Pastor Hans Fredrik Hansteen stared at the red light, which today represented his congregation. He had no idea how many viewers were watching right now, but it would be a large number. Thousands of family members.
He curled his hand around the wireless mic and stretched the other hand out. ‘You know me,’ he said. ‘You know I’m not trying to trick you. But I also know that God loves a cheerful giver. And remember – what you give, you’re not giving to me or to us here at the Trinity Church, but to the Lord.’180
He looked into the camera with a smile. Waited for the red light to go out. When it finally did, his face fell back into its natural, relaxed folds, and he tried to breathe normally; it was difficult to hold in your paunch and talk at the same time.
Leaving the studio he noticed the wall clock; it was 2.20 p.m. Finished for the day. The broadcast schedule for the remainder of the day comprised reprises of old evangelical meetings and miracle conferences. People loved those programmes, despite having seen them lots of times before. Maybe it was the music. The atmosphere. Or the message. Possibly all three. As long as the account numbers ran across the screen, it didn’t matter too much.
Hans Fredrik Hansteen’s thoughts turned to Michael J. Masterson, the apostle from the USA who was expected tomorrow. Hansteen didn’t have time to meet him in person at the airport, but he would send a limousine. It wasn’t often he had a visit from someone who had brought people back from the dead, although Hansteen was slightly sceptical about that.
Justine gave him a smile as he entered the front office. ‘Did it go well?’ she asked.
Justine de Laet had come all the way from Belgium to work for him. He loved her smile. He loved most things about her, to be honest, as long as God didn’t hear of it or manage to read his thoughts.
‘It did indeed,’ he said, smiling back. ‘Do I have anything else on today?’
‘You have a meeting at home at quarter to three.’
Hansteen screwed up his face, unable to recall what this was about.
‘That donor, you know? The one who wanted to meet you personally. There was some mention of half a million, I think.’
‘Ah,’ Hansteen said. ‘Of course. I’d completely forgotten.’ How could he forget half a million kroner?
‘It’s just as well I’ve got you,’ he said, beaming.
Justine had learned Norwegian after arriving in the country. If Hansteen didn’t already have a wife and two grown-up children, he 181would have offered her one of the rooms in his house. It would have been nice to have some company now that the rest of the family – that is to say his wife – was in Spain.
Picking up his jacket, mobile and car keys, Hansteen wished Justine a lovely day in the spirit of God, before dashing out to his car. He was actually running late. Fortunately it wasn’t far from Fornebu to Ris, but you never could trust the traffic. He didn’t have an electric car either, so he wasn’t permitted to use the public transport lanes. But he had enough horsepower to help him. His car, a Mercedes GLS 350d, was a top-of-the-range model, and the biggest one available, so everyone else would just have to move out of his way. A servant of God was on the road.
The most eccentric and generous donors preferred, as a rule, to keep their names private. Hansteen had nothing against meeting them in person, though, so that he could offer his thanks and have a chat. That was all many of them wanted in return for their generosity – personal contact, a handshake, the feeling of being seen and heard. As if Hansteen were God himself and possessed restorative powers.
As he swung into Trosterudveien, he knew he was a few minutes late, but that could be excused in a man of his stature. He parked outside the house but saw no other vehicles there. Maybe he was early? No, the appointment had definitely been made for a quarter to three. A rather odd time of day to meet anyone when he came to think of it.
Hansteen stepped out and looked around. No one waiting for him on the steps. He let himself in. Tossing his keys aside, he hung up his jacket and checked his phone. No messages. He laid it down on the worktop.
The house was quiet now that he was the only one living here. Usually he relished it. Now, though, he had a strange sense that there was someone else present. There had been some trouble with the alarm system in the past few days, so he wasn’t completely certain that it was working properly. Only a few days ago it had gone off while he was at work, but the security company hadn’t found anything untoward when they came out to check.182
He entered the living room where the big wooden clock ticked steadily.
Hansteen stopped.
There was a man sitting in the garden.
He was wearing a navy suit, black shoes, had his legs crossed, and held a briefcase on his lap. Hansteen went out on to the veranda, leaving the door open behind him. The man turned his head towards him and got up with a smile. One leg dragged slightly as he came to meet him.