Damnation Page 9

  ‘I’ll ask around at Orafin. Money leaves a trace too.’

  Winter nodded and contemplated his next steps. He didn’t speak any Arabic and had only superficial contacts in the Middle East. Fatima could be useful. There might be another parallel besides the victims and the money. ‘I’d like to compare the explosives. If they’re the same, that’s a clue we’re dealing with the same attackers. Where is the metal splinter from my head?’

  ‘Are you saying it will have traces of explosive on it?’

  ‘I think so. I can get it analysed in the laboratory back in Switzerland.’

  Fatima got up and and fished the walnut-sized piece of metal from the bin. It was painted black, smeared with blood and had a sharp, jagged edge along the line where it had broken.

  They sat there, well into the early hours, drinking strong Egyptian coffee, talking and then not talking. It was a comfort and time stood still.

  They spent the following day apart. Fatima went to Port Said and sorted out Kaddour’s affairs. Winter slept in to alleviate his concussion. A police inspector came by and Winter politely answered his questions. They still had no clue as to who had carried out the attack. Then Winter went to fetch his things from the Shepheard, sent a few emails, checked out, spoke to Känzig and tried to do some research into the Bergen conference, but was unable to find anything about it on the internet.

  Winter called a colleague at Nordea Bank, one of the largest Scandinavian banks, and asked him about the conference. He didn’t know anything about it either, but he called back an hour later. ‘Hello, Winter? It’s not a conference, but a forum. A former colleague of ours works for Galaxy and says that the discussions are all completely under the radar. Lots of sheikhs have brought their families and are on holiday at the Hardangerfjord. They’re staying in the “Sole Bad”, at least seven stars with a private yacht marina. Not for people like us.’

  ‘Thanks. Who or what is Galaxy?’

  ‘Galaxy is the private equity fund that has organized this meeting. Not much is known about them. They operate practically outside any scrutiny and are not keen to become known by the wider public. They’re not in the retail market. They specialize in quantitative, mathematic models. Galaxy makes a lot of money investing billionaires’ money.’

  When Aleksi drove carefully into the dark tunnel late in the evening, the first thing he did was to turn on the windscreen wipers. The dried-up plastic wipers creaked across the filthy windscreen of his heavily-laden Russian tanker, only partially wiping away the water that dripped from the tunnel ceiling. His weak headlights groped along the rough walls.

  He bent over his large steering wheel to give him a better chance of avoiding the potholes. The headlights of a Mercedes came towards him. A new SLK-Class on its way to Moscow sped past.

  After five minutes, the road inside the almost four-kilometre-long Roki Tunnel became a gentle downward slope. Aleksi shifted up a gear and left the Russian Federation. The Roki Tunnel pierced the main ridge of the Caucasus Mountains, connecting the north to the south, North Ossetia to South Ossetia, Russia to Georgia. Theoretically. Because of the armed struggles for independence that kept flaring up there was no official border up here. In the worst-case scenario there might be checkpoints guarded by paramilitaries. His cousin Vladimir kept him updated. Tonight the coast was clear.

  Aleksi looked in the rear-view mirror. At the market in Ergneti his client, the Russian-speaking boxer with the black leather jacket, had said little but paid well. With these euros Aleksi could finally afford a new incisor. Out of gold. He grinned at himself in the mirror with his exposed gums.

  All there was left to do was to have breakfast in Gori and leave his tanker full of petrol in the roadside car park for half an hour. It was none of his business who would be transporting the heavy wooden crates in the chassis cavity from there. The military crates would probably keep heading towards the Black Sea along the highway beside the Gazprom pipeline. Thinking about it, would he be better off investing his euros in the buxom Lucie?

  That same evening Fatima and Winter ate in the courtyard again. She’d heard many rumours on Port Said. Ali Husseini, for example, had said that Al-Bader’s younger brother was likely to take over. Apparently the family wanted to spread their risks more widely and were in conversation with other wealthy families. At the conference in Norway the sheiks were discussing how they could put their money into one large pot. Following the example of the billion-dollar state funds they were intent on making diversified investments.

  ‘Galaxy.’

  ‘Galaxy?’ Fatima frowned at Winter and he told his hostess what he had found out earlier. Independently of each other they had heard about the Norwegian conference. It was no coincidence.

  The two of them agreed that the money trail was hot.

  For that reason they went to the airport together the following morning. They checked in for Bergen with transfers in Zürich and Oslo. Fatima showed her burgundy British passport, Winter his red Swiss one.

  At Zürich airport, Winter asked for Ben, but he was indisposed. He slipped the walnut-sized piece of metal from the mudguard of Kaddour’s Mercedes into an envelope and sealed it. The woman promised to pass it on to Ben Halter as soon as possible. Winter left a message on Ben’s voicemail, requesting him to send the splinter to the laboratory in Spiez for analysis. Then he bought two new shirts.

  During the transfer he got some Norwegian kroner and bought a travel guide: 111 Places You Must See in Norway.

  JULY 29 – 19:32

  On the flight to Bergen Winter wondered what exactly the arrival time on flight schedules referred to. Landing? Docking? Or leaving the aeroplane? At any rate the schedule of this flight gave SAS – Scandinavian Airlines – plenty of leeway to be punctual.

  Bergen airport was small and functional. Within a few minutes they were at the car-hire desks. ‘Unfortunately’ – because it was holiday time – the Hertz representative didn’t have anything left apart from a Jaguar Convertible XKR. A special promotion for newlyweds. Perfect for driving up, with a beautiful woman, to a luxury hotel full of rich sheiks. As they made themselves comfortable in the new Jaguar, Winter soaked up the tasteful privacy of this high-end vehicle. It smelled of precious wood and fine leather. He put on his sunglasses and they set off.

  He had planned the route during the flight. They began by taking the motorway northwards through a few tunnels in the greater Bergen area. Then the traffic decreased, Winter opened the roof and they cruised eastwards on the country highway, the engine purring. On one side the Hardangerfjord, on the other steep mountain faces.

  The coast of Norway was frayed. The fjords ate deeply into the land and the mountains rose into the Atlantic like gigantic fingers. On the map the coast looked much shorter than when you navigated it by car.

  Unlike Cairo, where the sun dropped below the horizon within a few minutes, the Norwegian summer evenings were extremely long. As they were only a few hundred kilometres south of the Arctic Circle the evening sun set gently at their backs. The shadows gradually grew longer, the light warmer. After a day of physical inactivity they were full of vim and raring to go.

  Fatima laughed. ‘It’s like being on holiday. Almost.’

  Winter stared at her for a moment. He nodded and had to admit that he was enjoying the drive too.

  ‘Do you think there could be a connection between the religious fundamentalists and the rich investors?’ Fatima asked later. ‘Somehow it doesn’t seem right. Surely investors need stability?’

  ‘I’m not sure. As far as I know Osama bin Laden was the son of a wealthy family. And investments in nuclear power stations are always controversial. The Egyptian state is behind the Orafin project isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, the government is substantially involved.’

  ‘Good. Now I’m excited to find out where the money trail is going to lead us here.’

  ‘Me too. I want Kaddour’s killer.’

  After a pause, Winter could sense Fatima scrutinising
him. ‘How’s your Arabic?’ she asked.

  Flattered that she imagined he might have any knowledge of the language at all, Winter said apologetically, ‘Non-existent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’ll look after that side then.’

  ‘That’s what I‘m counting on.’

  Fatima was one step ahead of him. ‘And we need a story to explain why we’re here. We’ve got the Jaguar for newlyweds. Our best bet would be to keep on spinning this line. What do you think?’

  Winter felt caught off guard. It seemed oddly forward, or was that wishful thinking on his part? He thought on it further. Fatima had been to university and she was a successful businesswoman, with London as her second home; she was hard to read.

  A succession of tight bends with traffic coming the other way forced Winter to shift down a gear. ‘Good idea. But because of our different passports it would probably be better to say we’re only engaged.’

  Fatima leaned her bare arm out the window, her fingers splayed against the wind, and nodded seriously.

  There was a silence.

  Eventually Winter said, ‘I’m going to seek out the Viking from the private equity firm who Schütz met in Riyadh. Hopefully he can tell me what Al-Bader was planning.’

  Fatima blinked slowly, and then she licked her lips.

  As the sun was setting they got to the hotel. It stood on a spit of land by the Hardangerfjord. The hotel consisted of a main wooden house from the early twentieth century, painted yellow and white, a more modern annexe and an array of outbuildings scattered around a generous-sized park. In the broad lobby an open fire was roaring. Fatima opted for a bungalow right beside the sea.

  A powerful Norwegian woman in her fifties carried Fatima’s suitcase through the park with all its roses and sun loungers. They passed a modern conference building, partially set into the rocks. Its glass frontage that gave onto the Hardangerfjord was covered with dark curtains.

  ‘Nice spot for a conference,’ Winter said.

  ‘Yes,’ the sturdy Norwegian woman replied, ‘but our guests aren’t interested in the view.’

  Winter gave a quizzical look

  ‘Yes. We often have conferences. Last week and this week it’s bankers. Next week it’s plastic surgeons.’ The Norwegian woman’s tone did not disguise what she thought of these professions; she didn’t seem to be interested in money or external beauty. They passed children’s toys lying on the ground, and with a sneer she added, ‘Some of our guests are here with their families. The children are treated like little princes and princesses.’

  The bungalows were slightly isolated from the other buildings. Each house had a wooden terrace that projected out into the water and served both as sundeck and mooring. The Norwegian woman unlocked the door, slapped the suitcase down and disappeared before Winter could give her a tip. The large room was divided into a sleeping area with an extra-wide, double bed and a living area with a sofa. He’d probably take the sofa.

  Fatima opened the curtains. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave them an evening view of the Hardangerfjord. In the distance a number of dark islands loomed out of the water. They saw the lights of passing ships. ‘What a wonderful view!’ she exclaimed.

  Winter nodded and stepped outside the bungalow.

  Fatima moved out onto the large deck over the water, connected to the bungalow by a small jetty. She took off her flat shoes and tested the water temperature. ‘We’re so far north and yet the water’s really warm.’

  ‘That’s the Gulf Stream. It brings warm water from the Caribbean.’ Breathing in the sea air, Winter noticed Fatima’s slim silhouette against the dark-blue sky. He was overcome by a mixture of sadness and guilt. He felt disloyal. His heart jolted, and he took another deep breath.

  ‘Winter, let’s go for a swim,’ Fatima interrupted.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s already pretty dark.’

  But then he looked at Fatima again, and suddenly he wanted to feel life, to feel alive. It was an overwhelmingly powerful sensation.

  Minutes later they were swimming side by side out into the deep Hardangerfjord, their bodies slipping through the dark water with ease.

  JULY 30: 03:55

  Winter was wet and standing naked outside their bungalow when it exploded and went up in flames. He ran to the car park, his wet feet slapping on the flagstones in the park. He stood by the Jaguar and wondered why it was suddenly black and had no mudguard. When he unlocked it with the remote control the car exploded too.

  He spun around and was about to enter the bank in Bern when it was shaken by an earthquake and collapsed like a tower of wooden blocks. To save himself, Winter ran barefoot, panting and sweating across scree, to the helicopter pad, which was on the top of a mountain. As he opened the cockpit door the helicopter broke in two and exploded on either side of him. Anne plummeted to her death before him. He tried to grab onto her, but his dripping hands couldn’t find purchase and she slipped inexorably into the Höllentobel.

  Bathed in sweat and his eyes like saucers, Winter woke up. Half sitting up, he took a deep breath and tried to orient himself. Daybreak was shimmering through the cracks between the heavy curtains.

  Once his heartbeat had calmed, Winter thought about the previous evening. Fatima and he had returned to the bungalow to find that while they were out swimming someone had placed in their room a bunch of roses, a bottle of champagne and a fancy card that said ‘With the compliments of the management’.

  After they had drunk the champagne, Fatima had said simply, ‘Winter, I just want you to hold me in your arms tonight.’

  He’d nodded; he thought Anne would understand. And so Fatima had fallen asleep in his arms.

  It had felt good. Very good indeed. Anne had understood, Winter was sure, despite the dream.

  After a while he carefully got out from under the covers, dressed quietly, took an apple from the fruit basket and went into the park. He wanted to enjoy the early-morning peace and quiet, and to explore.

  The air was clean and fresh, the sky light blue. A few high, passing clouds were already being lit up by the sun that was still below the horizon. The Hardangerfjord was perfectly still. In the distance an illuminated cruise ship drifted past.

  As Winter made his way up to the main building, he was invigorated by the fresh air. He passed the conference centre, where the curtains and the windows were now open. On one of the garden chairs in front of the building sat a man in black. Black jeans, black T-shirt and black baseball cap with a stylized lion and a large ‘S’ for security. Bored, the man was rocking on the back legs of the chair, staring into space. Winter knew this well: waiting, waiting and more waiting. The early hours of the morning were the most difficult on the human body.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Fabulous day, isn’t it? Do you think the weather’s going to be good enough to go out in a canoe?’ Winter swept his arm out in the direction of the fjord. The man in black stopped rocking, slowly stood up, stretched his shoulder blades, gazed up at the high clouds, swung his head from side to side. An I-don’t-know-I’m-not-really-sure gesture.

  ‘Maybe.’

  The security guard fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans, knocked it against the back of his left hand and offered one to Winter, who shook his head.

  ‘No, thanks. My father died of lung cancer when I was a kid.’

  The security guard shrugged and lit himself a cigarette, took a big drag. He had plenty of time. Winter began to eat his apple.

  ‘At least you knew your father.’ Good English. ‘Mine buggered off to an oil rig before I was born. Never to be seen again. That arsehole wasn’t even a bad role model.’ Melancholy. Pause. Change of subject. ‘What’s it like to be just married?’

  Winter wondered that too. He gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘How did you find that out, detective?’ He looked down at himself and, as if to refute it, held his left hand up to his chest. No ring.

  ‘Nothing to worry about – it was eas
y. Yesterday evening I saw the chambermaid – the one who looks like a bodybuilder – bring roses and champagne to bungalow number two.’

  ‘That’s observant. If I’m being perfectly honest it feels a little strange.’ After the night just gone that was no lie. He tried not to think of Fatima falling asleep in his arms. He reminded himself that he was here to find out who had the deaths of Al-Bader and Kaddour on their conscience. He gave a friendly grin and asked, ‘So what are you guarding? I always thought Norway was one of the safest countries on earth.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Normally it’s not necessary. But they’ve got a conference here with filthy-rich businessmen. And one of them is no more. So they called us and I’ve been here ever since. Twelve-hour shifts. But that’s better than the drunks on the ferries.’

  ‘You mean someone was killed?’

  ‘Yes, my boss said he was blown up.’

  ‘Does anyone know who did it and why?’

  ‘No, no idea. My boss says it’s all about world domination again, which means you’ve got to expect deaths. But if those moneybags don’t feel safe anymore, it’s not good for business.’ The security guard flicked his cigarette away and asked, ‘Where are you from? Germany?’

  ‘No, I come from Switzerland.’

  ‘Nice. I went skiing in Laax once. They’ve got the biggest ice bar in the world with the sexiest snow bunnies.’

  ‘Talking of bars, do you know where I could get a coffee at this time of the morning?’

  The guard put a hand on Winter’s shoulder. ‘Come with me. They’ve got a decent coffee machine in here and there’s not a soul about at this time of day.’ He took Winter through one of the glass doors into a seminar room.

  The tables were arranged in a horseshoe, with black swivel chairs. A projector was attached to the ceiling and a screen stood at the front. In one corner were two flip charts, in the other one a small table with a coffee machine and a fruit bowl. The guard walked across the room and asked, ‘Coffee, espresso, double espresso, latte, macchiato? We’ve got almost everything here.’