do you actually mean? That we should leave the whole puzzle to the Americans? Give up our sovereignty and jurisdiction? You can’t be serious!’
‘Of course I don’t mean that,’ Salhus replied. He seemed surprised by her familiarity and hesitated a bit. ‘I mean that . . . I in fact mean the opposite. All our experience – political, professional and for that matter military – means that we have a huge advantage over the Americans in this case.’
Someone knocked on the door and a red light flashed by the door frame.
No one reacted.
‘We are Norwegian,’ Peter Salhus said. ‘We know this country. We know the language. The infrastructure. The geography, the topography. The architecture, the town. We are Norwegian and they are American.’
There was another knock at the door, more agitated this time.
‘We’ve started,’ Salhus continued and shrugged. ‘Things are working. We’re all here, everyone who should be here. The contingency plans work. Staff have been called in. The machinery was started up hours ago, in all the ministries. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Storting are taking responsibility for protocol at the moment. My point is just that—’
He stopped when a round middle-aged woman came into the room. She silently placed a piece of paper in front of the Prime Minister, who made no attempt to read it. Instead, he nodded to Salhus. ‘Carry on,’ he said curtly.
‘My point is that we have to understand what we are dealing with. We can have no illusions that the Americans will behappy to take instructions in a situation like this. They will overstep the mark, again and again. At the same time, we have to acknowledge that they have qualifications, equipment and intelligence that will be essential for the case. To put it simply, we need them. The most important thing will be to convince them that . . .’ He lifted his glass and looked at it, distracted. The fly had settled on the inside and was attempting to open its wings, feeble and half dead. ‘That they need us just as much,’ he said emphatically, turning the empty glass in his hands. ‘If not, they’ll bulldoze us. And if we are going to achieve mutual understanding and trust, then I think we should stop banging on about words like jurisdiction, territory and sovereignty.’
‘Which is more or less what Vidkun Quisling must have said,’ the Minister of Justice objected, ‘in April 1940.’
The silence that followed was almost deafening. Even the fly had capitulated and lay with its legs in the air at the bottom of the glass. The Prime Minister’s incessant rummaging in his papers stopped abruptly. The Director of Police sat bolt upright in her chair, without leaning back. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, who had barely said a word throughout the meeting, sat petrified, with his mouth open.
‘No,’ Peter Salhus said eventually, and so quietly that the Prime Minister on the other side of the enormous table nearly missed it. ‘It is not. It is not in any way the same.’
He was stiff and slow when he got up.
‘I assume that this meeting is over,’ he said, without looking at the Prime Minister.
Salhus walked over to the door. He held his documents loosely in his hand, and looked at no one. They were all staring at him. As he passed the last chair before the door, the Prime Minister put a conciliatory hand on his arm.
‘Thank you for your efforts so far,’ he said.
Salhus did not reply.
The Prime Minister didn’t take his hand away.
‘You . . . you really admire these FBI people.’
Peter Salhus couldn’t understand what the man wanted. So he didn’t answer.
‘And these Secret Service agents. You really admire them, don’t you?’
‘Admire.’ Peter Salhus said the word slowly to himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Then he reclaimed his arm and looked the Prime Minister straight in the eye.
‘Perhaps, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But first and foremost . . . I fear them. And so should
‘Of course I don’t mean that,’ Salhus replied. He seemed surprised by her familiarity and hesitated a bit. ‘I mean that . . . I in fact mean the opposite. All our experience – political, professional and for that matter military – means that we have a huge advantage over the Americans in this case.’
Someone knocked on the door and a red light flashed by the door frame.
No one reacted.
‘We are Norwegian,’ Peter Salhus said. ‘We know this country. We know the language. The infrastructure. The geography, the topography. The architecture, the town. We are Norwegian and they are American.’
There was another knock at the door, more agitated this time.
‘We’ve started,’ Salhus continued and shrugged. ‘Things are working. We’re all here, everyone who should be here. The contingency plans work. Staff have been called in. The machinery was started up hours ago, in all the ministries. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Storting are taking responsibility for protocol at the moment. My point is just that—’
He stopped when a round middle-aged woman came into the room. She silently placed a piece of paper in front of the Prime Minister, who made no attempt to read it. Instead, he nodded to Salhus. ‘Carry on,’ he said curtly.
‘My point is that we have to understand what we are dealing with. We can have no illusions that the Americans will behappy to take instructions in a situation like this. They will overstep the mark, again and again. At the same time, we have to acknowledge that they have qualifications, equipment and intelligence that will be essential for the case. To put it simply, we need them. The most important thing will be to convince them that . . .’ He lifted his glass and looked at it, distracted. The fly had settled on the inside and was attempting to open its wings, feeble and half dead. ‘That they need us just as much,’ he said emphatically, turning the empty glass in his hands. ‘If not, they’ll bulldoze us. And if we are going to achieve mutual understanding and trust, then I think we should stop banging on about words like jurisdiction, territory and sovereignty.’
‘Which is more or less what Vidkun Quisling must have said,’ the Minister of Justice objected, ‘in April 1940.’
The silence that followed was almost deafening. Even the fly had capitulated and lay with its legs in the air at the bottom of the glass. The Prime Minister’s incessant rummaging in his papers stopped abruptly. The Director of Police sat bolt upright in her chair, without leaning back. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, who had barely said a word throughout the meeting, sat petrified, with his mouth open.
‘No,’ Peter Salhus said eventually, and so quietly that the Prime Minister on the other side of the enormous table nearly missed it. ‘It is not. It is not in any way the same.’
He was stiff and slow when he got up.
‘I assume that this meeting is over,’ he said, without looking at the Prime Minister.
Salhus walked over to the door. He held his documents loosely in his hand, and looked at no one. They were all staring at him. As he passed the last chair before the door, the Prime Minister put a conciliatory hand on his arm.
‘Thank you for your efforts so far,’ he said.
Salhus did not reply.
The Prime Minister didn’t take his hand away.
‘You . . . you really admire these FBI people.’
Peter Salhus couldn’t understand what the man wanted. So he didn’t answer.
‘And these Secret Service agents. You really admire them, don’t you?’
‘Admire.’ Peter Salhus said the word slowly to himself, as if he wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Then he reclaimed his arm and looked the Prime Minister straight in the eye.
‘Perhaps, yes.’ He nodded. ‘But first and foremost . . . I fear them. And so should
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