purchase of an expensive
weapon and afterwards all links are cut. There is
nothing to be traced back to the terrorist. In this
way he has set a process in motion, risking little
more than some cash.’
‘But what if this amateur is not capable of
carrying out the job?’ Ovesen asked. ‘Or decides
to sell the gun and run off with the money?’
‘There is of course a certain risk involved, but
we have to assume that the terrorist considers the
amateur to be highly motivated. He may also have
a personal motive that compels him to put his own
life on the line in order to execute the mission.’
‘Amusing hypothesis,’ Ovesen said. ‘How were
you going to test it out?’
‘You can’t. I’m talking about a man we know
nothing about. We don’t know how he thinks; we
can’t rely on him acting rationally.’
‘Nice,’ Meirik said. ‘Do we have any other
theories as to how this weapon could have ended
up in Norway?’
‘Tons of them,’ Harry said. ‘But this is the worst
possible scenario.’
‘Hmmm,’ Meirik sighed. ‘Our job is to chase
ghosts after all, so we’d better see if we can have
a chat with this Hochner. I’ll make a couple of
calls to . . . aaahhh!’
Wright had found the switch and the room was
filled with harsh white light.
31
The Lang Family’s Summer
Residence, Vienna. 25 June 1944.
HELENA WAS STUDYING HERSELF IN THE BEDROOM
MIRROR. She would have preferred to have the
window open so that she could listen for footsteps
on the gravel drive, but Mother was very precise
about the blackout. She contemplated the
photograph of Father on the dresser. It always
struck her how young and innocent he looked in the
picture.
She had fastened her hair with a slide, as she
always did. Should she do it differently? Beatrice
had taken in Mother’s red muslin dress so that it
fitted Helena’s tall, slim figure. Mother had been
wearing this dress when she met Father. The
thought was curious, remote and in a way quite
painful. That might have been because when
Mother told her about that time it was as if she
were talking about two different people – two
attractive, happy people who thought they knew
where they were going.
Helena loosened the hairslide and shook her
brown hair until it was in front of her face. The
doorbell rang. She could hear Beatrice’s footsteps
in the hall. Helena fell backwards on to the bed
and could feel the butterflies in her stomach. She
couldn’t help it – it was like being a love-sick
fourteen-year-old in a summer romance again! She
heard the muffled sound of talking from below,
Mother’s sharp, nasal voice, the clatter of coat-
hangers as Beatrice hung his overcoat in the
wardrobe. An overcoat! Helena thought. He had
put on his overcoat even though it was one of these
warm, sultry summer evenings they didn’t usually
have before August.
She waited and waited, then she heard Mother’s
voice calling: ‘Helena!’
She got up from the bed, fixed the slide into
position, looked at her hands, repeated to herself: I
have not got big hands, I have not got big hands.
Then she cast a final glance at the mirror – she was
attractive! – took a trembling breath and went out
of the door.
‘Hele—’
Mother stopped calling as soon as Helena came
into view at the top of the stairs. Helena cautiously
placed one foot on the top step; the high heels she
normally ran downstairs in suddenly seemed shaky
and unsteady.
‘Your guest has arrived,’ Mother said.
Your guest. In another context Helena would
probably have been annoyed by Mother’s choice of
expression to emphasise that she did not perceive
the menial foreign soldier as a guest of the house.
But these were exceptional times, and Helena
could have kissed her mother for not being more
difficult. At least she had gone to receive him
before Helena herself made her entrance.
Helena looked across at Beatrice. The
housekeeper smiled, but there was the same
melancholic tinge to her eyes that her mother had.
Helena shifted her gaze to Him. His eyes were
shining and she seemed to feel the heat from them
burning in her own cheeks. She had to lower her
gaze to the brown, clean-shaven throat, the collar
with the double ‘s’s and the green uniform which
had been so creased on the train but was now