by Jo Nesbo
In the end he had asked her straight out. Why, with police college and a law degree behind her and her whole life in front of her, had she voluntarily put this millstone around her neck? Didn't she realise that it wouldn't do her career any good? Did she have a problem finding normal, successful friends?
She had looked at him with a serious expression and answered that she only did it to soak up his experience. He was the best detective they had in Crime Squad. Rubbish, of course, but he had nonetheless felt flattered that she would bother to say so. Besides, Ellen was such an enthusiastic, ambitious detective that it was impossible not to be infected. For the last six months Harry had even begun to do good work again. Some of it even excellent. Such as on the Sverre Olsen case.
Ahead of him was Moller's door. Harry nodded in passing to a uniformed officer who pretended not to see him.
If he had been a contestant on Swedish TV's The Robinson Expedition, Harry thought, it would have taken them no more than a day to notice his bad karma and send him home. Send him home? My God, he was beginning to think in the same terminology as the shit TV3 programmes. That's what happened when you spent five hours every night in front of the TV. The idea was that if he was locked up in front of the goggle box in Sofies gate, at least he wouldn't be sitting in Schroder's cafe.
He knocked twice immediately beneath the sign on the door: Bjarne Moller, PAS. 'Come in!'
Harry looked at his watch. Seventy-five seconds.
7
Moller's Office. 9 October 1999.
Inspector Bjarne Moller was lying rather than sitting in the chair, and a pair of long limbs stuck out between the desk legs. He had his hands folded behind his head-a beautiful specimen of what early race researchers called 'long skulls'-and a telephone gripped between ear and shoulder. His hair was cut in a kind of close crop, which Hole had recently compared with Kevin Costner's hairstyle in The Bodyguard. Moller hadn't seen The Bodyguard. He hadn't been to the cinema in fifteen years as fate had furnished him with an oversized sense of responsibility, too few hours, two children and a wife who only partly understood him.
'Let's go for that then,' Moller said, putting down the phone and looking at Harry across a desk weighed down with documents, overflowing ashtrays and paper cups. On the desktop a photograph of two boys dressed as Red Indians marked a kind of logical centre amid the chaos.
'There you are, Harry.'
'Here I am, boss.'
'I've been to a meeting at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in connection with the summit in November here in Oslo. The US President is coming… well, you read papers, don't you. Coffee, Harry?'
Moller had stood up and a couple of seven-league strides had already taken him to a filing cabinet on which, balanced atop a pile of papers, a coffee machine was coughing up a viscous substance.
'Thanks boss, but I -'
It was too late and Harry took the steaming cup.
'I'm especially looking forward to a visit from the Secret Service, with whom I'm sure we will have a cordial relationship as we get to know each other better.'
Moller had never quite learned to handle irony. That was just one of the things Harry appreciated about his boss.
Moller drew in his knees until they supported the bottom of the table. Harry leaned back to get the crumpled pack of Camels from his trouser pocket and raised an enquiring eyebrow at Moller, who quickly took the hint and pushed the brimming ashtray towards him.
'I'll be responsible for security along the roads to and from Gardemoen. As well as the President, there will be Barak -'
'Barak?'
'Ehud Barak. Prime Minister of Israel.'
'Jeez, so there's another fantastic Oslo agreement on the way, then?' Moller stared despondently at the blue column of smoke rising to the ceiling.
'Don't tell me you haven't heard about it, Harry. Or I'll be even more worried about you than I already am. It was on all the front pages last week.'
Harry shrugged.
'Unreliable paper boy. Inflicting serious gaps in my general knowledge. A grave handicap to my social life.' He took another cautious sip of coffee, but then gave up and pushed it away. 'And my love life.'
'Really?' Moller eyed Harry with an expression suggesting he didn't know whether to relish or dread what was coming next.
'Of course. Who would find a man in his mid-thirties, who knows all the details about the lives of the people on The Robinson Expedition but can hardly name any head of state, or the Israeli President, sexy?'
'Prime Minister.'
'There you are. Now you know what I mean.'
Moller stifled a laugh. He had a tendency to laugh too easily. And a soft spot for the somewhat anguished officer with big ears that stuck out from the close-cropped cranium like two colourful butterfly wings. Even though Harry had caused Moller more trouble than was good for him. As a newly promoted PAS he had learned that the first commandment for a civil servant with career plans was to guard your back. When Moller cleared his throat to put the worrying questions he had made up his mind to ask, and dreaded asking, he first of all knitted his eyebrows to show Harry that his concern was of a professional and not an amicable nature.
'I hear you're still spending your time sitting in Schroder's, Harry.'
'Less than ever, boss. There's so much good stuff on TV.'
'But you're still sitting and drinking?'
'They don't like you to stand.'
'Cut it out. Are you drinking again?'
'Minimally.'
'How minimally?'
'They'll throw me out if I drink any less.'
This time Moller couldn't hold back his laughter. I need three liaison officers to secure the road,' he said. 'Each will have ten men at their disposal from various police districts in Akershus, plus a couple of cadets from the final year at police college. I thought Tom Waaler…'
Waaler. Racist bastard and directly in line for the soon-to-be-announced inspector's job. Harry had heard enough about Waaler's professional activities to know that they confirmed all the prejudices the public might have about the police. Apart from one: unfortunately Waaler was not stupid. His successes as a detective were so impressive that even Harry had to concede he deserved the inevitable promotion.
And Weber…'
'The old sourpuss?'
'… and you, Harry.'
'Say that again?'
'You heard me.'
Harry pulled a face.
'Have you any objections?' Moller asked. 'Of course I have.'
'Why? This is an honourable mission, Harry. A feather in your cap.'
'Is it?' Harry stabbed out his cigarette furiously in the ashtray. 'Or is it the next stage in the rehabilitation process?'
'What do you mean?' Bjarne Moller looked wounded.
'I know that you defied good advice and had a run-in with a few people when you took me back into the fold after Bangkok. And I'm eternally grateful to you for that. But what is this? Liaison Officer? Sounds like an attempt to prove to the doubters that you were right, and they were wrong. That Hole is on his way up, that he can be given responsibility and all that.'
'Well?' Bjarne Moller had put his hands behind the long skull again.
'Well?' Harry aped. 'Is that what's behind it? Am I just a pawn again?'
Moller gave a sigh of despair.
'We're all pawns, Harry. There's always a hidden agenda. This is no worse than anything else. Do a good job and it'll be good for both of us. Is that so damned difficult?'
Harry sniffed, started to say something, caught himself, took a fresh run-up, then abandoned the idea. He flicked a new cigarette out of the pack.
'It's just that I feel like a bloody horse people bet on. And I loathe responsibility'
Harry let the cigarette hang loosely from his lips without lighting it.
He owed Moller this favour, but what if he screwed up? Had Moller thought about that? Liaison Officer. He had been on the wagon for a while now, but he still had to be careful, take one day
at a time. Hell, wasn't that one of the reasons he became a detective? To avoid having people underneath him, and to have as few as possible above him? Harry bit into the cigarette filter.
They heard voices out in the corridor by the coffee machine. It sounded like Waaler. Then peals of laughter. The new office girl perhaps. He still had the smell of her perfume in his nostrils.
'Fuck,' Harry said. Fu-uck. With two syllables, which made his cigarette jump twice in his mouth.
Moller had closed his eyes during Harry's moment of reflection and now he half-opened them. 'Can I take that as a yes?'
Harry stood up and walked out without saying a word.
8
Toll Barrier at Alnabru. 1 November 1999.
The grey bird glided into Harry's field of vision and was on its way out again. He increased the pressure on the trigger of his. 38 calibre Smith amp; Wesson while staring over the edge of his gun sights at the stationary back behind the glass. Someone had been talking about slow time on TV yesterday.
The car horn, Ellen. Press the damn horn. He has to be a Secret Service agent.
Slow time, like on Christmas Eve before Father Christmas comes.
The first motorcycle was level with the toll booth, and the robin was still a black dot on the outer margin of his vision. The time in the electric chair before the current…
Harry squeezed the trigger. One, two, three times.
And then time accelerated explosively. The coloured glass went white, spraying shards over the tarmac, and he caught sight of an arm disappearing under the line of the booth before the whisper of expensive American tyres was there-and gone.
He stared towards the booth. A couple of the yellow leaves swirled up by the motorcade were still floating through the air before settling on a dirty grey grass verge. He stared towards the booth. It was silent again, and for a moment all he could think was that he was standing at an ordinary Norwegian toll barrier on an ordinary Norwegian autumn day, with an ordinary Esso petrol station in the background. It even smelled of ordinary cold morning air: rotting leaves and car exhaust. And it struck him: perhaps none of this has really happened.
He was still staring towards the booth when the relentless lament of the Volvo car horn behind him sawed the day in two.
Part Two
GENESIS
9
1942.
The flares lit up the grey night sky, making it resemble a filthy top canvas cast over the drab, bare landscape surrounding them on all sides. Perhaps the Russians had launched an offensive, perhaps it was a bluff; you never really knew until it was over. Gudbrand was lying on the edge of the trench with both legs drawn up beneath him, holding his gun with both hands and listening to the distant hollow booms as he watched the flares go down. He knew he shouldn't watch the flares. You would become night-blind and unable to see the Russian snipers wriggling out in the snow in no man's land. But he couldn't see them anyway, had never seen a single one; he just shot on command. As he was doing now. 'There he is!'
It was Daniel Gudeson, the only town boy in the unit. The others came from places with names ending in -dal. Some of the dales were broad and some were deep, deserted and dark, such as Gudbrand's home ground. But not Daniel. Not Daniel of the pure, high forehead, the sparkling blue eyes and the white smile. He was like a recruitment-poster cut-out. He came from somewhere with horizons.
'Two o'clock, left of the scrub,' Daniel said.
Scrub? There can't be any scrub in the shell-crater landscape here.
Yes, there was because the others were shooting. Crack, bang, swish. Every fifth bullet went off in a parabola, like a firefly. Tracer fire. The bullet tore off into the dark, but it seemed suddenly to tire because its velocity decreased and then it sank somewhere out there. That was what it looked like at any rate. Gudbrand thought it impossible for such a slow bullet to kill anyone.
'He's getting away!' yelled an embittered, hate-filled voice. It was Sindre Fauke. His face almost merged with his camouflage uniform and the small, close-set eyes stared out into the dark. He came from a remote farm high up in the Gudbrandsdalen region, probably some narrow enclave where the sun didn't shine since he was so pale. Gudbrand didn't know why Sindre had volunteered to fight on the Eastern Front, but he had heard that his parents and both brothers had joined the fascist Nasjonal Samling Party, and that they went around wearing bands on their arms and reporting fellow villagers they suspected of being partisans. Daniel said that one day the informers and all those who exploited the war for their own advantage would get a taste of the whip.
'No, he's not,' Daniel said in a low voice, his chin against his gun. 'No bloody Bolshevik gets away.'
'He knows we've seen him,' Sindre said. 'He'll get into that hollow down there.'
'No, he won't,' Daniel said and took aim.
Gudbrand stared out into the grey-white dark. White snow, white camouflage uniforms, white fire. The skies are lit up again. All sorts of shadows flit across the crust of the snow. Gudbrand stared up again. Yellow and red flashes on the horizon, followed by several distant rumbles. It was as unreal as being at the cinema, except that it was thirty degrees below and there was no one to put your arm around. Perhaps it really was an offensive this time?
'You're too slow, Gudeson. He's gone.' Sindre spat in the snow.
'No, he hasn't,' Daniel said even quieter and took aim, and then again. Almost no frost smoke was coming out of his mouth any longer.
Then, a high-pitched, screaming whistle, a warning scream, and Gudbrand threw himself into the ice-covered bottom of the trench, with both hands over his head. The ground shook. It rained frozen brown clumps of earth; one hit Gudbrand's helmet and he watched it slide off in front of him. He waited until he was sure there was no more to come, then shoved his helmet back on. It had gone quiet and a fine white veil of snow particles stuck to his face. They say you never hear the shell that hits you, but Gudbrand had seen the result of enough whistling shells to know this wasn't true. A flare lit up the trench; he saw the others' white faces and their shadows as they scrambled towards him, keeping to the side of the trench and their heads well down, as the light gradually faded. But where was Daniel? Daniel! 'Daniel!'
'Got 'im,' Daniel said, still lying on the edge of the trench. Gudbrand couldn't believe his own ears. 'What did you say?'
Daniel slid down into the trench and shook off the snow and earth. He had a broad grin on his face.
'No Russian arsehole will be able to shoot at our watch tonight. Tormod is avenged.' He dug his heels into the edge of the trench so he didn't slip on the ice.
'Is he fuck!' That was Sindre. 'You didn't fucking hit him, Gudeson. I saw the Russian disappear down into the hollow.'
His small eyes jumped from one man to the next, as if to ask whether any of them believed Daniel's boast.
'Correct,' Daniel said. 'But it'll be light in two hours and he knew he'd have to be out before then.'
'That's right, and so he tried it a bit too soon,' Gudbrand added smartly. 'He popped up on the other side. Isn't that right, Daniel?'
'Too soon or not,' Daniel smiled, 'I would have got him anyway'
Sindre hissed: 'Just shut that big gob of yours, Gudeson.'
Daniel shrugged, checked the chamber and cocked his gun. Then he turned, hung the gun over his shoulder, kicked a boot into the frozen side of the trench and swung himself up over the top.
'Give me your spade, will you, Gudbrand.'
Daniel took the spade and straightened up to his full height. In his white winter uniform he was outlined against the black sky and the flare, which hung like an aura of light over his head. He looks like an angel, Gudbrand thought.
"What the fuck are you doing, man!' That was Edvard Mosken, the leader of their section, shouting. The calm soldier from Mjondol seldom raised his voice with veterans like Daniel, Sindre and Gudbrand in the unit. It was usually the new arrivals who received a bawling out when they made mistakes. The earful they got saved many of their lives. No
w Edvard Mosken was staring up at Daniel with the one wide-open eye that he never closed. Not even when he slept. Gudbrand had seen that for himself.
'Get under cover, Gudeson,' the section leader said.
But Daniel simply smiled and the next moment he was gone; the frost smoke from his mouth was left hanging over them for a tiny second. Then the flare behind the horizon sank and it was dark again.
'Gudeson!' Edvard shouted, clambering out of the trench. 'For fuck's sake!'
'Can you see him?' Gudbrand asked. 'Vanished.'
'What did the nutter want with the spade?' Sindre asked, looking at Gudbrand.
'Don't know,' Gudbrand said. 'To shift barbed wire maybe?’
‘Why would he want to shift barbed wire?'
'Don't know.' Gudbrand didn't like Sindre's wild eyes. They reminded him of another country boy who had been there. He had gone crazy in the end, pissed in his shoes one night before going on duty and all his toes had had to be amputated afterwards. But he was back home in Norway now, so maybe he hadn't been so crazy after all. At any rate, he'd had the same wild eyes.
'Perhaps he's going for a walk in no man's land,' Gudbrand said.
'I know what's on the other side of the barbed wire. I wonder what he's doing there.'
'Perhaps the shell hit him on the head,' Hallgrim Dale said. 'Perhaps he's gone ga-ga.'
Hallgrim was the youngest in the section, only eighteen years old. No one really knew why he had enlisted. Adventure, Gudbrand thought. Dale maintained that he admired Hitler, but he knew nothing about politics. Daniel thought that he had left a girl in the family way.
'If the Russian is still alive, Gudeson will be shot before he gets fifty metres,' Edvard Mosken said.
'Daniel got him,' Gudbrand whispered.
