Death in Oslo by Anne Holt Page B

it’s fair. I would in no way underestimate what you’ve done for me. As I said, I am deeply grateful. But with all due respect . . .’
    He hesitated, and studied the chased-metal circles on the glass.
    ‘With all due respect, I would probably have managed to get by on my own. I had the ambition. I was willing to work hard. The system repays those who work hard.’
    It was impossible to read in Abdallah’s face what he was thinking. He was obviously relaxed. His eyes were half closed, and a faint smile played on his mouth, as if he was thinking about something amusing that had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.
    ‘We’re both examples of that,’ he replied eventually. ‘The system repays those who work hard and who are focused. Those who set themselves long-term goals and don’t think only about short-term gain.’
    Tom was reassured. He shrugged and smiled.
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘And now I want you to do me a favour,’ Abdallah said, the distant expression still in his eyes, as if he was actually thinking about something else.
    He gestured to a servant whom Tom had not noticed earlier. He was standing half hidden behind a gigantic pot with three palm trees in it over by the terrace entrance some twenty metres away. The servant approached on silent feet and handed an envelope to Abdallah. Then he withdrew, equally silently.
    ‘A favour,’ Tom muttered. ‘What is it?’
    You’ve never asked me to do anything before. You’ve only asked about my life. About me and what I’m doing. That was the deal. I was to stay in touch. Meet you whenever you asked me to. That was the agreement. You said nothing about favours, Abdallah. I’ve kept my promise for nearly thirty years. I never promised to do any more than that – than to give of myself.
    ‘Something very simple.’ Abdallah smiled. ‘I just want you to take this back to the US and post it. And then we’re quits, Tom. Then you will have paid back what you owe me. And just so that you don’t think this is anything dangerous . . .’
    Tom sat paralysed as Abdallah opened the envelope. Inside there was another, smaller envelope. It was not sealed. Abdallah stuck his nose down into it and took a deep breath. Then he smiled and held the envelope open for Tom.
    ‘Look, no poison. You are, and I think I’m justified in saying this, a bit hysterical about postal correspondence. This is quite simply a letter.’
    Tom saw the folded paper. It looked like there might be several sheets. The letter was folded so the writing was on the inside. It was ordinary white paper. Abdallah licked the envelope and sealed it. Then he put it back into the bigger envelope and sealed that too.
    ‘All you have to do,’ he said calmly, ‘is to take it home with you. Then you need to find a postbox. It’s of no importance to me whatsoever where in the US that might be. Then you open the big envelope and pop the smaller one in the box and throw away the big one. That’s all.’
    Tom O’Reilly didn’t answer. He felt his throat constrict, as if he was about to cry. He swallowed. Tried to cough.
    ‘Why?’ he stuttered.
    ‘Business,’ Abdallah replied indifferently. ‘I don’t trust the post here. And certainly not all this modern communications technology. Too many eyes and ears. It’s important that this reaches its destination. Simply business.’
    How can you lie outright to me? Tom thought to himself and tried to keep his composure. How can you insult me like this? After thirty years? You have an entire fleet of planes and an army of employees at your disposal. But you’ve chosen me as a courier for that letter. What is this? What should I do?
    ‘You will do this,’ Abdallah added deliberately, ‘primarilybecause you owe it to me. And if that is not enough . . .’
    He didn’t finish his sentence but looked the American straight in the eye.
    You know everything about me, Tom thought and rubbed his sweaty palms together. More than anyone else. We have talked