Death in Oslo by Anne Holt Read Free Book Online Page A

message, telephone call or cryptic email. Modern communication was a double-edged sword, effective, but still far too dangerous. He had instead had a breakfast meeting with a French businessman and done his morning prayers. He had then made a brief visit to the stud farm to inspect the new foal, which had been born during the night and was already a fabulous sight. Abdallah al-Rahman had not been interrupted by anything external to his day-to-day life here and now. And it wasn’t necessary either.
    It was a while now since CNN had given him the confirmation he needed.
    Things had obviously gone according to plan.

V
    E verything was running smoothly. She realised that when she could finally sneak out for a cigarette. The Minster of Justice’s PA, Beate Koss, was not a regular smoker, but generally had a packet of ten in her handbag. She had slipped on her coat and taken the lift down to the foyer. The building was closed to the public and armed guards stood on either side of the main entrance. She shivered, and nodded to the young lad who was doing his alternative service as a conscientious objector. He immediately let her through the barrier and out.
    She crossed the street.
    Everything was working. Everything that had previously been pure theory and locked-away directives had become reality in the course of a few hours that morning. The communication equipment and alarm procedures had functioned as they should. Key people had been called in, the committee was in place. Even the Minister of Defence, who had been celebrating the national day on Svalbard, was back in the office. Everyone knew their role and position in the complex machinery that seemed to run by itself once it had been set in motion. An hour or two too late, perhaps, as Peter Salhus so obviously thought, but Beate still couldn’t help feeling a sort of pride in being part of something so important and historic.
    ‘Shame on you,’ she muttered to herself and lit a cigarette.
    The news of the American president’s disappearance had not yet made any visible or audible impact on the celebrations.Faint echoes of the shouts, hurrahs and general noise on Karl Johan bounced between the government buildings. The people who hurried past on the pavement were laughing and smiling. Maybe they didn’t know. Even though the news had leaked several hours ago now, and the two main TV channels had interrupted the morning’s programmes with regular newsflashes, it was as if the nation refused to be distracted from the great annual celebration of itself.
    It felt good to have a smoke.
    She hesitated for a moment before lighting up another cigarette. Her eyes roamed from a group of journalists who had gathered in front of the building, up to the green bulletproof windows on the sixth floor. They were so obviously different from the rest of the building. She had often wondered why the Minister of Justice should have bulletproof windows in his office, when he went shopping in the local supermarket on his own and had no more than an ordinary Securitas burglar alarm in his home. That’s just the way it is, she said to herself; she always, with absolute loyalty, simply accepted things as they were and had been decided.
    A man looked down at her.
    She sheepishly lifted her hand in greeting. He waved back. It was Peter Salhus. A good man. A man you could trust. Always friendly whenever they met, attentive and alert, unlike so many of the other important people who came and went in the minister’s office and barely even registered her existence.
    Beate Koss dropped her cigarette butt on the ground, and stubbed it out with her shoe. She looked up again and thought she saw Salhus saying something, before he closed the curtains and turned back to the room.
    A police car drove past, slowly and quietly, but with its blue light flashing.
    ‘Now that we’re alone,’ Peter Salhus said when only the Minister of Justice and the Chief of Oslo Police were left in theoffice behind the