The Blind Goddess (40 page)

Håkon Sand and Hanne Wilhelmsen stood leaning against the wall at the back of the room. The affair was now totally out of their hands. It had progressed up the building at an unprecedented
rate. All they’d heard was a brief message to say that the case could now be regarded as fully investigated and finally solved. Which was okay by them.

“It’ll be interesting to see how they get themselves out of this one,” said Hanne in an undertone.

“They can’t get out of it,” said Håkon, shaking his head. “This is something no one is going to emerge from unscathed. Except us two. The heroes. Us in our white
Stetsons.”

“The good guys!”

They were both wreathed in smiles. Håkon put an arm round his colleague, and she didn’t push it away. A couple of uniformed constables gave them a furtive glance, but rumours had
already been circulating for some time and were no longer so intriguing.

Where they stood they were practically invisible to the crowd up at the front of the room. Five powerful floodlights had hastily been rigged up by the technicians from the three TV channels, and
that had left the back of the room in darkness compared with the fierce glare over the table where all the VIPs were sitting. Norwegian Radio and Television were broadcasting live. It was four
minutes to seven. The press release, issued through the Press Agency three hours earlier, had said everything and nothing. No details, simply that the parliamentary under secretary had been
arrested for a serious criminal offence, and that the government had convened a special session. In fact, everyone who could justify their presence, plus a few more, had got to the meeting in the
chamber in double-quick time.

The commissioner opened the proceedings now. If it hadn’t been for the whirr of the camera motorwinds, you’d have been able to hear the proverbial pin drop even from Hanne’s
and Håkon’s position.

She seemed nervous, but brought herself under control. She had prepared some notes in advance, several A4 sheets that she kept shuffling backwards and forwards to no obvious purpose.

The police had reason to believe that the parliamentary under secretary in the Ministry of Justice was involved with, had quite possibly masterminded, a group whom they suspected of the illegal
importation of narcotic substances.

“Another way of saying that the guy’s a mafia boss,” Håkon whispered in Hanne’s ear. “Now we’re getting the refined legal version!”

The shocked and excited buzz died down immediately when the commissioner resumed speaking.

“As we see it at the present time,” she said, coughing discreetly behind her hand, “as we have reason to believe, the organisation consisted of two groups. The deceased lawyer
Hans E. Olsen was responsible for one, the deceased lawyer Jørgen Ulf Lavik for the other. We have reason to suspect that the under secretary directed both of them. He has been arrested and
charged with the importation and distribution of unknown quantities of narcotic substances.”

She cleared her throat again, as if reluctant to continue.

“How much?” one of the journalists ventured, without getting a reply.

“He has also been charged with the murder of Hans E. Olsen.”

Now a ton of pins could have dropped unnoticed amidst the hail of questions.

“Has he confessed?”

“What grounds do you have for your suspicions?”

“What kind of money are we talking about?”

“Have you made any seizures?”

It took nearly ten minutes to bring the meeting to order. The head of the CID kept thumping the table, and the commissioner had sat back down in her chair, pursing her lips in mute refusal to
answer anything until the room was quiet again. She looked older than ever.

“Don’t see why she seems so tense,” Hanne murmured to Håkon. “She ought to be damned pleased. It’s a long time since anyone in our building has been able to
claim such a triumph!”

The head of the CID finally succeeded in achieving silence.

“There’ll be an opportunity for questions after reports from the various interested parties. But not before. We ask for your patience and cooperation.”

Whether the general muttering from the journalists was an indication of assent was difficult to know. But at least the commissioner was able to continue.

“It seems that these activities have been in progress for some years. We think since 1986. It’s too early to speculate on the possible total quantities.” She coughed again.

“That cough comes on whenever she lies or feels threatened,” said Håkon
sotto voce
. “From the information in the attaché case, I made it fourteen kilos in
all. And that was just Lavik’s half of the business!”

“I made it fifteen,” Hanne said with a grin.

The commissioner began speaking again.

“As for the particular circumstances surrounding the use of . . .”—her coughing now seemed almost a parody of itself—“the . . . use of . . . hmm . . . the profits
from this illegal enterprise, I will hand over to the minister of justice himself.”

She heaved a sigh of relief as all eyes turned to the young minister. He looked as if he’d received news of his father’s collapse, his mother’s death, and his own bankruptcy
all on the same day.

“Provisionally, and I repeat
provisionally,
it seems that some of these . . . some of these . . . hmm . . . profits, let’s call them, have been used for . . . irregular
expenditure by our Military Intelligence Service.”

Everyone realised immediately why the minister of defence was also there. His presence, seated beyond the end of the table at the far left of the row of VIPs, almost as if not really belonging,
had raised some eyebrows. But no one had had a chance to give the matter more thought.

It was hopeless now to try to stem the flood of questions. The head of the CID banged on the table again in an attempt to do so, but just looked increasingly impotent. The commissioner pulled
herself together with a determined effort and, in a voice that was totally unexpected from so slight a figure, took command of the proceedings.

“One question at a time,” she declared. “We’re at your disposal for an hour. It’s up to you to get the most out of it.”

After a quarter of an hour most of them had a fairly good overview. The gang, or mafia, as everyone, including the VIPs on the panel, had now switched to calling it, had been organised on a
strict “need to know” basis. The aim had evidently been that each one should know only his direct superior. The under secretary was thus safe from all of them except Olsen and Lavik.
But this pair of subordinate officers had gradually felt over-confident, had gone too far, and adopted too active a role. There was reason to assume that they had taken considerable advantage of
their unique opportunities to smuggle dope into prisons. The most effective payment method in the world. And enticement.

For a moment at least Fredrick Myhreng caused a hush to fall.

“Is it true there’s been illegal political surveillance?” he shouted from the third row.

The speakers on the podium glanced across at one another, but none of them replied—in fact they scarcely had the opportunity before Myhreng persisted doggedly:

“My information is that there’s rumoured to be near enough thirty kilos of hard drugs. That’s an absolute fortune! Has it all been appropriated by the Intelligence
Service?”

The fellow wasn’t stupid. But nor was the commissioner. She stared at him for a moment.

“We have reason to believe that significant sums have been utilised by those in charge of certain surveillance operations, yes,” she said slowly.

The more enterprising of the crime reporters immediately tucked their heads in their jackets to speak into the neat little mobile phones in their inside pockets, exhorting their editors to
summon their political commentators. Everything so far would have been of considerable interest for them, too, though they wouldn’t normally have expected to concern themselves with a press
conference arranged by the police. But there could be widespread political repercussions when a politician of such eminence turned out to be a crook. Now that information about the use of the money
had come out, it was only a matter of minutes before the first of the political commentators slipped in through the door and crept over to his colleague for a muffled briefing. He was gradually
followed by another fourteen or fifteen of them. The hubbub from the crime reporters subsided, and some of them headed for the door after passing on the baton.

A flashy type from
Dagsrevyen
with the face of a forty-year-old but hair and clothes more befitting someone half his age held a giant microphone wrapped in winter fur towards the minister
of defence.

“Who in the Intelligence Service was privy to this? How high up did the authorisation go?”

The minister wriggled in his chair and cast a pleading glance at his colleague from the Ministry of Justice. But no assistance was forthcoming.

“Well, it seems . . . As far as we can tell at present . . . Nobody knew where the money came from. Very few had any knowledge of the money at all. Further investigations are still in
progress.”

The reporter from
Dagsrevyen
wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily.

“Do you mean, Minister, that the Intelligence Service has spent many millions on one thing or another without anyone being aware of it?”

That was exactly what the minister did mean. He waved his arms and raised his voice.

“It is important to emphasise that this was not officially sanctioned. We have no evidence to suggest that many were involved, so it’s incorrect to speak of the Intelligence Service
per se
in this respect. We’re talking of a few guilty individuals, and it’s those few individuals who will be called to account.”

The reporter could scarcely suppress his incredulity.

“Do you mean there will be no consequences for the Service as a whole?”

When he didn’t get a response straightaway he thrust the microphone right into the minister of justice’s face so that he had to jerk his head back to avoid getting a mouthful of
nylon fur.

“In view of the fact that your closest colleague has been charged with such a serious crime, shouldn’t you resign as minister of justice?”

The minister was now quite calm. He gently pushed the microphone further away, ran his fingers through his hair, and looked straight at the television camera.

“Yes, I think I should,” he said coolly and deliberately.

The reaction was instantaneous. Even the cameras were stilled.

“I am stepping down with immediate effect,” he declared, and evidently meant it literally. Without any indication that the press conference was being terminated, he picked up his
papers, rose to his feet, and surveyed the assembly before squaring his shoulders and walking out.

The two police officers at the back of the hall felt sympathy for the young minister.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong,” Håkon murmured. “Only selected a bit of a rogue as a colleague.”

“Good help is hard to get these days,” said Hanne. “You’re lucky from that point of view: you’ve got me.”

She kissed him on the cheek and whispered good-bye. Hanne Wilhelmsen was off to do some late-night shopping. It was high time she bought her Christmas presents.

MONDAY 14 DECEMBER

T
here were only eleven days to Christmas. The weather gods were propitious, and were endeavouring for the sixth time in two months to decorate the
city for the festival. Now it looked as though they might succeed. There were already twenty centimetres of snow lying on the broad expanse of grass in front of the curved grey building of police
headquarters on Grønlandsleiret. The paving stones that led up to the entrance were as slippery as an ice rink, and only ten metres from the door Håkon Sand’s painful leg
slithered from under him. The taxi driver had refused to tackle an ungritted slope, and Håkon was perspiring from the effort of toiling up on foot. The hill must have been constructed with
malice aforethought.

He struggled to his feet again and limped into the warmth. As usual the foyer was full, and as usual the darker-hued immigrants were sitting on the left, shabby and sweaty in their garish,
old-fashioned winter coats. Håkon stopped for a moment and scanned the floors above. The building was still standing at any rate. Things were much worse for the Intelligence Service.

The furore was far from abating. The newspapers were bringing out several editions a day, and there had been additional television news bulletins three days running. The immediate resignation of
the minister of justice had plainly been an attempt to save the government, but it was extremely doubtful whether it would succeed. The situation was still uncertain. The Intelligence Service now
had a belligerent investigation committee on its back, and there was already open talk of radical restructuring. A book published only a few months previously, on the relationship between the Party
and the Secret Services, was enjoying an alarming resurgence of topicality. A new edition with a huge print-run had gone to press. A conservative politician who had long maintained he had been
under illegal surveillance without being able to get a response from any quarter was now being taken seriously.

Håkon didn’t mind being removed from the case, nor was he particularly bothered by the total lack of any express recognition from his superiors. It was only colleagues at his own
level who gave him due credit for what he’d achieved. The job was done, the case was closed. He’d been free at the weekend on both Saturday and Sunday. It had been ages since that last
happened.

When he reached the door with the peeling Walt Disney characters on, he stopped and fumbled with his bunch of keys. Once inside, he was brought up sharply by the sight of the figurine on his
desk.

It was Lady Justitia. For an instant he thought it was the commissioner’s own, and was at a loss to understand. But then he realised that this one was bigger and shinier. It was presumably
new. It was also more stylised; the female figure was more erect and the sculptor had taken liberties with the anatomy. The body was too long in relation to the head, and the sword was raised at an
angle above the head, not resting down by the skirt. As if poised to strike.