Death in Oslo by Anne Holt

simple handshake. It was cold and wet and Tom O’Reilly shivered slightly.
    ‘You’ve had too much sun,’ Abdallah told him and picked up a towel to dry his hair. ‘As usual. I hope you haven’t been bored. I’ve had quite a bit to do.’
    Tom just smiled.
    ‘How is Judith? And the kids?’
    ‘Well,’ Tom replied. ‘Very well, thank you. Garry is starting to get good now. Will never be much of a quarterback. Too big and heavy. But he might have a future as a defence player. I’m trying to pull some strings.’
    ‘Don’t pull too hard,’ Abdallah advised him, and tugged a white tunic over his head before sitting down on one of the empty chairs. ‘Children should learn to look after themselves. More tea?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    Abdallah poured himself some from a silver pot.
    They sat in silence. Tom caught himself studying Abdallah when he thought he wasn’t looking. The Arab had an unusual calm that never ceased to fascinate him. They had known each other for nearly thirty years now. Abdallah knew everything there was to know about Tom. The American had shared his sad story with his friend on that first night, and since then he had kept Abdallah informed of everything, big and small, that happened in his life: girls and stories, work, love and political preferences. Sometimes, when Tom was lying awake in bed and couldn’t sleep, he would look at his wife in the dark and think that Abdallah knew more about him than she did. Even after nearly twenty years of marriage.
    That was the deal.
    Even way back then, on that warm afternoon when spring had finally arrived and Tom had received the letter saying that his scholarship would be withdrawn from the following school year,
due to medical circumstances
, he was clear what the price of this fantastic gift would be.
    Abdallah would know everything about him.
    But both then and now, Tom felt it was a small price to pay. It was always a pleasure to be with Abdallah. At school they hung out every now and then, but were never seen to be good friends. At least not by others. And when they had finished school, they never met in the US. Their paths sometimes crossed in Europe. Tom often had meetings in metropolises where Abdallah happened to be on business. Then they would meet for dinner at some local Arabic café in London, or for a walk in the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower, or along theTiber, after a couple of coffees at a Roman café.
    Occasionally Tom was called to Riyadh.
    ‘How was the journey?’ Abdallah poured himself more tea.
    ‘Fine.’
    Tom O’Reilly liked being in Riyadh. He was always taken to this place, even though he knew there were other palaces, which he was led to believe were bigger and more impressive. The invitations were always sudden, never more than three hours’ notice. Always from a local telephone number. A private jet was ready for departure at the nearest airport. All Tom had to do was turn up. He might be in Madrid or Cairo, or Stockholm for that matter, when the invitation came. His work as the CEO of ColonelCars took him all over the world. In the days when he was lower down the ladder, it was sometimes difficult to suddenly rearrange everything. That was easier now, and in any case, the invitations had become less and less frequent.
    It was a year and a half since he had last been here.
    ‘This will be the last time we meet,’ Abdallah said out of the blue and smiled. Tom O’Reilly tried to straighten up in the sea of soft cushions. His knee was hurting again. He had been sitting in the same position for too long. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew that he had to say something.
    ‘That’s a shame,’ he murmured, and felt like an idiot.
    Abdallah al-Rahman’s smile widened. His teeth were pearly white against his dark skin. He drank down the rest of his tea in one go and put the glass down carefully.
    ‘It has been a pleasure, Tom, a real pleasure.’
    The affection in his voice surprised Tom; it was as if Abdallah