Salhus said. ‘A gross error. We’re not the only ones who think of this countryas a peaceful corner in a big bad world. The Americans do too. And the most worrying thing about it, apart from the fact that the President has simply vanished, is that the Americans actually thought it was safe here. They are in a far better position to assess that sort of thing than we are. And they should have known better, as—’
‘As they have far more intelligence,’ the Director of Police chimed in.
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘Exactly.’ The Minister of Justice nodded.
‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said again.
Then there was silence. Even the Minister of Justice left his cup of coffee in peace. The plasma screen on the wall shone a uniform blue and told them nothing. The neon strip light on the ceiling had started to blink, off beat and without a sound. When a fly broke the silence with a lazy buzz, Peter Salhus followed it with his eyes until the silence started to feel uncomfortable.
‘The Americans have absolutely no idea what is happening,’ the Prime Minister concluded.
He gathered the papers in front of him into a pile, without indicating that the meeting was over.
‘I mean, they don’t either.’
‘I would perhaps say that they
had
no idea,’ Salhus corrected, with some hesitation. ‘Beforehand, I mean. The challenge for them now is to sift through all the material that they have at any given time. To lay their cards on the table in a different way and see what emerges.’
‘But the problem is,’ the Director of Police said, swatting at the fly, which had come a bit too close, ‘that they have too many cards.’
Salhus nodded. ‘You can’t even begin to imagine,’ he said. His eyes felt dry and he chewed at this thumb. ‘It’s hard for usto comprehend all the information they have. And that they receive all the time, every minute, every hour, every day. The FBI has multiplied in both size and budget since nine/eleven. From being a relatively traditional police organisation with clear professional and largely internal American responsibilities, the greater part of its budget and staff are now earmarked for anti- terrorist activities. And this, ladies and gentlemen . . .’
He picked up an official portrait of Helen Lardahl Bentley from the table.
‘Kidnapping a president definitely falls under the category of terrorism in the US. They will come storming over here, be sure of it. As I said, a number of FBI people are probably already here with the President. But we ain’t seen nothing yet.’
He gave a feeble smile and ran his finger round his collar while absently staring at the photograph of the President.
‘According to my reports, a special flight is in fact due to land in three hours’ time,’ the Director of Police confirmed. ‘And there are more scheduled to arrive after that.’
The Prime Minister traced his finger over the top of the table. He stopped at a spot of coffee. Two deep furrows could be seen in the folds of skin on his face, and it was only the light reflecting on his glasses that indicated that there was a pair of eyes there too.
‘Yes, but we’re not talking about an invasion,’ he said, obviously irritated. ‘You make it sound as if we’re completely at the mercy of the Americans, Salhus. And let me reiterate . . .’ he raised his voice a notch or two, ‘that this has happened on Norwegian soil. We will of course spare no effort or money and the Americans will be treated with the utmost respect. But this is a
Norwegian
case, to be dealt with by the
Norwegian
police and legal system.’
‘Good luck,’ Peter Salhus muttered, and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.
‘I will let nothing of the sort . . .’ The Prime Minister pausedand raised his glass to his mouth. His hand was shaking and he put the glass down again without drinking any water. Before he had a chance to continue, the Director of Police leant over the table.
‘Peter, what
‘As they have far more intelligence,’ the Director of Police chimed in.
‘Yes.’
‘I see,’ said the Prime Minister.
‘Exactly.’ The Minister of Justice nodded.
‘Yes,’ Peter Salhus said again.
Then there was silence. Even the Minister of Justice left his cup of coffee in peace. The plasma screen on the wall shone a uniform blue and told them nothing. The neon strip light on the ceiling had started to blink, off beat and without a sound. When a fly broke the silence with a lazy buzz, Peter Salhus followed it with his eyes until the silence started to feel uncomfortable.
‘The Americans have absolutely no idea what is happening,’ the Prime Minister concluded.
He gathered the papers in front of him into a pile, without indicating that the meeting was over.
‘I mean, they don’t either.’
‘I would perhaps say that they
had
no idea,’ Salhus corrected, with some hesitation. ‘Beforehand, I mean. The challenge for them now is to sift through all the material that they have at any given time. To lay their cards on the table in a different way and see what emerges.’
‘But the problem is,’ the Director of Police said, swatting at the fly, which had come a bit too close, ‘that they have too many cards.’
Salhus nodded. ‘You can’t even begin to imagine,’ he said. His eyes felt dry and he chewed at this thumb. ‘It’s hard for usto comprehend all the information they have. And that they receive all the time, every minute, every hour, every day. The FBI has multiplied in both size and budget since nine/eleven. From being a relatively traditional police organisation with clear professional and largely internal American responsibilities, the greater part of its budget and staff are now earmarked for anti- terrorist activities. And this, ladies and gentlemen . . .’
He picked up an official portrait of Helen Lardahl Bentley from the table.
‘Kidnapping a president definitely falls under the category of terrorism in the US. They will come storming over here, be sure of it. As I said, a number of FBI people are probably already here with the President. But we ain’t seen nothing yet.’
He gave a feeble smile and ran his finger round his collar while absently staring at the photograph of the President.
‘According to my reports, a special flight is in fact due to land in three hours’ time,’ the Director of Police confirmed. ‘And there are more scheduled to arrive after that.’
The Prime Minister traced his finger over the top of the table. He stopped at a spot of coffee. Two deep furrows could be seen in the folds of skin on his face, and it was only the light reflecting on his glasses that indicated that there was a pair of eyes there too.
‘Yes, but we’re not talking about an invasion,’ he said, obviously irritated. ‘You make it sound as if we’re completely at the mercy of the Americans, Salhus. And let me reiterate . . .’ he raised his voice a notch or two, ‘that this has happened on Norwegian soil. We will of course spare no effort or money and the Americans will be treated with the utmost respect. But this is a
Norwegian
case, to be dealt with by the
Norwegian
police and legal system.’
‘Good luck,’ Peter Salhus muttered, and rubbed his forehead with his knuckles.
‘I will let nothing of the sort . . .’ The Prime Minister pausedand raised his glass to his mouth. His hand was shaking and he put the glass down again without drinking any water. Before he had a chance to continue, the Director of Police leant over the table.
‘Peter, what
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