by Jo Nesbo
And with that Nilly stood up and marched out. Hallgeir and Helge looked at each other in confusion. And then they looked at Petter.
“I guess you guys haven’t seen it,” said Petter.
“Seen what?” Helge asked.
“Is it something secret?” Hallgeir asked eagerly, sounding excited.
“No, it’s something on YouTube,” Petter said.
“We only look at secret things,” Hallgeir said. “PBS and stuff like that.”
“It was on TV, too,” Petter said. “Norway’s Biggest Liar.”
“Oh, right. Nilly’s sister mentioned that show,” Helge said.
Two minutes later Petter had the computer on and was playing the YouTube clip. It showed a reporter standing on Cannon Avenue in front of the yellow house that Helge and Hallgeir had just been to a few hours earlier. The reporter whispered, grinning at the camera, “On today’s episode of Norway’s Biggest Liar, we’re visiting the Oslo home of the person rumored to be the biggest—and probably also the smallest—liar in all of Norway. As usual, we will be pretending that we’re a serious show and that we believe everything he says. Come on, let’s go in and meet his mother and sister. . . .”
The next scene showed two people on a sofa in a messy living room. One of them was the girl Helge and Hallgeir had spoken to at Nilly’s house; the other was a woman in a pink quilted bathrobe.
“Nilly started out by just exaggerating a little,” the woman said, looking somberly into the camera. “Gradually the exaggerations got bigger and bigger. Ultimately he claimed that he and his friends had saved the world and traveled through time in a bathtub.”
“Where do you think he got this compulsion to lie?” the reporter asked.
“Not from me, at any rate. I’m sure it’s from his father’s side. His grandfather wrote a book called Animals You Wish Didn’t Exist. Solid lies from beginning to end,” Nilly’s mother told the reporter.
“From end to beginning,” Nilly’s sister added snidely.
The next scene showed Nilly on his way into a talk show studio, victoriously raising both arms as the audience cheered wildly for him.
“He has no idea they’re making fun of him,” Petter said with a sigh.
“Welcome to the set of Norway’s Biggest (cough!)ar,” said the reporter, now wearing a nice suit. “Is it really true that you traveled back in time to the Battle of Waterloo?”
“Of course,” Nilly replied.
The audience responded by applauding, and Nilly turned to face them and bowed politely.
“So I suppose you met Napoléon, too, huh?” the reporter asked.
“Of course,” Nilly said with a patient smile, and then clasped his hands and put his fingertips together. “Yes, for a while I actually was Napoléon. That’s how I managed to prevent the battle.”
“So you were Napoléon and you stopped the Battle of Waterloo and kept it from happening?” the reporter said.
“Someone had to do it, and I happened to be there,” Nilly said as modestly as he could, studying his own well-nibbled fingernails.
Wild cheers from the audience. Meanwhile close-ups showed that they were laughing so hard they were practically falling out of their seats.
“And with that, a round of applause to thank Nilly, aka Napoléon!” the reporter exclaimed.
Thunderous applause as an attractive woman escorted a waving, smiling Nilly offstage.
Once Nilly was out of camera and hearing range, the reporter turned to face the camera and whispered, “I think we’ve got a strong contender here for the title of Norway’s Biggest Liar. But the ultimate decision is up to you, viewers. When you cast your votes . . .”
Petter turned off the computer.
“Not so surprising that he’s had enough and doesn’t want to do it again,” Helge said.
“How are we going to convince him?” Hallgeir asked.
“We need to talk about fighting for home and family and king and fatherland,” Helge said.
“Yeah, and for keeping our Norwegian currency!” Hallgeir said.
“Good thinking, Hallgeir! And then we can play touching music in the background while we say all this, and as the music swells we’ll talk louder and louder and get choked up,” Helge said.
“Good thinking, Helge. Let’s go find that little pipsqueak and—” Hallgeir began.
But just then there was a loud, complaining creak from the hinges as someone yanked the door open. And a second later it banged loudly as someone slammed it shut again. Nilly stood before them with a backpack on his back.
“We thought you’d headed for the hills,” Hallgeir said.
“I changed my mind,” Nilly said.
“Put on the touching music,” Helge whispered hurriedly to Petter. “I’ll start talking about home and the fatherland and—”
“If you guys are done with your hot chocolate, I’m ready to head back to Oslo now,” Nilly said.
“What? But I haven’t even gotten to the part where I get all choked up yet . . . ,” Hallgeir began.
“No need. As I said, I changed my mind,” Nilly explained.
“Really?” Helge asked.
Nilly shrugged and picked at his front teeth with a dirty fingernail. “Really. Hang gliders and Chinese checkers are nice and all, but a gold heist sounds way more exciting. And a guy can only drink so many cups of hot chocolate, right?”
And so it came to be that exactly thirty-three minutes and twenty-four seconds after six thirty, Zulu time, floppety-floppety-flop sounds were once again heard over this remote village, now almost completely devoid of inhabitants. Petter stood on the hill and waved good-bye to them.
Nilly sat next to the pilot, wearing ear protectors that practically covered his entire teeny tiny redheaded head with the freckles and the turned-up nose. He was begging and pleading for a chance to fly the helicopter, just for a little bit. He swore—cross my heart!—that he’d flown bombers during both world wars, not to mention that he had been the first person under the age of eighteen to fly an unmanned rocket to Saturn and those parts.
Our Friends Learn Everything About the Mission. Well, Not Quite EVERYTHING . . .
THE KING TUGGED at his annoyingly tight royal sash, cleared his throat, and pushed back his IKEA desk chair. He’d tried moving his throne into his office, but the seat was so high that it ended up squishing his thighs between the seat and the desk. In front of him stood the only people in the kingdom who knew that Norway’s gold reserves had been stolen: Hallgeir and Helge of the Secret Gourd; Tor, the governor of the Bank of Norway; Doctor Proctor, Lisa, and Nilly.
“The gold needs to be back in the Bank of Norway’s vault by next Monday when the World Bank does its inspection,” the king said. “If it’s not, we’ll be bankrupt and forced to live like the East Austrians. Is that what we want? Yes or no?”
“Uh . . . ,” Lisa said, looking at Doctor Proctor, who was raising one eyebrow, and Nilly, who was squinting one eye shut as he thoughtfully scratched his sideburn.
“Can we have more options?” Nilly asked.
“The correct answer is no!” the king bellowed. “Norway is counting on the three of you now. The good news is that the Secret Gourd’s thorough investigation has procured some information for us, which means you will not be starting out with absolutely nothing.”
“The experts checked the hole in the bank vault,” Hallgeir said. “The robbers must have used a drill with a diamond-tipped bit with a really humongous diamond on it. The only diamond in the world big enough was recently stolen from Johannesburg, South Africa.”
“Also, we recently talked to our colleagues in the Brazilian secret service,” Helge said. “This is a secret, but last week the central bank of Brazil’s gold reserves were also stolen. The Brazilian authorities haven’t said anything about it, because they’re afraid of becoming just as poor as the Argentinians.”
“And clever as we are, we cross-checked the passenger lists of people who’ve flown between Johannesburg, Oslo
, and Brazil in recent weeks. And it’s not that long a list. Nothing like the traffic jam of Norwegians trying to drive across the border into Strömstad, Sweden, to stock up on liquor, where the taxes are lower.”
“Or Kragerø, the Cape Cod of Norway,” Helge said.
“Or Ål in Hallingdal, famous for its, uh, cross-country skiing,” Hallgeir said.
“Get to the point,” said the king.
“And,” Helge continued, “there are only three people who have been to all three of those locations recently. And these three are not just anyone.”
“Quite the contrary,” Hallgeir said. “They are specifically them.”
“The point!” the king yelled. “Get to it!”
“Wouldn’t you know, they traveled under assumed names, claiming to be the Brunch Brothers, but they didn’t fool us, no they did not, no sirree. The three are actually”—Helge paused, looking around at all the curious faces to make sure everyone was holding their breath—“the Crunch Brothers!” Helge looked around triumphantly, but the faces around him were not those of people gasping in shock or even looking very scared.
“The Crunch Brothers are known as the most awful bandits in all of Great and Small Britain combined,” Hallgeir explained.
“Cool!” shouted Nilly. “Awful bandits are cool!”
“What I’m wondering,” Doctor Proctor said, “is how these brothers managed to take Norway’s entire gold reserves with them on a plane. I mean, when you consider how heavy gold is, well, they must have paid a fortune for overweight baggage.”
“It was only one gold bar,” Bank Governor Tor said with a small, modest smile. “So, definitely under the weight limit.”
“Only one gold bar?” Lisa said, raising an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s Norway’s entire gold reserve?”
“It’s shrunk a little over the years,” Tor admitted.
“I’d say,” said Proctor. “What happened to the rest of the gold?”
“Candy,” Tor said with a casual shrug.
“The gold turned into candy?” Nilly asked.
“No, into gold fillings for cavities,” Tor said. “After World War Two, Norwegians started eating so much candy that by the 1970s, dentists ran out of gold. Maybe you remember 1972, the year of the Great Toothache?”
Everyone else shook their heads. Only the king nodded, his hand flying instinctively up to his jaw.
“That was an ugly time,” Tor said. “You could hear the moaning and groaning and cries of pain from North Cape, at the northernmost tip of Norway, all the way south to Lindesnes at the southernmost tip. And boy could you hear them! The Parliament had to pass the Dental Transference Act. And every year since then, the dentists of Norway have been steadily eating away at the central bank’s gold reserves. Until today . . .”
“So all our gold is in the mouths of candy-eating Norwegians who didn’t brush their teeth?” Lisa asked, crossing her arms and looking offended. “That’s just not right!”
“Yup,” Nilly said, plunging his index fingers into the corners of his mouth and pulling it open so far it looked like the top half of his head might fall off. “Ust loooookh at dis. . . .”
And sure enough: His mouth gleamed with the dull sheen of unbrushed gold.
“But if you know these Crunch Brother people are behind the robberies, why haven’t you already arrested them?” Doctor Proctor asked.
“There are several reasons,” Bank Governor Tor said. “First of all, we don’t have any actual evidence, just the plane tickets.”
“Well, but they must have hidden the gold somewhere,” Lisa said. “All we have to do is ransack their garage, basement, and—”
“Attic!” Nilly yelled. “Brazilian gold in the attic! Cool!”
“I’m sure the Crunch Brothers probably handed the gold over ages ago to whoever masterminded this. There’s no way the brothers are smart enough to have come up with such clever robberies themselves. The question is, who masterminded all this?” the bank governor said, shaking his head.
“The police could just arrest the Crunch Brothers and get them to say who they gave the gold to, right?” Lisa said.
The bank governor sighed. “If only it were so easy, Lisa. But these are hardened criminals. They’re not going to blab, no matter how much you torture them. Not that anyone is going to be tortured, of course . . .”
“Torture! Torture!” Nilly cheered, hopping up and down. “Torture! Just a little?”
“Unfortunately, the UN has decided that even gentle torture is illegal,” the king said with a sigh, tugging at his tight sash. “So the only way for us to find the gold is to infiltrate this gang. In other words, we have to pretend we’re one of them, make friends with them, gain their trust. And then we can trick them—maybe over a beer at the pub when they feel like bragging a little bit—into telling us where the gold is.”
“Why don’t you just get a police agent in England to do that?” Lisa asked. “I mean, they already speak English and everything, right?”
“We talked to the police agents, as you call them,” Helge said.
“Or Scotland Yard, as we call them,” Hallgeir said, with a snooty look on his face.
“And they said the Crunch Brothers would spot a real police officer a mile away. They can smell if you’re with the police,” Helge said.
“That’s true. Police officers smell like stuffed cabbage rolls,” Hallgeir said.
“So Scotland Yard thought it would be a good idea to trick the brothers using kids or crazy professors, because then they definitely wouldn’t smell anything,” Helge said.
“So, do you understand your mission?” the king asked.
“Yes sir, sire, sir!” Nilly said, snapping to attention and saluting. “And if a tiny little bit of torture should end up being necessary, do we have permission for that? How about noogies? Wedgies? Wet willies? General tickling?”
“You’re heading to London early tomorrow morning,” the king said. “You’ll be meeting a secret Scotland Yard informant by the Michael Jackson figure in Madame Tourette’s Wax Museum at exactly eight minutes past one. The informant has more information for you about the Crunch Brothers. And remember, this is a secret mission, so if you end up being captured . . .”
“No one’s going to come rescue us!” Nilly cheered. “I LOVE it! I just love it.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, and Doctor Proctor gave Nilly a serious, concerned look.
“Any questions?” the king asked.
“Do the brothers have any particular distinguishing characteristics that might make it easier for us to recognize them?” Doctor Proctor asked.
The king looked at the guards, who looked at each other, shrugged, and then shook their heads.
“Nothing?” Lisa asked.
“Not that we can think of,” Hallgeir said. “Although, now that you mention it, I guess they do each have their first initial tattooed on their foreheads.”
“But we don’t know what letters those are, so I don’t suppose that’ll be much help,” Helge said.
WITH A BIG smile, the king shook the hands of each of our heroes in turn and wished them good luck. After the three of them had left, however, he moved over to stand by the window. His smile was gone.
“I have the feeling that you’re not telling me the whole truth about these Crunch Brothers,” the king said.
“Oh?” Helge said innocently. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve never noticed police officers to smell of cabbage rolls. I think you were lying,” the king said. “So, were you?”
Helge cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, we might have lied.”
“But just a little,” Hallgeir added.
“We didn’t want to scare those two kids by telling them that no one at Scotland Yard dares to get close to the Crunch Brothers. Or worse yet, close to . . .” Helge lowered his voice and whispered something.
“What?” the king asked.
Helge whispered again.
“What did he say?” the
king asked Hallgeir.
“He said . . .” Then Hallgeir lowered his voice and whispered something.
“Enough of this nonsense!” the king roared. “Who doesn’t Scotland Yard dare to get close to?”
Helge walked all the way over to the king and whispered “Mama” into his ear.
Hallgeir walked over and whispered “Crunch” into the king’s other ear.
“Mama?” the king asked. “Crunch?”
“Shh!” Helge said, looking around cautiously.
“Double shh!” Hallgeir said.
“She’s the Crunch Brothers’ mother,” Helge whispered. “She’s known as the worst thing to have happened to London since the Great Plague of 1665.”
“She sees and hears everything, is impossible to trick, and is so horrible that no one will say her name out loud,” Hallgeir whispered.
“Uh, pardon me for asking,” the bank governor said. “But how horrible can three bank robbers and their mother actually be?”
“They play blood knuckles—you know, the card game—with anyone who tries anything,” Hallgeir said, his eyes rolling halfway back in his head in fear.
The bank governor and the king gasped in unison. “Blood knuckles?” they asked, looking in horror at the two Secret Gourds, who crossed their arms and nodded ominously.
“It’s not really so serious if you only lose four or five rounds,” Hallgeir said. “Then they just hit you on the knuckles a few times with the edge of the deck of cards and it stings a little and your knuckles get a little red.”
“But if you lose ten thousand rounds . . . ,” Helge said, rolling his eyes back in his skull so only the whites—and a little bit of red—showed.
“What happens then?” the bank governor asked.
“An agent from Scotland Yard once tried to infiltrate the family. Mama Crunch detected him, so they played bloody knuckles with him. He lost a big pot of ten thousand knuckle blows.”
The Gourds shook their heads in unison.
“What happened?” the bank governor asked.
“Unfortunately, that information is rated NC-17,” Hallgeir said.
“I assure you I’m well over seventeen,” the king said with one eyebrow raised.