‘I will contact Asle Bryne first thing tomorrow morning. And if he is in agreement, we will then contact the prime minister and opposition leader – and the royal family,’ was his conclusion at ten past midnight. It was only then that it dawned on me just how serious this case was. It was half past twelve before I got into bed again, and a quarter to two before I finally fell asleep on the morning after Sunday, 9 August 1970.
DAY SIX: By the cliff – and near boiling point
I
To my surprise, I was able to eat breakfast without being interrupted by any telephone calls on Monday, 10 August 1970. The newspapers had nothing new or alarming to report. The main focus was once again on international politics. The prospects of a so-called SALT agreement on nuclear disarmament were suddenly so good that the German chancellor Willy Brandt had had to cut short his holiday in Norway to travel to Moscow for further negotiations. The broadsheet Aftenposten had managed to snap him just before he left from the military airbase at Gardermoen. Otherwise, yesterday had been a dramatic day in the Norwegian Football Cup, with Gjøvik-Lyn beating Rosenborg as the greatest surprise.
The feeling that this was the calm before the storm intensified when I got to the station at half past eight. My boss was sitting waiting in my office, together with a besuited and very serious man I had never seen before.
‘Bryne agrees that there is every reason to be cautious. We have set up an appointment with Prime Minister Peder Borgen in his office at eleven o’clock, and then with the leader of the Labour Party, Trond Bratten, at Young’s Square at midday,’ my boss told me in an unusually formal manner.
‘But first of all, please tell the Head of Royal Security what he needs to know about our information, and what we have grounds to fear might happen within the next few days,’ he added promptly.
If the man sitting opposite me was a policeman, I had certainly never met him before. His posture hinted at a more military background. I guessed that he must be around fifty, and his face was devoid of any expression. His handshake was firm, but he did not introduce himself and I saw no reason to ask him any questions. Instead, I quickly told him the parts of the story that involved the risk of a future attack.
My boss and I both looked at our guest in anticipation when I had finished talking. His face was just as expressionless and grave.
‘The threat remains somewhat diffuse, but the situation is definitely to be taken seriously. Thank you for keeping us informed,’ he said, following a short pause. His voice was just as expressionless as his face, but was slightly more animated when he continued.
‘The crown prince is on a sailing holiday and has no official duties this week. We will, however, ensure extra cover for the coastal guard over the coming days. His Majesty the King only has two official engagements this week. He is due to open a new swimming pool in Asker at six o’clock this evening, and at the same time tomorrow evening will be the guest of honour at an event hosted by the Military Association of Oslo. Both events have been in the calendar for a long time. They can of course be cancelled on the grounds of illness or suchlike, but that might easily result in unfortunate rumours and speculation. With your knowledge of the case, do you have any thoughts as to whether His Majesty should cancel his appearance at one or both of the events, or not?’
I had not expected the question, and the whole situation suddenly felt rather absurd. The thought that the king might be subject to an attack was so dramatic that I nearly advised them to cancel everything. But then, the thought of being held responsible for disappointing the crowds of people who had turned up to see the king, with no good grounds, was not very appealing either.
In the end, I said that I would advise that the day’s event should go ahead as planned with reinforced security, and to wait and see how the situation developed before making any decision about the event tomorrow. I realized that I was now simply pushing the problem ahead to the next day, but also that I trusted Falko Reinhardt’s judgement that the possibility of an attack today was unthinkable.
To my relief, the man with the stony face nodded his approval.
‘I will monitor the situation over the course of the day, but I think I agree with your opinion as long as there is no direct threat to the royal family. Please make sure that I am informed immediately of any new information that might give grounds for concern.’
Without waiting for a reply, he stood up and left the office, accompanied by my boss.
I was left sitting in the office on my own, with an ever greater sense of responsibility for the case and its potential for catastrophe.
Two minutes after my boss had left the office, I checked my pulse just to make sure, and it was still racing at 150. And that was even before I started to dial the number of the head of the police security service, Asle Bryne, at Victoria Terrace.
II
Asle Bryne gave a stifled sigh when he heard my voice on the telephone. It was just the encouragement I needed to complete my offensive.
‘I am sorry that I have to disturb you again, but you really have put both me and the investigation in a very difficult situation.’
‘I see,’ he said. His voice sounded somewhat resigned, but also guarded in anticipation of how much I knew.
‘I have every reason to believe that the security service agent was not only present on the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot, but also on the evening when Falko Reinhardt went missing. The agent is easy to identify physically, even though it seems he was running around in Valdres wearing a mask. One can only imagine what the press will make of it should the story get out.’
For the last time, I expected an outburst that never happened. There was an embarrassing silence on the line. I smiled at the phone and mentally chalked up Patricia’s win over the security service, 3-0. Asle Bryne gave what could only be described as a heavy sigh before he continued.
‘It is unfortunately true that one of our agents has overstepped his authority and made some mistakes in this case. But he is an excellent agent who for many years has contributed to the security of our land and its people. And you can take my word for it that he has nothing whatsoever to do with either the murder of Marie Morgenstierne or the disappearance of Falko Reinhardt!’
I heard myself say that I of course did not doubt his word, but that, given the developments in the case, I now had to meet this man in confidence to hear what information he could give me.
Then I heard Asle Bryne reply in a very faint voice that he totally understood that, and that the most important thing now was to make sure that the press and politicians did not get wind of it, and that I could of course meet the man in private if I came to Victoria Terrace at midday. To which I replied that I unfortunately already had a meeting at midday that was of crucial significance to the country and its people, but that one o’clock should be fine.
Asle Bryne’s reply was even curter than usuaclass="underline" ‘Fine,’ he said, and put down the telephone.
I sat with the receiver in my hand and laughed out loud. But it was not long before I was serious again. It was now past nine o’clock, and on my list of people to speak to before my meeting at eleven with the prime minister were two former Nazis and an elderly couple.
III
By five past nine, I had decided to drive over to Falko’s parents in Grünerløkka first, and then, if time permitted, to Frans Heidenberg and Christian Magnus Eggen.