by Tom Cain
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Really?’ Ravnsborg’s tone was one of surprise, but its irony was obvious. ‘That does not seem very caring to me; not very thoughtful. If I took you to dinner, I would not leave you without warning. But if by some chance I had to leave – if I were called away to a case, maybe – I would try to call you to explain. That is the least you should expect, no?’
She nodded in agreement.
‘So now let me tell you something else about your Mr Carver. Shortly after he left you in that café, he placed a telephone call. Here is a photograph of him doing that…’ Ravnsborg slid a copy of the full image towards her. ‘You will notice the time-code in the bottom corner. At that exact moment, the hotel bomb was detonated, killing seven people and injuring another thirty. Three of the injured are not expected to last the night.’
‘But that… that could be coincidence.’
‘It could, yes. Lots of people must have made calls at that moment. But only one of them is currently wanted for the killing of three more men. So let me ask you, Mrs Cross, how well do you really know Mr Carver? How much can you trust him? Because it looks to me as though he has used you. He has turned up in your life, worked his way into your affections, persuaded you to come to Oslo…’
‘For the wedding!’
‘Yes, the wedding – how convenient it is, the timing, the location… That bothers me, I will admit to you, Mrs Cross. I worry that it is too much of a coincidence. But I do know something for sure…’
‘Yes?’
‘I know that if I were you, I should be very suspicious, very angry. I would wonder if I had been used by a mass-murderer. I would ask, “Why am I here, being interviewed by police, while he is running away?” Tell me, have these questions crossed your mind?’
Her silence provided its own response.
‘No, you are right, there is no need to answer,’ Ravnsborg said. ‘Although, of course, there is one other possibility… We are assuming that Mr Carver has used you and Mr Larsson. What if he is an innocent man who has himself been used?’
‘Used by whom?’
‘Used by you, Mrs Cross, or by Mr Larsson, or both of you. Is that the truth of what happened?’
‘No! I swear…’
Ravnsborg leaned back into his chair and looked at her, just as he had when he first entered the room. The ease with which Carver’s identity and apparent guilt had fallen into his lap struck him as too good to be true. In his experience, that usually meant that it was.
‘Well, we shall see, I am sure,’ he said, as much to himself as to Maddy Cross. ‘For now you will give a statement, please, to my colleague here. Then you will sign it. After that you will be free to return to your hotel. And I hope you enjoy the wedding.’
49
Carver had sent a single text message while he was chasing after the ferry. It went to a number he hadn’t used in years. Chances were it wasn’t even in use any more, but if it was, its owner might just clear his name.
He’d been doing some thinking, too, going over the events of the past few weeks, doing the old Sherlock Holmes trick: eliminating the impossible until what he was left with, however improbable, had to be the truth. The conclusion he’d come to was improbable all right. It damn near broke his heart. But he knew he was right, and he knew, too, that he’d been terribly wrong before. He just hoped he’d get a chance to put things right and repair the damage his stupidity had caused. First, though, he had to get away.
The lights of the ferry were clearly visible no more than half a mile away when another thought entered into his mind – one repressed during his desperate flight from the city: the memory of Tyzack talking about a killing that would put him in a different league, something bigger than Carver had even attempted. Carver had ignored him out of pride and ego, and now he realized that his arrogance had blinded him. It had been an act of unforgivable folly. If he’d satisfied Tyzack’s longing to boast he would have known for sure what he was planning to do. Now he’d have to work it out for himself.
There were two ways Tyzack might, in theory, outdo him: by the sheer number of people he killed, or by the significance of a single victim. But Tyzack was not a terrorist, motivated by religion or ideology. He killed because he was paid to take out individual targets: any other victims were simply collateral damage. Many had died at the King Haakon Hotel, but Carver would have bet everything he had that there was only one real target. Even he had just been a distraction.
That left significance: Tyzack hitting someone so powerful, or so famous that – in his mind at least – it trumped anyone Carver had taken out. In theory, that might apply to any number of politicians, religious leaders, celebrities or monarchs. In practice, however, there was only ever one target whose elimination could guarantee an assassin the sort of perverse immortality Tyzack craved: the President of the United States.
The terrible realization struck Carver that having once subjected Lincoln Roberts to a fake attack, he might now have exposed him to a real one. A man he admired, whom he had worked to make safe, could now be in mortal danger. But what could he do about it? Carver was a man on the run, with nothing but his guts to go on. No warning he gave was ever going to be taken seriously. Yet somehow he had to make himself heard.
He’d come up behind the stern of the ferry now. Her name, Queen of Jutland, was painted across the full width of the vessel over the raised vehicle-loading ramps, and was lit by the glow from eight large portholes that ran above the lettering.
Carver slowed his engine to the pace of the ferry. He looked up at the massive hull, which loomed over his RIB like an elephant over a mouse as it rose straight up as high as a ten-storey building into the evening sky. The ferry filled Carver’s entire field of vision. The noise of its engines, the buzz of his outboard motor and the rushing of water and wind all but deafened him. He just had to ignore the clamour and concentrate, searching for a way in.
Flanking the entrance through which cars and trucks rolled on and off, two massive metal buttresses protruded backwards, on either side of the stern. The buttresses curved up to the main bulk of the hull like gentle slopes at the foot of a sheer cliff. Above the top of the buttresses, where they joined the stern of the main hull, were two recessed winches, from which mooring ropes were run when the ship was in port.
Directly above them a rectangular opening had been cut into the hull, about three times wider than it was high. It was unglassed. Three similar openings ran down the flank of the ferry, creating a small promenade deck where passengers could take the air or smoke a cigarette. Carver hoped to God that at this time on a damp, chilly June evening they’d all be in the bars and restaurants, getting hammered like any normal human being.
On the way from Oslo, Carver had cut a short length of rope from the RIB’s lines and placed it by the boat’s controls. Next, he’d taken the anchor chain out of its storage chest, undone the shackle that fixed it to the boat, and carried it amidships so that it now lay piled behind him on the deck between the two seats.
Carver steered the RIB over the ship’s wake until it was alongside the buttresses, as close as he could get to the stern opening. He tied one end of the rope to the steering wheel and turned the wheel so that the boat was virtually on the same course as the ferry, but turning slightly in towards the hull. Then he tied the other end of the rope to the chromed steel windscreen-frame, locking the steering wheel in place.
The RIB was nuzzling up against the ferry, but it would only stay in position for a matter of seconds, so Carver had to move fast. He grabbed the anchor chain and then clambered up on to the seats till he was standing astride the boat, one foot on each seat, leaning backwards so that his calves were resting against the seat-backs, taking the strain as the RIB bucked and lurched against the seething waters at the stern of the ferry.
He gripped the chain so his right hand was just below the anchor and a short length of chain hung between that and his left hand. Then, slowly at first, but with increasing m
omentum, he began to rotate his right arm, gradually paying out the chain, raising it above his head until it was swinging through the air like a lasso above the boat. Carver felt the cut in his back open up again under the strain of the movement, but ignored it. He gave a final, mighty heave and hurled the anchor at the opening.
50
Oslo is sheltered by a belt of islands, stretching the full width of Oslo fjord, just south of the city. Tyzack’s pilot headed straight for the shelter of the nearest island, flying low and getting into its lee, so that the helicopter could not be seen from the mainland. He flew slowly, creeping between the outcrops of land until he reached the fjord’s main shipping channel. That was when he saw the massive hull of the Queen of Jutland, to the right of his aircraft, steaming towards him from the north.
The light was fading now and it had started to rain, making the visibility still worse. So it took the pilot a couple of seconds to spot the RIB coming up behind the ferry’s stern, and a few more to realize that whoever was driving the boat wasn’t going to miss the Queen of Jutland. In fact, he was… well, for a moment it looked like he might be trying to board it.
‘Take a look down there, boss,’ he said to Tyzack, pointing towards the ocean. ‘There’s some bloke on an RIB playing silly buggers. Total bloody lunatic.’
Tyzack rolled his eyes and then, like a parent indulging an attention-seeking child, did as the pilot asked.
He looked down towards the ferry.
And that was when he burst out laughing.
51
The anchor clanged against the ferry’s hull just below the opening, fell down, slid along the buttress and splashed into the water.
As he pulled it out, Carver realized that he’d miscalculated his speed. It was set fractionally slower than the ferry. The RIB was steadily losing ground, sliding back along the buttress. Very soon he would have lost contact with the ferry completely. He could reset his speed and course, but that would mean untying and retying the rope around the steering wheel, and the longer he hung around the back of the ferry the more certain it was that he would be spotted.
No, he’d keep the boat set exactly as it was. Have another go and pray he could get aboard in time.
Once again he arced the anchor chain through the air, giving it even more speed this time and an even greater effort on the final throw. It flew into the air, hit the top of the opening and disappeared into the ferry like a football going in off the crossbar.
The RIB was still sliding backwards. First the outboard motor was into open water. Then the boat began to come free of the ferry, inch by inch. Very soon it would unbalance, swing round and be swirled helplessly in the ferry’s wake.
Carver tugged at the chain and felt a reassuring resistance as the anchor caught against the inside of the hull. He felt the seats beneath him buck up and down and swerve from side to side as the RIB became progressively less stable.
There was no time left.
He gave one last heave on the chain and leaped out across the RIB towards the ferry. He smashed against the hull with an impact that knocked the breath from his body. For a moment he loosened his grip on the chain and slipped down until he was almost to his waist in the sea, the saltwater stinging as it splashed up against his open wound, every swell of the wake drawing him away from the hull and then crashing him into it again.
Christ, the water was cold! No wonder that kid had looked so furious when he was thrown into the sea by the opera house. Carver was chilled to the bone within seconds.
Behind him Carver saw the RIB swirl off into the darkness like a twig in a racing stream. He had nowhere else to go now. He had to get to the top of the chain or he would be washed away to his death.
He lifted one hand above the other, then tensed himself for the next crash against the hull.
As the water moved him away from the hull again, he moved his other hand a little further up the chain. And so it went on: the agonizingly slow movements up the slippery chain; the repeated slips as his wet, cold-numbed fingers lost their grip; the terrible shivering as the chill of the water seeped ever deeper into his body; and all the time the constant battering of flesh and bone against plate steel. Finally, though, Carver hauled himself almost clear of the water and now he could lean back on the chain and place his feet against the side of the buttress and haul himself up, pace by pace, hand over hand, until he was standing at the foot of the final sheer stretch up the hull to the opening.
He gritted his teeth to stop their incessant chattering, wiped the seawater and rain from his eyes and reminded himself that when he was in the SBS he’d think nothing of training exercises that required him to climb up the legs of a giant North Sea oil rig, or the hull of the Queen Elizabeth II. All he had to do now was get up a lousy bit of steel.
And then he heard a new sound, the clattering of a helicopter rotor. Still holding the chain, he twisted round so that he was looking away from the ferry, out to sea, and instantly saw the chopper, outlined against the last fragments of light on the western horizon. It was hovering, inquisitively, some way off, watching and waiting with all the cruel patience of a cat at a mousehole. Carver leaned back, placed his feet against the hull and started pulling himself up towards the opening, taking the strain on his shoulders, arms and thighs.
Now the predator swooped. The helicopter moved much closer to the boat. A searchlight cut through the darkness and rain, picking him out against the dazzling white backdrop of the hull and forcing him to screw his eyes shut to keep out its scorching glare. Directly above him, barely an arm’s length away, he heard a sharp, percussive rattle, like stones catapulted against a sheet of corrugated iron. Someone was shooting at him. Carver flinched, dreading the impact of a ricochet. The gunman in the helicopter fired again, even closer this time. There was no noise or muzzle-flash from the weapon, just the same rattling stones. It didn’t take a genius to work out the choice that Carver was being given. By the time the third salvo was fired, he had let go of the chain and was falling towards the water. This time the bullets hit the hull exactly where his body had been.
The ferry steamed away; the helicopter hovered directly over Carver and a rope was lowered down to him. He trod water, held a hand over his eyes to deflect the buffeting down-draught and saw Tyzack standing in the doorway smirking down at him. Carver was being mocked and, as the rope dangled in the water in front of him, he suddenly understood why. He’d got the whole thing wrong and everything he had done – not just tonight but for days, even weeks – had been based on lousy, idiotic, unforgivable stupidity. He was so angry with himself, so frustrated, that he almost didn’t reach out for the rope. It was an admission of defeat. Problem was, he didn’t have a better idea. Besides, the closer he got to Tyzack, the easier it would be to wipe that stupid grin off his face.
But when he was finally pulled inside the helicopter, Carver didn’t get to wipe anything at all. Instead, he was grabbed by two pairs of hands and shoved down into a chair. Someone stuck a gun up against the side of his head. And the last thing he knew was Damon Tyzack leaning over him with a syringe in his hands sighing, ‘Sadly, this really won’t hurt at all…’
52
Ole Ravnsborg looked down at the damp, huddled figure wrapped in a rough woollen blanket, sitting on a metal chair in his office and shivering unhappily. The young man’s hands were wrapped around a mug of hot coffee. It did not appear to have done much to raise his spirits. So Ravnsborg began by giving him the good news.
‘We found your moped, Mr Olsen,’ he said. ‘It was abandoned in Aker Brygge, at the end of Stranden, just as he promised. He even left your helmet.’
Per Olsen looked up, feeling better than he had done for some time. He almost managed a grin. ‘That’s great,’ he said. ‘Can I take it away now?’
‘Afraid not,’ Ravnsborg told him. ‘We need to do forensic tests and then we may have to hold it as evidence, in the event of a trial.’
Olsen looked downcast again. ‘But that could be months!’<
br />
‘It could, yes, I am sorry about that. But you will get it back eventually…’ He thought for a moment. ‘… Assuming there are no appeals.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Olsen was now plunged into the pits of that melodramatic, self-pitying despair that is reserved for those in their teens and early twenties.
Ravnsborg pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘Now, tell me exactly, in detail, what happened to you.’
‘Why should I?’ Olsen sulked.
‘Grow up,’ said Ravnsborg. ‘I am not your father, having some stupid argument. I am a police officer attempting to understand two violent, criminal incidents in which at least ten people died, and I am not interested in playing childish games. Either you talk to me, or I throw you in a cell overnight for obstructing my investigation. And, no, you will not be given dry clothes.’
‘All right, all right… I get it.’
It took Ravnsborg a while, and there were points where even he, who prided himself on his non-violent nature, was tempted to grab Olsen by the neck and shake some sense into him, but in the end he had a clear picture of events.
‘There is just one point I want to be completely certain of,’ he concluded. ‘The man who stole your moped was armed. He placed his gun against the back of your neck…’
‘The barrel was hot,’ Olsen said, ‘I just remembered.’
‘So he had already used the gun. In fact, you may be interested to hear, he had just shot two men dead and killed a third with his bare hands.’
‘My God…’ Olsen wrapped the blanket even tighter around his body, as if it could protect him.
‘And yet he did not shoot you. In fact, he did nothing to you, except throw you in the water.’
‘That wasn’t nothing!’
‘Oh yes, I think it was. And he even told you where you would be able to find your moped afterwards.’