Siv Sandberg was a striking woman in her fifties who moved with statuesque grace. Her blond hair, peppered with gray, tied back on her neck, revealed a determined chin, matched by steel gray eyes that pinned you down, demanding the truth—and even more so when talking about Arlene Hampton’s murder.
Her wife was almost inconsolable. Isabelle hadn’t had her heart broken by a lover yet, she had to admit, but she wondered if you should really be that upset about the death of your first girlfriend in the company of your wife of twelve years? Should this not happen in private, the doors and windows closed?
But she was here to provide the soft touch, the gentle tone and soothing voice Kate seemed to think Andy was incapable of delivering, not judgement.
“I’m really sorry,” she said again, rubbing Nilla Sandberg’s left hand between her own, coaxing some warmth into the cold fingers. Both Sandbergs were still in the clothes they had traveled in, their suitcases remaining unpacked next to the enormous bed in the hotel’s presidential suite.
The diminutive Nilla sat upright, opening her brown eyes, murky with a mixture of sorrow and lack of sleep, under straight blond hair. “I’d hoped it would have been a gentle death. Quick and painless. Not this…not fleeing in terror from whoev—” She broke down again.
Siv moved in, stroking her back. “I know, darling, I know.” She looked at Andy, who had remained on the periphery since their introductions, allowing Isabelle to answer all their questions.
Andy had asked Isabelle in the elevator if she would mind taking the lead in talking to the Sandbergs. She’d agreed to do so. Whatever had happened at Brighton Beach had upset Andy. Nobody else had noticed, she was sure, but she could spot the anger in that tiny twitch in the corner of Andy’s mouth, almost like a trapped animal snarling at whoever dared to come close.
She hadn’t pried. Perhaps she’d felt like giving Andy a break. Perhaps she’d felt it was time she proved to her that she could also do some of the heavy lifting in this relationship.
René was downstairs, in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel, with Marc patrolling the hotel’s exits.
Siv looked at Isabelle, then to Andy, as if determining who carried the power between them. She seemed at a loss to decide.
It made Isabelle smile. The world was a funny place and it kept on evolving. She kept on evolving. She almost liked who she had become over the last few days. Except for Arlene. She’d carry Arlene with her for the rest of her life. Her death was her failure. Her constant reminder to do better.
“Do the police know anything yet?” Siv asked.
“Nothing significant, it seems,” Isabelle said. “We are tracking their lead investigator and will let you know as soon we know more.”
Siv took a deep breath. She abandoned soothing her wife and moved to the window in three long strides. She wore a red pantsuit, the color a crimson contrast against the earthy tones of the Hilton Hotel’s penthouse suite.
Outside the hotel room door there waited a contingent of staff and security personnel, gently goaded out when Andy and Isabelle had arrived.
Andy shifted where she was standing like a military statue posing at rest, hands clasped behind her back. “Kate asked me to request you not deliver your speech on Monday. She is scared that the Russians may make an attempt on your life. That Arlene Hampton’s death was perhaps a warning for you to step back from whatever announcement you wish to make.”
“I thought you said Arlene’s death may be linked to her partner’s gambling debts?”
“It may. But the opposite may also be true. We’re not quite sure what’s going on at the moment.”
Siv contemplated her answer for a nanosecond. “I can’t do that.” She shook her head vigorously. “It’s time to clean up our act, otherwise there will be nothing left of this planet. We’re all on a slow train to hell, with no one eager to make it stop.”
“Are you sure there is no other way to deliver your message?”
“Absolutely. I will not keep quiet until I have a deal on the table.”
Isabelle could see that Andy had anticipated her response. “Okay. But perhaps you can help us then. Are you sure you haven’t received any death threat? Perhaps a phone call asking you not to make the speech, hinting at what had happened to Arlene?”
Nilla looked up from where she was sitting, her face imploring Siv to say something.
Andy looked from her to Siv. To Isabelle.
Isabelle walked to Siv. She wanted to touch her, to connect with her, but Siv remained detached, rage simmering just beneath the surface. In a way she was a little like the Andy she’d first met, pissed off at everything and everyone.
“You must tell us, please.” She searched Siv’s eyes. “It is important. To lose you at the helm of the coalition in Norway could see the right-wing conservatives take over. That would be a tremendous loss. Not only for your country, but for the climate and Ma Soeur as well. We were, after all, instrumental in mobilizing the women’s vote for you, especially online.”
Siv’s mouth hinted at a smile. “You did your homework.”
Isabelle simply nodded. You couldn’t play the game if you couldn’t calculate the odds. And to calculate the odds you had to know what was going on.
“I owe a lot to Kate Bouchard,” Siv admitted.
“And what about Arly.” Nilla spat out the words, standing up. “What do you owe her? Our kids? She was their godmother. What if your job gets us killed? Them killed? All because of you and your fucking principles?” She stomped over to Siv. “You tell them. Tell them about the woman who called you to warn you to back off that asshole of a Russian president. About him fucking men at Harvard when he was visiting there. The same hypocritical old man now hunting down gay people in Moscow.”
Siv’s face contorted into something like rage. Then she turned to Isabelle and Andy. “My wife seems determined to show you our entire playbook today. Please forgive me.”
Nilla stepped forward, looking as if she wanted to kill Siv. Siv looked at her with a sudden tenderness that made Isabelle envious.
Siv opened her arms. Nilla lowered her eyes, her body tense, that of an athlete readying to run a long, long distance.
“Nilla.”
Nilla broke down as she stepped into Siv’s arms.
Siv held her as she cried. She kissed the top of Nilla’s head, looking at Isabelle. “Before you ask. I don’t know who this woman was. She said to back off the Russian president or face the consequences.”
“She?”
“Yes.”
Isabelle thought about what Andy had told her about this morning. Natalya Kuznetsova. Surely, she had no reason to protect the Russian president?
“Did you recognize her voice?” Isabelle asked.
“No. It could have been his wife for all I know.” Siv smiled, exhaustion tugging at her face. “Will you please leave us alone? It has been a long day and it’s Arly’s funeral tomorrow morning.”
“We just need to know—” Andy jumped in.
Isabelle stopped her. “Certainly. And we’re really sorry to ask, but would you perhaps, please, reconsider the speech? Use the funeral as an excuse. It would be difficult to go to the funeral of such a close friend and still deliver a speech of such magnitude at the UN on Monday.”
Nilla stirred against Siv’s chest, turning her head to look at them with the saddest of smiles. “It’s no use asking. Siv Sandberg never backs down. That’s what I love and hate most about her.”