`Not now it isn't. And I wish to make a phone call. Could I use this phone?'
`I'll give you a line.'
Alone behind the desk, he dialled Monica's number. She, at least, sounded pleased to be talking to him. 'You must be psychic,' she said. 'Not five minutes ago Kuhlmann phoned. He wants you to call him back at this number. Still Action This Day?'
`Yesterday. I must go now. Be in touch.'
He dialled the number he had memorized, which was Lubeck-Sud. Kuhlmann came straight on the line. He sounded grim and weary. Lack of sleep.
`Tweed, the pathologist has examined what's left of Sue Templeton, that American girl. He found a lot of skin under the fingernails of her right hand. The poor girl put up a fight. Main thing is, the killer must have one hell of a scratch on his person – probably on his face. Thought you should know. Getting anywhere?'
`Thanks. And yes. Because of that, I'm in a rush.'
'OK.' Kuhlmann paused. 'Put a bullet through the bastard for me.'
`You are about to look down on the Ninth Wonder of the World,' Tweed said to Newman. 'The approach to Oslo Fjord. It's quite magnificent.'
They were flying at thirty thousand feet aboard the DC-9, Orvar Viking. At Kastrup Airport they had grabbed a late breakfast and then caught the flight by minutes. The cloud bank over Copenhagen had dissipated soon after takeoff. They flew up the west coast of Sweden.
Tweed had pointed out to Newman – and Nield who sat behind them – the Skaw, the northernmost tip of Denmark, stretching out into the Skagerrak. A flat, claw-like peninsula, it had a barren deserted look from that height. Newman peered out of the window as the machine began its long descent.
The pilot had made an announcement that the air was exceptionally clear, the view coming up rarely seen. Below on the azure blue sea Newman could make out tiny specks of white – the wakes of invisible vessels heading north. Was one of them the Nordsee, he wondered. Then he leaned closer to the window.
It was his first sighting of Norway. The most southerly of the islands guarding the entrance to the huge fjord came into view. Newman stared down, fascinated. They were like ragged-edged pieces of a jigsaw thrown down at random on to a gigantic table of blue ice.
The descent continued. The islands became larger, some covered with dense fir forest. Between them vessels plied their way northward, heading for distant Oslo. Houses began to appear on a few islands. Newman had never seen so many islands clustered together, drawn back from the main channel wending its way towards the Norwegian capital.
The aircraft flew on, dropping all the time, following the course of the fjord. Suddenly they were lost inside a cloud like fog. They were flying very low now. Newman went on staring out of the window. He stiffened as they flew out of the fog. Just below rose a whole series of hump-backed hills, range upon range. It was quite different from what he had expected.
The plane swung in a vast arc, diving inside the fog and emerging without warning. The hills, covered with dense forest, looked to be too close. The plane climbed abruptly. Then the machine descended, flew across a stretch of water. 'We're going to end up in the drink,' Newman was thinking. The wheels touched down. The airport was located at the very edge of the fjord. Newman let out a sigh of relief.
'Marvellous,' crowed Tweed.
'Bloody marvellous,' Newman agreed.
Tweed wasted no time once they reached the exit hall. He asked for chief of security, was ushered with Newman into a small square office lined with green filing cabinets and occupied by a short well-built Norwegian in a pale blue shirt and navy blue trousers who rose from behind his desk.
'I'm Iversen, chief of security. Who are you?'
'Tweed. Special Branch. From London.' He slapped down a folder on Iversen's desk. 'I need to speak urgently to Captain Georg Palmer of Norwegian Intelligence. He's out at Huseby Gardekasernen – near Roa.'
Tweed took out his notebook while Iversen checked the folder and handed it back. 'Here's the phone number,' Tweed said. 'May I?' He took a pad on the desk and wrote down the number.
'I'll talk to him first,' Iversen said, picked up the phone, dialled the number and spoke in Norwegian, then switched to English. 'Yes, sir, your description fits him perfectly. I'll put him on the line.' He held out the phone. 'I can leave you alone..
'Not necessary, thank you.' Tweed spoke into the phone. 'I am at Fornebu, as you'll now know. Just arrived. Need to talk to you, Georg. No, don't come to Fornebu. Can we meet at the Grand Hotel? In about a couple of hours from now? I have to check certain things first. Yes, I'm glad to be back. Look forward to seeing you again. 'Bye.'
He thanked Iversen and outside in the entrance hall they found Nield waiting. He gestured towards the western side of the airfield.
`I found Casey. He's where the police choppers take off from. In the private section.' He fingered his small black moustache. `I think you ought to talk with him. We can walk. The exercise will do you good.'
Tweed blinked as they emerged into brilliant sunshine. Newman took a deep breath. The air was crisp, invigorating. As they walked he looked towards the hills rising up behind Oslo. The air had a sharp, crystalline clarity, bringing the hills covered with forest closer than they were.
`I like this place,' he said.
`The pace is slower here,' Tweed said as he trotted briskly towards the Sea King he could now see. 'There's no place in Europe like it. In some ways, you feel you're living in the nineteen-thirties. In the nicest possible way. Well, Casey, what's the position?'
`The Nordsee is approaching the entrance to Oslo Fjord. About eighty nautical miles south of the first island.'
`How long ago was that?'
`One hour. We landed here, refuelled – so we're ready for a long flight if necessary…'
`Which it might well be,' Tweed agreed.
`Then we took off again, flew back down the fjord and over the Skagerrak. Just to make sure he hadn't changed course.'
`Which he could still do,' interjected his co-pilot, Wilson. `South-west would take him out into the North Sea. And he had reduced speed a lot. For the first time since we tracked him from Lubeck.'
That was quite a speech for Wilson. And a shrewd point he'd made, Tweed was thinking.
`Has he spotted you, would you say?' he asked Casey.
`Bound to have done so by now. Not during the night – but there's so much traffic off Sweden we had to move in closer. Other choppers were around, but only one Sea King. Us.'
`Can you wait here while we drive into Oslo? Have you had a meal?'
`Easily,' Casey replied. He looked up at the sky. 'Night will be coming within a few hours. Maybe that's what he's waiting for. And we had an excellent meal at the restaurant. Go about your business, Tweed. We can wait. You can always call the airport – they know where we are.'
'I am in a rush…'
They took a cab into Oslo and Newman stared out of the window, taking in the new experience. The highway followed the upper reaches of the fjord, giving views of marinas crammed with sailing craft and the intensely blue water beyond. Arriving at the Grand Hotel on the main street, Karl Johans Gate, Tweed bustled inside, carrying his case.
Newman paid off the cab and lingered for a moment with Nield, taking in the atmosphere. Tweed had been right. The pace was slower. None of the 'must get there yesterday' frenzy of London or New York.
Karl Johans Gate stretched due west. In the distance an elegant ochre and pale grey building stood on a small hill. The Royal Palace, Newman guessed. Across a park on another street an old cream and grey tram trundled through the city. The Norwegians strolled, made way for other people. Yes, I like this place Newman thought.