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to control the urge to run.
    ‘We’ve got procedures for situations like this,’ he said a bit too loudly. ‘Have you set everything in motion?’
    He talked in the same way that he walked – staccato, tense. The PA was not sure if he was addressing her or one of the three men who came through the door behind him. She nodded, to be on the safe side.
    ‘Good,’ the minster said and continued to march towards his office. ‘We’ve got routines. We’re up and running. When are the Americans getting here?’
    The Americans? the PA thought and felt a hot flush surge through her body. The Americans. She couldn’t help looking over at the fat file containing the correspondence in connection with Helen Bentley’s visit.
    The Director General of the PST, Peter Salhus, did not follow the other three. Instead he came over to where she was sitting and held out his hand.
    ‘It’s been a while, Beate. I only wish it were under better circumstances.’
    She got up, brushed down her skirt and took his hand.
    ‘I’m not quite sure . . .’ Her voice broke and she coughed.
    ‘Soon,’ he said. ‘You’ll know soon enough.’
    His hand was warm and dry. She held it for a moment too long, as if she needed the reassurance that his firm handshake could give. Then she nodded briefly.
    ‘Have you got the grey box?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes.’
    She handed it over to him. All communication to and from the minister’s office could be scrambled, coded and distorted with only a few extra tricks and no additional equipment. But it was seldom necessary. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been asked about it. Perhaps a conversation with the Minister of Defence – just in case. But the box was only to be used under extraordinary circumstances. It had never been necessary, other than during practices.
    ‘Just a couple of things . . .’
    Salhus absent-mindedly weighed the box in his hand.
    ‘This is not a practice, Beate. And you must be prepared to be here for some time. But . . . Does anyone know that you’re here?’
    ‘My husband, of course. We—’
    ‘Don’t ring him yet. Wait as long as you can before saying anything. It will all get out pretty soon. But until then we have to use what time we have. We have called in the National Security Council, and we would like them to be in place before this . . .’ His smile did not reach his eyes.
    ‘Coffee?’ she asked. ‘Shall I come in with drinks?’
    ‘We’ll sort that out ourselves. Over there, isn’t it?’
    He grabbed the full pot of coffee.
    ‘There are cups, glasses and mineral water in there already,’ the PA told him.
    The last thing she heard as the door closed behind the Director General of the PST was the minister’s hysterical voice: ‘We’ve got procedures for this! Has no one been able to get hold of the Prime Minister? What? Where in God’s name is the Prime Minister? We’ve got procedures!’
    Then there was silence. There was soundproof glass in the windows, so she couldn’t even hear the convoy of student buses that had decided it was a good idea to park right inthe middle of Akersgate, outside the Ministry of Culture and Church Affairs.
    All the windows were dark.

III
    J ohanne Vik had no idea how she was going to get through the day; she never knew how she would survive the 17th of May. She held the shirt of Kristiane’s national costume up in front of her. This year she had thought ahead and was going to take a change of clothes for her daughter with them. The first outfit was already dirty by half past seven. And now this one had jam on the arm and a piece of melted chocolate on the collar. The ten-year-old was dancing around the floor naked, thin and fragile, with eyes that seldom focused on anyone or anything. It was already nearly half past ten, and they didn’t have much time.
    ‘
Silent night
,’ the small girl sang, ‘
holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild
. .