Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  After several hundred metres she caught sight of him again, three vehicles ahead, driving back the way he had come. At the roundabout at Galleri Oslo he continued across the marshalling yard at Oslo Central Station and drove out along the E18 highway travelling east towards Bispelokket. Two cars now separated them and she was afraid she would lose him in the heavy traffic.

  Suddenly he turned into the harbour area. She let a couple of lorries and a cement vehicle go in front of her to avoid him seeing her, and eventually followed along the water’s edge to Sørenga, the area that would soon become a new urban district. At Sjursøya he swung his car onto the quayside and drove into a colossal warehouse, right down by the sea, where cranes soared to the leaden skies.

  Line halted behind a stack of steel pipes piled on a kind of frame so that she had a satisfactory view of the surrounding area.

  Several East European construction workers were working with scrap iron directly in front of her, but appeared to have no interest in what she was doing. For several minutes she stared at the entrance to the warehouse Tommy had driven into. Container trucks and terminal tractors were driving here and there, but nothing else was going on.

  She felt nauseous. The palms of her hands were sweaty and she felt slightly dizzy. She wanted to scream out loud, to hit out, to find some outlet for her despair.

  Her camera lay on the seat beside her. She cradled it on her lap and glanced through the photos she had taken beside the Munch Museum. Using the zoom function she noticed that the legs of the unknown man partly screened the car registration number. She could try searching for a variety of combinations later.

  When she zoomed a couple of notches closer to the bag sandwiched between the two men, she froze. She could not be certain, but thought she saw the barrel of a gun protruding from it.

  65

  Wisting hung his blazer over the gun cabinet door and removed his shoulder holster. Placing one strap over his shoulder, he fastened it so that it lay under his left breast, before taking out his service revolver, a Heckler & Koch P30. The metal felt cold in his hand.

  Pulling the magazine from the stock, he placed both parts of the gun on the bench and opened a box of ammunition. He picked out nine brass cartridges, weighing them in his hand before pushing them into the magazine, the resistance in the spring increasing as he filled it. He then let the magazine slide into the stock again. A metallic click told him it was in place. Metal slid easily over well-oiled metal when he loaded a cartridge into the chamber before securing the firearm, shoving it into the shoulder holster and donning his blazer.

  It had been a long time since he had worn the gun. He turned his lapel aside and abruptly pulled it out, his finger settling automatically along the trigger guard as he fixed on an imaginary target at the opposite end of the room. It was reassuring to feel the firmness of the revolver in his hand. He was still proficient.

  Prior to his return, someone had left a closed cardboard box in the middle of his desk. Underneath, bundles of unread reports and notes were still stacked. He picked it up. There were no markings of any kind on the outside, and it weighed next to nothing. Something inside slid from one end to the other.

  Putting it down, he opened the lid, grimacing at the contents. A dead bird with an angry yellow beak and lacklustre eyes, its black wings spread out from its body. He stepped back with the lid in his hand, and looked around as though looking for someone to explain why a dead bird had been left on his desk. He carried the box into the corridor and listened to voices from the conference room.

  Espen Mortensen and Nils Hammer stood beside the coffee machine. ‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, holding out the box.

  ‘A dead bird?’ Hammer suggested, grinning.

  ‘What’s it doing in my office?’

  ‘I was the one who put it there,’ Mortensen said. ‘I came in with the report. You weren’t there, so I left it while I got myself a cup of coffee.’

  ‘What report?’

  ‘From the Veterinary College. It just arrived by fax. Haven’t you read it?’

  Wisting shook his head.

  ‘They’ve carried out post mortems on several of the dead birds,’ Mortensen said. ‘They died of cardiac arrest following multiple organ failure.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  ‘They were poisoned.’

  Wisting glanced down at the bird in the box.

  ‘Poisoned?’

  ‘Cocaine.’

  The logical connection dawned on him, like a child finally understanding a simple sum.

  ‘Fatal overdose,’ Hammer commented.

  Espen Mortensen agreed: ‘The physical effects are approximately the same. High pulse rate, high blood pressure, cardiac arrhythmia, heart attack and cerebral hemorrhage.’

  Wisting rested the cardboard box on the young crime scene technician’s chest.

  ‘Give this to Christine Thiis,’ he said. ‘Ask her to issue a press release about it, and after that you can bury the evidence in the garden.’

  66

  Line looked up from the camera. For seconds she had forgotten to breathe, and now her breath came in short, sharp gulps as she glanced at the other photos. The first was the only one with any of the bag’s contents visible.

  A piercingly loud noise, followed by a furious outburst in a foreign language, made her start in her seat. Twenty metres away, three men in raincoats stood around a metal drum that had fallen from the back of a truck. Another man emerged from a workman’s hut, waving his arms and shouting at them. Her heart pounded in her chest.

  She started the car, driving until she found a spot where the containers formed a passageway and she could park under cover of an untidy stack of concrete panels. From here she could see the warehouse and parts of its interior. It appeared that the building contained huge steel structures, and there were vehicles inside, although she could not make out any activity. Through her camera lens she could see people moving about, although still indistinct shadows.

  Lowering the camera, she looked for a better vantage point. There were sheds at the water’s edge, but they would not give a better view. The skies above the sea darkened and the rain became heavier, hammering on the car roof. A deluge cascaded down the windscreen.

  Putting aside the camera, she picked up her phone and, flipping to Tommy’s number, sat with her thumb poised on the green button. The simplest thing would be to call him, launch into an innocent conversation but try to get something out of him about what he was up to. She was about to press the button when car headlights were switched on in the warehouse interior, followed by another vehicle starting up. Two large, dark cars with shaded windows rolled from the open storage hall, passing less than forty metres away. Muddy water splashed up from potholes in the gravel surface.

  She waited until they were out of sight and reached for the ignition key. As she was about to start, the doors on both sides were snatched open. A man threw himself across the passenger seat and grabbed the bunch of keys, the longhaired man at her kitchen table. The other man placed his hand over her mouth and dragged her from the car.

  67

  The shoulder holster and revolver chafed uncomfortably against his ribs. Adjusting the strap, Wisting studied the video footage from inside the cash centre.

  The fire officer’s office on the top floor was fitted out as a control centre. From the window they had a direct view of the cash depot. Torrents of rain pelted the asphalt and turned into little streams that ran down the road to the rear of the terracotta-coloured building. The wide river below usually flowed slowly and quietly, but today churned wildly. The water almost reached the top of the poles on the old jetty.

  Leif Malm arrived with the Emergency Squad, moving in and out of the side room, talking continuously on his mobile phone.

  The Emergency Squad leader, installed in the same office as Wisting, was called Kurt Owesen. Tall and strong, with hair cropped short, his complexion was marred by open pores and scars. ‘Excellent images,
’ he said. ‘Razor sharp.’

  It was true – the images were top quality. Wisting was pleased to be participating in the coming action via screens instead of from inside the heavily guarded room where the armed officers were gathered downstairs. The fire engines were lined up outside, and armoured police vehicles were concealed behind the doors, ready to go.

  From the window, Wisting watched a flock of ducks flying low from the east. One of them broke away and landed on the murky waters of the river, where it was carried along by the current, momentarily caught before managing to struggle free.

  He positioned the blinds so he could see through the slats, but was still uncomfortable with this situation: too much uncertainty, no knowing when the robbers planned to strike or whether the cash centre was the actual target. His whole body tingled with anxiety.

  Malm entered and positioned himself beside him, scanning the array of monitors.

  ‘Any news?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘The vehicle that’s going to empty the depot will be here in twenty minutes. Once that’s done, we’ll lock our own personnel inside. Then it’s a matter of waiting.’

  He sat down, but stood up again when the phone rang. Wisting listened to his monosyllabic answers until he wrapped up the conversation. ‘Klaus Bang is on his way to Norway.’

  Wisting visualised the man in the boat who had been photographed by the birdwatcher. ‘How is he travelling?’

  ‘By Colorline from Hirsthals. He’s booked tickets on the ferry docking in Larvik at two o’clock tonight.’

  ‘We’ll see he gets a warm welcome.’

  Replacing his mobile phone in his pocket, Leif Malm surveyed the room. ‘Any coffee here?’

  ‘We have to use the fire crew’s kitchen,’ Wisting said, leading the way. The fire crew on duty had been given a brief resumé of the operation, with secrecy duly emphasised.

  Each filled a cup in silence. The Emergency Squad leader took coffee to his colleagues, while Wisting and Leif Malm returned to the makeshift command centre. Malm stood in front of the map hanging on the wall. ‘Are your people in position?’ he asked.

  Wisting glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. ‘I would think so.’ He crossed over to the map. ‘We have five surveillance posts,’ he said, pointing to strategic points at the town’s entrance and exit roads. Simultaneously, the police radio crackled into life.

  ‘Kilo 0-5, this is kilo 4-1.’

  It was Benjamin Fjeld’s voice. He was in a car beside the motorway exit.

  Grabbing the police radio, Wisting pressed the send button.

  ‘4-1: come in.’

  ‘A NOKAS cash service security van has just turned off from the E18. It should be with you in a couple of minutes.’

  Leif Malm nodded. This was one of the vehicles that collected cash from commercial businesses and delivered it to the cash centre. Today the driver would be instructed to fill his cargo hold instead of emptying it.

  ‘It’s expected,’ Wisting said.

  ‘It will be escorted to Oslo by two unmarked police cars,’ Malm clarified.

  Wisting stood by the window, waiting for the security vehicle. Two minutes later, he spotted it in the downpour, swinging off the main road and driving behind the building. On one of the monitor screens, they saw it at the drive-in gate. The gate slid open and the van entered. Wisting reported his observations over the police radio.

  ‘They’ll take approximately half an hour,’ Leif Malm said. ‘Shall we order a pizza or something?’

  Wisting did not feel hungry, but said yes thanks anyway. On the screen, two guards emerged from the cabin of the van. A man and a woman.

  ‘Perhaps you could order it,’ Malm suggested. ‘You must know the restaurants around here?’

  About to answer, Wisting’s stood rooted to the spot. Two men in black overalls had suddenly appeared beside the guards.

  ‘What the hell!’ He knocked over his cup which fell to the floor and smashed. ‘Where did they come from?’ He tore the venetian blinds aside but saw no activity outside.

  The men were wearing balaclavas. One was slightly taller and burlier than the other and had a machine gun hanging from a sling across his chest, while his companion pointed a revolver at the female guard’s head.

  ‘It’s started!’ Wisting shouted, grabbing the police radio.

  68

  Before the leader of the Emergency Squad was in position in the makeshift command centre, the robbers had intimidated their way into the bank note storage room. The male guard, held at bay by the man with the machine gun, stood beside the wall, while the woman keyed in the code on the first vault door. No alarms had sounded.

  Wisting saw how Kurt Owesen’s eyes flitted across the screens. They had not planned for this. The veins on his temples were swollen, and there was a distinct cracking from the muscles of his jaw.

  Suddenly he moved, barking commands over the radio. ‘We have a hostage situation. Two guards held at gunpoint in the cash centre. Adversaries are two men, one armed with a two-handed automatic weapon, the other with a handgun.’

  On the CCTV screen, Wisting watched bundles of banknotes from the first strongroom being packed into a capacious bag while the female guard was forced to open storage vault number two. The raid would be over in minutes.

  The Emergency Squad leader issued orders to launch a counter attack. They would strike as the robbers fled, provided they left the two guards behind. How the two masked men thought they could get away was incomprehensible. No other vehicles had appeared.

  The second storage vault was emptied. Two full bags were already at the door. The taller of the two robbers spoke into a two-way radio and Kurt Owesen quickly relayed that the thieves must have accomplices outside.

  Messages flashed on the screen. Attaching the radio to a clip on his chest, the masked raider stepped towards the CCTV camera and stared into it. Wisting gazed into a pair of dark eyes before his weapon was raised. The butt of the gun slammed hard against the lens and the screen went blank. Automatically, Wisting took a pace backwards, not knowing whether it was the blow against the camera or the glowering look that had frightened him.

  He looked at the main road. Nothing. He lifted his eyes to the clouds, after a sudden thought that the robbers’ help might come from there. He then spoke into the police radio to update his officers in their unmarked vehicles.

  Benjamin Fjeld reported back from his observation post: ‘A Chevrolet Suburban has just gone past. Impossible to see the number plate. That could be the getaway car.’

  Kurt Owesen relayed the message to his officers. Wisting heard a rasping sound in his earpiece as the action groups acknowledged the information.

  One of the screens showed images from the garage interior. He could see what was going on through the open door of the banknote storage room. The third storage vault looked empty when it was opened.

  The smaller of the two raiders pressed the barrel of his revolver against the female guard’s neck as she tried to explain a practical problem. The two guards exchanged places. The man keyed in the combination and the heavy door swung open. Simultaneously, the message Alarm #4 Alarm appeared as a line of text at the top of the screen. None of the people in the picture reacted. The guard must have keyed in a combination of numbers to trigger the threat alarm as the vault door opened.

  Half a minute later, it looked like it was over as the four bags were carried from the depot by the robbers. The Emergency Squad leader relayed this to the officers waiting downstairs.

  Wisting leaned his head on the window to see as much as possible of the main road. A lorry passed, followed by two delivery vans. Swearing out loud, he looked at the screen again. The raiders were heading for the exit with the female guard in front of them. Wisting still could not understand how they entered the building, and had no idea how they meant to escape.

  It then dawned on him as absolutely obvious. He was not sure whether he understood or saw it first. A large rubber dinghy, a Zodiac, approa
ched along the river, slightly less elaborate than the type that had arrived from Denmark with the cargo of drugs. A masked man stood behind the steering console. Slowing down, he manoeuvred towards the riverbank.

  On screen, the door of the banknote storage vault slammed behind the robbers. In a matter of minutes, seconds, they would be gone. The Emergency Squad officers would never regroup in time.

  Wisting stormed out of the room into the corridor, smashed open the emergency exit at the rear of the fire station, and clattered down the spiral fire stairs on the building’s exterior. At the foot, he drew his gun, releasing the safety catch as he ran.

  The two robbers pushed the female guard ahead of them. They must have left the man inside. The woman fell over, and the smaller of the raiders put down one of his bags to haul her to her feet again. None of them had spotted Wisting.

  The speedboat was at the jetty, its distance from the robbers less than fifty metres. Wisting could cut them off, but paused as the female guard stumbled and fell for a second time.

  ‘Armed police!’ He shouted his routine warning, shielding himself behind a telegraph pole. ‘Stand still!’

  Twenty metres away, the two masked raiders froze. The woman lay for a moment before clambering to her feet and running to safety.

  Wisting withdrew behind the pole, though it afforded him little cover. The man armed with the machine gun dropped the bags he was carrying and pointed the machine gun at him. Repeating his warning, Wisting curled his forefinger around the trigger, aiming at the man’s chest. Rain streamed down his face. The pressure on the trigger increased. Wisting made eye contact and something he saw made him straighten his finger.

  The man in the boat shouted and the raider grabbed the bags and raced towards the river. Plunging forward, Wisting fired a series of six shots. As the explosive noise hurt his eardrums, the stench of lead assaulted his nose. The shots entered the bow of the boat, piercing the left inflatable tube. He lowered his revolver, watching the masked man on board accelerate into the middle of the river. The boat tilted in the water.