Burned

by Thomas Enger

  They used an encryption algorithm which made any keystrokes they sent to each other incomprehensible to outsiders—unless they had the key. This security feature obviously depended on their keystrokes not being recorded before they were encrypted. After all, it is possible to monitor a keyboard. His source could be risking his/her own life, but Henning had no wish to question the morals and ethical dilemmas faced by 6tiermes7.

  It soon turned out that 6tiermes7 was the best source he had ever had. Everything in journalism is about contacts—having a reliable source who brings the stories to you, not the other way round; someone who will regularly feed you information which helps you in interviews, insider knowledge that may not be useful at the time, but which turns out to be worth knowing, nonetheless. As leverage, for example. Or new developments in an investigation, what the police have discovered, which leads they are pursuing, names of people brought in for questioning—that kind of information.

  He got all that from 6tiermes7. He or she was Deep Throat, the deepest of them all. In the three years before That Which He Doesn’t Think About, Henning had published several stories as a result of his partnership with 6tiermes7. He/she helped him, and he in turn helped the police by breaking stories which threw fresh light over their investigations, new and old, and together they got results. Quid pro quo, as Hannibal Lecter would have put it.

  But 6tiermes7 has never told him why or how. And Henning has never tried to uncover the identity of 6tiermes7. Nor has he any plans to do so. Some things are best left alone.

  Before he went back to work, he hadn’t thought about 6tiermes7 for almost two years. He had no idea whether 6tiermes7 was still available to him as a source, if he or she had started working with other people, or if 6tiermes7 had simply vanished from cyberspace.

  But he was about to find out.

  18

  The steam rises and condenses under the roof. A high-pressure hose is systematically swept across a dark red Audi A8 with shiny nineteen-inch chrome rims. Encrusted bird pooh, grit, gravel, and pebbles are quickly washed off the paintwork. The car is drenched is seconds.

  Yasser Shah puts down the high-pressure hose and gestures to two men to get to work. A third man opens the doors and starts hoovering the interior. Soapy sponges squeak against the luxury car. The quartet works fast and efficiently. Mats are removed and hosed down. The boot is cleared of bark, grass, and rubbish. Strips are wiped and soon the interior, steering wheel, dashboard, gears, sound system, and windows all gleam. It takes them less than ten minutes.

  And all for 150 kroner.

  The car’s owner, a man in a gray suit with a matching tie, waits outside. At regular intervals, he peers inside to check on progress. Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza sits in his glass booth, aware of the owner’s skepticism. It’s probably because we’re Pakistanis, he thinks. But we’re cheap, so the guy’s prepared to take a chance.

  Wanker. If only you knew who is washing your car.

  Hassan lets the quartet finish, then he presses a button that opens the door. The owner isn’t sure if he is expected to go inside. Hassan gets up, comes outside, and gestures to the four men to finish off the car in daylight. Yasser Shah gets in and starts the car, which roars aggressively in the acoustically perfect space, and backs out. The others follow with chamois leathers.

  Hassan goes over to the owner and accepts the cash.

  “Looks very good,” the owner remarks. Hassan nods, counts the eight twenty-kroner notes and omits to mention there is ten kroner too much. Quite right, he thinks, since he got the express-while-u-wait service.

  Shah gets out of the car and hands the owner the keys. The other three wipe off the remaining moisture on the Audi’s roof, doors, and rims.

  “Thank you so much,” the owner says and gets in. He drives off at a leisurely pace. Hassan looks at the others and signals that they should go back inside. They obey his command and step inside Hassan’s glass cage office. It is the size of a bedroom. There are three chairs and a television in the corner, Al-Jazeera with the sound off. There is a mug of coffee, a computer, and piles of documents and newspapers on Hassan’s desk. An old nude picture of Nereida Gallardo Alvarez decorates the wall behind Hassan’s squeaking chair.

  “Close the door,” Hassan orders Yasser Shah. Hassan presses a button. A red light goes on outside the car wash.

  The others wait. Hassan looks at them. His hair is longish, shining with Brylcreem and combed back. He doesn’t have a ponytail, though his hair is long enough for one. He has strips of beard, carefully combed, around his mouth and on his cheeks. He wears a thick gold chain around his neck and earrings that match. He is wearing stonewashed jeans and a white vest which stretches tightly across his stomach and chest. Hassan is thin, but not gangly. The muscles in his arms are noticeable. He has a tattoo of a green frog on one arm and a black scorpion on the other.

  “We’ve got a problem,” he says, looking gravely at them in turn. “We’ve talked about this before, what to do should such a situation arise, and especially if this particular situation should arise.”

  The others nod silently. Yasser Shah opens his mouth slightly. Hassan registers it.

  “Yasser, over to you now,” he says firmly. Yasser’s about to speak, but Hassan interrupts him.

  “We need to send him a message. This is your chance to prove that you’re one of us, that you’re serious about being here.”

  Shah looks down. He is short and of heavy build. There is a square of dense beard around his mouth, his skin is smooth, and he has sideburns. His nose is crooked from a fistfight in Gujarat in 1994. His lip was split in the same fight, and he has a scar on his upper lip, to the left. The stud in his left ear looks like a diamond.

  “Do you want to go to jail?”

  Shah looks up again.

  “No,” he mutters.

  “Do you want the rest of us to end up in jail?”

  “No.”

  His voice is firmer this time.

  “This way of life demands that we sacrifice ourselves for each other,” Hassan continues. “We can’t take risks.”

  The others look at Hassan and then at Shah. Hassan waits a long time before opening a drawer and taking out a black box. He opens it, takes out a pistol and a silencer, and gives both to Shah.

  “Nice and easy. No mistakes.”

  Shah nods reluctantly.

  “As for the rest of you. As soon as this hits the headlines—make sure you’re near a CCTV camera and have plenty of witnesses who can vouch for you. The cops mightn’t call, but if they do, it’ll be to find out where you were.”

  Everyone, apart from Yasser Shah, nods. He stares at the floor.

  19

  Henning opens his laptop again and locates FireCracker 2.0 on the program menu. He hesitates for a few seconds before he double clicks the icon of a miniature firecracker. Perhaps 6tiermes7 uses a different version now, a more recent one, new applications might have been added which require upgrades, but he clicks anyway. It’s worth a try.

  The program takes forever to load. I must get a new computer, he thinks, as the fan starts to whirr. While the machine hums into action, he goes to the home page of 123news to see if his story has been published.

  It has. A quick glance tells him the news desk has made very few changes. It is their lead story. Iver Gundersen’s story about the arrest is accessible via a link in the introduction. Just looking at Gundersen’s words makes Henning feel sick.

  So he concentrates on his own headline: “We’ll never forget you.” The accompanying photograph is of the shrine and the cards and messages for Henriette Hagerup. A standard package. But a good one, a good start. It’s not proper news as such, but it’s a good start.

  Someone stomps up and down the communal stairs. Henning tries to ignore it and checks if FireCracker 2.0 is up and running. It is. But 6tiermes7 isn’t there. He leaves it for few more minutes. In the meantime, he forces himself to read Iver Gundersen’s story, telling himself that it might contain useful
information. He remembers that Nora’s new lover boy asked him to find out the name of Hagerup’s boyfriend, something which completely slipped his mind.

  He curses his useless gray cells, then clicks on the story and begins to read.

  STONING: MAN ARRESTED

  A man in his twenties has been arrested in connection with the brutal murder of Henriette Hagerup.

  There is a photograph of the crime scene—the right one this time—next to the introduction. He can see the large white tent in the background. Some onlookers are standing behind the police tape. He reads on.

  The man was arrested following a routine police visit to his flat. The man attempted to escape when officers knocked on his door, but he was quickly apprehended.

  123news has learned that incriminating evidence was discovered in the suspect’s flat. He will be brought before a judge and remanded in custody later today. Lars Indrehaug, the suspect’s solicitor, denies that his client is guilty.

  Gundersen then reviews the story, explains what has happened, when it happened, and how the story has developed in the course of the day. He also includes a quote from Chief Inspector Gjerstad, a quote Henning recognizes from the press conference.

  Noise continues to come from the stairwell. He checks FireCracker 2.0 again. He is still the only user to be logged on. He decides not to log out in case 6tiermes7 logs on during the evening or overnight. But he has a sinking feeling that’s not going to happen.

  He sighs and stares blankly at the wall. His first day back at work is over and done with. He thinks about the people he met: Kåre, Heidi, Nora, Iver, Anette. After just one day at work, he has acquired knowledge and formed relationships he could, quite happily, have done without. Memories are returning, memories he had hoped would remain in the darkness.

  He thinks about Nora, what she is doing now, if she is with Gundersen. Of course she is. Mister Super Fucking Corduroy. They are probably having dinner. In a restaurant. Swapping stories about their day, what they will do when they get home, under the duvet, or on top of it, possibly.

  He decides not to think about it and hopes that the evening and the night will come quickly.

  The stomping still hasn’t ended. Henning gets up to investigate. An elderly man is on his way up the stairs when Henning peers out. The man is wheezing. He is dressed in shorts only, nothing on his upper body. Despite his age—Henning reckons he is well in excess of seventy—he still has plenty of muscles. They look at each other. The man is about to carry on, but stops and takes another look at Henning.

  “Have you just moved in?” he asks.

  “No,” Henning replies. “I’ve lived here for six months.”

  “Oh, have you? I live just below you.”

  “Right.”

  He walks down to Henning and holds out his hand.

  “Gunnar Goma. I’ve had bypass surgery. Four veins.”

  He points to a huge scar on his chest. Henning nods and shakes his hand.

  “That’s why I’m out of breath. I’m getting back in shape. So I can satisfy the ladies, he-he.”

  “Henning Juul.”

  “And I go commando.”

  “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

  “Fancy a coffee some day?”

  Henning nods again. He likes coffee, but he thinks it is unlikely that he will ever be drinking coffee with Gunnar Goma. Though, on second thought, the invitation isn’t entirely unwelcome.

  He hears a ping from his laptop, as he goes inside. He remembers that ping. Ding-dong, like a doorbell. It means someone has sent him a message via FireCracker.

  It has to be 6tiermes7.

  He quickly sits down, moves the mouse and wakes up the screen. He closes all other windows so only FireCracker is open. He looks at the screen. A small square window has popped up. Inside it says:

  6tiermes7:

  Judge.

  To be absolutely sure that no one else can use the program, they have agreed on numerous code words. The person making contact writes the first part of the word. If the person responding gives the correct continuation, they are safe.

  He smiles and replies:

  MakkaPakka:

  Devil.

  He is rewarded by a smiley.

  Henning and 6tiermes7 have chatted about much besides evidence and cases under investigation. He got his nickname, MakkaPakka, because 6tiermes7 knows Henning loathes In the Night Garden, a half-hour children’s television program that NRK broadcasts every afternoon before television for older children begins. The characters in In the Night Garden never say very much, instead they make sounds which correspond to their names. Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, Makka Pakka, the Tombliboos, and the Ninky Nonk.

  He is convinced that 6tiermes7 enjoys teasing him whenever they chat, no matter what motivates him or her.

  MakkaPakka:

  I wasn’t sure that you still existed.

  6tiermes7:

  Or that you did. We’ve missed you.

  MakkaPakka:

  Thank you.

  6tiermes7:

  So You’re back? I heard you came to the press conference today.

  MakkaPakka:

  Who told you that?

  6tiermes7:

  The prime minster. What do you take me for?

  Henning sends a smiley.

  6tiermes7:

  What’s up?

  MakkaPakka:

  Henriette Hagerup. What do you take me for?

  More smileys.

  6tiermes7:

  What do you want?

  MakkaPakka:

  Everything you have—or haven’t got.

  6tiermes7:

  You certainly don’t waste time.

  MakkaPakka:

  Haven’t got time to waste. Have they got something worthwhile on—What’s his name?

  He doesn’t get an immediate response. Perhaps I was too rash or pushy, he thinks. A minute passes. And another. He slumps. Finally, a message pops up.

  6tiermes7:

  Sorry. Loo break.

  More smileys.

  6tiermes7:

  His name is Mahmoud Marhoni. Her boyfriend. Fled when Sergeant Sandland and Inspector Brogeland turned up at his flat. Set fire to his laptop. Looks like he argued with HH the night she was killed. Compromising text messages from her to him.

  MakkaPakka:

  Did you manage to save his laptop?

  6tiermes7:

  Don’t know yet.

  MakkaPakka:

  OK. Was Hagerup stoned to death?

  6tiermes7:

  Stoned, flogged, hand chopped off. She had stun gun marks on her neck.

  MakkaPakka:

  A stun gun? Like a cattle prod?

  6tiermes7:

  Yes.

  This doesn’t sound anything like an honor killing, Henning thinks. More like sharia and hudud. Something doesn’t add up.

  MakkaPakka:

  Does MM fit the bill?

  6tiermes7:

  No.

  MakkaPakka:

  What does Gjerstad think?

  6tiermes7:

  Not much yet. Think he is glad to see some progress.

  MakkaPakka:

  Does MM have any family?

  6tiermes7:

  A brother. Tariq. They share a flat.

  MakkaPakka:

  You said something about compromising text messages. Compromising how?

  6tiermes7:

  Think she has been unfaithful.

  MakkaPakka:

  And that’s why she was killed? Is that why you’re thinking honor killing?

  6tiermes7:

  Don’t know.

  I bet Iver Gundersen doesn’t know about this, Henning thinks and nods to himself. A plan is taking shape. He likes plans. But he doesn’t like shortcuts.

  And he has a feeling that the police are taking that route.

  20

  Dreams. Henning wishes there was a button he could press to shut off access to his subconscious at night. He has just woken up,
his eyes adjust to the darkness while he gasps for air. He is burning hot. It isn’t morning yet, but he’s wide awake. And he has been dreaming again.

  He dreamt they had gone to the playground in Sofienberg Park, Jonas and he. It was winter, it was cold. He cleared a bench of snow and frost and sat drinking lovely hot coffee from a plastic cup, while he watches Jonas’s grinning face, flushed cheeks, and cloudy breath beneath the pale blue woolly hat that was pushed too far down his head, his eyes seeking out Henning’s all the time. And he saw Jonas climb to the highest point of the jungle gym. All his concentration went into looking at his dad so he didn’t look where he was going, he stepped between the ropes, lost his grip, fell forwards and sideways and smashed his face and mouth into a post. Henning leapt up, ran over to him, turned the boy’s head to examine the extent of the damage, but all he could see was a black, sooty face. Jonas’s mouth was gone. No teeth.

  The only thing that wasn’t black was his burning eyes.

  He wakes up and finds himself blowing, blowing desperately on Jonas’s burning eyes to put out the flames. But they never go out. Jonas’s eyes are like those birthday candles which reignite themselves; you can try, but you’ll never succeed in blowing them out.

  The dream throws him for a loop every time. When he wakes up his pulse is racing, and he closes his eyes to block out the image that makes him nauseous. He visualizes the ocean. Dr. Helge has taught him to do that, concentrate on a favorite place or activity, whenever he gets flashbacks.

  Henning likes the sea. He has happy memories of saltwater. And the sea helps him open his eyes again. He rolls onto his side, sees, from the clock on his mobile, that he has slept for nearly three hours. Not bad, for him. And he decides that will have to do.