by Jo Nesbo
He smiled in apology to Harry, shifted the other phone up to his ear, glanced at the ticker on the computer screen and uttered a brief “yes” before ringing off.
“What was that?” Harry asked.
“That was my job.”
“Which is?”
“Right now securing a dollar loan for a customer.”
“Big sums involved?” Harry surveyed Bangkok, which lay half hidden in the mist beneath them.
“Depends what you compare it with. An average Norwegian local council budget, I imagine. Did you have a good time last night?”
Before Harry could answer, one of the phones buzzed and Brekke pressed a button on the intercom.
“Take a message, Shena, will you? I’m busy.” He released the button without waiting for confirmation.
“Busy?”
Brekke laughed. “Don’t you read the newspapers? All the Asian currencies are on the slide. Everyone’s pissing their pants and busting a gut to buy dollars. Banks and brokerage companies are shutting down every other day and people have started jumping out of windows.”
“But not you?” Harry said, absentmindedly rubbing his spine.
“Me? I’m a broker, vulture family.”
He flapped his arms a few times and bared his teeth. “We earn money whatever happens so long as there is action and people are dealing. Showtime is a good time and right now it’s showtime 24/7.”
“So you’re the croupier in this game?”
“Yes! Well said. Have to remember that one. And the other idiots are the gamblers.”
“Idiots?”
“Certainly.”
“I thought these traders were relatively smart.”
“Smart, yes, but still absolute idiots. It’s an eternal paradox, but the smarter they become, the keener they are to speculate in the currency markets. They’re the ones who ought to know better than anyone else that it’s impossible to earn money on the roulette in the long term. I’m pretty stupid myself, but at least I know that.”
“So you never have a punt on this roulette, Brekke?”
“I do place the occasional bet.”
“Does that make you one of the idiots?”
Brekke proffered a box of cigars, but Harry declined.
“Wise man. They taste awful. I smoke them because I think I have to. Because I can afford it.” He shook his head and put a cigar in his mouth. “Did you see Casino, Officer? The one with Robert De Niro and Sharon Stone?”
Harry nodded.
“Do you remember the scene where Joe Pesci talks about this guy who is the only person he knows who can earn money from gambling? But what he does isn’t gambling, it’s betting. Horse racing, basketball games and so on. That’s quite different from roulette.”
Brekke pulled out a glass chair for Harry and sat down opposite him.
“Gambling is about luck, but betting isn’t. Betting is about two things: psychology and information. The smartest person wins. Take this guy in Casino. He spends all his time gathering information, about the horses’ pedigrees, what they’ve been doing in training earlier in the week, what feed they have been given, how much the jockey weighed when he got up in the morning—all the info the others can’t be bothered with or are unable to get or absorb. Then he pools it, works out the odds and watches what the other gamblers do. If the odds for a horse are too high, he bets on it, whether he thinks it will win or not. And overall he’s the one who wins. And the others lose.”
“So simple?”
Brekke held up a hand in defense and glanced at his watch. “I knew that a Japanese investor from Asahi Bank was going to Patpong last night. In the end I found him in Soi 4. I primed him with info and pumped him for more until three in the morning, then I let him have my woman and went home. I came to work at six and have been buying baht ever since. He’ll soon be at work and he’ll have baht worth four billion kroner. Then I’ll sell again.”
“Sounds like a lot of money, but it also sounds almost illegal.”
“Almost, Harry. Only almost.” Brekke was excited now, like a boy showing off a new toy. “It’s not a question of morality. If you’re a target striker in a football team you’ll always be in a semi-offside position. Rules are there to be bent.”
“And those who bend the rules furthest win?”
“When Maradona scored with his hand people accepted that as part of the game. Anything the ref doesn’t see is fine.”
Brekke held up a finger.
“Nevertheless, you can’t get away from the fact that this is about odds. You lose once in a while, but if you play with the odds in your favor you earn money in the long run.”
Brekke grimaced and stubbed out his cigar.
“Today this Japanese investor has determined what I’m going to do, but do you know what the best feeling is? It’s when you run the game. For example, before the U.S. inflation figures are published you can spread a rumor that Greenspan said at a private lunch the rate has to go up. You can confuse the enemy. That’s how you scoop the big wins. Hell, it’s better than sex.”
He laughed and stamped the floor in his excitement.
“The currency market is the mother of all markets, Harry. It’s Formula One. It’s as exhilarating as it is deadly. I know it’s perverse, but I’m one of those control freaks who like to know that it’s their own fault if they kill themselves at the wheel.”
Harry looked around. A mad professor in a glass room.
“And if you get caught speeding?”
“As long as I’m earning money and I stay inside my limits, everyone’s happy. What’s more, it makes me top earner in the firm. Do you see this office? The boss of Barclays Thailand used to sit here. You might be wondering why a lousy broker like me is here. It’s because there’s only one thing that counts in a brokerage company: how much money you earn. Everything else is decoration. Bosses, too. They’re only administrators who are dependent on those of us in the market to keep their jobs and salaries. My boss has now moved to a comfortable office on the floor below because I threatened to go to a competitor with all my clients if I didn’t get a better bonus agreement. And this office.”
He undid his waistcoat and hung it over his chair.
“Enough about me. How can I help you, Harry?”
“I was wondering what you and the ambassador spoke about on the phone the day he died.”
“He rang me to have our meeting confirmed. Which I did.”
“And then?”
“He came here at four, as we had arranged. Five past, maybe. Shena in reception has the precise time. He arrived first and registered.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Money. He had some money he wanted to invest.” Not a muscle in his face revealed that he was lying. “We sat here until five. Then I accompanied him down to where he had parked in the underground car park.”
“He was parked where we are now?”
“If you’ve got the guest’s space, yes.”
“And that’s the last you saw of him?”
“Right.”
“Thanks. That was all,” Harry said.
“Wow, that was a long trip for very little.”
“As I said, this is all routine.”
“Of course. He died of a heart attack. Wasn’t that it?” Jens Brekke asked with a half-smile on his lips.
“Looks like it,” Harry said.
“I’m a friend of the family,” Jens said. “No one is saying anything, but I get the picture. Just so you know.”
As Harry got up, the lift door opened and the receptionist came in with a tray on which were two glasses and two bottles.
“Some water before you go, Harry? I have it flown in once a month.”
He filled the glasses with Farris mineral water from Larvik.
“By the way, Harry, the time you gave for the conversation yesterday was wrong.”
He opened a door in the wall, and Harry saw what looked like an ATM. Brekke tapped in some numbers.
&nbs
p; “It was 13:13, not 13:15. It may not be important, but I thought you might like to have it absolutely accurate.”
“We were given the time by the telecommunications company. What makes you think your time is more accurate?”
“Mine is right.” A flash of white teeth. “This device records all my conversations. It cost half a million kroner and has a satellite-controlled clock. Believe me: it’s accurate.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “Who on earth pays half a million for a tape recorder?”
“More people than you imagine. Most currency brokers, among others. If you have an argument with a client about whether you said buy or sell on the phone, half a million is soon chicken feed. The recorder automatically adds a digital time code on this special tape.”
He held up something that looked like a VHS cassette.
“The time code cannot be tampered with and when a conversation has been recorded you can’t change the recording without destroying the time code. The only thing you can do is hide the tape, but then others would find out that tapes are missing for the period in question. The reason we’re so thorough is that the tapes would be valid evidence in a court case.”
“Does that mean you have a recording of your conversation with Molnes?”
“Of course.”
“Could we …?”
“Just a moment.”
It was peculiar to hear the very much alive voice of a person you had seen lying dead with a knife in his back.
“Four o’clock then,” the ambassador said.
It sounded toneless, almost sad. Then he rang off.
17
Monday, January 13
“How’s your back?” Liz asked with concern when Harry limped into the office for the morning meeting.
“Better,” he lied, straddling a chair.
Nho gave him a cigarette, but Rangsan coughed behind his newspaper and Harry refrained from lighting up.
“I have some news that might put you in a good mood,” Liz said.
“I am in a good mood.”
“First of all, we’ve decided to bring in Woo. See what we can get out of him if we threaten him with three years for assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty. Mr. Sorensen claims he hasn’t seen Woo. He works freelance, apparently. We don’t have an address for him, but we know he usually eats at a restaurant next to Ratchadamnoen Stadium, the boxing arena. Those matches mean huge bets, and the loan sharks hang around there to find new customers and keep an eye on debts that still haven’t been settled. The other piece of good news is that Sunthorn has been making inquiries at hotels suspected of running escort agencies. The ambassador apparently frequented one of them—they remembered the car because of the diplomatic plates. They say he had a woman with him.”
“Fine.”
Liz was a bit disappointed by Harry’s lukewarm reaction.
“Fine?”
“He took Miss Ao to the hotel and gave her one there. So what? She wouldn’t invite him home, would she. As far as I can see, all we can learn from that is that Hilde Molnes has a motive to kill her husband. Or Miss Ao’s partner, if she has one.”
“And Miss Ao may have a motive if Molnes was about to drop her,” Nho said.
“Lots of good suggestions,” Liz said. “Where do we start?”
“Checking alibis,” the answer came from behind the newspaper.
In the meeting room at the embassy Miss Ao looked up at Harry and Nho with eyes red from crying. She had denied visiting any hotels point-blank, said she lived with her sister and mother, but she had been out on the night of the murder. She hadn’t been with anyone, she’d said, and came home very late, sometime after midnight. It was when Nho had tried to make her tell them where she had been that the tears started.
“It’s better if you tell us now, Miss Ao,” Harry said, closing the blinds to the hall. “You’ve already lied to us once. Now this is serious. You say you were out on the night of the murder but you didn’t meet anyone who could testify where you were.”
“My mother and sister—”
“Can testify that you returned home after midnight. That doesn’t help you, Miss Ao.”
Tears ran down the sweet doll face. Harry sighed.
“We’ll have to take you with us,” he said. “Unless you change your mind and tell us where you were.”
She shook her head, and Harry and Nho exchanged glances. Nho shrugged and took her arm, but she held her head against the table, sobbing. At that moment there was a light tap at the door. Harry opened it a fraction. Sanphet was outside.
“Sanphet, we—”
The chauffeur put a finger to his lips. “I know,” he whispered and beckoned Harry out.
Harry closed the door behind him. “Yes?”
“You’re questioning Miss Ao. You’re wondering where she was at the time of the murder.”
Harry didn’t answer. Sanphet cleared his throat and straightened his back.
“I lied. Miss Ao was in the ambassador’s car.”
“Uh-huh?” Harry said, caught off guard.
“Several times.”
“So you knew about her and the ambassador?”
“Not the ambassador.”
It took a couple of seconds before Harry clicked, and he stared at the old man in disbelief.
“You, Sanphet? You and Miss Ao?”
“It’s a long story, and I’m afraid you won’t understand everything.” He gave Harry a searching gaze. “Miss Ao was with me the night the ambassador died. She would never say because it could cost both of us our jobs. Fraternizing between employees is not allowed.”
Harry ran a hand across his head.
“I know what you’re thinking, Officer. That I’m an old man and she’s a young girl.”
“Well, I’m afraid I don’t understand completely, Sanphet.”
Sanphet half smiled. “Her mother and I were lovers a long, long time ago, long before she had Ao. In Thailand there is something called phîi. You might translate it as ‘seniority,’ an older person being higher in the hierarchy than a younger person. But it means more than that. It also means the older person has responsibility for them. Miss Ao got the job at the embassy at my recommendation, and she is an affectionate, grateful woman.”
“Grateful?” Harry queried without restraint. “How old was she …?” He paused. “What does her mother say?”
Sanphet smiled sadly. “She’s the same age as me and understands. I’m only borrowing Ao for a little time. Until she finds the man she will start a family with. It’s not so unusual …”
Harry released his breath with a groan. “So you’re her alibi? And you know it wasn’t Miss Ao the ambassador took to the hotel he frequented?”
“If the ambassador went to a hotel, it was not with Ao.”
Harry raised a finger. “You’ve already lied once and I could have arrested you for obstructing the police while investigating a murder. If there is anything else you have to tell me, say it now.”
The old, brown eyes looked at Harry without blinking. “I liked herr Molnes. He was a friend. I hope the person who killed him will be punished. And no one else.”
Harry was about to say something, but bit his tongue.
18
Monday, January 13
The sun had turned deep burgundy with orange stripes. It hung above Bangkok’s gray skyline, like a new planet that had appeared in the firmament unannounced.
“This is Ratchadamnoen Stadium,” Liz said as the Toyota containing Harry, Nho and Sunthorn pulled up by the gray-brick building. A couple of miserable-looking ticket touts brightened up, but Liz waved them away. “It might not seem very impressive, but this is Bangkok’s version of the Theater of Dreams. Here everyone has a chance to be God if they have quick enough feet and hands. Hi, Ricki!”
One of the guards came over to the car, and Liz switched on the charm to a degree Harry would not have credited her with. After a brisk torrent of words and laughter, she turned smiling to the others.
“Let’s get Woo arrested as fast as we can. I’ve just wangled ringside seats for me and the tourist. Ivan’s boxing seventh this evening. Could be fun.”
The restaurant was of the basic variety—plastic, flies and one solitary fan to blow the food smells from the kitchen into the rest of the room. Portraits of the Thai royal family hung above the counter.
Only a few tables were occupied, and there was no Woo to be seen. Nho and Sunthorn sat at a table by the door while Liz and Harry sat at the back. Harry ordered a spring roll and, for safety’s sake, a disinfecting Coke.
“Rick was my trainer when I did Thai boxing,” Liz explained. “I weighed almost twice as much as the boys I sparred with, was three heads taller and got beaten up every time. They imbibe boxing with their mother’s milk here. But they didn’t like being hit by a woman, they said. Not that I noticed anything.”
“What is it with the King stuff?” Harry asked, pointing. “I see his picture everywhere.”
“Well, a nation needs heroes. The royal family wasn’t particularly popular until the Second World War when the King managed to ally himself first with the Japanese and then, when they were on the defensive, with the Americans. He saved the nation from a bloodbath.”
Harry raised his Coke to the portrait. “He sounds like a cool dude.”
“You have to understand: there are two things you don’t joke about in Thailand—”
“The royal family and Buddha. Yes, thanks, I’ve been told.”
The door opened.
“Well, hello,” Liz whispered and raised her nonexistent eyebrows. “Normally they seem smaller in real life.”
Harry didn’t turn. The plan was to wait until Woo had had his food served. A man with chopsticks in his hands takes longer to pull out a weapon.
“He’s sitting down,” Liz said. “Man, he should be locked up for his appearance alone. But we can count ourselves lucky if we manage to hold him long enough to ask a few questions.”
“What do you mean? The guy hurled a policeman from a first-floor window.”
“I know, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Woo ‘the Cook’ is not just anyone. He works for one of the families, and they have good lawyers. We figure he’s liquidated at least a dozen people, maimed ten times as many and still his jack shit on his record.”