by Jo Nesbo
Sverre’s gaze panned around the room. A girl and boy were tucking into a pizza. He hadn’t seen them before, but they didn’t look like under-cover police. Nor like journalists. Were they from the anti-fascist newspaper Monitor perhaps? He had exposed a Monitor bozo last winter, a man with scared eyes who had been in here a couple of times too many, who had acted drunk and started conversations with some of the regulars. Sverre had sniffed treachery in the air and they had taken him outside and torn off his sweater. He’d been wearing a wire. He had confessed that he was from Monitor before they even laid a hand on him. Scared stiff. Bunch of twats, these Monitor types. Thought this boys’ game, this voluntary surveillance of fascist elements, was extremely important and dangerous, that they were secret agents whose lives were in constant danger. Yeah, well, as far as that was concerned, perhaps they weren’t so different from a few in his own ranks, he had to admit. Anyway, the bozo had been sure they would kill him and was so frightened that he pissed himself. Quite literally. Sverre had spotted the dark stripe meandering down his trouser leg and across the tarmac. That was what he remembered best from that evening. The little stream of urine glittered dimly as it sought the lowest point in the sparsely lit back alley.
Sverre Olsen decided that the couple was just two hungry youngsters who happened to be passing by. The speed they were eating suggested that now they had become aware of the clientele and just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. By the window sat an old man in hat and coat. Perhaps a dipso, although his clothes sent a different message. But then again, they often looked like that for the first few days after the Salvation Army had dressed them – in nice second-hand quality coats and suits which were a little out of fashion. As he observed him, the old man suddenly looked up and met his eye. He wasn’t a dipso. The man had sparkling blue eyes and Sverre automatically looked away. How the old bastard stared!
Sverre concentrated on his mug of beer. It was time to earn a bit of cash. Let his hair grow over the tattoo on his neck, put on a long-sleeved shirt and get out there. There was enough work. Shit work. The blacks had all the nice, well-paid jobs. Poofs, heathens and blacks.
‘May I sit down?’
Sverre raised his eyes. It was the old man; he stood above him. Sverre hadn’t even noticed him walk over.
‘This is my table,’ Sverre rebuffed.
‘I only want a little chat.’ The old man laid a newspaper on the table between them and sat in the chair opposite. Sverre watched him warily.
‘Relax, I’m one of you,’ he said.
‘One of who?’
‘One of the people who come here. National Socialists.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Sverre moistened his lips and put the glass to his mouth. The old man sat there, motionless, watching him. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world. And he probably did have, he looked about seventy. At least. Could he be one of the old extremists from Zorn 88? One of the shy financial backers Sverre had heard about but never seen?
‘I need a favour.’ The old man spoke in a low voice. ‘Oh yeah?’ Sverre said. But he had toned down the overtly condescending attitude a notch. You never knew, after all.
‘Gun,’ the old man said.
‘What about a gun?’
‘I need one. Can you help me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Open the paper. Page twenty-eight.’
Sverre pulled the paper over and kept an eye on the old man as he flicked through. On page twenty-eight there was an article about neo-Nazis in Spain. By that bloody Resistance man, Even Juul. Thanks a lot. The big black and white picture of a young man holding up a painting of Generalissimo Franco was partially obscured by a thousand-kroner note.
‘If you can help me . . .’ the old man said.
Sverre shrugged.
‘. . . there’ll be nine thousand more on the way.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Sverre took another gulp. Looked around the room. The young couple had gone, but Halle, Gregersen and Kvinset were still sitting in the corner. And soon the others would be coming and it would be impossible to have a discreet conversation. Ten thousand kroner.
‘What kind of gun?’
‘A rifle.’
‘Should be able to manage that.’
The old man shook his head. ‘A Märklin rifle.’
‘Märklin? As in model trains?’ Sverre asked.
A crack opened in the wrinkled face beneath the hat. The old codger must have smiled.
‘If you can’t help me, tell me now. You can keep the thousand and we won’t talk any more about it. I’ll leave and we’ll never see each other again.’
Sverre experienced a brief rush of adrenaline. This was not the everyday chat about axes, hunting rifles or the odd stick of dynamite. This was the real McCoy. This guy was for real.
The door opened. Sverre glanced over his shoulder at the old man coming in. Not one of the boys, just the alkie in the red Icelandic sweater. He could be a pain when he was scrounging booze, but otherwise he was harmless enough.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sverre said, grabbing the thousand-kroner note.
Sverre didn’t see what happened next. The old-man’s hand smacked down on his like an eagle’s claw and fastened it to the table.
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’ The voice was cold and crisp, like a sheet of ice.
Sverre tried to jerk his hand away, but couldn’t. Couldn’t release his hand from the grip of a senile old man!
‘I asked if you could help me, and I want an answer. Yes or no. Understand?’
Sverre could feel his fury, his old friend and foe, mounting. For the time being, however, it had not repressed the other thought: ten thousand kroner. There was one man who could help him, a very special man. It wouldn’t be cheap, but he had a feeling the old codger wouldn’t haggle over the price.
‘I . . . I can help you.’
‘When?’
‘Three days. Here. Same time.’
‘Rubbish! You won’t get hold of a rifle like that in three days.’ The old man let go of his hand. ‘But you run off to the man who can help you, and ask him to run over to the man who can help him, and then you meet me here in three days so that we can arrange the time and place for delivery.’
Sverre could lift 120 kilos on a bench press. How could this scrawny old . . . ?
‘You tell me if the rifle has to be paid cash on delivery. You’ll get the rest of your money in three days.’
‘Yeah? What if I just take the money?’
‘Then I’ll come back and kill you.’
Sverre rubbed his wrists. He didn’t ask for any further details.
An icy cold wind swept across the pavement outside the telephone booth by Torggata Baths as Sverre Olsen tapped in the numbers with trembling fingers. It was so fucking cold! He had holes in the toecaps of both boots too. The receiver was lifted at the other end.
‘Yes?’
Sverre Olsen swallowed. Why was it the voice always made him feel so damned uneasy?
‘It’s me. Olsen.’
‘Speak.’
‘Someone needs a gun. A Märklin.’
No response.
‘As in model trains,’ Sverre added.
‘I know what a Märklin is, Olsen.’ The voice at the other end was flat, neutral; Sverre could feel the disdain. He didn’t react because, though he hated the man at the other end, his terror of him was greater – he wasn’t ashamed to admit that. This man had the reputation of being dangerous. Few people had heard of him, even in Sverre’s circle, and Sverre didn’t know his real name. But he had saved Sverre and his pals from a sticky situation more than once. All for the Cause, of course, not because he had any special liking for Sverre Olsen. Had Sverre known anyone else he thought could provide what he was after, he would have got in touch with them.
The voice: ‘Who’s asking and what do they want it for?’
‘Some old guy. I’ve never seen him before. Said he was one of us. And I didn’t exactly
ask him who he was going to blow away, let’s put it like that. No one perhaps. Perhaps he just wants it to —’
‘Shut up, Olsen. Did he look as if he had money?’
‘He was well dressed. And he gave me a thousand just to tell him whether I could help him or not.’
‘He gave you a thousand to keep your mouth shut, not to answer any questions.’
‘Right.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I’m meeting him again in three days. He wants to know then if we can get it.’
‘We?’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘If I can get it, you mean.’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘What’s he paying you for the job?’
Sverre paused. ‘Ten big ones.’
‘I’ll match it. Ten. If the deal works out. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘So what are the ten for?’
‘To keep my mouth shut.’
There was no feeling in Sverre’s toes when he put down the phone. He needed new boots. He stood still, studying an inert crisp packet which the wind had hurled into the air and which was now being blown between cars in the direction of Storgata.
20
Herbert’s Pizza. 15 November 1999.
THE OLD MAN LET THE GLASS DOOR TO HERBERT’S PIZZA close behind him. He stood on the pavement and waited. A Pakistani woman with a pram and her head wrapped in a shawl passed by. Cars whizzed by in front of him and he could see his flickering reflection in their windows and in the large glass panes of the pizzeria behind him. To the left of the entrance the window had a large white cross taped over it; it looked as if someone had tried to kick it in. The pattern of white cracks in the glass was like a spider’s web. Behind, he could see Sverre Olsen, still sitting at the table where they had agreed the details. Five weeks. The container port. Pier 4. Two a.m. Password: Voice of an Angel. Probably the name of a pop song. He’d never heard of it, but the title was appropriate. Unfortunately, the price had been rather less appropriate: 750,000 Norwegian kroner. But he wasn’t going to discuss it. The question now was only whether they would keep their end of the bargain or whether they would rob him at the container port. He had appealed to the young neo-Nazi’s sense of loyalty by divulging that he had fought at the Eastern Front, but he wasn’t sure if he had believed him. Or if it made any difference. He had even invented a story about where he had served in case the young man started asking questions. But he hadn’t.
Several more cars passed. Sverre Olsen had stayed put in the pizzeria, but someone else had stood up and was staggering towards the door at this moment. The old man remembered him; he had been there the last time too. And today he had kept his eyes on them the whole time. The door opened. He waited. There was a break in the traffic and he could hear that the man had come to a halt behind him. Then it came.
‘Well now, is that him?’
The voice had that very special rasping quality which only many years of heavy alcohol abuse, smoking and insufficient sleep can produce.
‘Do I know you?’ the old man asked without turning.
‘I reckon so, yes.’
The old man twisted his head round, studied him for a brief moment and turned away again.
‘Can’t say that I recognise you.’
‘Jesus! You don’t recognise an old war comrade?’
‘Which war?’
‘We fought for the same cause, you and I did.’
‘If you say so. What do you want?’
‘Eh?’ the drunk asked, with one hand behind his ear. ‘I asked what you wanted,’ the old man repeated, louder this time. ‘Ah, there’s wanting and wanting. Nothing unusual about having a chat with old acquaintances, is there? Especially acquaintances you haven’t seen for a long time. And especially people you thought were dead.’
The old man turned round.
‘Do I look dead?’
The man in the red Icelandic sweater stared at him with eyes so bright blue they looked like turquoise marbles. It would be impossible to guess his age. Forty or eighty. But the old man knew exactly how old the drunk was. If he concentrated, he might even be able to remember his birthday. During the war they had been very particular about celebrating birthdays.
The drunk came a step closer. ‘No, you don’t look dead. Sick, yes, but not dead.’
He stretched out an enormous, grimy hand and the old man recognised the sweet stench of sweat, urine and vomit.
‘What’s up? Don’t you want to shake an old comrade’s hand?’ His voice sounded like a death rattle.
The old man pressed the outstretched hand fleetingly with his own gloved hand.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve shaken hands. If there’s nothing else you were wondering about, I’ll be on my way.’
‘Ah, wondering, yes.’ The drunk rocked to and fro as he tried to focus on the old man. ‘I was wondering what a man like you was doing in a hole like this. It’s not so strange wondering about that, is it? He’s just got lost, I thought, the last time I saw you here. But you sat talking to that nasty piece of work who goes round beating people up with baseball bats. And you were sitting there today too . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I was thinking I would have to ask one of the journalists who occasionally come here, you know. If they know what a respectable man like you is doing in such company. They know everything, you know. And what they don’t know, they find out. For example, how it can be that a man everyone thought died during the war is alive again. They get their information quick as fuck. Like that.’
He made a vain attempt at flicking his fingers.
‘And then it’s in the papers, you know.’
The old man sighed. ‘Is there perhaps something I can help you with?’
‘Do I look like I need anything?’ The drunk spread his arms and flashed a toothless grin.
‘I see,’ said the old man, taking stock around him. ‘Let’s walk a little. I don’t like spectators.’
‘Eh?’
‘I don’t like spectators.’
‘No, what do we want with them?’
The old man laid a hand lightly on the drunk’s shoulder.
‘Let’s go in here.’
‘Show me the way to go, comrade,’ the drunk hummed hoarsely with a laugh.
They went through the archway next to Herbert’s Pizza, where a row of large, grey, plastic wheelie bins overflowing with rubbish blocked the view from the street.
‘You haven’t already mentioned to anyone you’ve seen me, have you?’
‘Are you mad? I thought I was seeing things at first. A ghost in broad daylight. At Herbert’s!’ He burst into a peal of laughter, but it quickly developed into a wet, gurgling cough. He bent forward and supported himself on the wall until the cough subsided. Then he stood up and dried the slime from the corners of his mouth. ‘No, fortunately, otherwise they would have locked me up.’
‘What do you think would be a fitting price for your silence?’
‘Ah, a fitting price, hm, yes. I saw the ape take a thousand from your newspaper . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘A few of them would do a bit of good, that’s for sure.’
‘How many?’
‘Well, how many have you got?’
The old man sighed, looked around once more to ensure there were no witnesses. Then he unbuttoned his coat and reached inside.
Sverre Olsen crossed Youngstorget with large strides, swinging a green plastic bag. Twenty minutes ago he had been sitting flat broke, with holes in his boots, at Herbert’s and now he was walking in a shiny new pair of combat boots, high-laced, twelve eyelets on each side, bought from Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. Plus he had an envelope which still contained eight shiny new big ones. And ten more in the offing. It was strange how things could change from one minute to the next. This autumn he had been on his way to three years in the clink when his lawyer had realised that the fat lady associate judge had taken her oath i
n the wrong place.
Sverre was in such a good mood that he reckoned he ought to invite Halle, Gregersen and Kvinset over to his table. Buy them a round. See how they reacted. Yes, he bloody would!
He crossed Pløens gate in front of a Paki woman with a pram and smiled at her out of pure devilry. On his way to the door of Herbert’s he thought to himself that there wasn’t much point in carrying around a plastic bag containing discarded boots. He went through the archway, flicked up the lid of one of the wheelie bins and threw in the plastic bag. On his way out again his attention was caught by two legs sticking out between two of the bins further to the back. He looked around. No one in the street. No one in the alley. What was it? A dipso? A junkie? He went closer. Where the legs protruded the bins had been shoved together. He could feel his pulse racing. Junkies became very upset if you disturbed them. Sverre stepped back and kicked one of the containers to the side.
‘Ooh, fuck.’
It was odd that Sverre Olsen, who had almost killed a man himself, should never have seen a dead person before. And equally odd that it almost made his legs give way. The man sitting against the wall with one eye staring in each direction was as dead as it was possible to be. The cause of death was obvious. The smiling red wound in the neck showed where his throat had been cut. Even though the blood was only trickling now, it had clearly pumped out at first because the man’s red Icelandic sweater was soaked and sticky. The stench of refuse and urine was overwhelming, and Sverre caught the taste of bile before two beers and a pizza came up. Afterwards, he stood leaning against the bins, spitting on to the tarmac. The toes of his new boots were yellow with vomit, but he didn’t notice. He only had eyes for the little red stream glistening in the dark as it sought the lowest point in the back alley.
