by Jo Nesbo
I pressed Take Call and again Greco’s face filled the screen.
‘Hi, Lukas. She’s on her way. Look, she’s just parked outside.’
He held the phone up to a computer screen. I saw a street, obviously in a fashionable residential area, and the door of an Alfa Romeo opening. I felt as though someone had injected iced water into my chest. The woman who got out and crossed the road moved like a pro. And like a queen.
Greco spoke from behind the phone: ‘When you can’t find them, the thing you have to do is make them come to you.’
Judith was wearing the red coat she always wore when attending business meetings. When she was going to war, as she used to say. She removed it before the meeting started and wore beneath it a snowy white blouse. That symbolised a blank sheet of paper, she said. A willingness to compromise. And before she put her coat back on again she had always got a deal for her client. Always. It was so obvious when I thought about it now, the way you understand every genius chess move once it’s been shown to you.
Gio Greco had been Judith’s lover longer than me, he knew her better. He was also a better chess player than me. He knew I would call her when he said those words: ‘You and I are alone at least, now that she’s been taken from us both.’ And he knew what she’d do once she realised Greco had me in his power; go and see him and do what she was best at doing: negotiate a deal.
Greco’s grinning face filled the screen again: ‘You look like you realise what’s happening here, Lukas. The Queen is going to die. All is lost. Or is it?’ He lowered his voice dramatically, like a game-show host on one of those franchises spewed out by the Tokyo cartel. ‘Maybe you can save her after all. Yes, you know what: I’m going to give you one last chance to stop me. You can use your weapon. The great Lukas Meyer will hypnotise the terrible Gio Greco and save the day. Come on. You’ve got about fifteen seconds before she gets here.’ Greco opened his eyes wide as though to show how ready and responsive he was.
I swallowed.
Greco raised a slender, shaven eyebrow. ‘Something wrong?’
‘Listen –’ I began.
‘Can’t do it, Lukas? Performance anxiety? Do you get that too when she needs fucking?’
I didn’t answer.
‘OK, that wasn’t really fair,’ said Greco. ‘See, that psychologist I was telling you about, he suggested hypnosis as a cure for depression, but when we tried it, it turned out I’m not a good subject. He said it was because of my so-called personality disorders. I’m immune to it. I mean, there must be some advantages to being insane.’
Laughter. The T and the long S again, like the hiss of a punctured bicycle tyre. Then he was gone from the screen. The phone appeared to be placed on a shelf or suchlike, and I saw something that looked like a hallway and an oak door with an entryphone. There was a jarring, ringing sound. Greco appeared on the screen again, his back to me, his white suit gleaming. He seemed to be holding something up in his hand so that I couldn’t see. He picked up the entryphone with his free hand.
‘Yes?’ Pause. Then, in a surprised voice: ‘No, is that you, darling? How lovely, it’s been such a long time. Well, well. So at least you still remember where you used to live.’
He pressed the button on the entryphone. I heard a distant buzz and then the sound of a door opening. I was clutching my own phone so hard I thought I might crush it. How could Judith, who was so intelligent, who knew Greco so well, fail to see that he had smoked her out from her hiding place by using me? The answer came back as quick as the question. Of course she knew. And still she’d come. Because there was no alternative – this was her only chance to save me.
I wept. No tears came, but my whole body was sobbing. I wished I’d lied to her. Told her I loved her. Given her that at least. Because she was going to die. And I was going to watch.
Greco turned his piggy face in triumph towards me. And now I was able to see what he was holding in his hand. A karambit. Curved handle and a short blade bent like a tooth. A knife with which to slash, chop or stab. And which, once it’s in, does not let go.
I wanted to break the connection but couldn’t bring myself to do it.
Greco turned towards the door and opened it, holding the knife in the hand behind his back so only I could see it. And then she came in. Face pale, her cheeks a feverish pink. She embraced him, and Greco let her do it without taking his hand from behind his back. Now I could see them both in profile.
‘Run!’ I shouted into the phone. ‘Judith, he’s going to kill you!’
No response. Greco had probably put his phone on mute.
‘How nice,’ said Greco in a voice that sent a short, hard echo round the hallway. ‘To what do I owe this visit?’
‘I regret it,’ said Judith, out of breath.
‘Regret?’
‘Regret leaving. I’ve thought about it for a long time. Will you have me back?’
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Even before you’ve taken off your coat?’
‘Will you?’
Greco bobbed up and down on his heels.
‘I –’ he said, and sucked on his upper lip – ‘will take Judith Szabó back.’
She breathed quickly and put a hand against his chest. ‘Oh, I’m so happy now. Because I want you, Greco. I know that now. It’s just that it’s taken me some time. And I’m sorry about that. I hope you can forgive me.’
‘I forgive you.’
‘Well. Here I am.’ She took a step towards him, her arms wide. Greco stepped back. She stopped and looked at him in confusion.
‘Show me your tongue,’ he said quietly.
For an instant Judith looked as though someone had just slapped her. But she recovered quickly and smiled.
‘But, Greco, what –’
‘Your tongue!’
It looked as though she had to concentrate, as though this involved a highly complicated locomotor operation. She half opened her mouth, and then out came her pale red tongue.
Greco smiled. He looked almost mournfully at the exposed tongue. ‘You know very well I would have taken her back, Judith. Her. The one you were. Before you turned into someone else and betrayed me.’
The tongue disappeared.
‘Greco, darling…’ She reached out to him, and he took another step back.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Are you afraid of me? Your people searched me at the door.’
‘I’m not afraid. But if there was anyone I was afraid of, it would be you. All I can do is admire your courage. But then, you have always defended the one you love. That’s why I was certain you would come. That’s your method, after all: go directly to the root.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Judith. You’re a better actress than that.’
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Greco.’
But I did. That was her mantra as a fixer. Go directly to the root. When she was contacted with a commission, something which, for obvious reasons, almost always happened via a middleman, she always made it her business to find out who the real customer was and pay a visit to that person. It was always a risky business. She might lose the commission, or expose herself to danger, but she insisted on going directly to the root in order to fix a price and agree on the conditions. She always got a better price, she maintained, because she could do without all the middlemen taking their cut, and there were no misunderstandings about what was included in the service and what was not. And I supported her tactic of going directly to the root method because I wanted to know the reason for the commission, what the intended result of it was. My road to heaven was paved with the evil intentions of others, and I just wanted to make sure that the greater evil didn’t win out.
‘Maybe, maybe I want this, Judith Szabó. I like your tongue. You’ve come to negotiate. So make a start. What are you offering to spare his life, your psychologist?’<
br />
She shook her head. ‘He’s been out of my life a long time, Greco. But yes, of course, I expect you not to harm him.’
Greco put his head back and laughed his T and S laugh until his piggy eyes disappeared behind his round cheeks. ‘Come on, Judith, a negotiator has to lie better than that. You know what I wish?’
I shuddered as he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek.
‘I wish you’d have loved me enough to do what you’re doing for him.’
Judith stared at him, her mouth open. One hand continued towards her cheek. The other tightened its grip on the handle of the knife behind his back. I could see the tears welling up in her eyes, the way her body seemed to collapse inside; she was already moving her hands up to protect herself. She knew pretty well what was about to happen. That this had always been the likely outcome. And that now it was too late for regrets.
‘Hello…’ he said.
‘No!’ she shouted.
‘No!’ I shouted.
‘…I’m Greco,’ he said.
He swung the knife in a tight arc so swiftly it seemed to leave a trail of silver through the air.
Judith stared at him and at the knife. The blade was clean. But her throat had opened. Then came the blood. It splashed out, and she raised her hands as though to prevent it falling onto her coat, her present. But as she pressed her hands to her neck the pressure increased and blood sprayed from between her fingers in thin jets. Greco backed away but not quickly enough; blood splashed on the sleeve of his white suit jacket. Judith’s legs gave way and she fell to her knees. Already her eyes were glazed; oxygen was no longer reaching the brain. The hands fell lifelessly from the neck, already the volume of blood had diminished. For a second or two her body balanced on the knees, and then she collapsed forwards, her forehead hitting the stone floor with a soft thud.
I screamed into the phone.
Greco looked down. Not at Judith, but at the sleeve of his jacket as he tried to wipe away the blood. Then he walked over towards the phone, and I didn’t stop screaming until his Guy Fawkes face filled the whole screen. He looked at me without saying anything, with a sort of mild solemnity, like a mourner. Was that what he was? Or was he acting the sympathy in a parody of the undertaker’s professional solemnity?
‘Tick-tock,’ said Greco. ‘Tick-tock.’ Then he broke the connection.
I tapped in the police emergency number and pressed Call. But of course I was too late, I no longer had a signal.
I collapsed onto the floor.
* * *
—
After a while I felt a hand on my head.
It was stroking me.
I looked up at Oscar.
He pointed to the wall, to the words he had written there.
It wil soon be beter.
Then he put his arms around me. It was so unexpected I didn’t have time to push him away. So I simply closed my eyes and held the boy. The tears came again, but I managed not to sob.
After a few moments I held him a little away from me.
‘I had a boy like you, Oscar. He died. That’s why I’m so sad. I don’t want you to die as well.’
Oscar nodded, as though to convey that he agreed with me, or understood me. I looked at him. At the dirty but fine blazer.
And then, as we carefully made our knotted rope of clothes and guts, I told him about Benjamin. The things he had liked (old things like big picture books, gramophone records with funny covers, Grandad’s toys, especially marbles; swimming; Daddy’s jokes), the things he didn’t like (fried fish, going to bed, having his hair cut; trousers that made him itch). Oscar nodded and shook his head as I went through the list. Mostly he nodded. I told him one of Benjamin’s favourite jokes and that made him laugh. Partly because it’s stupid not to laugh when there are only two of you, but mostly, I think, because he thought the joke was pretty funny. I told him how much I missed my boy and my Maria. How angry it made me. The boy just listened, responding now and then with facial expressions, and it occurred to me that now he had taken over my job as the mutely listening psychologist.
I asked him to write something about himself on the wall while I tightened all the knots and got our rope ready. He wrote in keywords.
Brescia. Grandad blazer factory. Nice house, swimming pool. Men with guns. Daddy Mummy dead. Run. Alone. Doghouse. Dog food. Football. Black car, man in white clothes.
I asked questions. Joined up the dots. He nodded. Large, shiny child’s eyes. I gave him a hug. That warm little chin nestling in the pit of my neck.
Looked at the dog’s head lying on the floor behind him. Dog’s eyes. Child’s eyes. Pig’s eyes. Tick-tock, tick-tock. I closed my eyes.
Opened them again.
‘Oscar,’ I said. ‘Get out the pen. We’re going to try something a bit weird.’
He took out the Montegrappa pen. The kind of beautiful thing they don’t make any more.
Part 3: Endgame
Once Olsen’s queen was off the board and the decision had been taken it was as though Murakami gave his opponent a short breathing space. He could afford it – Olsen was the one running out of time – and it looked as though Murakami, instead of bringing matters to a quick conclusion with a coup de grâce, preferred instead to take the opportunity to show off to his audience, the cat’s last sadistic moments of play with the mouse. The even-tempered and silent Olsen had completely abandoned his bloodied defence of the king and instead moved his black knight to the other end of the board, as though in denial of the grim reality of his situation, a general playing a round of golf as the bombs rain down around him.
* * *
—
‘Don’t be afraid, Oscar. You won’t fall.’
I spoke calmly. Established eye contact. My heart was beating hard, probably as hard as his was. The gut was fastened around his chest in a bowline knot. He’d taken off his outer clothes and we had attached them to the end of the line, and now the half-naked child’s body, still wearing his shoes, was dangling above the cobblestoned street below, his hands holding tight around the balcony railings.
‘Now I’m going to count to three,’ I said, struggling to keep my voice calm. ‘And you let go on three? OK.’
Oscar stared at me, panic in his eyes. He nodded.
‘One, two…three.’
He let go. Brave boy. I stood with one foot braced against the wall by the window and felt his body-weight stretching the intestine downwards. It held. We’d tested it inside the apartment and I knew there was no reason it wouldn’t hold now, just because it was eighteen metres above ground. I’d wrapped the gut around my wrist twice in order to brake, but still I could feel it begin to slip. That was all right – the idea was to lower him down, only it mustn’t happen too fast. I would have to brake when I reached the join with the coat, and if that was too abrupt then the whole gut might snap.
Oscar slipped down and away from me. All the time we kept our eyes on each other.
At the junction with the coat I had to brake and saw how the gut stretched like an elastic band. I was certain it wouldn’t have held my eighty kilos, but the boy can’t have weighed more than twenty-five. I held my breath. The gut swayed and stretched. But it held. I continued paying out the rope, quickly, before it could change its mind. On reaching the last item of clothing, the boy’s blazer, I leaned out as far as I could to make the drop to the street as short as possible for Oscar, holding on to the sleeve with one hand and with the other around a railing.
‘One,’ I said loudly. ‘Two, three.’
I let go.
Oscar landed feet first, I heard his shoes hit the cobblestones. He fell over. Lay there a moment or two, as we had agreed on beforehand, to check that he was uninjured. And then he stood up and waved up at me.
I hauled up the rope and untied his clothes. Dropped them down to him, and he quickly put them on. I
saw him checking the blazer pockets to see if everything was there; the pen, the money I had given him, and the key to my apartment. I knew it was a vain hope, but at least that was what it was: a hope.
It didn’t last long.
Two men in black drivers’ suits emerged from the gateway, one of them the big man with no neck. They started chasing Oscar and caught up with him before he reached the security tape. They carried him, jerking and struggling, over to an SUV that stood illegally parked in the pedestrian street.
I didn’t shout. Just watched in silence as the car disappeared.
I had done what I could. At least the boy wouldn’t die breathing in Greco’s hellish gas. He might even let Oscar go. Why not? Once the king has been checkmated, the other pieces can stay there untouched. And drivers – most of them at least – don’t kill just for the sake of it.
I went back inside the apartment, untied my own clothes from the gut and started to dress. The dog’s head looked up at me, one eye gouged, the other one whole.
Did I believe that? That Greco would take pity on Oscar?
No.
I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes to go before the gas came billowing out into the apartment. I sat on the floor and waited for the phone call.
Outside, it was growing dark.
* * *
—
Greco rang two minutes before time was up.
The phone was probably mounted on a tripod and the screen showed what appeared to be his room. Bricks, wood. Large white surfaces. Outside, on a large terrace, a Christmas tree with its lights lit in the evening dark. At the veranda door two armed guards, muscles bulging beneath tight-fitting black drivers’ suits. Greco sat on a white leather sofa, and beside him, legs dangling, was Oscar. His blazer was buttoned up wrong, the Montegrappa pen visible, clipped to the breast pocket. He looked frightened and exhausted from crying. On the coffee table in front of them was a chessboard that looked, from the position, as though it was nearing the endgame. Next to it lay the karambit and the remote control for the release of the mustard gas.