Macbeth

by Jo Nesbo

  Duff took a deep breath. Checked his gun.

  The worst was that Macbeth had rung. He had been given the same tip-off via an anonymous phone call and offered Duff the SWAT team. But Duff had turned down his offer, saying all they had to do was pick up a lorry, and had asked Macbeth to keep the tip-off quiet.

  At a signal from the man in the Viking helmet one of the other bikers moved forward, and Duff saw the sergeant’s stripes on the upper arm of his leather jacket when the rider opened a briefcase in front of the ship’s captain. The captain nodded, raised his hand, and a second later iron screamed against iron, and light appeared in the crane swinging over its arm from the quayside.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Duff said. His voice was firmer now. ‘We’ll wait until the dope and the money have changed hands, then we’ll go in.’

  Silent nods in the semi-darkness. They had gone through the plans in painstaking detail, but they had imagined a maximum of five couriers. Could Sweno have been tipped off about a possible intervention by the police? Was that why they had turned up in such strength? No. If so, they would have called it all off.

  ‘Can you smell it?’ Seyton whispered beside him.

  ‘Smell what?’

  ‘Their fear.’ Seyton had closed his eyes and his nostrils were quivering. Duff stared into the rainy night. Would he have accepted Macbeth’s offer of the SWAT team now? Duff stroked his face with his long fingers, down the diagonal scar. There was nothing to think about now; he had to do this, he’d always had to do this. Sweno was here now, and Macbeth and SWAT were in their beds asleep.

  Macbeth yawned as he lay on his back. He listened to the rain drumming down. Felt stiff and turned onto his side.

  A white-haired man lifted up the tarpaulin and crept inside. Sat shivering and cursing in the darkness.

  ‘Wet, Banquo?’ Macbeth asked, placing the palms of his hands on the rough roofing felt beneath him.

  ‘It’s a bugger for a gout-ridden old man like me to have to live in this piss-hole of a town. I should grab my pension and move into the country. Get myself a little house in Fife or thereabouts, sit on a veranda where the sun shines, bees hum and birds sing.’

  ‘Instead of being on a roof in a container port in the middle of the night? You’ve got to be joking?’

  They chuckled.

  Banquo switched on a penlight. ‘This is what I wanted to show you.’

  Macbeth held the light and shone it on the drawing Banquo passed him.

  ‘There’s your Gatling gun. Beautiful job, isn’t she?’

  ‘It’s not the appearance that’s the problem, Banquo.’

  ‘Show it to Duncan then. Explain that SWAT needs it. Now.’

  Macbeth sighed. ‘He doesn’t want it.’

  ‘Tell him we’ll lose as long as Hecate and the Norse Riders have heavier weaponry than us. Explain to him what a Gatling can do. Explain what two can do!’

  ‘Duncan won’t agree to any escalation of arms, Banquo. And I think he’s right. Since he’s been the commissioner there have been fewer shooting incidents.’

  ‘This town is still being depopulated by crime.’

  ‘It’s a start. Duncan has a plan. And he wants to do what’s right.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I don’t disagree. Duncan’s a good man.’ Banquo groaned. ‘Naive though. And with this weapon we could clear up and—’

  They were interrupted by a tap on the tarpaulin. ‘They’ve started unloading, sir.’ Slight lisp. It was SWAT’s young new sharpshooter, Olafson. Along with the other equally young officer Angus, there were only four of them present, but Macbeth knew that all twenty-five SWAT officers would have said yes to sitting here and freezing with them without a moment’s hesitation.

  Macbeth switched off the light, handed it back to Banquo and slid the drawing inside his black SWAT leather jacket. Then he pulled away the tarpaulin and wriggled on his stomach to the edge of the roof.

  Banquo crawled up beside him.

  In front of them in the floodlights, over the deck of MS Leningrad, hovered a prehistoric-looking military-green lorry.

  ‘A ZIS-5,’ Banquo whispered.

  ‘From the war?’

  ‘Yep. The S stands for Stalin. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon the Norse Riders have more men than Duff counted on. Sweno’s obviously worried.’

  ‘Do you think he suspects the police have been tipped off?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have come if he did. He’s afraid of Hecate. He knows Hecate has bigger ears and eyes than us.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘We wait and watch. Duff might be able to pull this off on his own. In which case, we don’t go in.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you’ve dragged these kids out here in the middle of the night to sit and watch ?’

  Macbeth chortled. ‘It was voluntary, and I did say it might be boring.’

  Banquo shook his head. ‘You’ve got too much free time, Macbeth. You should get yourself a family.’

  Macbeth raised his hands. His smile lit up the beard on his broad dark face. ‘You and the boys are my family, Banquo. What else do I need?’

  Olafson and Angus chuckled happily behind them.

  ‘When’s the boy going to grow up?’ Banquo mumbled in desperation and wiped water off the sights of his Remington 700 rifle.

  Bonus had the town at his feet. The glass pane in front of him went from floor to ceiling, and without the low cloud cover he would have had a view of absolutely the whole town. He held out his champagne glass, and one of the two young boys in riding jodhpurs and white gloves rushed over and recharged it. He should drink less, he knew that. The champagne was expensive, but it wasn’t him paying. The doctor had said a man of his age should begin to think about his lifestyle. But it was so good. Yes, it was as simple as that. It was so good. Just like oysters and crawfish tails. The soft, deep chair. And the young boys. Not that he had access to them. On the other hand, he hadn’t asked.

  He had been picked up from reception at the Obelisk and taken to the penthouse suite on the top floor with a view of the harbour on one side and the central station, Workers’ Square and Inverness Casino on the other. Bonus had been received by the great man with the soft cheeks, the friendly smile, the dark wavy hair and the cold eyes. The man who was called Hecate. Or the Invisible Hand. Invisible, as very few people had ever seen him. The Hand, as most people in the town over the last ten years had been affected in some way or other by his activities. That is, his product. A synthetic drug he manufactured himself called brew. Which, according to Bonus’ rough estimate, had made Hecate one of the town’s four richest men.

  Hecate turned away from the telescope on the stand by the window. ‘It’s difficult to see clearly in this rain,’ he said, pulling at the braces of his own jodhpurs, and took a pipe from the tweed jacket hanging over the back of the chair. If he’d known that they would turn out dressed as an English hunting party he would have chosen something other than a boring everyday suit, Bonus thought.

  ‘But the crane’s working, so that means they’re unloading. Are they feeding you properly, Bonus?’

  ‘Excellent food,’ Bonus said, sipping his champagne. ‘But I have to confess I’m a little unsure what it is we’re celebrating. And why I’m entitled to be here.’

  Hecate laughed and raised his walking stick, pointing to the window. ‘We’re celebrating the view, my dear flounder. As a seabed fish you’ve only seen the belly of the world.’

  Bonus smiled. It would never have occurred to him to object to the way Hecate addressed him. The great man had too much power to do good things for him. And less good.

  ‘The world is more beautiful from up here,’ Hecate continued. ‘Not more real but more beautiful. And then we’re celebrating this, of course.’ The stick pointed to the harbour.

  ‘And this is?’

>   ‘The biggest single stash ever smuggled in, dear Bonus. Four and a half tons of pure amphetamine. Sweno has invested everything the club owns plus a little more. What you see below is a man who has put all his eggs in one basket.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘Because he’s desperate, of course. He can see that the Riders’ mediocre Turkish product is outclassed by my brew. But with such a large quantity of quality speed from the Soviets, bulk discount and reduced transport costs will makes it competitive in price and quality per kilo.’ Hecate rested the stick on the thick wall-to-wall carpet and caressed its gilt handle. ‘Well calculated by Sweno, and if he succeeds it’s enough to upset the balance of power in this town. So here’s to our worthy competitor.’

  He raised his glass, and Bonus obediently followed suit. But as Hecate was about to put it to his lips he studied the glass with a raised eyebrow, pointed to something and handed the glass back to one of the boys, who immediately cleaned it with his glove.

  ‘Unfortunately for Sweno,’ Hecate continued, ‘it’s difficult to obtain such a large order from a completely new source without someone in the same line of business catching wind of it. And unfortunately it seems this “someone” may have passed on to the police an anonymous, though reliable, tip-off about where and when.’

  ‘Such as you?’

  Hecate smirked. Took the glass, turned his broad bottom towards Bonus and leaned down to the telescope. ‘They’re lowering the lorry now.’

  Bonus got up and went over to the window. ‘Tell me, why didn’t you launch an attack on Sweno instead of watching from the sidelines? You would have got rid of your sole competitor and acquired four and a half tons of quality amphetamine at a stroke. And you could have sold it on the street for how many millions?’

  Hecate sipped from his glass without raising his eye from the telescope. ‘Krug,’ he said. ‘They say it’s the best champagne. So it’s the only one I drink. But who knows? If I’d been served something else I might have acquired a taste for it and switched brands.’

  ‘You don’t want the market to try anything else but your brew?’

  ‘My religion is capitalism and the free market my creed. But it’s everyone’s right to follow their nature and fight for a monopoly and world domination. And society’s duty to oppose us. We’re just playing our roles, Bonus.’

  ‘Amen to that.’

  ‘Shh! Now they’re handing over the money.’ Hecate rubbed his hands. ‘Showtime . . .’

  Duff stood by the front door with his fingers around the handle listening to his breathing while trying to get eye contact with his men. They were standing in a line on the narrow staircase right behind him. Busy with their thoughts. Releasing the safety catch. A last word of advice to the man next to them. A last prayer.

  ‘The suitcase has been handed over,’ Seyton called down from the first floor.

  ‘Now!’ Duff shouted, wrenching open the door and hugging the wall.

  The men pushed past him into the darkness. Duff followed. Felt the rain on his head. Saw figures moving. Saw a couple of motorbikes left unmanned. Raised the megaphone to his mouth.

  ‘Police! Stay where you are with your hands in the air! I repeat, this is the police. Stay where—’

  The first shot smashed the glass in the door behind him, the second caught the inside leg of his trousers. Then came a sound like when his kids made popcorn on a Saturday night. Automatic weapons. Fuck.

  ‘Fire!’ Duff screamed, throwing down the megaphone. He dived onto his stomach, tried to raise his gun in front of him and realised he had landed in a puddle.

  ‘Don’t,’ whispered a voice beside him. Duff looked up. It was Seyton. He stood stationary with his rifle hanging down by his side. Was he sabotaging the action? Was he . . . ?

  ‘They’ve got Sivart,’ Seyton whispered.

  Duff blinked filthy water from his eyes and kept looking, a Norse Rider in his sights. But the man was sitting calmly on his motorbike with his gun pointed at them, not shooting. What the hell was going on?

  ‘Nobody move a fuckin’ finger now and this’ll be fine.’

  The deep voice came from outside the circle of light and needed no megaphone. Duff saw first the abandoned Indian Chief. Then saw the two figures in the darkness merge into one. The horns sticking up from the helmet of the taller of the two. The figure he held in front of him was a head shorter. With every prospect of being another head shorter. The blade of the sabre glinted as Sweno held it to young Sivart’s throat.

  ‘What will happen now—’ Sweno’s bass voice rumbled from out of the visor opening ‘—is that we’ll take our stuff with us and go. Nice and quietly. Two of my men will stay and make sure none of you does anything stupid. Like trying to come after us. Got that?’

  Duff hunched up and was about to stand.

  ‘If I were you I’d stay in the puddle, Duff,’ Seyton whispered. ‘You’ve screwed this up enough as it is.’

  Duff took a deep breath. Let it out. Drew another. Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘Well?’ said Banquo, training the binoculars on the protagonists on the quayside.

  ‘Looks like we’ll have to activate the young ones after all,’ Macbeth said. ‘But not quite yet. We’ll let Sweno and his men leave the scene first.’

  ‘What? We’re going to let them get away with the lorry and all the stash?’

  ‘I didn’t say that, dear Banquo. But if we start anything now we’ll have a bloodbath down there. Angus?’

  ‘Sir?’ came the quick response from the lad with the deep blue eyes and the long blond hair unlikely to have been allowed by any other team leader but Macbeth. His emotions were written over all his open face. Angus and Olafson had the training, now they just needed some more experience. Angus especially needed to toughen up. During his job interview Angus had explained that he had dropped out of training to become a priest when he saw there was no god; people could only save themselves and one another, so he wanted to become a policeman instead. That had been good enough for Macbeth; he liked the fearless attitude, the boy dealing with the consequences of his beliefs. But Angus also needed to learn how to master his feelings and realise that in SWAT they became practical men of action, the long, and rough, arm of the law. Others could take care of reflection.

  ‘Go down the back, fetch the car and be ready by the door.’

  ‘Right,’ Angus said, got up and was gone.

  ‘Olafson?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Macbeth glanced at him. The constant slack jaw, the lisping, the semi-closed eyes and his grades at police college meant that when Olafson had come to Macbeth, begging to be moved to SWAT, he had had his doubts. But the lad had wanted the move, and Macbeth decided to give him a chance, as he himself had been given a chance. Macbeth needed a sharpshooter, and even if Olafson was not spectacularly talented in theoretical subjects, he was a highly gifted marksman.

  ‘At the last shooting test you beat the twenty-year-old record held by him over there.’ Macbeth nodded to Banquo. ‘Congratulations, that’s a damn fine achievement. You know what it means right here and now?’

  ‘Er . . . no, sir.’

  ‘Good, because it means absolutely nothing. What you have to do here is watch and listen to Inspector Banquo and learn. You won’t save the day today. That’s for later. Understand?’

  Olafson’s slack jaw and lower lip were working but were clearly unable to produce a sound, so he just nodded.

  Macbeth laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Bit nervous?’

  ‘Bit, sir.’

  ‘That’s normal. Try to relax. And one more thing, Olafson.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t mess up.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Bonus asked.

  ‘I know what’s going to happen,’ Hecate said, straightening his back and swinging his telescope away f
rom the quay. ‘So I don’t need this.’ He sat down beside Bonus. Bonus had noticed that he often did that. Sat down beside you instead of opposite. As though he didn’t like you looking straight at him.

  ‘They’ve got Sweno and the amphetamine?’

  ‘On the contrary. Sweno’s seized one of Duff’s men.’

  ‘What? Aren’t you worried?’

  ‘I never bet on one horse, Bonus. And I’m more worried about the bigger picture. What do you think of Chief Commissioner Duncan?’

  ‘His promise that you’ll be arrested?’

  ‘That doesn’t concern me at all, but he’s removed many of my former associates in the police and that’s already created problems in the markets. Come on, you’re a good judge of character. You’ve seen him, heard him. Is he as incorruptible as they say?’

  Bonus shrugged. ‘Everyone has a price.’

  ‘You’re right there, but the price is not always money. Not everyone is as simple as you.’

  Bonus ignored the insult by not perceiving it as such. ‘To know how Duncan can be bribed you have to know what he wants.’

  ‘Duncan wants to serve the herd,’ Hecate said. ‘Earn the town’s love. Have a statue erected he didn’t order himself.’

  ‘Tricky. It’s easier to bribe greedy vermin like us than pillars of society like Duncan.’

  ‘You’re right as far as bribery is concerned,’ Hecate said. ‘And wrong with respect to pillars of society and vermin.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The foundation of capitalism, dear Bonus. The individual’s attempt to get rich enriches the herd. It’s mechanics pure and simple and happens without us seeing or thinking about it. You and I are pillars of society, not deluded idealists like Duncan.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘The moral philosopher Adam Hand thought so.’

  ‘Producing and selling drugs serves society?’

  ‘Anyone who supplies a demand helps to build society. People like Duncan who want to regulate and limit are unnatural and in the long run harmful to us all. So how can Duncan, for the good of the town, be rendered harmless? What’s his weakness? What can we use? Sex, dope, family secrets?’