Sohlberg and the Gift (12 page)

“I know . . . but I have to take advantage of my boss being out on vacation . . . I got his substitute . . . Lunde in Vice . . . to approve my going out to the archives to look up leads in an old case.”

“But—”

“I’ve got to do it today when there’s no one else out there.”

“Why not go out on
their
time . . . the Zoo’s time instead of
my
time? . . . Why go today . . . Sunday . . . on your day off when you can go any old time during the week . . . during work hours?”

“I don’t want to risk the chance of running into anyone from the Zoo up there.”

“Why all this secrecy? . . . You’ve been acting so strange . . . so different ever since last Monday.”

Sohlberg shrugged and kissed her goodbye. But he knew that she was on to him. Her knack for detecting the truth always unnerved him. He wondered what Fru Sohlberg would say about his unauthorized activities that were putting his career at risk.

What will Emma say when she finds out that Astrid Isaksen is a 16-year-old teenager?

On a clear day Ulvøya Island afforded perfect views of downtown Oslo. But not on that Sunday. Freezing fog shrouded the island. Once he got on the mainland the fog lifted to reveal a perfectly sunny day. He parked his old rusty Volvo by the Kastellet station of the Oslotrikken tram line. The Number 18 line whisked him into downtown Oslo where he was to switch to the NSB train that would take him out west to Sandvika.

Before he bought his NSB ticket Sohlberg took counter-surveillance measures. He went on a long roundabout walk to a kiosk where he spent a lot of time looking around his surroundings while he bought a sheaf of disparate newspapers.
Aftenposten. Dagbladet
.
Nationen
.
Vaart Land
.
Verdens Gang
. He paid for them and looked around with care. But he could not spot any surveillance—by solo player or by team.

After boarding Sohlberg ensconced himself in an empty row. He looked out the window of the high-speed train at the desolate frozen landscape. He was doing his best to fight off the winter-time depression that always left him sluggish and exhausted. He knew that it was crucial for him to get into a different frame of mind. But the older Isaksens had deeply depressed him. Their pain and grief and anger and crumbling minds and bodies had set off Sohlberg into thinking about what he and his wife would experience on their final days on earth.

Will our last days bring a quick merciful end?

Or will it be a prolonged torture?

Will the surviving spouse be able to cope?

His mind then veered off to another thorny issue that had troubled him ever since Astrid’s grandmother had said:

“
You don’t have to be a murderer to kill a family.
”

The grandmother’s insightful truth released a flood of angry memories in Sohlberg’s mind about his wife’s family especially the antisocial misfit of her older sister—a frigid and lazy woman with no friends or education or career. The woman had of course latched onto and married the ultimate toxic jerk—a failed and lazy accountant who lied about being a military pilot and “war hero”. Soon after their wedding the misfit and the jerk adopted two Russian orphans. The lovely brother and sister from St. Petersburg grew up to loath the misfit and the jerk. Meanwhile the wife-beating moron set about poisoning the family of Sohlberg’s wife. The jerk caused turmoil and divisions and ultimately betrayals among the parents and the three sisters.

“
You don’t have to be a murderer to kill a family.
”

Sohlberg’s mother-in-law tolerated the jerk even after Sohlberg exposed the jerk’s lies about serving in the military and being “shot down over enemy territory”. Although everyone in his wife’s family detested the jerk Sohlberg’s mother-in-law insisted that jerk be accepted and tolerated because the jerk had—after all—married and
stayed
married to her oldest daughter who had ungracefully aged into a bitter and very bald hag.

How did the Isaksens describe their jerk’s behavior? . . . Ah yes. . . . He had left them with insults and deceptions . . . lies and letdowns . . . hopes dashed over and over . . . one disappointment after the other
.

Sohlberg’s face twisted into a mournful grimace.

How can one “family” member bring so much misery to others?

It’s pure insanity for my wife’s family . . . especially her mother . . . to tolerate such garbage and not act decisively by nipping the jerk at the bud soon after he planted his seeds of havoc.

It’s outrageous how my wife’s mother ultimately forced the entire family to bring the jerk back into the family after he had been expelled for his nasty comments and rude behavior. Of course . . . when we refused to go along with that stupid decision to bring the jerk back into the family then my wife got cut off by her own family.

With his blood pressure about to explode Sohlberg decided it would be healthier to instead think about his investigation into the Janne Eide case. He was glad that at least his visit to the Isaksens had not been a total failure. Parts of Astrid Isaksen’s story had been confirmed by the small bits of information that Sohlberg had gleaned from her grandparents.

At first I thought Astrid Isaksen was a liar . . . or maybe part of an office prank. But deep down I always had the feeling she was truthful.

But there are truths that are part-truths.

And truths that manipulate.

And truths that hurt and destroy.

Sohlberg regretted that he could not penetrate the wall posed by the physical and mental ruins of the older Isaksens. And now Sohlberg faced an equally difficult task: getting access to the Janne Eide case file inside the granite walls—1400 feet thick—of the high-security mountain fortress of the National Archives.

After arriving at the Sandvika train station Sohlberg only had to wait five minutes before a red Audi sedan pulled up in front of the main doors downstairs. The driver was unforgettable: he was beyond pale and he sported a shaved head and no ears. The two little black holes on the side of the glistening head appeared almost quaint to Sohlberg whose red muffler was his less-than-unique identifier to the driver. The driver stopped near him for a few seconds and then started pulling away before Sohlberg remembered that he had to use coded passwords. He waved at the driver and walked up to the car’s passenger side and said through the lowered window:

“Do they sell Ikea furniture in Sandvika?’

“No. Only coffee.”

Sohlberg climbed inside. “Hei.”

The smooth-faced driver with no eyebrows nodded politely. Sohlberg wondered if the man was perhaps totally hair-free or an albino since he observed no visible eyelashes on the man’s eyelids. An enormous elongated proboscis made the man’s tiny blue eyes seem even smaller and he appeared to be more mole than human. The nameless and hairless and earless man softly said:

“Fru Sivertsen has a high opinion of you.”

“And I of her.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that because I’m only doing this because of Fru Sivertsen.”

The mole of a man swung the Audi into the E-16 north to Sundvollen. Majestic views of the giant glacier-carved lake—the Tyrifjorden—relaxed Sohlberg as did the surrounding forests and majestic mountains.

In a voice as soft as moleskin the man said, “I want you to wear this cap low on your face all the time you’re inside the facility. It’ll make your face harder to recognize in case anyone ever decides to take a look at videos of the closed circuit security cameras. . . . We’ll go in together. The guards know me. Here’s your pass . . . always wear it around your neck.”

“But there’s no photo on the pass.”

“Yes. It’s a special temporary pass that we use for research assistants and trainees that are just up here for a short time.”

“Won’t they think it unusual for us to be up here on a Sunday?”

“No. I’ve been working on a major project for months so they’re used to me coming up here with co-workers on weekends. I intentionally stayed away yesterday since I rarely work on both Saturday and Sunday.”

“What’s your name?”

“Atle. I go by Atle. That’s what people here know me by. Here’s my business card from the National Archive . . . and a card from my own computer consulting business . . . with phone numbers and e-mails.”

“Thank you. Now . . . how will I find my way once we’re inside? . . . Fru Sivertsen told me the National Archives have more than sixty million documents and items dispersed in the equivalent of one thousand acres of caverns carved deep inside the mountains.”

“She told you too much. Besides . . . not everything belongs to the police or the Ministry of Justice. Other ministries and offices and agencies keep their records and items here. . . . The government stores plenty of treasures with us . . . I’ve seen a manuscript that’s two thousand years old . . . from our Viking ancestors. Anyway . . . you will not leave my office. You will stay there all the time.”

“I won’t be able to go inside to look for the files I want?”

“No. I will get them for you.”

“But what if they’re a couple of boxes?”

“I have a special cart for that. All files must be taken out and returned on these carts. . . . You see . . . they have weight sensors on the shelves and on the carts to make sure that you put back exactly what you took out of the shelves.”

“But I really want to look around to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“Sorry but you just can’t go into the high-security zone . . . the Temple as we call it . . . it’s very protected. You’re staying on the outside . . . in the area with green stripes on the floors that’s known as the Green Perimeter . . . or the Outer Temple Courtyard as we call it.”

“I can’t go beyond?”

“No. The yellow perimeter or the Inner Temple Courtyard is off limits to most people. You need a Level Three security clearance to walk on those yellow stripes. It took me a year to get my clearance.”

Sohlberg scowled. “Can’t I go in with you?”

“No. You’d never get past the system protecting the yellow perimeter . . . they’ve got biometrics for anyone wanting to get inside . . . it’s one heck of a recognition system for faces and irises and fingerprints and palm prints.”

“Really?”

“Then there’s the red perimeter or the Temple House itself. I understand that less than one hundred people in all of Norway can walk on those red-striped floors.”

“Impressive,” said Sohlberg who noticed that Atle enjoyed talking about his work as a high priest guardian of government records.

“It’s nothing compared to what’s in the Holy of Holies.”

“What? . . . What’s that?” said Sohlberg.

“An enormous secret room somewhere in the mountain with the most sensitive files. You need a Level Five security clearance to get in the Holy of Holies. I’ve heard that only twenty people have that clearance.”

“I’ve never heard of Level Five clearance.”

“That clearance gives you access to the type of file that brings down governments and ruins careers if the contents were ever released or known. . . . They’re beyond Top Secret.”

“I had no idea they keep such records.”

“They do,” said Atle whose voice reminded Sohlberg of a gentle draft blowing through a tunnel. “Rumor is they have one called
Marigold
with all the information on who killed Olaf Palme the Swedish Prime Minister . . . and why he was assassinated.”