‘We don’t know that for certain.’
‘Would there still be traces there if they’d discovered it? Wouldn’t the whole grate have been taken in for investigation?’
Adam didn’t answer.
‘And this,’ Warren continued and pointed with his penknife to a spot in the middle of the grate. ‘Do you see? All the scratches?’
Adam studied the nearly invisible stripes in the white metal. Someone had scraped against the enamel without breaking it.
‘Genius in its simplicity,’ he said quietly.
‘Quite,’ said Warren.
‘Someone has unfastened the grate, pulled a stay tied to string or rope through the middle hole, attached double-sided tape to the edge of the grate…’
‘And climbed in,’ concluded Warren. ‘It was simply a matter of pulling the grate up to close it. Then there he was. That explains why he was carrying a small ladder.’ He pointed at the ceiling with his thumb. ‘All he had to do was crawl in when-’
‘But how the hell did he manage to get in in the first place?’ Adam cut in. ‘Can you explain to me how anyone managed to get into the suite where the US president was staying, set up all this…’ he pointed at the ceiling and then at the loose grate that was lying on the table, ‘get comfy in the air vent, then creep out and take the President away with him, and get away with it?’
He coughed before continuing, his voice low and exasperated. ‘And all that in a hotel room that was minutely examined only a few hours before the President retired. How is it possible? How is that at all possible?’
‘There are lots of loose ends here,’ Warren said, with his hand on the Norwegian’s shoulder.
Adam moved almost imperceptibly, and Warren lifted his hand.
‘We have to find out when the CCTV cameras were turned on,’ he said swiftly. ‘And if they were ever turned off. We must establish when the room was last examined before Madam President came back from the meal. We must-’
‘Not we,’ Adam corrected and pulled out his mobile phone again. ‘I should have called ages ago. That is the investigators’ job. Not yours. Not mine.’
He held Warren’s gaze as he waited for an answer at the other end. The American was as expressionless as he had been when they came into the suite half an hour ago. When Adam made contact, he turned away and walked slowly towards the windows facing the fjord, talking in a low voice.
Warren Scifford sank down into a chair. He stared at the floor. His arms hung limply by his sides, as if he didn’t really know what to do with them. His suit didn’t look so elegant any more. It was crumpled and his tie knot was loose.
‘Is anything wrong?’ Adam asked. He had finished his conversation and turned round without warning.
Warren quickly straightened his tie and stood up. The surprise in his face vanished so swiftly that Adam wasn’t sure if he had seen correctly.
‘Everything,’ Warren laughed. ‘Everything’s wrong at the moment. Shall we go?’
‘No. I’ll wait here for my colleagues to come. It shouldn’t be long.’
‘Then,’ Warren started, lightly brushing the right sleeve of his jacket, ‘I hope that you won’t mind if I go.’
‘Not at all,’ Adam said. ‘Just ring me when you need me.’
He wanted to ask Warren where he was going, but something stopped him. If the American wanted to play that game, he would let him have all the secrets he liked.
Adam had other things to think about.
XX
‘I’ve got other things to take care of,’ he said and switched his phone from his right to his left hand as he got into the passenger seat of a uniformed Oslo Police car. ‘I’ve been at work since half past seven this morning, and now I’m going home.’‘You’re the best,’ the voice at the other end said. ‘You’re the best, Adam, and this is the closest we’ve come to anything concrete.’
‘No.’
Adam Stubo was completely calm when he put his hand over the mouthpiece for a moment and whispered to the driver: ‘Haugesvei 4, please. Off Maridalsveien, just before you get to Nydalen.’
‘Hello,’ the voice on the other end called.
‘I’m still here. I’m on my way home. You’ve given me the job of liaison, and I’m trying to do it to the best of my ability. It’s unprofessional, quite frankly, to then suddenly pull me into-’
‘Not at all. On the contrary, it is very professional,’ the Chief of Police, Bastesen, retorted. ‘This case demands that we use only the best people in the country at all times. Regardless of shifts, rank and overtime.’
‘But-’
‘We have of course cleared it with your bosses. You can take this as an order. Come immediately.’
Adam closed his eyes and let out a long breath. He opened them again when the driver braked suddenly at the roundabout by Oslo City. A young lad in a clapped-out Golf jumped in too fast in front of them.
‘Change of plan,’ Adam said, exhausted, and closed the conversation. ‘Drive me to the police HQ. Some people obviously think that today has not been long enough.’
There was a loud rumble. Adam patted his stomach and smiled apologetically to the driver.
‘And please stop at a petrol station,’ he added. ‘I have to eat something, a hotdog or three.’
XXI
Abdallah al-Rahman was hungry, but he still had a couple of things to do before he could have his evening meal. First he wanted to see his youngest son.
Rashid was fast asleep, with a soft horse under his arm. The boy had eventually been allowed to watch the film he had gone on about so much, and was now lying on his back with his legs wide open, his face the picture of peace. He had kicked off his blanket some time ago. His jet-black hair was getting too long. His curls lay like rivers of oil against the white silk.
Abdallah sank down on his knees and spread the blanket carefully over the boy again. He kissed him on the forehead and adjusted the horse so it would be more comfortable.
They had watched Die Hard with Bruce Willis.
The nearly twenty-year-old American film was Rashid’s favourite. None of his older brothers could understand why. For them, Die Hard was incredibly old-fashioned, with hopelessly out-of-date special effects and a hero who wasn’t even tough. But for six-year-old Rashid, the action scenes were perfect: cartoon-like and unreal and therefore not frightening. Another bonus was that in 1988, terrorists were Eastern European. They hadn’t yet become Arabs.
Abdallah looked up at the old film poster hanging above Rashid’s bed. The night light, which the boy was still allowed to keep on because he was scared of the dark, cast a reddish glow over Bruce Willis’ bruised face. It was partially covered by Nakatomi Plaza, an explosive tower of fire. The actor’s mouth was open, almost aghast, and his eyes were fixed on the unthinkable: a terrorist attack on a skyscraper.
Abdallah got up to leave. He stood for a while in the doorway. Bruce Willis’ mouth was a gaping black hole in the semi-dark. Abdallah thought he could see a yellowish-red reflection of the massive explosion in his eyes; a nascent fury.
That’s how they reacted, he thought to himself. Just like that. Thirteen years after the film was made. Shock and disbelief, helplessness and fear. And then came the anger, when American society realised that the unthinkable was now reality.
The terrorist attack on the 11th of September 2001 had been the work of madmen. Abdallah had seen that immediately. He got a distraught phone call from one of his contacts in Europe and managed to turn on the television in time to see United Airlines Flight 175 crashing into the South Tower. The North Tower was already in flames. It was just after four in the afternoon in Riyadh, and Abdallah had not been able to sit down.
For two hours he stood in front of the TV screen. When he finally pulled himself away from the news to answer some of the telephone messages that had been streaming in, he realised that the attack on the World Trade Center would be as fatal for the Arabic world as the attack on Pearl Harbor had been for the Japanese.