The Leopard: An Inspector Harry Hole Novel

by Jo Nesbo

  Hungry and desperate, the CFF attacked a mining company extracting coltan, even though they were aware that mining companies had better weapons and soldiers than they did. Kinzonzi had never had any illusions that he would live a long life or that he would die any other way than from fighting. So he hadn’t even blinked when he found himself staring up the gun barrel of a white man speaking to him in a foreign language. Kinzonzi had just nodded for him to get it over with. Two months later the wounds were healed, and the mining company was his new employer.

  The white man was Mr. Tony. Mr. Tony paid well but showed no mercy if he saw the slightest sign of disloyalty. Yes, he spoke to them and was the best boss Kinzonzi had ever had. And yet Kinzonzi would not have hesitated for a second to shoot him if it had been worth his while. But it wasn’t.

  “Hurry up,” Kinzonzi said to Oudry, loading his pistol. He knew it could take time for the white policeman to die from the metal apple that would be activated in his mouth when they opened the door, so he would shoot him at once in order to get going to Nyiragongo, where Mr. Tony and the women were waiting.

  A man who had been seated on a chair smoking outside the adjacent shop got up and was lost in the darkness, mumbling angrily.

  Kinzonzi regarded the door handle. The first time he had been here was to pick up Van Boorst. It was also the first time he had seen the legendary Alma. At that time Van Boorst had been spending all his money on Singapore sling, protection and Alma, who was not exactly cheap to maintain. Then Van Boorst, in his desperation, committed the final mistake of his life: blackmailing Mr. Tony with threats of going to the police. The Belgian had seemed more resigned than surprised when they came, and had finished his drink. They had carved him up into suitably large pieces to feed to the paradoxically fat pigs outside the refugee camp. Mr. Tony had taken over Alma. Alma of the hips, gold tooth and the sleepy fuck-me look that could have given Kinzonzi another reason to put a bullet in Mr. Tony’s head. If it had been worth his while.

  Kinzonzi pressed the handle. And pulled the door hard. It swung open but was stopped halfway by a thin steel wire fastened to the inside of the door. The moment it tightened, there was a loud, clear click and the sound of metal on metal, like the sound of a bayonet thrust into an iron sheath. The door opened with a creak.

  Kinzonzi stepped in, dragged Oudry after him and slammed the door. The bitter smell of vomit stung their nostrils.

  “Switch on the light.”

  Oudry did as he was ordered.

  Kinzonzi stared at the end of the room. On the wall, drenched in blood, a banknote hung from a bare nail, from which a red stream led down to the floor. On the bed, in a pool of yellow vomit, lay a blood-covered metal ball with long needles sticking out, like rays of a sun. But no white policeman.

  The door. Kinzonzi whirled around with his gun at the ready.

  No one there.

  He dropped to his knees and looked under the bed. No one.

  Oudry opened the door to the only closet in the room. Empty.

  “He’s fled,” Oudry said to Kinzonzi, who was standing by the bed pressing a finger into the mattress.

  “What is it?” Oudry asked, going closer.

  “Blood.” He took the flashlight from Oudry. Followed the trail of blood to where it stopped in the middle. A trapdoor with an iron ring. He advanced on the hatchway, ripped open the door and shone the light down into the darkness beneath. “Get your gun, Oudry.”

  His comrade went outside and returned with his AK-47.

  “Cover me,” said Kinzonzi, descending the ladder.

  He reached the bottom and held the pistol and flashlight in a double grip as he swiveled around. The beam swept over cupboards and shelves along the wall. Continued over a free-standing unit in the middle of the floor with grotesque white masks on the shelves. One with rivets for eyebrows, a lifelike one with a red asymmetrical mouth going right up to the ear on one side, one with empty eyes and a spear tattooed on both cheeks. He shone the light on the shelves on the facing wall. And stopped suddenly. Kinzonzi went rigid. Weapons. Guns. Ammunition. The brain is a fantastic computer. In a fraction of a second it can register tons of data, crunch them and reason its way to the correct answer. So when Kinzonzi swung the light back onto the masks, it already had the right answer. The light fell on the white mask with the asymmetrical mouth. Displaying the molars. Glistening red. The same way the blood on the wall under the nail had glistened.

  Kinzonzi had never had any illusions that he would live a long life. Or that he would die any other way than from fighting.

  His brain told his fingers to squeeze the trigger of his pistol. The brain is a fantastic computer.

  In one microsecond the finger squeezed, at the same time as his brain had already finished its reasoning. It had the answer. Knew what the outcome would be.

  Harry had known there was only one solution. And there wasn’t any time to waste. So he had smacked his head against the nail a little higher this time. He had hardly felt it when the nail perforated his cheek or when it struck the metal ball inside. Then he had lowered himself onto the bed, forced his head against the wall and pulled back with his full weight while trying to tense the muscles in his cheek. At first nothing happened. Then the nausea came. And the panic. If he threw up now, with the Leopold’s apple in his mouth, he would suffocate. But it was unstoppable; he could already feel his stomach contracting to send up the first load through the esophagus. In desperation, Harry raised his head and hips. Then let himself fall hard. And felt the flesh of his cheek give, tear, rip open. Felt the blood stream into his mouth, down the trachea, activating the coughing reflex, felt the nail bang against his front teeth. Harry put his hand in his mouth, but the apple was slippery from all the blood; his fingers slithered on the metal. He inserted one hand behind the ball, pushed while pressing his jaw down with the other. Heard it scrape against his teeth. Then—in a huge surge—the vomit came.

  Maybe that was what had forced the metal apple out. Harry lay with his head against the wall, looking at the shiny death-bringing invention, which now sat on the mattress, bathed in his sick.

  Then he got up, naked and on shaky legs. He was free.

  He staggered toward the front door, then remembered why he had gone to the house. At the third attempt he managed to open the trapdoor. He skidded in his own blood on the way down the steps and fell into the pitch black. Lying on the concrete floor and gasping for breath, he heard a vehicle pull up. He heard voices and doors slamming. Harry struggled to his feet, groped in the dark, took the steps in two strides, got a hand on the hatch and closed it as he heard the front door open and the savage click of the apple.

  Harry moved back down the ladder with care until he sensed the cold concrete floor beneath his soles. Then he closed his eyes and strained his memory. Conjured up the image of his previous visit here. The shelves to the left. Kalashnikov. Glock. Smith & Wesson. The case with the Märklin rifle. Ammunition. In that order. He fumbled his way forward. Fingers strayed over a gun barrel. The smooth steel of a Glock. And, there, they recognized the shape of a Smith & Wesson, .38-caliber, the same as his service revolver. He took it with him and fumbled on toward the boxes of ammunition. Felt the wood on his fingertips. He heard angry voices and footsteps above. Just had to open the lid. Needed a little luck now. He stuffed his hand in and grabbed one of the cardboard packets. Ran his fingers over the contours of the cartridge. Fuck—too big! As he raised the lid of the next wooden box, the trapdoor opened. He grabbed at a packet, had to take a chance on it being the right caliber. At that moment light penetrated the cellar darkness, a circle, as from a spotlight, lit up the floor around the steps. It gave Harry enough light to read the label on the packet: 7.62 MILLIMETERS. Fuck! Harry looked on the shelf. There. The box next to it: .38-caliber. The light went from the floor and skittered across the ceiling. Harry saw the silhouette of a Kalashnikov in the opening and a man on his way down the steps.

  The brain is a fantastic computer.

&nb
sp; As Harry pulled open the lid of the box and took a cardboard packet, it had already done its calculations. It was too late.

  87

  Kalashnikov

  “There wouldn’t be a road here if we hadn’t been running a mining business,” Tony Leike said as the car bounced along the narrow, rough pavement. “Entrepreneurs like me are the only hope for people in countries like the Congo to get to their feet, to follow us, to become civilized. The alternative is to leave them to their own devices so that they can continue doing what they have always done: kill one another. Everyone on this continent is both a hunter and a victim. Don’t forget that as you look into the imploring eyes of a starving African child. Give him a bit of food and those eyes will soon be looking at you again, from behind an automatic weapon. And then there is no mercy.”

  Kaja didn’t answer. She stared at the red hair of the woman in the passenger seat. Lene Galtung had neither moved nor said anything, merely sat there with an erect back and retracted shoulders.

  “Everything in Africa goes in cycles,” Tony continued. “Rain and drought, night and day, eating and being eaten, living and dying. The course of nature is everything, nothing can be changed; swim with the flow, survive for as long as you can, take what’s offered—that’s all you can do. Because your forefathers’ lives are your life, you cannot make a change, development is not possible. That’s not African philosophy, just the experience of generations. And it is the experience that has to change. It is experience that changes mind-sets, not the other way around.”

  “And if it’s your experience that white people exploit you?” Kaja said.

  “The idea of exploitation has been sown by white men,” Tony said. “But the term has proved to be a useful tool for African leaders who need to point to a common enemy to get their people behind them. Right from the dismantling of colonialist governments in the sixties, they have used white people’s feelings of guilt to acquire power, so the real exploitation of the population could begin. The whites’ guilt about colonizing Africa is pathetic. The real crime was to leave Africa to its own butchering and destructive ways. Believe me, Kaja, the Congolese never had it better than under the Belgians. The revolts had no foundation in popular will, but in individuals’ greed for power. Tiny factions stormed the Belgians’ houses here by Lake Kivu because the houses were so elegant they assumed they would find something there they desired. That was how it was, and that is how it is. That’s why properties always have at least two gates, one at each end. One through which robbers can charge in and one through which inhabitants can flee.”

  “So that was how you left the house without me seeing you?”

  Tony laughed. “Did you really think it was you tailing us? I’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since you both arrived. Goma is a small town with little money and a clear power structure. It was very naïve of you and Harry to come alone.”

  “Who’s naïve?” Kaja said. “What do you think will happen when it comes out that two Norwegian police officers have disappeared in Goma?”

  Tony hunched his shoulders. “Kidnapping is a relatively common occurrence in Goma. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local police soon receive a letter from a freedom fighter demanding an exorbitant sum of money for you two. Plus the release of named prisoners who are known opponents of President Kabila’s regime. Negotiations will continue for a few days, but lead nowhere, as of course the demands will be impossible to meet. And then you won’t be seen again. Daily fare, Kaja.”

  Kaja tried to catch Lene Galtung’s eye in the mirror, but she kept her gaze averted.

  “What about her?” Kaja said. “Does she know you’ve killed all these people, Tony?”

  “She does now,” Tony said. “And she understands me. That’s real love for you, Kaja. And that’s why Lene and I are getting married this evening. You’re invited.” He laughed. “We’re on our way to the church. I think it will be a very atmospheric ceremony when we swear eternal fidelity to each other, don’t you, Lene?”

  At that moment Lene bent forward in her seat, and Kaja saw the reason for her retracted shoulders: Her hands were held behind her back by a pair of pink handcuffs. Tony leaned over, grabbed Lene’s shoulder and roughly pushed her back. Just then Lene twisted around to face them, and Kaja recoiled in horror. Lene Galtung was nearly unrecognizable. Her face was smeared with tears, one eye was swollen, and her mouth was forced open in such a way that her lips formed an O. Inside the O Kaja glimpsed gold metal. From the golden sphere hung a short red wire.

  And the words Tony uttered were for Kaja an echo of another marriage proposal on the threshold of death, a burial in snow: Till death do us part.

  Harry slipped behind the shelf of masks as the figure stepped down from the ladder, turned and flashed his light. There was nowhere to hide, just a countdown to when he would be seen. Harry closed his eyes so as not to be blinded, while opening the packet of cartridges with his left hand. Took four bullets; his fingers knew exactly what four bullets felt like. He swung the cylinder to the left with his right hand, let the by-now-reflexive movements take place, the way they had when he was sitting alone in Cabrini-Green and, out of sheer boredom, practicing quick-loading. But here he was not alone enough. Nor bored enough. His fingers trembled. He saw the red insides of his eyelids as the light fell on his face. He braced himself. But no shots were fired. The light moved. He wasn’t dead, not yet. His fingers obeyed. They pushed bullets into four of the six empty chambers, relaxed, fast, one-handed. The cylinder fell into place. Harry opened his eyes as the light hit his face again. Blinded, he fired into the sun.

  The light swung upward and over the ceiling, and was gone. The echo of the shots hung in the air while the flashlight rolled on its own axis, making a loud rumbling noise and shining a low beam around the walls like a lighthouse.

  “Kinzonzi! Kinzonzi!”

  The flashlight came to rest against the shelf. Harry rushed forward, grabbed it, rolled onto his back, holding the flashlight at arm’s length, as far from his body as possible, braced his legs against the shelving unit and pushed off toward the ladder until he had the trapdoor directly above him. Then the bullets came, sounding like whiplashes, and he felt the spray of concrete dust against his arm and chest as they bored into the floor by the flashlight. Harry took aim and shot at the illuminated figure standing astride the hatchway. Three quick squeezes.

  The Kalashnikov came first. It hit the floor beside Harry’s head with a loud bang. Then came the man. Harry just managed to wriggle away before the body landed. No resistance. Meat. Dead weight.

  It was quiet for a couple of seconds. Then Harry heard Kinzonzi—if that was his name—give a low groan. Harry got up, still with the flashlight at his side, saw a Glock lying on the floor near Kinzonzi and kicked it away. He grabbed the Kalashnikov.

  Then he dragged the other man to the wall, as far from Kinzonzi as possible, and shone the light on him. Predictably enough, he had reacted as Harry had; blinded, he had shot into the sun. Harry’s detective eyes automatically registered that the man’s groin was soaked in blood; the bullet must have continued up into his stomach but was hardly likely to have killed him. A bleeding shoulder, so one bullet had probably entered his armpit. That explained why the Kalashnikov had come first. Harry crouched down. But that didn’t explain why the man wasn’t breathing.

  He shone the light on his face. Why the boy wasn’t breathing.

  The bullet had gone in under his chin. From the angle he had fired the lead must have passed into his mouth, through his palate and up into the brain. Harry inhaled. The boy couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen. An altogether good-looking lad. Wasted beauty. Harry stood up, put the gun barrel to the dead man’s head and shouted: “Where are they? Mr. Leike. Tony. Where?”

  He waited a bit.

  “What? Louder. I can’t hear you. Where? Three seconds. One.

  “Two …”

  Harry pressed the trigger. The weapon must have been on full auto because it
fired at least four times before he managed to release his finger. Harry closed his eyes when the salvo hit his face, and when he opened them again he saw that the boy’s attractive features had disintegrated. Harry noticed hot, wet blood was running down his naked body.

  Harry stepped over to Kinzonzi. Stood astride him, shone the flashlight on his face, pointed the gun to his forehead and repeated the question word for word.

  “Where are they? Mr. Leike. Tony. Where? Three seconds …”

  Kinzonzi opened his eyes. Harry saw the whites quiver. The terror of dying is a prerequisite for wanting to live. It had to be, at least here in Goma.

  Kinzonzi answered, slowly and clearly.

  88

  The Church

  Kinzonzi lay quite still. The tall white man had placed the flashlight on the floor so that it lit up the ceiling. Kinzonzi watched him put on Oudry’s clothes. Watched him tear his T-shirt into strips and tie them around his chin and head so that the gaping jaw, the wound running from his mouth to his ear, was covered. Tightened it to stop the jaw from hanging on one side. Blood soaked through the cotton material as Kinzonzi looked on.

  He had answered the few questions the man had asked. Where. How many. What weapons they had.

  Now the white man went to the shelf, pulled out a black case, opened it and examined the contents.

  Kinzonzi knew he was going to die. A young, violent death. But perhaps not now, not tonight. His stomach stung as though someone had poured acid on him. But it was OK.

  The white man was holding Oudry’s Kalashnikov. He moved toward Kinzonzi, stood over him with the light behind his back. A towering figure with his head wrapped in white cloth, the way they used to bind the chin for death before the deceased was buried. If Kinzonzi was going to be shot, it would happen now. The man dropped the torn strips of T-shirt he hadn’t used on Kinzonzi.