The Redbreast(9)

‘Some of you are probably wondering why the

President needs so many people for a two-day

summit meeting. The answer is simple. What we

are talking about here is the good old-fashioned

rhetoric of power. Seven hundred, if my

assessment is correct, is precisely the number of

people Kaiser Friedrich III had with him when he

entered Rome in 1468 to show the Pope who the

most powerful man in the world was.’

More laughter round the table. Brandhaug winked

at Anne Størksen. He had found the reference in

Aftenposten. He brought his two palms together.

‘I don’t need to tell you how short a time two

months is, but it means that we’re going to need

daily co-ordination meetings at ten in this room.

Until these four men are off our hands you’ll just

have to drop everything else. There’s a bar on

holidays and time off. And sick leave. Any

questions before we go on?’

‘Well, we think —’ the Under Secretary of State

began.

‘That includes depressions,’ Brandhaug

interrupted, and Bjarne Møller couldn’t help

laughing out loud.

‘Well, we —’ the Under Secretary began again.

‘Over to you, Meirik,’ Brandhaug called.

‘What?’

The Head of the Security Service (POT) raised

his shiny pate and looked at Brandhaug.

‘You wanted to say something about POT’s threat

assessment?’ Brandhaug said.

‘Oh that,’ Meirik said. ‘We’ve brought copies

with us.’

Meirik was from Tromsø and spoke a strangely

haphazard mixture of Tromsø dialect and standard

Norwegian. He nodded to a woman sitting beside

him. Brandhaug’s eyes lingered on her. OK, she

wasn’t wearing make-up, and her short brown hair

was cut in a bob and held in an unbecoming

hairslide. And her suit, a blue woollen job, was

downright dull. But even though she had made

herself look exaggeratedly sober, in the way that

professional women who were afraid of not being

taken seriously often did, he liked what he saw.

Brown, gentle eyes and high cheekbones gave her

an aristocratic, almost un-Norwegian appearance.

He had seen her before, but the haircut was new.

What was her name again – it was something

biblical – Rakel? Perhaps she was recently

divorced. That might explain the new haircut. She

leaned over the attaché case between her and

Meirik, and Brandhaug’s eyes automatically sought

the neckline on her blouse, but it was buttoned too

high to show him anything of interest. Did she have

children of school age? Would she have any

objections to renting a room in one of the city

centre hotels during the day? Was she turned on by

power?

Brandhaug: ‘Just give us a short resumé, Meirik.’

‘Fine.’

‘I would like to say one thing first . . .’ the Under

Secretary of State said.

‘Shall we let Meirik finish first? Then you can

say as much as you like afterwards, Bjørn.’

That was the first time Brandhaug had used the

Under Secretary’s Christian name.

‘POT considers there to be a risk of an attack or

the infliction of other damage,’ Meirik said.

Brandhaug smiled. Out of the corner of his eye he

saw the Chief Constable do the same. Smart girl,

law degree and flawless administrative record.

Perhaps he ought to invite her and her husband to a

trout supper one evening. Brandhaug and his wife

lived in a spacious timber house in the green belt

in Nordberg. In winter you had only to put on your

skis outside the garage and you were off.

Brandhaug loved the house. His wife had thought it

was too black. She said that all the dark wood

made her afraid, and she didn’t like the forest

being around them, either. Yes, an invitation to

supper. Solid timber, and fresh trout he’d caught

himself. They were the right signals to give.

‘I may remind you that four American presidents

have died as a result of assassinations. Abraham

Lincoln in 1865, James Garfield in 1881, John F.

Kennedy in 1963 and . . .’

He turned to the woman with the high cheekbones

who mouthed the name.

‘Oh, yes, William McKinley. In . . .’

‘1901,’ Brandhaug said with a warm smile and a

glance at his watch.

‘Exactly. But there have been a great many more

attempts over the years. Harry Truman, Gerald

Ford and Ronald Reagan were all targets of

serious attacks while they were in office.’

Brandhaug cleared his throat: ‘You’re forgetting

that the present incumbent was shot at a few years

ago. Or at least his house was.’

‘That’s true. But we don’t include that type of