Free The Last Pilgrim by Gard Sveen Page A

was.
    “Yes. That’s the conclusion we have reached as well,” said the chief. “With the statements of the legation and Nordenstam. And they are weighty statements . . .”
    “I—” Persson began.
    Nordenstam held up his hand and took his newly lit Sibir cigarette out of his mouth.
    “Kaj Holt . . . worked for us, Detective Inspector Persson.”
    “For us ?” Persson said.
    Baby Face sat down on the desk.
    “For the C-Bureau. So you see . . .” Nordenstam attempted a smile, the kind one might give a child who didn’t quite understand what was being said.
    “Which means . . .” If Persson had had any doubts before, they were now gone.
    Nordenstam took a deep breath as he rubbed the back of his hand over his prominent, smooth-shaven chin.
    “Kaj Holt”—he paused for effect—“was involved with all the Allied forces.”
    Persson nodded.
    “He had also made contact with some . . . Soviet agents here in town.”
    “So we don’t want to . . .” the chief began, fixing his gaze on Persson.
    “Provoke them unnecessarily,” said Nordenstam.
    Persson and Nordenstam sat gauging each other for what seemed like an eternity. The silence was only broken when a car outside downshifted and drove through a puddle on the street.
    “So, where did you go on Tuesday?” Persson said at last. “You and Holt. Was it enjoyable?”
    The chief cleared his throat. Then he coughed and slid his reading glasses even farther down the tip of his nose. Persson stared back at him.
    “Let me just say that we’ve decided to take over the case,” said Nordenstam, trying for a genial tone in an apparent effort to smooth over the tension that now filled the room. “We’d like to take your report with us. Then we’ll take care of the rest. By the way, we were at the Cecil and stayed afterward for a little . . . private visit”—he winked—“and finished up at Berns. Have a nice afternoon, Inspector.” Nordenstam stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the desk. Then he looked at Persson and smiled one last time, the same trusting smile Persson didn’t quite know how to interpret, except that he couldn’t think of anything to say.
    The three men left the room in reverse order to the way they had entered.
    The chief stopped in the doorway and gave Persson a look that could not be misunderstood. Then he slammed the door behind him.
    Only then did Detective Inspector Persson notice how hard his heart was pounding. The blood was throbbing behind his brow, from one ear to the other, like an arc through his head. He took his handkerchief from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and wiped his almost completely bald pate. With trembling hands he took his comb out of the other inside pocket and brushed the few strands he still had on his head. Then he surveyed his office, the finest in the whole building, even nicer than the chief’s. It had a mahogany bookcase, a little elephant statue he had inherited from his predecessor, and a small sitting area with elegant leather furniture; an oil painting from when the building was new in 1738 hung next to the door.
    Persson took in the entire office, then turned and stared at the solemn black-and-white portrait of King Gustav V that hung in a gilt frame. Should he, Detective Inspector Gösta Persson, give up all this and more for a dead Norwegian?
    He closed his eyes for a moment and knew that this would be a matter between God and himself. Only he, the detective inspector of Stockholm’s seventh police district, would ever know that poor Kaj Holt should have been autopsied, and that the apartment should have been sealed right away. The weapon should have been sent to the crime lab, and all walls, door handles, cutlery, and windowsills should have been dusted for fingerprints.
    He quickly pulled out the top drawer of his desk and took out the overpriced Caran d’Ache fountain pen he’d received from his father-in-law on his fortieth birthday. Then he