“A very foresighted precaution.”
“Thank you. I am now, of course, worried that this banker in Atlanta, Michael Honeycutt, may succeed in his attempts to kill me and my friend, and that this information, this confidential information, may be loosed prematurely and damage the reputation and livelihood of this Tijuana business association. Today, one of the banker’s men came very close to succeeding, and there are two others in Oslo, just waiting for me. I thought perhaps that if these businessmen understood my predicament, they might be willing to put me in touch with some associates. They might offer some local assistance, and perhaps the temporary use of some of their office equipment.”
“A reasonable request. But I am not sure if the business association has an office in your area. Perhaps I could find out and telephone you in, say, one hour?”
“That is acceptable.”
“I will need your phone number.” I gave it to him. “In one hour, Miss Torvingen.”
By five-thirty in the morning I had finished my long letter. I put it in an envelope, which I sealed carefully, then wrote a note to my attorney, which I put, together with the sealed envelope, inside a second envelope, which I addressed to the law firm of Spirkett and Clowes in Atlanta. I had no idea how much international postage was, but ten domestic stamps should be plenty. One little envelope. It wasn’t enough insurance. I started another sheet of paper.
This time it went faster. When I’d finished, I addressed it to myself, in care of Dornan, at Borealis. For the first time in twelve hours I was not cold.
The cotton wool around my nerves was wearing thin and the milk that lapped my muscles evaporating. There were two syrettes of morphine left. It would have to wait.
Outside, the rain had stopped and the sun was coming up. I smeared mud on the Volvo’s license plates, just in case it had been stolen and reported to the police, and drove like an old woman to the post box three kilometers down the bumpy track. The first pickup was at seven-thirty. I slid the envelope addressed to my attorney through the slot, then drove another five kilometers to post the second.
The phone rang as I pulled up outside the seter.
“Miss Torvingen.” It was Guacamole Voice, the assistant. “Señor Palma has asked that I pass on the phone number of a business associate in Oslo who will be waiting for your call.” He gave it to me. It was another cellular number. “Señor Palma also asked me to tell you two things. First of all, that the banker of whom you spoke, Señor Honeycutt, was shot to death at a New York airport ten days ago.”
Honeycutt was shot ten days ago. Ten days ago.
“…association was of course most upset at the time, but given your information, they are not as upset as they had been. They do, however, wish they knew who had set such a thing in motion.”
Someone unknown to the cartel had killed Honeycutt. Honeycutt was dead. The man from Atlanta had killed Honeycutt. Honeycutt was not the man from Atlanta.
“…second item to convey is that despite the death, Señor Palma will honour his agreement. And, of course, should you discover who might have intended harm to Señor Honeycutt, Señor Palma would be most grateful for that information. He also hopes that given your diplomatic contacts, you might be persuaded to act as a goodwill ambassador in the future. Good evening, Miss Torvingen.”
A silky threat. You owe us. We will collect.
fourteen
I drove like a berserker up the track to the secondary road at the tip of the fjord. Honeycutt was not the man from Atlanta. Honeycutt was dead. I should have paid attention to my unease. I should have listened. The morphine sliding slick as ice through my system could not dim the fear that kept my foot down on the accelerator even though the Volvo was already fishtailing on the loose grit and holding the wheel steady was agony. Someone hidden in the shadows was reaching out with a pair of shears to cut the strings.
I skidded onto the secondary road and brought the Volvo up to a hundred and fifty kilometers per hour. That lasted for ten minutes, then I was back on another twenty kilometers of track but it was a straight stretch, and it was empty. I risked taking my good hand off the wheel to punch in the Bristol’s phone number and tuck the phone under my chin. It was nearly seven in the morning. The desk clerk put me through to Julia’s room without demur. The phone rang and rang and rang. I disconnected and called again. When the desk clerk answered I asked for Rolf.
“Ms. Torvingen. What can I do for you?”
“There’s no reply from Ms. Lyons-Bennet’s room and she hasn’t called me. Did you leave the note?”
“Indeed. I took it up personally.”
“And you’re sure she’s there?”
“A moment.” Ticking of keys. “Yes. She came in late last night and told the desk clerk she would be checking out after lunch.”
“Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. But if you see her, please tell her I’ve been trying to contact her. Please also tell her to stay in the hotel. I should be there in under two hours.”
“I will pass on your request.”
There was nothing more I could do.
I took the hard left onto E16 without slowing and as soon as all four wheels were on the highway, I pushed the accelerator flat to the floor. Like the secondary road, the highway was deserted. My heart was a sledgehammer, driving the car forward. Without taking my eyes off the road, I punched in the number of the cartel’s local contact.
“Hei.” A coffee-grounds voice, dark and used.
“Torvingen.”
“You can call me Sampo.” Sampo Lappelil—the Little Lapp Boy who saves the world from the king of trolls and permanent winter. A bitter man.
“I’ll be there in two hours. Less. You have something for me.”
“Yes.” He gave me an address near the Akershus. “Be here before nine.”
I called the Bristol again, but here in the Oppland my signal just bounced from rock to rock.
I tore south, never easing up, letting speed and adrenalin flense away dread and pain and all feeling until I was bone clothed in muscle moving forward with deadly purpose.
As soon as I hit the outskirts of Oslo and saw the flags fluttering from every flagpole, I understood why the roads had been empty. It was May 17, National Day, a public holiday when proud Norwegians flocked from their houses to commemorate the anniversary of the constitution of 1814, clogging the streets with processions and ceremonies and celebration.
I cursed steadily and aimed the car for the city center.
It was eight-thirty. The boulevards and avenues were empty and silent but for hammering as carpenters put the final touches to speaking platforms, and the shrieks of microphone feedback as techs tested the public address systems. The workers all swung around, astonished, when I screeched by. Good Norwegians all, at least one would call the police.
I pulled up in a no-parking zone in front of the Bristol and brushed aside the doorman and his protests. The man behind the desk literally stepped back a pace when he saw me.
“Tell me what room Julia Lyons-Bennet is in.”
He swallowed. “She’s…I’m sorry. She checked out half an hour ago.”
“Where is Rolf?”
His eyes bugged like boiled eggs. “Rolf?”
“The night manager.”
“His…his shift ended twenty minutes ago.” But his eyes shifted towards a door marked STAFF ONLY.
I vaulted over the counter and slammed open the door. Rolf was a big, soft thirtyish man who leapt out of an easy chair and spilled his tea.
“Where is she?” He shook his head. His left hand cupped his genitals. I don’t think he even knew he was doing it. “Tell me what you said in that note.”
“I kept a copy.” Such a small, tight voice for a soft man.