by Jo Nesbo
The skin around her eyes recoiled.
'But I'm no danger to you,' Harry said. 'Croatia is not under my jurisdiction, and no one knows I'm here. Neither the Croatian police nor my own bosses.'
'So what do you want?'
'To strike a deal.'
'About what?' She leaned across the table and turned down the volume on the radio.
'Your operative in exchange for my target.'
'What do you mean?'
'A swap. Your man for Jon Karlsen. If he gives up his hunt for Karlsen we'll let him go.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'All of you protecting one man against an operative, Mr Hansen? And you're frightened?'
'We're frightened of a bloodbath. Your operative has already taken the lives of two people and stabbed one of my colleagues.'
'Has . . .' She paused. 'That can't be right.'
'There will be more dead bodies if you don't call him back. And one of them will be his.'
She closed her eyes. Sat like that for some time. Then she breathed in. 'If he's killed one of your colleagues you'll be out for revenge. How can I rely on you to keep your part of the deal?'
'My name's Harry Hole.' He placed his passport on the table. 'If it comes out that I've been here without permission from the Croatian authorities there will be a diplomatic incident. And I'll be without a job.'
She produced a pair of glasses. 'So you're putting yourself forward as a hostage? Do you think that sounds credible, Mr . . .' She placed the glasses on her nose and read the passport: 'Harry Hole.'
'That's my stake in the deal.'
She nodded. 'I understand. And do you know what?' She took off her glasses. 'I might have been willing to do a deal, but what good is it if I can't call him back?'
'What do you mean?'
'I don't know where he is.'
Harry studied her. Saw the pain in her eyes. Heard the tremor in her voice.
'Well,' Harry said, 'you'll have to negotiate with what you have. Give me the name of the person who contracted the murder.'
'No.'
'If the policeman dies . . .' Harry said, taking a photograph from his pocket and placing it on the table between them, 'the chances are that your operative will be killed. It may well be made to look as if the policeman was forced to shoot in self-defence. That's the way it is. Unless I prevent it. Do you understand? Is this the person?'
'Threats don't work very well with me, Mr Hole.'
'I'm going back to Oslo early tomorrow morning. I'll write my telephone number on the back of the photo. Ring me if you change your mind.'
She took the photograph and put it in her bag.
Harry spoke in a hurried whisper. 'It's your son, isn't it?'
She stiffened. 'What makes you think that?'
'I have eyes in my head too. I can also see pain.'
She sat hunched over her bag. 'And what about you, Hole?' She raised her eyes and looked into his face. 'Is this policeman one you don't know? Since you can forgo revenge so easily?'
Harry's mouth was so dry that his breath burned inside. 'Yes,' he said. 'I don't know him.'
Harry thought he could hear a cock crowing as he watched her through the window walking on the opposite side of the road until she turned left and disappeared from view.
In his room he drained the rest of the miniatures, vomited again, drank beer, vomited, looked at himself in the mirror and took the lift down to the bar.
23
Friday Night, 19 December. The Dogs.
HE SAT IN THE DARK CONTAINER TRYING TO THINK. THE policeman's wallet contained 2,800 Norwegian kroner, and if he remembered the exchange rate correctly that meant he had enough for food, a new jacket and a plane ticket to Copenhagen.
The problem now was ammunition.
The shot in Gøteborggata had been the seventh and the last. He had been down to Plata and enquired where he could buy nine-millimetre bullets, but had received blank looks in reply. If he kept on asking random faces, the odds of him bumping into an undercover cop were pretty high.
He smacked his empty Llama Minimax down on the floor.
A man smiled up at him from the ID card. Halvorsen. They were bound to have formed a protective cordon around Jon Karlsen now. There was just one possibility left. A Trojan Horse. And he knew who the horse would have to be. Harry Hole. Sofies gate 5 according to the woman at directory enquiries, who told him there was only one Harry Hole in Oslo. He checked his watch. And froze.
There was the sound of footsteps outside.
He jumped up, grabbed the chunk of glass with one hand and the gun with the other and stood beside the opening.
The door opened. He saw a silhouette against the lights of the town. Then the figure came in and sat down on the floor with crossed legs.
He held his breath.
Nothing happened.
Then there was the hiss of a match, and the corner and the face of the intruder were lit up. He was holding a teaspoon in the same hand as the match. With the other hand and his teeth he tore open a plastic bag. He recognised the boy in the light blue denim jacket.
As he breathed out with relief, the boy's swift, effective movements came to a sudden halt.
'Hello?' The boy peered into the dark while stashing away the bag in his pocket.
He cleared his throat and stepped into the outer circle of light from the match. 'Remember me?'
The boy stared at him in terror.
'I talked to you outside the railway station. I gave you money. Your name's Kristoffer, isn't it?'
Kristoffer gawped. 'Is that you? The foreigner who gave me five hundred kroner? Christ. Well, OK, I recognise your voice – Ow! 'Kristoffer dropped the match, which went out on the floor. His voice sounded closer in the pitch darkness: 'Alright if I share this place with you tonight, pal?'
'You can have it all to yourself. I was on my way out.'
Another match flickered into life. 'Better if you stay here. Warmer with two. I mean it, man.' He was holding a spoon and filling it with liquid from a small bottle.
'What's that?'
'Water and ascorbic acid.' Kristoffer opened the bag and poured the powder into the spoon without contaminating a single grain, then deftly moved the match into the other hand.
'You're good at that, Kristoffer.' He watched the junkie hold the flame under the teaspoon while flipping out another match and holding it ready.
'They call me Steadyhand in Plata.'
'I can see why. Listen, I've got to be off. Let's change jackets and you might survive the night.
Kristoffer looked first at his thin denim jacket and then at the other man's thick blue one. 'Wow. Do you mean that?'
'Yes, of course.'
'Shit, that's kind of you. Hang on until I've fixed this shot. Could you hold the match?'
'Wouldn't it be easier if I held the syringe?'
Kristoffer scowled at him. 'Hello, I may be green but I'm not falling for the oldest junkie trick in the world. Come on, hold the match.'
He took the match.
The powder dissolved in the water and became a clear, brown liquid, and Kristoffer put a piece of cotton wool in the spoon.
'To get rid of the crap,' he answered before the other asked, then sucked the liquid up into the syringe through the cotton wool and placed the tip against his arm. 'Can you see how wonderful my skin is? Scarcely a mark, can you see that? Wonderful, thick veins. Pure virgin territory, they say. But in a couple of years it will be yellow with inflamed scabs, like theirs. And no more Steadyhand, either. I know that and yet I still keep doing it. Crazy or what.'
While Kristoffer was talking he shook the syringe to cool the liquid. He had tightened the rubber strap around his upper arm, inserted the needle into the vein that wound like a blue snake under his skin. The metal slid through the skin. Then he injected the heroin into his bloodstream. His eyelids half closed and his mouth half opened. Then his head fell back and his eyes found the hovering dog's corpse.
He watched Kristoffer for
a while. Then he threw away the burned match and unzipped the blue jacket.
When Beate Lønn did get through at last she could hardly hear Harry because of the disco version of 'Jingle Bells' reverberating in the background. But she heard enough to know that he was not sober. Not because his speech was slurred; quite the contrary, he was very articulate. She told him about Halvorsen.
'Cardiac tamponade?' Harry shouted.
'Internal bleeding that fills the area round the heart so that it can't beat properly. They had to drain a lot of blood. The situation has stabilised now, but he's still in a coma. We just have to wait. I'll ring you if there are any developments.'
'Thanks. Anything else I ought to know?'
'Hagen sent Jon Karlsen and Thea Nilsen back to Østgård with two babysitters. And I've spoken to Sofia Miholjec's mother. She promised to take Sofia to a doctor today.'
'Mm. What about the Veterinary Institute report about the bits of meat in the vomit?'
'They said they suggested Chinese restaurants because China is the only country in the world where they eat that kind of thing.'
'Eat what kind of thing?'
'Dog.'
'Dog? Hang on.'
The music was gone and in its place she heard traffic noise. Then Harry's voice was there again. 'But they don't serve dog meat in Norway, for Christ's sake.'
'No, this is special. The Veterinary Institute managed to pinpoint the breed, so I'll ring the Norwegian Kennel Club tomorrow. They have a register of all pedigree dogs and their owners.'
'I don't quite see how that will help us. There must be hundreds of thousands of dogs in Norway.'
'Four hundred thousand. At least one for every household. I've checked it. The point is that this one is rare. Have you ever heard of a black Metzner?'
'Please repeat that.'
She repeated. And for a couple of seconds all she heard was the traffic noise in Zagreb until Harry shouted: 'Of course! That makes sense. A man looking for shelter. Why didn't I think of that before?'
'Think of what?'
'I know where Stankic is hiding.'
'What?'
'You must get hold of Hagen and have him authorise an armed operation by Delta.'
'Where? What are you talking about?'
'The container terminal. Stankic is hiding in one of the containers.'
'How do you know that?'
'Because there aren't many bloody places in Oslo where you can eat black Metzner. Make sure Delta and Falkeid have surrounded the terminal by the time I arrive on the first plane tomorrow. But no arrests before I get there. Is that clear?'
After Beate rang off, Harry stood in the street looking at the hotel bar. Where the plastic music was pounding away. And the half-finished glass of poison was awaiting him.
He had him now, the mali spasitelj. All that was needed was a clear head and a steady hand. Harry thought about Halvorsen. Of a heart drowning in blood. He could go straight up to his room, where there was no more alcohol, lock the door and throw the key out of the window. Or he could go in and finish off his drink. Harry shivered and took a deep breath and switched off his mobile. Then he went into the bar.
Staff at the Salvation Army's Headquarters had long since switched off the lights and gone home, but the light in Martine's office was still on. She dialled Harry Hole's number while asking herself the same questions: Was it because he was older that made it so exciting? Or because there seemed to be so many repressed emotions? Or because he looked so helpless. The incident with the woman Harry snubbed on the landing ought to have frightened her off, but for some reason or other the opposite was the case; she had become more intent than ever to . . . yes, what did she want actually? Martine groaned when the voice announced that the phone subscriber had switched off or was in area with poor coverage. She rang enquiries, got the number of his landline in Sofies gate and called. Her heart leapt when she heard his voice, but it was only an answering machine. She had the perfect excuse for popping by on her way home from the office and now he wasn't there! She left another message. Saying she had to give him the ticket for the Christmas concert in advance because she would be helping at the concert hall from the morning onwards.
She put down the phone and at that moment became aware that someone was standing in the doorway observing her.
'Rikard! Don't do that. You frightened me.'
'Sorry. I was on my way home and just poked my head in to see if I was the last. Shall I drive you home?'
'Thank you, but—'
'You've got your jacket on. Come on and then you don't have to bother with the alarm.' Rikard laughed his staccato laugh. Martine had managed to set off the new alarm twice last week when she had been last to leave, and they'd had to pay the security company to come out.
'OK,' she said. 'Thank you.'
'Not at all . . .' Rikard sniffled.
His heart was pounding. He could smell Harry Hole now. With infinite care he opened the door and groped for the light switch on the wall. In his other hand he held the gun, pointing it at the bed he could more or less make out in the dark. He breathed in and flicked the light switch; the bedroom was flooded in light. The room was bare – just a basic bed which was tidy and unoccupied. Like the rest of the flat. He had already searched the other rooms. And now he was in the bedroom and could feel his pulse beginning to calm down. Harry Hole was not at home.
He put his gun in the pocket of the filthy denim jacket and felt it crush the urinal block he had taken from the toilet in Oslo Central Station, which was next to the public telephone he had used to find out Hole's Sofies gate address.
It had been easier to enter the building than he had thought. After ringing twice at the main door without receiving an answer, he had been on the point of giving up. But then he pushed the door and although it was closed it had not snapped shut. Must have been the cold. On the second floor Hole's name was scribbled on a strip of masking tape. He had put his cap against the glass pane above the lock and hit it with the barrel of his gun; it had cracked with a crisp crack.
The sitting room faced the backyard so he took the risk of switching on a lamp. He looked around. Simple and spartan. Tidy.
But his Trojan Horse, the man who could lead him to Jon Karlsen, was not there. For the time being. But he hoped he had a weapon or ammunition. He started with the places it would be natural to imagine a policeman might keep a gun, in drawers or cupboards or under the pillow. On finding nothing, he carried out a systematic room-to-room search, but without any success. Then he began the random search that is manifest proof that you have in fact given up and are desperate. Under a letter on the telephone table he found a police ID card with a photo of Harry Hole. He pocketed it. He moved books and records which he noticed were arranged in alphabetical order on the shelves. There was a stack of papers on the coffee table. He flicked through them and stopped at a photograph with a motif he had seen in many variants: dead man in a uniform. Robert Karlsen. He saw the name Stankic. One form had Harry's name at the top; his eyes ran down it and stopped at a cross by a familiar expression. Smith & Wesson .38. The signatory had written his name with grandiose flourishes. A gun licence? A request form?