I then asked how long they had had Fredriksen under surveillance, and what had made them start in the first place.
The question did not make Bryne any more communicative. He answered curtly it was a matter of two or three months, and he could not say what had triggered it.
I was not very satisfied with the answer. So I threw down my only trump card. ‘During my investigation of Fredriksen’s murder, I have on several occasions been followed by a man. And I apologize, but I must ask if he is doing so on behalf of the police security service?’
My boss was completely still, whereas Bryne started in his chair. ‘That is absolute nonsense, young man. I practically never comment on who we have under surveillance, but will make an exception to say that we do not have any of our highly esteemed colleagues in the Oslo police under surveillance. The incompetent fools at the military intelligence agency might decide to do that, but I can assure you that the police security service never would.’
I felt I was on thin ice, but was still not convinced. ‘The man wears a suit and hat, is around five foot nine and has one distinguishing physical feature: the little finger on his right hand is missing the top joint. Are you absolutely sure that you know nothing about him?’
I thought at first that it was a bull’s eye and that my theory that the man in the hat was working for the police security service was right after all. A twitch rippled across Bryne’s otherwise stony face and with a sudden movement he put down his pipe. Then I realized that something was not right. Bryne knitted his thick brows and looked at me with something akin to paternal sympathy. His voice was far softer and more considerate when he spoke.
‘The man you are talking about definitely has no connection whatsoever with the police security service, and is not someone I am acquainted with; I do, however, know who he is. And this strengthens our theory regarding Fredriksen and the seriousness of the matter.’
Both my boss and I stared intently at Bryne, who appeared to have regained his composure. He lit his pipe again and took a couple of thoughtful puffs before opening a drawer in his desk. From it he pulled a photograph and an index card, which he lay down on the desk between us.
‘I am guessing that this is him,’ Bryne said.
My boss looked at me. I looked at the photograph. And I replied that it was definitely him.
The man in the hat had been photographed, in his suit and hat, from the side, from a street corner. Judging by the signs in the background, the photograph had been taken in London. It was indisputably the same man that I had seen behind me in Aker Street. And it appeared that he really was not good news.
According to the index card, the man in the hat was Alexander Svasnikov, who was also known by a number of aliases. He was forty-two years old, had a PhD in languages from the University of Moscow, but had worked for the KGB since 1965, at least.
‘The man with the missing pinky joint normally changes both his first and second name whenever he is posted to a new country. Here in Norway he is called Sergey Klinkalski. Here at the security service we simply call him Doctor Death, after the still-missing Nazi doctor. Svasnikov is, of course, not a medical doctor, but rather a polyglot genius who can learn most languages in no time at all. He has been stationed at embassies in Madrid, London, Bonn and Amsterdam for short periods. And in all cases, these stays have coincided with the unsolved murders of Soviet defectors living in that country. Svasnikov has always had diplomatic immunity and none of the murders can be linked to him in any way. And after a few days he moves on. As far as we know, he has never been to any of the Nordic countries before, so since his arrival we have been wondering what brings such a shark to these cold waters. Svasnikov has never been in a country without someone dying there in the most dramatic way within the space of a few weeks.’
Bryne blew out an unexpected amount of smoke after this tirade and looked even more pensive than usual. There was silence in the room. After a few seconds, I mustered my courage and shared my thoughts.
‘If the Soviets are aware that Fredriksen was about to be exposed, it would obviously be in their interests that he die before being arrested. In which case, this Svasnikov might well be Fredriksen’s murderer. He has killed before and he has just arrived in Oslo and has an obvious motive. It is almost too incredible to be a coincidence.’
My boss nodded. But Asle Bryne, on the other side of the desk, did not. ‘Nothing would make me and the police security service happier than to be able to prove that Fredriksen was a Soviet spy and that he was killed by a Soviet agent. But there are a couple of things that do not add up. First of all, the victim. As far as we know, Svasnikov has only been used to execute Soviet defectors – not to kill Western citizens. And second, the method. A couple of the earlier victims were shot and a couple died in apparent accidents. As far as we know, Svasnikov has never used a knife as a murder weapon before, and it would be rather risky if Fredriksen were to be killed on an open street.’
I suddenly saw a new side of Asle Bryne as he talked. Behind the cloud of smoke and tight-lipped manner, he was clearly still a quick-thinking policeman. When he carried on, he even managed to sound quite considerate.
‘As regards your own situation, I appreciate that it might feel rather unnerving. But the danger of an attack on you is probably very small. They have never harmed a policeman on this side of the Iron Curtain, and what is more, you are well known, so killing you would entail a great risk. But you should be armed, and if you would like, we can have someone tail you.’
I was only partially mollified by the knowledge that killing me would entail a great risk because I was so well known. The fear sparked by the sighting of the man in the hat outside on the street, now flared up again as I sat here inside, in an office, between my own boss and the head of the police security service.
My initial reaction was to say yes please to both a gun and a guard. But then I realized that the possibility of my visits to Patricia being logged in a security service archive would not be particularly smart, either for me or her.
So I said that I was not worried about my personal safety and that I certainly did not want to waste the police security service’s resources, but that having a gun did seem like a good idea if that could be arranged.
‘Of course it can,’ Bryne replied, and my boss hastily agreed.
We could have concluded the meeting there and then, in a congenial atmosphere of agreement. However, I could not help but ask one last question about what significance the imminent agreement with the Soviet Union might have for the situation.
Bryne straightened up in his chair, lit his pipe again and gave me a piercing look. Even through the smoke I could see that his face had hardened and closed once more.
‘That depends on what you mean, my young man. The answer should be obvious anyway. As far as the Soviets are concerned, it was absolutely in their best interest to avoid any spy allegations only days before such an important agreement, especially when they were so pleased with the agreement and worried that their counterparty might regret it later. And as far as the police security service is concerned, it is of course inconceivable that we would allow political considerations to influence the timing of such a situation. The incompetent fools in the military intelligence agency might take account of such short-term factors, but the police security service would never do that.’
I tried to ease the tension by saying that I of course meant how it would affect the situation in terms of the Soviets.
We ended the meeting there. I recognized the old Asle Bryne, but had also seen a better side of him this time. He shook my hand briefly and wished me luck with the investigation. It was an unexpected gesture, but one that I was afraid I would need.