by Jo Nesbo
'I'm dolling myself up,' she laughed. 'Look.' She raised her hand in what Harry considered an unimaginably supple movement, like part of a dance, an extension of another equally graceful sequence. In her hand she was holding a white, tear-shaped pearl which reflected the frugal light in the landing by her flat. The other pearl hung from her ear.
'Come in,' she said, retreating a step and letting go of the door.
Harry crossed the threshold into her arms. 'So good that you came,' she said, pulling his face down to hers, breathing hot air into his ear as she whispered: 'I've been thinking about you all the time.'
Harry closed his eyes, held her tight and felt the warmth emanating from the small, feline body. It was the second time in less than a day that he had stood like this with his arms around her. And he didn't want to let go. Because he knew it would be the last time.
The pearl drop lay against his cheek under one eye, like a frozen tear.
He freed himself.
'Is something the matter?' she asked.
'Let's sit down,' Harry said. 'We have to talk.'
They went into the living room and she sat down on the sofa. Harry stood by the window looking down onto the street below.
'Someone is sitting in a car looking up here,' he said.
Martine sighed. 'It's Rikard. He's waiting for me. He's driving me to the concert hall.'
'Mm. Do you know where Jon is, Martine?' Harry concentrated on the reflection of her face in the windowpane.
'No,' she said, meeting his eyes. 'Are you trying to say there is a specific reason why I should know? Since you ask in that way, I mean?' The sweetness was gone from her voice.
'We've just broken into Robert's flat, which we think Jon has been using,' Harry said, 'and found a bed covered in blood.'
'I didn't know,' Martine said in a tone of surprise that sounded genuine.
'I know you didn't know,' Harry said. 'The forensics department is checking the blood type now. That is to say, it has already been identified. And I'm pretty sure I know their conclusion.'
'Jon's?' she said in breathless suspense.
'No,' said Harry. 'But perhaps that's what you had been hoping?'
'Why do you say that?'
'Since it was Jon who raped you.'
The room went quiet. Harry held his breath in order to hear her gasp for air and then, long before it had entered her lungs, exhale it again with a wheeze.
'Why do you think that?' she asked with the tiniest tremor in her voice.
'Because you said it happened in Ostgard and there are not so many men who rape. But Jon Karlsen does. The blood in Robert's bed is from a girl called Sofia Miholjec. She went to Robert's flat last night because Jon Karlsen had ordered her to. As agreed, she let herself in with a key she had been given earlier by Robert, her best friend. After raping her, Jon beat her up. She said he often did that.'
'Often?'
'According to Sofia he raped her for the first time one afternoon in the summer of last year. It happened in the Miholjec's family home while her parents were out. Jon went there under the pretext of examining the flat. After all, that was his job. Just as it was his job to decide who would be allowed to keep the flats.'
'You mean… he threatened her?'
Harry nodded. 'He said the family would be evicted and sent home if Sofia did not do as he ordered and keep their secret. The Miholjecs' fate rested on his, Jon's, discretion. And her compliance. The poor girl didn't dare do anything else. But when she became pregnant she had to find someone to help her. A friend she could trust, someone older who could organise an abortion without too many questions being asked.'
'Robert,' Martine said. 'My God. She went to Robert.'
'Yes. And even though she didn't say anything to him, she thought Robert knew it was Jon. I think so, too. Robert knew Jon had raped before, didn't he?'
Martine did not answer. Instead she coiled up on the sofa, drew her legs beneath her and wrapped her arms around her bare shoulders as if she were cold or wanted to disappear inside herself.
When Martine finally began to talk her voice was so low that Harry could hear the ticking of Moller's watch.
'I was fourteen. While he was doing it I lay there thinking that if I concentrated on the stars I would be able to see them through the roof.'
Harry listened as she spoke about the hot day in Ostgard, the game with Robert and Jon's reproving eyes that were dark with jealousy. And about when the door of the outside toilet opened and Jon stood there with his brother's jackknife. The rape and the pain afterwards as she was left crying while he went back to the house. And how incompre-hensible it was that the birds soon began to sing outside.
'But the worst was not the rape,' Martine said with a tear-filled voice but dry cheeks. 'The worst was that Jon knew. Knew he didn't even have to make threats to keep me silent. I would never squeal. He knew I knew that even if I produced my shredded clothes and was believed, there would always be a shadow of doubt regarding motive and guilt. And that it was about loyalty. Would I be the one, the daughter of the commander, to drag my parents and the whole Army into a ruinous scandal? All these years, whenever I've observed Jon, he's given me a look which says: "I know. I know how you shook with terror and cried quietly afterwards so that no one would hear you. I know and can see your mute cowardice every single day."' The first tear rolled down her cheek. 'And that's why I hate him so much. Not for raping me; I would have been able to forgive that. But for always going round showing me he knew.'
Harry went into the kitchen, tore off a paper towel from the roll, went back and sat down beside her.
'Watch your make-up,' he said passing her the towel. 'Prime Minister and all that.'
She dabbed carefully.
'Stankic has been to Ostgard,' Harry said. 'Was it you who took him there?'
'What are you talking about?'
'He's been there.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because of the smell.'
'Smell?'
Harry nodded. 'A sweet, perfume-like smell. I recognised it the first time I opened the door to Stankic in Jon's flat. The second time when I was standing in his room in the Hostel. And the third time when I woke up in Ostgard this morning. The smell was in the blanket.' He studied Martine's keyhole-shaped pupils. 'Where is he, Martine?'
Martine stood up. 'Now I think you should go.'
'Answer me first.'
'I don't need to answer for something I haven't done.'
She had reached the living room door when Harry caught up with her. He stood in front of her and gripped her shoulders. 'Martine.. .'
'I have to go to a concert.'
'He killed one of my best friends, Martine.'
Her face was closed and hard as she replied. 'Perhaps he shouldn't have got in the way.'
Harry took his hands away as if burned. 'You can't just let Jon Karlsen be killed. What about forgiveness? Isn't that an intrinsic part of the business you're all in?'
'You're the one who thinks that people can change,' Martine said. 'Not me. And I don't know where Stankic is.'
Harry let her go; she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Harry stood waiting.
'And you're wrong about our line of business,' Martine called from behind the door. 'It's not about forgiveness. We're in the same business as everyone else. Redemption, right?'
Despite the cold, Rikard was standing outside the car leaning against the bonnet with his arms crossed. He didn't return Harry's nod as the police officer passed.
32
Monday, 22 December. The Exodus.
It was half past six in the evening, but there was feverish activity in Crime Squad.
Harry found Ola Li by the fax machine. He glanced at the sheet coming through. Sent by Interpol.
'What's going on, Ola?'
'Gunnar Hagen rang round and scrambled the department. Absolutely everyone is here. We're going to get the guy who got Halvorsen.'
There was a determination in Li's tone that Harry k
new by instinct reflected the atmosphere on the sixth floor that evening.
Harry went into his office where Skarre was standing behind the desk speaking on the telephone, fast and in a loud voice.
'We can make more trouble for you and your boys than you imagine, Affi. If you don't help me by getting your boys on the street, you will shoot right up to first place on our most wanted list. Have I made myself clear? So: Croat, medium height-'
'Blond, crew cut,' Harry said.
Skarre looked up and sent Harry a nod. 'Blond crew cut. Call me back when you've got something.'
He put down the receiver. 'Total Band Aid atmosphere out there. Everything on two legs is ready to roll. I've never seen anything like it.'
'Mm,' Harry said. 'Still no sign of Jon Karlsen?'
'Zilch. All we know is that his girlfriend, Thea, says they agreed to meet this evening at the concert hall. They're supposed to be sitting in the VIP box.'
Harry consulted his watch. 'Then Stankic has an hour and a half to see if he can finish off the job.'
'How do you make that out?'
'I phoned the concert hall. All the tickets were sold out four weeks ago, and they won't let anyone in without a ticket, not even to the foyer. In other words, once Jon is inside he's safe. Ring and check whether Torkildsen is on tap at Telenor. If he is, ask him to trace Karlsen's mobile phone. Oh, and make sure we have enough police outside the concert hall, armed and with a description of Stankic. Then call the Prime Minister's Office and make them aware of the extra security measures.'
'Me?' Skarre said. 'The… Prime Minister's Office?'
'Do it,' Harry said. 'You're a big boy now.'
From the office telephone Harry called one of the six numbers he knew off by heart.
The other five were: Sis's, his parents' house in Oppsal, Halvorsen's mobile, Bjarne Moller's old private number and Ellen Gjelten's disconnected number.
'Rakel here.'
'It's me.' He heard an intake of breath.
'I thought so.'
'Why?'
'Because I was thinking about you.' She chuckled. 'That's just the way it is. Don't you think?'
Harry closed his eyes. 'I wondered about meeting Oleg tomorrow,' he said. 'As we discussed.'
'Great!' she said. 'He'll be so pleased. Will you come here and pick him up?' On hearing his hesitation, she added, 'We're alone.'
Harry both wanted and didn't want to ask what she meant by that.
'I'll try to be there around six,' he said.
According to Klaus Torkildsen, Jon Karlsen's mobile phone was located to the east of Oslo, in Haugerud or Hoybraten.
'That's not much help,' Harry said.
After pacing the floors for an hour, from office to office, to hear how the others were getting on, Harry put on his jacket and said he was off to the concert hall.
He parked in a restricted area down one of the small streets around Victoria terrasse, walked past the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and down the broad steps to Ruselokkveien and took a right to the concert hall.
In the large, open square in front of the glass facade people dressed in formal attire were hurrying through the biting sub-zero temperatures. By the entrance stood two broad-shouldered men wearing black coats and earpieces. And there were six further uniformed policemen standing at intervals in front of the building and receiving curious looks from shivering concert-goers unaccustomed to seeing Oslo police with machine guns.
Harry recognised Sivert Falkeid in one of the uniforms and went over to him.
'I didn't know Delta had been drafted in.'
'We haven't been,' Falkeid said. 'I rang the police station and asked if we could be of help. He was your partner, wasn't he?'
Harry nodded, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered one to Falkeid, who shook his head.
'Jon Karlsen hasn't turned up yet?'
'No,' Falkeid said. 'And when the Prime Minister's here we won't be letting anyone else in the VIP box.' At that moment two black cars swung into the square. 'Speak of the devil.'
Harry watched the Prime Minister emerging and being led briskly inside. As the front door opened Harry caught a glimpse of the reception committee. He saw David Eckhoff with a broad smile and Thea Nilsen with not such a big smile, both wearing Salvation Army uniforms.
Harry lit his cigarette.
'Fuck, it's cold,' Falkeid said. 'I've lost feeling in both legs and half my head.'
I envy you, thought Harry.
With the cigarette half smoked the inspector said aloud: 'He's not coming.'
'Looks like that. We'll have to hope he hasn't already found Karlsen.'
'It's Karlsen I'm talking about. He knows the game's up.'
Falkeid glanced at the tall detective whom, at one time, before the rumours of drinking and unruliness came to his ears, he had considered Delta material. 'What sort of game?' he asked.
'Long story. I'm going in. If Jon Karlsen turns up, arrest him.'
'Karlsen?' Falkeid looked perplexed. 'What about Stankic?'
Harry let go of his cigarette, which fell in the snow at his feet with a hiss.
'Yes,' he drawled, as though to himself. 'What about Stankic?'
He sat in the dark fingering the coat he had spread across his lap. Hushed harp music issued forth from the speakers. Small cones of light from the spotlights in the ceiling swept across the audience, the purpose of which he assumed was to create a quiver of anticipation for what was to take place onstage in a short while.
The rows in front of him began to stir as a group of a dozen or so guests appeared. A few people attempted to get to their feet but after some whispering and mumbling they sat down again. In this country it seemed you didn't show respect for politically elected leaders in that particular way. The company was ushered to seats three rows in front of him, which had been unoccupied for the half-hour he had been sitting and waiting.
He saw a man in a suit with a wire leading to one ear, but no uniformed police. The police presence outside had not given rise to alarm, either. In fact he had been expecting a greater show of force. After all, Martine had told him the Prime Minister would be attending the concert. On the other hand, what difference did the number of police make? He was invisible. Even more invisible than usual. Pleased with himself, he cast his eyes around the auditorium. How many hundreds of men were here in dinner suits? He could already imagine the chaos. And the simple but effective getaway. He had popped in the day before and found the escape route. The last thing he did before entering this evening was to check no one had locked the windows in the Gents. The plain, frosted windows could be pushed outwards and were large enough and low enough for a man to escape onto the ledge outside without any problems. From there it was a jump of three metres onto one of the car roofs in the parking lot. Then on with the coat, into busy Haakon VII's gate and two minutes and forty seconds of rapid walking later he would be on the platform of the National Theatre station where the airport express stopped every twenty minutes. The departure he was aiming for was at 20.19. Before leaving the toilet he had put two urinal blocks in his jacket pocket.
He had had to show his ticket a second time to enter the auditorium. He had shaken his head with a smile when the lady had pointed to his coat and asked him something in Norwegian. She had examined his ticket and shown him to a seat in the VIP box which, in fact, turned out to be four normal rows in the centre of the auditorium cordoned off with red tape for the occasion. Martine had explained where Jon Karlsen and his girlfriend, Thea, would be sitting.
And there they were at last. He glanced at his watch. Six minutes past eight. The concert hall was in semi-darkness and the light on the stage was too strong for him to be able to identify anyone in the delegation, but all of a sudden one of the faces was illuminated by a small spotlight. He caught a brief glimpse of a pained, wan face, but he had no doubt: this was the woman he had seen in the back of the car with Jon Karlsen in Goteborggata.
Ahead of him there
seemed to be some confusion regarding seat numbers, but then the situation was resolved and the wall of bodies sank into place. He squeezed the stock of the gun under his coat. There were six bullets in the drum. It was an unfamiliar weapon with a heavier trigger than a pistol, but he had been practising all day and had found the threshold for the trigger to release the bullet.
Then, as if in response to an invisible signal, silence descended on the auditorium.
A man in a uniform appeared, welcomed everyone, he supposed, and said something which made everyone stand up. He followed suit and watched the people around him lower their heads in silence. Someone must have died. Then the man at the front said something and everyone sat down.
And then, at long last, the curtain went up.
Harry was standing in the wings, in the dark, watching the curtain rise. The footlights prevented him from seeing the audience, but he felt its presence, like a large animal breathing.
The conductor raised his baton and the Oslo 3rd Corps Choir burst into the song Harry had heard in the Citadel.
'Let the flag of redemption wave, Onwards now to holy war!'
'Excuse me,' he heard a voice say, turned and saw a young woman wearing glasses and a headset. 'What are you doing here?' she asked.
'Police,' Harry said.
'I'm the stage manager and I must ask you not to stand in the way.'
'I'm looking for Martine Eckhoff,' Harry said. 'I was told she was here.'
'She's there,' the stage manager said, pointing to the choir. Harry located her. She was at the back, on the top step, singing with a serious expression, almost one of suffering. As though it were lost love and not fighting and victory she was singing about.
At her side was Rikard. Who, unlike her, had a beatific smile on his lips. His face looked quite different when he was singing. The harsh, repressed features were gone; there was a radiance in his young eyes as though he meant what he was singing from the bottom of his heart: that they would conquer the world for their God, for the cause of compassion and charity.
Harry noticed, to his surprise, that the melody and the lyrics were having an impact.
After they had finished, they received the applause and came towards the side of the stage. Rikard looked at Harry in astonishment, but said nothing. Martine, on catching sight of him, lowered her eyes and tried to skirt round him. But Harry was quick off the mark and stood in front of her.
