The Great Gold Robbery

by Jo Nesbo

“What rules?” Alfie asked with a disparaging sniff.

  “Well, for example, the rule that says you have to hit with the cards faceup!” Nilly said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve as Alfie dealt the next round. “Of course, that’s a lot more painful. But no, that’s just so typically English. You guys have to do everything differently: drive on the wrong side, use yards instead of meters, spell everything funny, don’t speak any foreign languages. . . .”

  “Shut up and play!” Alfie barked. “The minimum wager doubles each time, so now it’s ten.”

  “Ten,” Nilly said, and then spread his cards out on the table.

  “You have a pair of tens?” Alfie said. “Not bad.”

  “Ha!” Betty said, showing his three kings.

  Nilly stuck out his right fist, and Alfie raised the deck of cards. Then reconsidered. Then grunted and rotated the deck so the cards were faceup and then smacked Nilly’s knuckles with them.

  “Ow!” Nilly yelled. And then, “Double ow!” And then, so loud the porcelain plate on the wall with the picture of the crown prince and princess shook: “Owwwwww!”

  “Sounds like the little guy was right!” Charlie cried, plugging his ears. “It really does hurt a lot more if you follow the international rules!”

  “Awesome,” Alfie said, really laying into it on the last blow, drawing a trickle of blood from two of Nilly’s knuckles. “Let’s play by the international rules from now on!”

  He shuffled and dealt again while Nilly wiped away more tears and blew on his knuckles.

  “Hah!” Betty said when he saw his cards.

  “Yes!” Charlie said when he saw his cards.

  “Would you look at that?” Alfie crowed when he saw his.

  “Jackpots poker,” Nilly said.

  “Huh?” the brothers all said in unison, looking at him.

  “I bet a thousand blows and I say, jackpots poker!”

  “A thousand blows and what poker?”

  “Jackpots poker,” Nilly said. “That means that we deal the cards again, but the pot stays and you have to have at least a pair of jacks to continue. Anyone who can’t keep going gets fifty blows to the knuckles.”

  “I don’t want fifty blows to the knuckles,” Betty said.

  “Me either!” Charlie said with a shudder.

  “Good,” Nilly said. “Then you guys are all in. Deal the cards again, Alfie.”

  “No way, I like my hand!” Alfie said.

  “You were the one who said that from now on we were going to play by the international rules and that Englishmen always play honestly,” Nilly said.

  Alfie stared at Nilly for a few seconds, furious, then muttered something under his breath, gathered all the cards, and shuffled them again. Then dealt a new round.

  “I bet two thousand blows,” Nilly said after he’d looked at his cards. “And I say jackpots.”

  The brothers groaned.

  After six rounds of jackpots like this, Alfie was really mad. “Enough messing around! There’s ten thousand blows in the pot, and that means the loser is going to be Parmesan cheese not just once, but three times over! So this was the last round of jackpots. Now let’s PLAY! All right?”

  The brothers watched as the little redheaded boy shrugged and said, “Fine by me.”

  Alfie carefully shuffled the cards, keeping his eye on Nilly. “You haven’t been complaining that you got a bad hand each time, pipsqueak. You should have been. Most of the people we play against accuse me of rigging the cards.”

  “Never occurred to me,” Nilly said, taking his cards. “I raise my bet by ten thousand more blows. Anyone in?”

  “Me!” the brothers all cried in unison.

  Betty was the first to show his cards: a pair of threes.

  Alfie rolled his eyes and showed three jacks. “Three of a kind, jacks!” he bragged.

  “Good, but not good enough!” Charlie said jubilantly, slapping his cards onto the table. A six, a seven, an eight, a nine, and a ten. “A five-card straight beats three of a kind! Ha-ha!”

  The brothers turned and stared tensely at Nilly. Although now that you mention it, Alfie, who had dealt the cards, didn’t really look that tense. But he was even more surprised than the other two when Nilly flung both arms up in the air and shouted, “I win!”

  “Impossible,” Alfie hissed. “Let me see your cards, you little rhubarb.”

  Nilly laid his cards down on the table. For a couple of seconds it was completely quiet in the room. Then first Alfie began to laugh, then Betty, and finally Charlie.

  “You just have a pair of twos!” Betty said.

  “Plus a three of clubs,” Nilly said with satisfaction. “And the queen of hearts!”

  “That doesn’t help. You’re last!” Charlie said.

  “You’re Parmesan cheese,” Alfie said.

  “No way,” Nilly said.

  “No way?”

  “You guys are forgetting that we’re playing by the international rules, boys.”

  “So what?” Alfie said.

  “Since you guys are authentic competitive international poker players, I’m sure you know the rules,” Nilly said, pointing to Charlie’s cards. “First of all, it doesn’t count as a straight when the cards go up, like from six to ten. According to paragraph nineteen, an approved straight has to go down, like from six to two, for example.”

  “Darn it!” Charlie said, scratching his head.

  “Besides,” Nilly said, physically whacking Betty’s pair of threes with his own three of clubs, chanting victoriously, “three of clubs! Three of clubs.”

  “Huh?” Betty said. “What are you doing?”

  “Exactly what it says on my card. Clubbing your pair of threes. If you club a pair of threes, you knock them down to half size, making them one and a half. Which means my pair of twos beats your pair of one and a halves. Simple math!”

  “You’re smart, pipsqueak,” Alfie said. “But that doesn’t help, because I have three jacks!”

  Nilly triumphantly held up his queen of hearts and waved it tauntingly.

  “What about it?” Alfie grumbled.

  “I trump you with the queen of hearts. Because she’s the mother of those three jacks. And she says it’s time for her three little jacks to go to bed now.”

  “What a bunch of nonsense!” Alfie said, standing up.

  “Oh yeah?” Nilly said. “Do you guys want me to tell”—he lowered his voice—“Mama Crunch”—he raised his voice again—“that her boys disrespected the queen of hearts? And that they’re cheating at blood knuckles?”

  Complete silence filled the room for exactly six and a half seconds.

  Then Alfie Crunch lowered his buzz-cut head. “Rats!” he said, holding out his clenched fist.

  “Ugh!” Betty said, holding out his clenched fist.

  “Both ugh and rats,” said Charlie, holding out his clenched fist.

  Nilly gave the deck of cards a test whack on the edge of the table.

  “I’d like to suggest that you guys wear the sleep masks, because this could get really ugly,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Charlie said, and put on one of the British Airways sleep masks.

  “Thanks,” Betty said, and put on one of the British Airways sleep masks.

  “Thanks,” Alfie said, and put on one of the British Airways sleep masks.

  “Ready?” Nilly asked. “Now I’ll just do a little eeny-meeny-miny-moe to myself to see which one of you I’m going to start with, and then we’ll get on with it.”

  The brothers sat speechless, anxiously waiting to find out which of them would be turned into Parmesan cheese first. Charlie was the first one to lose his patience.

  “Has he started hitting either of you yet?”

  “You fool!” Alfie said. “You would’ve heard it if he had!”

  “How long can it take to do eeny-meeny-miny-moe?” Betty asked.

  “A really long time, apparently,” Alfie said.

  “What are you boys doing?” they heard a de
ep, familiar voice ask. “And where’s the pipsqueak? Did you turn him into Parmesan cheese already?”

  They pulled off their sleep masks.

  And Mama Crunch was standing in the living-room doorway, holding the grocery bags.

  But there was no sign of Nilly. Or his wood-chopping shoe, aiming mitten, or darts.

  “He’s gone!” Alfie cried.

  “He skedaddled!” Betty yelled.

  “He vamoosed,” Charlie whispered.

  This Particular Chapter Has No Title. Hope You Survive.

  “YOU CAN LET go now,” Nilly said.

  He had just stepped into the hotel room and been greeted by a jubilant Doctor Proctor and embraced by a sobbing-with-joy Lisa.

  “We were so afraid for you,” Lisa sniffled, hugging her little friend even harder. “We thought you were going to die!”

  “I will if you don’t let go soon,” Nilly said, sounding a little like he was choking.

  Lisa sighed and reluctantly let go.

  “Tell us what happened!” Doctor Proctor said.

  So Nilly did. Of course he might have exaggerated ever so slightly about this or that. But he wouldn’t be Nilly if he didn’t.

  “So you snuck out in the middle of blood knuckles?” Doctor Proctor asked, laughing.

  “Yep,” Nilly said. “But we have to hurry now, because Rublov is having the gold bars melted down as we speak to turn them into the World Cup trophy!”

  “Too late,” Lisa said. They looked at her, and she pointed to the TV screen.

  And there was Rublov. A tall, blond woman in a short dress was standing behind him. Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and there was a diamond the size of your average egg on her ring finger. Ibranaldovez was standing behind her, yawning and looking at the time. A sports reporter was holding a microphone up to Rublov. And behind all that they saw it: the trophy. There was a ribbon around it, and it gleamed solid gold. Lisa turned up the volume.

  “How much did you pay for that marvel, Rublov?”

  “Her?” Rublov said, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb. “Or him, farther back there? Mwa-ha-ha! More than I paid for Finland and New Zealand, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Are you planning to score against Rotten Ham on Saturday?” the reporter called to Ibranaldovez.

  “Only if he doubles my salary,” Ibranaldovez said, pouting and looking at the time again.

  “Of course I will, my boy,” Rublov said. “Anything else you want?”

  “Her,” the best soccer player in the world said, pointing to the blonde.

  “Fine. As long as I get this,” Rublov said, patting the big trophy.

  The blonde glanced hesitantly from Rublov to Ibranaldovez for a moment before deciding just to smile and go along with it.

  Lisa mumbled something and looked offended. Then she turned the volume down again.

  “Well,” Nilly said. “We can’t win every time, but at least we did our best for king and fatherland. When’s the next flight back to Oslo?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight thirty,” Lisa said. “I guess we might as well start packing.”

  They started moving slowly toward the bedroom, but stopped when they heard Doctor Proctor clear his throat loudly, “Ahem!” He sat down on the sofa, his face covered in thought wrinkles.

  “What is it, Professor?” Lisa asked.

  “Oh, I was just thinking.”

  “We can see that, but what are you thinking?” Lisa prodded.

  “I was thinking that if I absolutely have to pack, it would be nice to pack the gold we came here to find.”

  “But the gold is there,” Lisa said, pointing at the World Cup trophy that the TV happened to be doing a close-up of just then. “And we’re here.”

  Nilly lit up. “Does this by any chance call for a robbery?” he asked, cheerfully rubbing his hands together.

  “Forget it, Nilly,” Lisa said. “That trophy is so heavily guarded that not even your quirky ideas or Doctor Proctor’s inventions are enough to get it.”

  “Lisa’s right, as usual,” Doctor Proctor said.

  “Of course I am,” Lisa scoffed. “The only one going home with that gold is the one who wins the stupid World Cup game.”

  “Exactly,” Doctor Proctor said.

  Lisa froze and stared uncomprehendingly at Doctor Proctor. He smiled. Then she looked a little less uncomprehending. Then downright scared. “You— don’t mean—?”

  “I sure do,” Doctor Proctor said, beaming.

  “Doesn’t mean what?” Nilly asked, looking from Lisa to the professor. “Hello? Can somebody please tell me what you guys are talking about?”

  “What we’re talking about,” Lisa said, without taking her eyes off the professor, “is the doctor being a complete, raving lunatic!”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s old news,” Nilly said. “But in what way is he being a lunatic right now?”

  “Let me explain it to you,” Doctor Proctor said. “Take a seat and pay close attention. . . .”

  Doctor Proctor Goes Crazy (Or Rather: Even Crazier Than Usual)

  THE SUN HAD just risen over the practice field Rotten Ham was using. Or Rotten Ham ’n’ Potatoes, which was the team’s full official name. Or just “Toes,” as the team’s few local North Central London fans called them. Or “Stinking Toes,” as the team’s many foes throughout the rest of London called them. Basically, no one outside London had ever heard of the team, so they didn’t call them anything. The reason you either supported Rotten Ham or hated them was that in addition to having the cheapest and therefore worst players in London, they also played the most boring soccer in town. They almost never scored any goals, although on the other hand, they almost never let anyone else score against them either. The reason for this was that they almost always got a toe on the ball before the opposite team could get it into the goal, hence their derogatory nickname, “Stinking Toes.”

  Today they were practicing scoring goals.

  “No, no, no!” Rotten Ham’s coach, Eggy Losern, yelled at his players, stomping his rain boots in the grass. “The goal is right there! Do you see it? All righty?”

  Eggy Losern came from a long line of tugboat pilots, but when he had gone to sea, it was as a krill fisherman. While he was on the Antarctic Ocean, he figured out how to lure the krill into the nets using an ingenious zone defense tactic. The goal was to bore them so thoroughly that they ended up falling asleep and swimming right into his seine net like zombies. He was sure this “boring” technique could be used on the soccer field as well, so he resigned his berth on the ship and went ashore. He asked for a chance to coach the worst team in England, Rotten Ham. And since no one else wanted to coach them, he got the job the very same day.

  Egg’d been enormously successful. Rotten Ham had gone from being the very worst team in England to being just fourth worst in only two years. And this peculiar krill fisherman, who still dressed like a fisherman in his yellow sou’wester hat and long rubber boots, had gained respect and earned the nickname Krillo. And this year, Krillo and Stinking Toes had stumbled their way all the way to the World Cup finals with a combination of stubbornness, unbelievable luck, and such utterly boring soccer that their opponents had just stood there yawning, and didn’t even realize it when Rotten Ham managed to bump the ball into the goal.

  But Krillo knew that unfortunately this wouldn’t work against the Chelchester City team. Rublov had made that clear. He had seen through Rotten Ham’s tactics and was planning to give all his own players two cups of strong coffee before the game started so they would remain wide awake. And besides that, Chelchester City had bought Ibranaldovez, so they would score a goal no matter how zoned Rotten Ham’s defense was. Krillo knew that his players were going to have to score more than one goal this time. But how? How?

  Krillo lined his players up on the halfway line for the drill and watched them as they each maneuvered a ball to the eighteen-yard box and kicked it. The ball, that is. Or the eighteen-yard box. Not that it mattere
d what their feet hit, since the balls didn’t go into the goal either way.

  “You guys, I even took out the goalie!” Krillo grumbled, yanking off his sou’wester. “Look! The goal box is as empty as a lobster pot!”

  “It’s not that easy!” captain Nero Longhands cried, flinging his alarmingly long hands up in the air in despair.

  Krillo heard a clear thunk behind him. Then a loud whistling sound as some kind of projectile whizzed past him. Then a whoosh as the projectile hit the middle of the goal and slid down the net. The projectile bounced a couple of times before coming to rest.

  It was a soccer ball.

  Krillo slowly turned around.

  And saw something very odd.

  A tiny little redheaded guy wearing a tweed coat, a weird, pointy hat made of the same material, and two mismatched shoes, one of them apparently some kind of hand-stitched leather boot. The guy was standing there with his arms at his side and a self-satisfied smile on his lips. Behind him there was a tall, thin, lanky man wearing a penguin suit and what Krillo was willing to bet were swim goggles. The only one of the three who looked more or less normal was standing next to him: a girl with braids, a serious expression, and a soccer ball under her arm.

  “Who did that?” Krillo asked.

  “Sherl,” the man with the swim goggles said, pointing to the little redhead. “Full name Beckadona Hamarooney Sherl, also called ‘the Boot of Norway.’ And I am his agent, Hamish MacKaroni.”

  “Get off my practice field!” Krillo ordered, pointing to the exit.

  “Ockolmes!” the MacKaroni guy said, and the little girl rolled the ball she was holding to this Beckadona Hamarooney Sherl, who squinted up one eye, like he was aiming at the goal, and raised the tiny foot wearing the hand-stitched boot as if he were going to shoot. From a hundred feet away without even a running start? Ha! Krillo scoffed and then turned back to his players.

  “All righty, now move your balls even closer to the goal, and let’s see if—”

  Thunk!

  Whistle!

  Whoosh!

  Krillo stared at the ball, which bounced a couple of times inside the goal net, next to the first one. He turned around again.