Jo Nesbo

by Headhunters

  The tractor started with a roar. And continued to roar as I drove out of the barn. I wasn’t bothered about closing the door. Because I could hear what the tractor was roaring: ‘Clas Greve! Brown’s getting away! Hurry, hurry!’

  I hit the accelerator. Drove the same way I had come. It was pitch black now, and the light from the tractor’s headlamps danced over the bumpy road. I looked in vain for the Lexus, it had to be parked here somewhere! No, now I wasn’t thinking clearly, he could have left it further up the road. I slapped my face. Blink, take a deep breath, you’re not tired, not exhausted. That’s the way.

  Pedal down hard. A persistent, continuous roar. Where to? Away.

  The light from the headlamps narrowed, the darkness was closing in. Tunnel vision again. Consciousness would soon fail me. I breathed in as deeply as I could. Oxygen to the brain. Be frightened, be alert, stay alive!

  The monotonous roar of the engine was now accompanied by a higher tone.

  I knew what it was and gripped the wheel tighter.

  Another engine.

  The lights flashed in my mirror.

  The car approached from behind at a sedate pace. And why not? We were alone here in the wilds. We had all the time in the world.

  My only hope was to keep him behind me so that he couldn’t block the way. I positioned myself in the centre of the gravel road and sunk over the wheel so as to make myself the smallest possible target for the Glock. We came out of a bend where the road suddenly straightened and widened. And, as though well acquainted with the area, Greve had already accelerated and was alongside me. I swung the tractor to the right to force him into the ditch. But it was too late, he had slipped past, and I was on my way into the ditch. I lunged desperately at the wheel and skidded on the gravel. I was still on the road. But ahead of me a blue light flashed. Or two red ones at any rate. The brake lights on the car in front showed that he had stopped. I stopped, but sat with the engine idling. I didn’t want to die here, alone in a bloody field, like a dumb sheep. My only chance now was to get him out of the car and run him over, flatten him with the ginormous rear wheels, crush him like a ginger snap beneath the huge tread.

  The car door on the driver’s side opened. I revved up with the tip of my toe to get a sense of how quickly the engine would respond. Not quickly. I went dizzy, and my eyes began to blur again, but I could see a figure get out and come towards me. I took aim while clinging ferociously onto consciousness. Tall, thin. Tall, thin? Greve wasn’t tall and thin.

  ‘Sindre?’

  ‘What?’ I said in English, although my father had drummed it into me that I should say ‘I beg your pardon’, ‘Sorry, sir’ or ‘How can I help you, madam?’ I half slumped into the seat. He had forbidden Mum to have me on her lap. Said it would make the child soft. Can you see me now, Dad? Did I become soft? Can I sit on your lap now, Dad?’

  I heard a voice with wonderful Norwegian sing-song intonation hesitate in the darkness.

  ‘Are you from the, er … er, reception centre for asylum seekers?’

  ‘Reception centre for asylum seekers?’ I repeated.

  He had come up alongside the tractor and, still clinging to the steering wheel, I gave him a sidelong glance.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. ‘You looked like a … erm … Did you fall into the muck heap?’

  ‘I did have an accident, yes.’

  ‘I can see that. I stopped you because I can see that’s Sindre’s tractor. And because there’s a dog hanging from the tail end.’

  So much for my concentration then. Ha ha. I had forgotten all about the sodding dog, do you hear that, Dad? Not enough blood to the brain. Too much …

  I lost the sensation in my fingers, watched them slip off the wheel. Then I passed out.

  15

  VISITING TIME

  I WOKE UP AND was in heaven. Everything was white and an angel with gentle eyes was looking down on me where I lay in the cloud, asking me if I knew where I was. I nodded and she said someone wanted to talk to me, but there was no hurry, he could wait. Yes, I thought, he can wait. For when he hears what I have done, he will throw me out on the spot, out of all this soft, lovely whiteness, and I will fall and fall until I am down where I belong, in the blacksmith’s workshop, in the smelting room, in the eternal acid bath for my sins.

  I closed my eyes and whispered that I would prefer not to be disturbed just yet.

  The angel nodded sympathetically, tucked the cloud in tighter around me and disappeared to the clatter of wooden clogs. The sound of voices in the corridor reached my ears before the door closed behind her.

  I touched the bandaged wound around my throat. A few fragmented moments appeared in my memory. The tall, thin man’s face above me, the back seat of a car driving at great speed down winding roads, two men in white nurses’ uniforms helping me up onto a stretcher. The shower. I had been on my back having a shower! Lovely hot water, then I had drifted off again.

  I felt like doing the same now, but my brain informed me that this luxury was very provisional, that the sands of time were still running, that the earth was still turning, that the course of events was inevitable. That they had just decided to wait for a while, hold their breath for a moment.

  To think.

  Yes, it hurt to think, it was easier to desist, to be resigned, not to rebel against the gravity of fate. It’s just that the stupid, trivial course of things is so irritating that you simply lose your temper.

  So you think.

  There was no way it could be Greve waiting outside, but it might be the police. I looked at my watch. Eight o’clock in the morning. If the police had already found Sindre Aa’s body and suspected me, it was unlikely they would send one man who would then, in addition, wait outside politely. It might be an officer who simply wanted to ask what had happened, perhaps it was because I had left the tractor in the middle of the road, perhaps … Perhaps I hoped it was the police. Perhaps I had had enough, perhaps all I could do now was save my skin, perhaps I should tell them everything as it was. I lay examining my feelings. And felt the laughter bubbling up inside me. Yes, an EXPLOSION!

  At that moment the door opened, the sounds of the corridor reached me and a man in a white coat strode in. He was peering at something on a clipboard.

  ‘Dog bite?’ he asked, raising his head and smiling at me.

  I recognised him instantly. The door slammed behind him, and we were alone.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t wait any longer,’ he whispered.

  The white doctor’s coat suited Clas Greve. God knows where he had got hold of it. God knows how he had found me; as far as I knew my mobile phone was at the bottom of a stream. But both God and I knew what was awaiting me. And as if to confirm my apprehensions Greve stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a pistol. My pistol. Or to be more accurate: Ove’s pistol. Or to be painfully accurate: a Glock 17 with nine-millimetre lead bullets which fragmented on impact with human tissue, splintering up in such a way that the collective mass of lead takes with it a disproportionately large mass of flesh, muscle, bone and cerebral matter which – after passing through your body – it plasters over the wall behind you like something not dissimilar to Barnaby Furnas’s paintings. The muzzle of the pistol was pointed at me. It is often alleged that your mouth goes dry in situations such as these. It does.

  ‘Hope it’s all right if I use your pistol, Roger,’ said Greve. ‘I didn’t bring mine with me to Norway. There’s so much hassle with planes and weapons nowadays. Anyway, I could hardly have anticipated –’ he opened his arms – ‘this. In addition, it’s pretty good that the bullet can’t be traced back to me, isn’t it, Roger?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he repeated.

  ‘Why …?’ I started with a voice that was as hoarse as a desert wind.

  Clas Greve waited with a genuinely interested facial expression for me to go on.

  ‘Why are you doing all this?’ I whispered. ‘Just because of a woman you have only known
five minutes?’

  He furrowed his brow. ‘Are you referring to Diana? Did you know that she and I—’

  ‘Yes,’ I interrupted to be spared the continuation.

  He chuckled. ‘Are you an idiot, Roger? Do you really think this is about her and me and you?’

  I didn’t answer. That was what I had thought. That it wasn’t about trivial matters like life, emotions and people one loved.

  ‘Diana was only a means to an end, Roger. I had to use her to get close to you. Since you didn’t take the first bait.’

  ‘Get close to me?’

  ‘You, yes. We’ve been planning this for more than four months, ever since we knew that Pathfinder was going to look for a new CEO.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Guess who.’

  ‘HOTE?’

  ‘And our new American owners. We were – to be quite frank – a bit on our uppers, economically speaking, when they came to us this spring. So we had to accept a couple of conditions for what perhaps looked like a buyout, but in reality was a rescue operation. One of the conditions was that we would deliver Pathfinder to them as well.’

  ‘Deliver Pathfinder? How?’

  ‘You know what I know, Roger. That even though, on paper, it is the shareholders and board of directors who make the decisions in a company, in practice it is the CEO who is in charge. Who in the final analysis determines whether and to whom the company is to be sold. I led HOTE by consciously feeding the board with so little information and so much uncertainty that they would choose to trust me at all times. Which, by the way, was to their benefit, regardless of what happened. The point is that every relatively competent leader with the confidence of the board will be able to manipulate and persuade a gang of semi-informed shareholders to do exactly what he wants.’

  ‘You’re exaggerating.’

  ‘Am I? To my knowledge, you make your living from doing just that, talking round these so-called directors.’

  Of course, he was right. And it confirmed the suspicion I had had after herr Felsenbrink in HOTE had recommended Greve so unreservedly for the post of CEO to HOTE’s greatest rival.

  ‘So HOTE wants to …’ I started.

  ‘Yes, HOTE wants to take over Pathfinder.’

  ‘Because the Americans have made it a proviso for getting you out of a fix?’

  ‘The money we HOTE shareholders have received in our accounts is frozen until the buyout conditions have been fulfilled. Although nothing of what we are discussing now appears anywhere in print of course.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘So all that stuff about your resigning in protest against the new owners was just a masquerade to make you appear a credible candidate to take over the helm at Pathfinder?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And when you’ve got the job as CEO at Pathfinder your task is to force the company into American hands?’

  ‘Not sure force is the right word. When Pathfinder finds out in a few months’ time that their technology is no longer a secret to HOTE, they will see for themselves that they have no chance on their own and that cooperation is the best way forward.’

  ‘Because you will have secretly leaked this technology to HOTE?’

  Greve’s smile was thin and as white as a tapeworm. ‘It is, as I said, the perfect marriage.’

  ‘The perfect forced marriage, you mean?’

  ‘If you like. But with the combined technologies of HOTE and Pathfinder we will capture all the defence contracts for GPS in the western hemisphere. And a couple in the eastern into the bargain … It’s worth a bit of manipulation, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘And so you had it planned that I would get you the job?’

  ‘I’d have been a strong candidate anyway, don’t you think?’ Greve had taken up a position at the foot of the bed with the pistol at hip height and his back to the door. ‘But we wanted to be absolutely sure. We soon found out which recruitment agencies they had contacted and did a bit of research. It turns out that you have something of a reputation, Roger Brown. If you recommend a candidate, that’s it, people say. You certainly hold some kind of record. So, naturally enough, we wanted to go via you.’

  ‘I’m honoured. But why didn’t you just contact Pathfinder directly and say you were interested?’

  ‘Come on, Roger! I’m the ex-CEO of the big bad buyout wolf. Have you forgotten? It would’ve caused all the alarm bells to ring if I’d gone to them. I had to be “found”. For example, by a headhunter. And then persuaded. It was the only way that would seem credible for me to get into Pathfinder without malicious intentions.’

  ‘I see. But why use Diana? Why not contact me direct?’

  ‘Now you’re playing dumb, Roger. You would’ve had the same suspicions if I’d put myself forward. You wouldn’t have touched me with a bargepole.’

  He was right that I was playing dumb. And it was right as well that he was dumb. Dumb and so proud of his brilliant, greedy plans that he couldn’t resist the temptation to stand there boasting about them until someone came in through the damned door. Somebody had to come soon, I was sick for Christ’s sake!

  ‘You ascribe much too noble motives to me and my work, Clas,’ I said, thinking that you don’t execute people you’re on first-name terms with, do you? ‘I choose candidates I think will be appointed to the job, and they’re not necessarily the ones I think are best for the company.’

  ‘Really?’ said Greve with a frown. ‘Even a headhunter like you is not so amoral, is he?’

  ‘You don’t know much about headhunters, I guess. You should’ve kept Diana out of this.’

  That seemed to amuse Greve. ‘Should I?’

  ‘How did you hook her?’

  ‘Would you really like to know, Roger?’ He had raised the pistol a touch. One metre. Between the eyes?

  ‘I’m dying to know, Clas.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He lowered the pistol a fraction again. ‘I dropped by her gallery a few times. Bought a number of works. At her recommendation, as time went on. Invited her out for coffee. We talked about all manner of things, about deeply personal things, the way that only strangers can. About marital problems …’

  ‘You talked about our marriage?’ It slipped out.

  ‘Yes, indeed. After all, I’m divorced, so I am full of sympathy. I can understand, for example, how a beautiful, fully mature and fertile woman like Diana may not be able to accept her husband’s unwillingness to give her a child. Or his persuading her to have an abortion because the baby has Down’s syndrome.’ Greve had a grin that was as broad as Aa’s was in the rocking chair. ‘Especially since I simply adore children myself.’

  Blood and reason deserted my head, leaving behind one single thought: that I would kill the man standing before me. ‘You … you told her you wanted a child?’

  ‘No,’ Greve said quietly. ‘I said I wanted a child with her.’

  I had to concentrate to control my voice: ‘Diana would never leave me for a charlatan like—’

  ‘I took her to the apartment and showed her my so-called Rubens painting.’

  I was confused. ‘So-called …?’

  ‘Yes, the painting is not genuine, of course, just a very good copy painted in Rubens’s time. In fact, the Germans thought for a long time that it was genuine. My grandmother showed it to me when I was young and living there. Sorry for lying to you about its authenticity.’

  The news should perhaps have had an effect on me, but I was already so emotionally drained that I just took it in, realising at the same time that Greve had not discovered that the painting had been switched.

  ‘Nevertheless the copy had its uses,’ Greve said. ‘When Diana saw what she thought was a genuine Rubens, she must have concluded there and then that I would not only give her a child but also provide for it and her in a more than adequate way. In a nutshell, give her the life she dreams about.’

  ‘And she …’

  ‘She, of course, agreed to ensure her future husband got the CEO post that would produce the resp
ectability that ought to follow with money.’

  ‘You’re telling me … that evening in the gallery … it was a put-up job from beginning to end?’

  ‘Of course. Except for the fact that we didn’t achieve the end as easily as we had hoped. When Diana rang me to say that you had decided not to take me …’ He rolled his eyes in theatrical irony. ‘Can you imagine the shock, Roger? The disappointment? The anger? I simply could not understand why you didn’t like me. Why, Roger, why? What had I done to you?’

  I gulped. He seemed so absurdly relaxed, as though he had all the time in the world to fire the bullet into my skull, heart or whichever part of my body he had designated.

  ‘You’re too small,’ I said.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘So you got Diana to plant the rubber ball containing Curacit in my car? She was supposed to kill me so that I wouldn’t be able to write my negative report?’

  Greve frowned. ‘Curacit? It’s interesting that you’re convinced your wife would be willing to commit murder for a child and a pot of gold. And for all I know you may be right. But in fact I did not ask her to do that. The rubber ball contained a mixture of Ketalar and Dormicum, a fast-acting anaesthetic which is so strong that, to be sure, it is not without risk. The plan was that you would be knocked out when you got into your car in the morning and that Diana would drive the car, with you in it, to a preordained place.’

  ‘What sort of place?’