by Samuel Bjork
‘Indeed I did, for Storhamar. Forward. And I was good at it, too.’
Four photographs, neatly framed. Smiling adult faces, a short, round boy between them from a time that no longer existed.
‘Good memories,’ Charlie said, sounding a little glum.
‘You’re still not in contact with your dad?’
‘I wrote a letter to him some time ago. He’s an old man now, you know. So he likes to get things in the post. Or at least I think so – I’m guessing here. Not that I would know, of course. It’s been a few years now.’
‘And?’
‘No reply, sadly.’ Charlie sighed. ‘Oh, well, it was worth a try. How’s your coffee?’
‘Perfect,’ Mia said, then she spotted the clock above the cooker. ‘Oh, no.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s almost one thirty in the afternoon.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m seriously late.’ Mia leapt up and patted her trouser pocket, but it wasn’t there.
‘My mobile?’
‘I’ve got it,’ Charlie said, and disappeared.
Yikes.
Had she really slept that long?
Mia drained her coffee cup standing up as Charlie returned.
‘Busy these days?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
A dozen missed calls.
Most of them from Munch.
She rang him back.
‘Mia?’ she heard him grunt through his beard on the other end. ‘Where are you?’
‘Sorry,’ Mia said. ‘I overslept. I’m on my way to the office now.’
‘No, no,’ Munch said. ‘I’ll meet you.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll come and meet you,’ Munch said again, in a strange tone of voice. ‘Where are you?’
‘What’s your address?’ Mia said to Charlie, putting her hand over the phone.
‘Tøyenbekken 9.’
‘Tøyenbekken 9,’ Mia said.
‘Is that close to Grønlandsleiret?’
‘Yes. I’ll meet you there. Has something happened?’
Munch didn’t reply.
‘Holger?’
‘I’m on my way, OK?’
‘OK.’
‘I’m leaving now,’ Munch said, and rang off.
‘Are you leaving so soon? But you’ve hardly touched your food.’
‘Got to go,’ Mia said, and slipped her mobile into her pocket.
‘Promise you won’t leave it so long next time.’ Charlie took her lightly by the shoulders and kissed both her cheeks. ‘Are you all right, Moonbeam? You know that I’m always here for you if you need anything?’ He looked rather anxiously at her now, wouldn’t quite let her go.
‘I’m fine. Thank you so much for all this, Charlie. You’re worth your weight in gold, did you know that?’
‘Oh, we try.’
‘Where’s my jacket?’
‘It’s in the hall. You will call me, won’t you? And be careful out there.’
‘Yes, Mum, and thank you so much.’ Mia smiled and gave him another big hug before spinning round and running down the stairs.
Chapter 51
Munch felt like an idiot, but it was just too bad. He shook his head and pulled the Audi up alongside the kerb. A bright and breezy Mia got in and put on her seatbelt.
‘Where are we going?’
Munch sighed and decided he might as well cut straight to the chase.
‘What?’ Mia said, scrunching up her nose.
She could tell from one look at him. They had worked together for so long.
‘Do you still fancy a holiday?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry,’ Munch mumbled, and ran a hand across his face. ‘Orders from the top.’
‘About what?’
‘FST is now involved in the investigation. They’ve taken over.’
‘Taken over? What do you mean?’
‘It’s not our case any more—’ he began, but she cut him off.
‘Eh? But what the hell, Holger?’
‘I know. I—’
‘I don’t bloody believe it!’ Mia raged. ‘Seriously, are you kidding me? Army intelligence? How the hell did they get involved?’
‘It’s a long story.’ Munch sighed and scratched his beard. ‘Something happened last night. Listen, I did my best, but, like I said …’
He could see that she had worked out what he was trying to tell her. The expression in her eyes went from brightly inquisitive to darkly aggressive in less than a second.
‘I’m … out?’
‘Just for the time being,’ Munch said, trying to placate her. ‘Just until we’re back on our feet.’
‘But what the hell?’ Mia grunted. ‘And who the hell are “we”?’
‘They’re putting together a management group now with FST and PST.’
‘So no one from our unit? What’s happening, Holger?’
‘Anette and I are part of it,’ Munch said quickly. ‘Like I said, it’s just for the time being, until we—’
‘But for fuck’s sake, Holger.’ Mia shook her head in despair. ‘How many days is it since you dragged me down to Justisen? Asked me to look at the case? I had booked plane tickets, for God’s sake. There was a yacht waiting for me.’
‘Can you still use them?’ Munch tried, but regretted it immediately.
Mia turned away from him; she was practically foaming at the mouth now.
‘Sorry,’ Munch said. ‘I was only—’
‘And why not me?’
Her sharp eyes speared him. It was a question to which she already knew the answer, but she was going to make him say it out loud.
‘Security clearance,’ Munch croaked.
‘Because I’m an unstable psycho?’
‘Mia—’
‘Someone you can use when it suits you, but not where it really matters – is that what you’re saying?’
‘Listen, Mia … If it had been up to me, well, you know …’
‘Bloody pen-pushers,’ Mia hissed, unclicking her seatbelt and reaching for the door handle.
‘They found a list,’ Munch interjected before she had time to open the door.
‘What kind of list?’
Munch decided he didn’t give a toss about orders from the top. His primary responsibility was to his staff. The Ministry could go to hell; he was fed up. He had been for a long time, frankly. Fed up with the way Mia had been treated in recent years. Warnings, suspensions – only for them to let her back inside when it suited them. Hell no, enough was enough.
‘Rønning had a visitor early this morning,’ he said quickly.
‘The journalist?’
‘Yes. From a former soldier. They think he’s an Afghanistan veteran.’
‘Where?’
‘He came to his home. I haven’t got all the details, but I think Rønning was assaulted. He was given a list. Of the victims. They’re working on a theory that this is some sort of revenge action.’
‘Revenge for what?’
‘We don’t know that yet. Something must have happened in Afghanistan, maybe he’s angry with the government, I don’t know, but listen—’
‘A list?’
‘A kill list. Of random victims.’
‘What? How many?’ Mia asked, shocked.
‘Fifty.’
‘Oh, Christ.’
‘So they’re keeping it under wraps. Do you understand?’
‘He fits the profile?’
She turned to him and at least looked less angry now. A milder face with her gaze starting to turn inwards.
‘He’s the right age.’
‘The numbers?’
‘Vivian Berg was number four on the list,’ Munch said. ‘That’s all I know for now. They’re keeping their cards very close to their chest.’
‘So, random victims?’ Mia stared out of the windscreen.
‘Selected randomly from a list of fifty, it would seem.’
‘Shit,’ Mia mumbled, as she did her mental
arithmetic.
He had done the same.
The profile. The numbers. The random victims.
‘Have you seen it? The list?’
Munch shook his head.
‘We’re waiting by the phone now. Anette is in contact with them. The threat level has gone up. They’re talking about taking the government, even the royal family, to a safe place.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Like I said, they’re sparse with the details, but Anette thought so.’
‘But they can’t do that! How can they justify that to the general public? The king has gone underground, but there’s no need to worry, you just carry on with your lives as normal. Idiots.’
‘I don’t think it’ll get that far but, even so, the army, the home guard, the territorial army – I’m guessing they’re putting them all on alert now, as discreetly as possible. That’s why they—’
‘Want to keep all the nutters away?’ Mia fulminated. She looked as if she was strongly tempted to spit on the floor.
‘Listen, Mia—’ Munch began, but she stopped him with a raised hand.
‘Can I give you a lift anywhere?’
Mia shook her head and grabbed the door handle firmly.
‘I’ll keep you posted, OK?’ he called after her when she was outside.
Mia gave him a last, resigned look before slamming the door shut and disappearing along the pavement without looking back.
Bollocks.
He really wanted to go after her, but then his mobile rang in his pocket.
‘Yes?’
‘We’re about to start,’ Anette said.
‘Where?’
‘Bankplassen in twenty minutes.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Munch said, and turned the key in the ignition.
Chapter 52
Mia wandered the streets, irritated, furious, shocked; she didn’t know how to process her conflicting emotions. She was in turmoil. She had started the day thinking What if he’s setting me up? What if he’s full of crap? John Wold in the pub the night before. He had seen the incredulity in her eyes, hadn’t he? Damn it, she had put him straight. It’s not Curry. I’ve no intention of helping you with anything. Clever of him, wasn’t it? To invent some bullshit story he knew would get her hooked. Make her doubt. Make her switch sides. There’s a junkie out there. Your sister is mixed up in this. Sigrid. Bastard. Because it had worked. Of course it had. Her grief at her loss. Her yearning. He had played on her most private feelings, hadn’t he? Just to make her say yes.
Mia muttered curses and crossed the street again. She didn’t care where she went as long as her legs were moving. That was what had happened, wasn’t it? He had tricked her. Cisse? A red puffa jacket? That description could fit so many people. She should have seen through him immediately, but he had caught her off guard. She stroked the bracelet on her wrist then came to a halt as a taxi sounded its horn and brushed her thigh.
She jumped back from the road.
Shit.
And she had had such a good start to the day. Waking up in Charlie Brun’s lovely guest room, feeling completely clear-headed. And Curry? Of course Curry wasn’t on the take. Mia had known him for ten years. He might look like a thug, but behind the tough façade was a soul that couldn’t hurt a fly.
No, no, it had to be someone else.
A police officer.
It could be anyone.
And now this?
She had started to cross at a junction when a hand grabbed her leather jacket and pulled her back. Pointed to the red light as another hooting car rushed by. She nodded a quick thank-you to the friendly face and stuffed her hand into her pocket, searching for a lozenge.
Fifty people?
One of those?
The woman in the yellow coat out walking her dog?
The boy on his skateboard?
Hell.
She began to calm down as the lights changed to green and the crowd calmly crossed the street. On their way home. On their way to work. Going home from school. Smiling, happy, tired. Grocery bags bashing against prams, a completely normal day in quiet little Oslo with spring just around the corner.
Fuck.
She couldn’t help it. She knew it was just a story but she had to check.
Of course she did.
Mia stopped at a street corner and pulled her mobile out of her pocket.
OK.
Sort your head out.
Cisse?
Cecilie?
A junkie wearing a red puffa jacket?
It should be a straightforward matter.
Having it checked out.
Confirming that it was all a ruse.
Oslo was a small town, a village, really, and Mia knew exactly who to call.
‘The Prindsen Centre.’
‘Yes, hello, my name is Mia Krüger. Please can I speak to Mildrid Lind?’
‘Just a moment.’
She was put on hold.
A young man with tattoos emerged from a building near her, took a big, jangling bunch of keys from his trouser pocket and stuck a key in the door to lock it. He was heading out to lunch. Just another day.
‘She’s on the phone, but I don’t think she’ll be very long. Shall I ask her to call you back?’
‘Yes, please. Thank you.’
Mia stuffed the mobile back into her leather jacket and was about to start moving again when she noticed something in the window right in front of her.
But what the …?
A tattoo parlour.
Rows of pictures behind the filthy glass.
What the …?
Bragging pictures. A Motörhead logo on a bicep. A big eagle on a chest. Red and yellow flames up a thin shin.
And there.
In the middle of a row.
Surely not …?
Mia stood, her mouth hanging open, then shuffled closer to the window.
What?
Her?
A naked, pale back. Long, dark hair between the shoulder blades. Blue eyes.
No, it couldn’t be …
Oh, shit, it was.
In there. Among the hearts and the peace doves and the burning skulls.
A tattoo of her face.
What the …?
A sound from far away, vibration in her pocket.
‘Mildrid Lind speaking. You called me?’
Chapter 53
Rumours had long been circulating about this new, top-secret situation room. The world was changing. It was no longer East versus West, generals with fingers on expensive red buttons; the enemy was now terror attacks carried out with homemade nail bombs, hijacked planes, stolen trucks. Civilian targets, unthinkable just a few years ago and almost impossible to defend yourself against. Although, so far, Norway had been spared these religiously motivated actions, the attack on the government quarter had made even naive Norwegian politicians realize the seriousness of these threats. Munch had never really believed that they had done anything about it. He had assumed that there would be the usual debate, action plans drawn up by cross-party committees in Parliament, but when he and Anette stepped out of the lift and into the hypermodern operation room, he had to admit he had been wrong.
He was deep in the basement under the Ministry of Defence offices in Myntgata number 1. It had security measures the like of which he had never seen before. If he hadn’t been as inherently sceptical about the top brass as he was, he might have been willing to admit that he was impressed. Lifts with long codes. Checkpoints with body searches. Doors with more codes, metal detectors wielded by young soldiers in uniform. They finally reached a big metal door where they were told to hand over their mobile phones, something that Munch found irritating, but there was nothing for it other than to obey orders. The well-dressed young man entered a new code on a panel which now flashed green, and they had finally arrived at their destination.
A large oval table. Men with serious faces, some in uniforms, most wearing suits and neutral ties over white or pale-blue shirts. Munch s
canned the room to see if he recognized anyone, but he didn’t.
‘General Edvardsen,’ a tall, distinguished-looking man with grey hair introduced himself as he came towards them.
A large hand through the air and a firm handshake.
‘So you’re Munch? And you must be Goli?’
Munch nodded. As did Anette Goli. If being the only woman in the room made her uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. Women tended to be well represented in senior positions in Norway, but equality clearly hadn’t reached this basement. The general nodded quickly around the table and introduced the others before returning his attention to the huge screen which covered the whole of the wall behind him. FST and PST agents. A representative from the Prime Minister’s office. Several high-ranking officers from various branches of the military. Munch suddenly felt a little shabby as he stood there. His corduroy trousers were stained and his duffel coat was well past its prime.
‘Gentlemen,’ Edvardsen said as the light was dimmed in the large room. ‘You all know why you are here. Some of you know more than others, and – for the most part – that’s how it will stay; all information in this investigation is strictly NTK. If you have any questions, we will deal with them at the end; first, I want us to review the incident as it unfolded today, and then run through the various initiatives we have employed.’
There was nodding around the table.
A picture appeared on the screen.
‘Today, just after eleven hundred hours, we had a call from this man, Erik Rønning, a journalist from Aftenposten. Fortunately for us, Rønning kept a cool head and contacted the Ministry directly, and in subsequent interviews he has told us that he hasn’t shared the information with his superiors at the newspaper. As a result, we believe that, so far, we’re in control. I don’t have to stress that this is of the utmost importance. It is, as I said, NTK, and we will do everything in our power to keep the public out of it. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. The last thing we need now is panic on the streets.’
‘NTK?’ Munch whispered, leaning towards Goli.
‘Need to know,’ Goli mumbled, without looking at him.
‘Rønning was visited by what we have reason to believe was one of our men – a soldier – and was given a list of fifty names.’
Another image appeared on the screen and there was stirring around the table as papers were circulated. Munch looked at the screen and down at the list now lying in front of him. He quickly checked for any names he might recognize but couldn’t find any, thank God. Miriam Munch. Marion Munch. It was selfish and unprofessional, perhaps, but his reaction had been instinctive.
