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approach seven figures, everyone modifies their principles. And the top job with Pathfinder was extremely big, extremely orange and extremely competitive. The assignment had been given to three agencies: Alfa, ISCO and Korn/Ferry International. Three of the best. That was why this was not solely about money. Whenever we work on a no win, no fee basis, we first get a one-off fee to cover costs and then a fee if the candidate we present fulfils the needs we have agreed with the client. For us to get the real payout, however, the client has to appoint the person we recommend. OK by me, but what this was really, really about was simple: winning. Being king of the heap. Platform shoes.
    I leaned over to Diana. ‘Listen, sweetie, this is important. Have you any idea at all how I can get hold of him?’
    She chuckled. ‘You’re so nice when something catches your interest, darling.’
    ‘Do you know where … ?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘Where, where?’
    ‘He’s standing over there.’ She pointed.
    In front of one of Nørum’s expressive paintings – a bleeding man in a bondage hood – stood a slim, erect figure in a suit. The spotlight reflected on his shiny, bronzed skull. He had hard, knotted blood vessels in his temples. The suit was tailor-made. Savile Row, I assumed. Shirt without a tie.
    ‘Shall I bring him over, darling?’
    I nodded and watched her. Prepared myself. Noted his gracious bow when Diana approached and pointed. They came towards me. I smiled, but not too broadly, stretched out my hand slightly before he arrived, but not too prematurely. My whole body turned to him, my eyes on his. Seventy-eight per cent.
    ‘Roger Brown, pleased to meet you.’ I pronounced both names in the English way.
    ‘Clas Greve. The pleasure is all mine.’
    Apart from the un-Norwegian formal greeting, his Norwegian was nigh on perfect. His hand was warm, dry, the handshake firm without overdoing it, the recommended duration of three seconds. His eyes were calm, curious, alert; the smile friendly without being forced. My only complaint was that he was not as tall as I had hoped. Just under one metre eighty, a bit disappointing considering that Dutch men are the anthropometric world champions with an average height of 183.4 centimetres.
    A guitar chord sounded. To be precise, a G11sus4, the opening chord of the Beatles ‘A Hard Day’s Night’ from the album of the same name, 1964. I knew that because it was me who had put it on the Prada phone and set it as the ringtone before giving it to Diana. She raised the attractively slim object to her ear, nodded to us in apology and distanced herself.
    ‘I understand you have just moved here, herr Greve?’ I could hear myself sounding like an old radio play, using the Norwegian formal terms ‘De’ and ‘herr’, but during the introductory sales pitch it is important to adapt and assume low status. The metamorphosis would come soon enough.
    ‘I inherited my grandmother’s apartment in Oscars gate. It’s stood empty for a couple of years and needs redecorating.’
    ‘I see.’
    I raised both eyebrows with a smile, curious, but not insistent. Just enough. If he was able to follow the social code, he would now reply with a little more information.
    ‘Yes,’ said Greve. ‘It’s a pleasant break after so many years’ hard graft.’
    I saw no reason not to go straight to the point. ‘At HOTE, from what I understand.’
    He sent me a look of mild surprise. ‘Do you know the company?’
    ‘The recruitment agency I work for has its competitor, Pathfinder, on its books. Have you heard of them?’
    ‘Bits and pieces. Main office in Horten, if I’m not much mistaken. Small but competent, isn’t that right?’
    ‘They must have grown quite a lot in the months you’ve been out of circulation.’
    ‘Things move quickly in the GPS industry,’ Greve said, twirling the champagne glass in his hand. ‘Everyone thinks expansion. The motto is: Expand or die.’
    ‘So I understand.