Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(55)
Even before its official launch, the Union had been impossibly complex; it had taken more than five years of secret negotiations to get as far as a public announcement. Five years further on, even more layers of complexity had settled upon it, much of it quietly and well out of sight.
A lot of that complexity came from meetings like this one, off-the-books conferences attended not by heads of state or even their ministers but by anonymous bureaucrats, meetings where hostages were politely exchanged for the duration and no official minutes were ever published.
The Nasjonal sikkerhetsmyndighet, Norway’s National Security Authority, had become involved in this particular meeting because the Community delegation had chosen to enter Europe via a border crossing on Norwegian territory. Thus, it had fallen to the NSM to organise transport and the hostage exchange, and incidentally to stooge around in the cold waiting for the Community’s representatives to turn up.
The little convoy of cars drove the short distance to the border between Norway and Sweden, which here ran along the Svinesund, a narrow strait that opened into the Skaggerak at one end and the Iddefjord at the other. Sweden had been a popular shopping destination for generations of Norwegians, and a large out-of-town shopping mall had gradually accreted at the far end of the Old Bridge. Today, however, it was empty, evacuated due to the ‘tanker accident’.
There were more cars waiting for them on the Swedish side of the bridge. The convoy stopped and Yngvar and Andreas got out and walked over to their opposite numbers from S?po, Sweden’s Security Service.
“You’re late,” said Agathe when hands had been shaken.
“Blame them,” Andreas told her, indicating the Norwegian cars. “Transport difficulties, they say.”
Agathe snorted. She and Andreas knew each other from numerous joint security operations, but this one was a first for them both. “Did the handover go smoothly, at least?”
“Yes.” Andreas lit a cigarette and looked around at the deserted buildings of the shopping mall. “This is good work,” he said appreciatively.
“Yes, well it won’t last forever. We’re diverting traffic across the New Bridge but there’s about a thousand journalists just down the road shouting about their right to film the accident.”
“You should just have brought someone in to dig the road up,” Yngvar said. “Nobody ever wants to film that.”
Agathe chuckled. “Not so much fun, though. Shall we get our guests to their destination? Then we can have a drink.”
“That sounds good,” Andreas agreed. “I could use a drink.”
THE HOUSE CHOSEN for the conference was some kilometres from the bridge, a High Baroque country seat with salmon-pink walls sitting in the middle of an estate of many hectares of forest. A group of European dignitaries had gathered outside to greet the Community delegation, but it began to spit with rain as the convoy arrived, and the diplomatic niceties were curtailed. Andreas, Yngvar, Agathe and their colleagues followed the diplomats inside, and then all of a sudden their job was over. What happened after that, until it was time for the Community representatives to go home, was a mystery to them.
For the visitors there were coffee and pastries and smalltalk in one of the house’s many splendid receiving rooms before being called into the ballroom, where a conference table had been set up. The doors were closed, electronic bafflers switched on, and the two groups settled down to try to avert a war.
LUNCH WAS SERVED in the smaller of the house’s two dining rooms. The larger could accommodate banquets several hundred strong, which was deemed a little too grand for what was supposed to be a serious and intimate gathering. The Swedish hosts had provided a range of husmanskost, local dishes including pork, salmon and herring. For the adventurous there was Surstr?mming – fermented herring – and for those with delicate sensibilities there were sweet rolls and coffee, served by a small group of waiting staff provided by the independent contractors who were handling the house’s security for the duration.
“Do people really eat Surstr?mming?” one of the Community delegation asked the waiter who was refilling his coffee cup. “It smells dreadful.”
“I understand it’s an acquired taste, sir,” the waiter told him. “They have to open the tins outside. I haven’t tried it.”
“That’s a shame. It seems... intriguing.” The Community delegate put his cup and saucer on a side table. “I wonder, could you direct me to the lavatory?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter. “If you’d like to follow me...”
They left the dining room, the waiter putting his coffee flask and napkin on a table by the door. The Community delegate, whose name was Michael, nodded pleasantly to the security staff in the hallway and, instead of making for the downstairs bathrooms, turned for the main doors. The waiter followed, half a step behind.
Outside, the drizzle had stopped, but there was a sharp chill in the air and the waiter, who was wearing a shirt and tie and waistcoat and an apron, felt it cut right through him. Michael seemed not to notice. He walked away from the house at a brisk pace, smiling to himself.
When they had gone a few hundred metres, Michael said, “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Hello,” said Rupert. “I’m armed.”
“Well, of course you are.” Michael was languid almost to the point of feyness. He was wearing a three-piece suit that could only have come from Saville Row, the sharply-ironed points of a handkerchief protruding from the breast pocket. “All the waiting staff are. I presume you’re working for the firm providing security.”