I mustered my courage and said this to him. The response was very positive. Trond Bratten himself smiled, slightly abashed, and his wife patted me enthusiastically on the shoulder.
My planned orientation was done in ten minutes here. The party chairman closely followed everything I said, and nodded pensively a couple of times. But he sat and listened without asking any questions or making any comments.
When I had finished my orientation, I looked at him questioningly, without getting a response. Trond Bratten sat without saying a word, almost without moving, even when I asked him if he had any public engagements in the coming days. Again, it was his wife who broke the silence.
‘My husband has only one public engagement over the next few days, but it is an extremely important one that must not be cancelled under any circumstances.’
Trond Bratten gave the tiniest of nods, but still said nothing.
I turned and looked askance at his wife, who then continued.
‘You may perhaps have read that my husband was seriously ill in the Easter holidays and then had to take several months off work. Well, the political situation has fortunately been rather quiet so far this year. It looks as though autumn and winter, however, might be more dramatic, as the Europe question is once again high on the agenda and the coalition government is falling apart at the seams. On top of this, my husband’s sick leave has led to malicious rumours that his health is now permanently impaired, so the deputy leader and other ambitious men have started to position themselves to take over. The former party leader and several older rivals who envy my husband’s unique abilities and position are also jostling in the wings. My husband is due to give his first major speech since his illness at Frogner Square tomorrow at five o’clock and it has been a long time in the planning. It is an attempt to appeal to new workers’ organizations in the west end, but will also be a large-scale mobilization of the labour movement. The unions in several workplaces have put on transport for employees to get there after work to hear my husband’s speech, which he has spent several hours preparing. No matter what reason was given, it would be a catastrophe if it did not go ahead as planned, which could have untold negative consequences for both the party and the nation.’
This tumbled out at speed and with passion. I looked at Trond Bratten, who at first simply nodded.
‘Norwegian democracy must never again allow itself to be intimidated into silence. And the leader of the Norwegian Labour Party is responsible for ensuring that democracy is not intimidated into silence!’ he said suddenly, with great conviction.
For a second, I recognized the Trond Bratten of his best and most pointed debates on the radio and television. His wife clapped with delight and I found myself almost doing the same. I stopped myself just in time, and instead asked if he had any other commitments in the next few days.
His wife answered swiftly, ‘No. He will have to rest well after tomorrow’s speech.’
Trond Bratten nodded and smiled at her. For a moment, he seemed to forget that I was present in the room.
I noted down the time and place of the next day’s engagement and said, as was the case, that we so far had no indication of any targeted action against Trond Bratten or anyone else from the Labour Party. I promised to let them know if we got any new information. And I was bold enough to advise Mrs Bratten that until the situation was fully established, she should be especially mindful of her husband.
This hit the mark. She smiled back and assured me that she always kept an eye on him, but that she would keep an even closer eye in the days ahead. She would, as usual, drive him to and from the rally tomorrow herself, and would personally ensure that her husband’s good friends in the labour movement were watched like hawks.
We parted on a positive note at half past twelve. She followed me to the door, and he waved a couple of fingers gently from his place behind his desk. I had lost none of my respect or fascination for Trond Bratten when I descended the steps. The contrast with the prime minister was striking. But I found it easy to like them both. And I thought to myself that I had just seen a rare and fine example of a couple who worked well together despite a considerable difference in age and temperament. For several reasons, it had been an enjoyable break from the investigation.
IX
I barely had time to grab two dry buns from a baker’s shop for lunch before arriving at Victoria Terrace as agreed.
This time, Asle Bryne was not sitting alone in his office. Beside him sat a far younger man, with a prominent mole on his chin. I was relieved to discover that Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was observant and still to be trusted.
I held out my hand to the new man, but was stopped by Asle Bryne’s authoritative hand.
‘Please wait a moment before you start talking: we first have to clarify the terms. The fact that I am allowing an employee to be at such a meeting is exceptional. But then, the situation is exceptional, and I understand your need to resolve it. I would like to state, however, that this man has done nothing criminal, but on the contrary has made a considerable and important contribution to our country and its people. I expect him to be treated with respect, and this conversation to remain strictly confidential. Are the terms clear?’
I gave a quick nod. Asle Bryne then made a great fuss of lighting his pipe, and disappeared behind a cloud of smoke. The man beside him held out his hand. His handshake was firm and strong, though I detected a slight tremor.
I sat down and asked first of all if he was the ‘XY’ who had written the report. He nodded. I proceeded to say that I now needed to know his name, in the strictest confidence. He turned and looked at Bryne, waiting for a response. Somewhere inside the grey cloud of smoke, Bryne’s great black eyebrows rose and fell.
‘My name is Pedersen. Stein Pedersen. But I would be extremely grateful if no one else heard it, as that would make my continued work in preventing a communist takeover very difficult.’
Both Bryne and I gave a nod, though mine was more reserved than his. I was surprised at how well I was managing to play my role. The opening was a small sensation. Were the initials SP just a coincidence, or was I now sitting opposite the man who planned to carry out an attack against someone or other, at some place, within the next few days? Was it really possible that such an attack would come from inside the police security service?
I focused my concentration and asked him first to tell me about his impressions from the evening that Marie Morgenstierne was shot. Stein Pedersen nodded, and repeated in a monotone voice the main points of his written report. He did not give any new details about the two men on the side roads, or about any of the other people who were on the road.
When I asked if anyone might have seen the cassette being handed over, he was ‘at least ninety-nine per cent’ certain that they could not have done so. It was done in passing, and he had not seen anyone ahead or behind them on the road either before or after it happened. Kristine Larsen had only appeared behind him several minutes later, and had then overtaken him quickly, with determined steps.
As for his earlier contact with Marie Morgenstierne, Stein Pedersen did not have anything of importance to add. She had contacted him a few weeks after Falko Reinhardt had disappeared, and had later routinely provided him with tapes, but it had been a very perfunctory contact with little extra information. He had been given her telephone number and had rung her on a few occasions, but claimed never to have been to her home. And he denied, somewhat horrified and indignant, that he had ever had any kind of romantic or physical relationship with her.