Macbeth

by Jo Nesbo

  He reached out a hand. Hesitated. Why was something telling him it couldn’t be so easy? That it never was, that where he was it would be impossible to get out, and that he was doomed to blow himself sky-high?

  He could feel his fingers slippery with sweat as they closed round the lock. Turned.

  The lock turned.

  He pressed the handle.

  Pushed open the door.

  Went out. Rushed down the stairs and along the corridor, cursing quietly.

  Stood in front of the lift and pressed the button.

  Saw on the wall display it was on its way up from the ground floor.

  Looked at his watch. Two minutes and forty seconds.

  The lift was approaching. Could he hear something? A clinking, voices? Were there people in the lift? What if Hecate was there? There was no time to go back to the suite and talk now.

  Macbeth ran. According to the drawings the fire escape was round the corner to the left.

  It was.

  He pushed open the door as he heard a pling signalling that the lift had arrived. Held his breath and the door as he waited.

  Voices. High-pitched, boys’ voices.

  ‘I don’t quite understand what—’

  ‘Mr Hand isn’t coming. We’ve just been told to delay the man in there for half an hour. Hope he likes champagne.’

  The sound of trolley wheels.

  Macbeth closed the door behind him and ran down the stairs.

  On every floor there was a number.

  He stopped at seventeen.

  Lady nodded. Breathed. ‘But you’re going to kill him another day?’

  ‘That depends. Did you put apple juice in?’

  ‘No. Depends on what?’

  ‘If this is just temporary confusion. You both seem to have stopped using my products, and that’s perhaps best for all parties.’

  ‘You won’t kill him because you need him as chief commissioner. And now you’ve exposed Macbeth’s plans once, you reckon he’s learned his lesson. A dog isn’t trained until it’s been disobedient and has received its punishment.’

  The old man turned to the man-woman. ‘Do you now see what I mean when I say she’s the smart one of the two?’

  ‘So what do you want from me, Mr Hand?’

  ‘Ginger? No, the recipe’s a secret you said, so your answer won’t be reliable. I just wanted to make you aware of the choice you have. Obey and I’ll protect Macbeth against anything that can harm him. He’ll be your Tithonos. Disobey and I’ll kill both of you the way you do with dogs which turn out to be untrainable. Look around, Lady. Look at all you stand to lose. You have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. So you don’t have to dream any more. As for recipes, if your dreams are too big they’re a recipe for disaster.’ The old man knocked back the rest of the drink and put the glass on the table. ‘Pepper. That’s one of the two ingredients.’

  ‘Blood,’ Lady said.

  ‘Really?’ He laid his hands on the walking stick and levered himself into a standing position. ‘Human blood?’

  Lady shrugged. ‘Is that so important? You believe it is, and you seemed to like the recipe.’

  The old man laughed. ‘You and I could be very good friends if circumstances were different, Lady.’

  ‘In another life,’ she said.

  ‘In another life, my little Lily.’ He banged his stick twice on the floor. ‘Stay where you are. We’ll find our way out.’

  Lady retained her smile until he was out of sight. Then she gasped for breath, felt the room whirling, had to hold on to the chair arm. Lily. He knew. How could he know?

  Seventeenth floor.

  Macbeth looked at his watch. One minute left. So why had he stopped? They must be carrying the trolley up the steps. They would be there when the bomb went off. So what? They were Hecate’s boys. They had to be part of the whole set-up, so what was the problem? No one in this town was innocent. So why had this something come into his mind right now? Was it something from a speech? Written by Lady, given by him? Or was it from even longer ago, an oath they had sworn when they graduated from police college? Or before that too, something Banquo had said to him? Something, there was something, but he couldn’t remember what. Just that . . .

  Shit, shit, shit!

  Fifty seconds.

  Macbeth ran.

  Up the stairs.

  35

  ‘COME WITH ME!’ MACBETH SCREAMED.

  The two young boys stared at the man who had suddenly appeared in the doorway to the penthouse suite. One of them was holding a bottle of champagne and had started loosening the wire from the cork.

  ‘Now!’ Macbeth shouted.

  ‘Sir, we—’

  ‘You’ve got thirty seconds if you don’t want to die!’

  ‘Calm down, sir.’

  Macbeth grabbed the champagne cooler and hurled it at the window. The ice cubes bounced and ricocheted with a crackle across the parquet floor. He lowered his voice in the following silence: ‘A bomb will go off inside here in twenty-five seconds.’

  Then he turned and set off at a run. Down the stairs. With the clatter of footsteps in his ears. Sprinted past the lift. Held the door to the stairs open for the two boys.

  ‘Run! Run!’

  Closed the door behind them and charged after them.

  Fifteen seconds. Macbeth had no idea how big the blast would be, but if the bomb had been made to destroy a building as solid as the Inverness they would need to get as far away as possible. Sixteenth floor. He noticed a headache coming on as though he could already feel the pressure of the explosion on his eardrums, eyeballs, inside his mouth. Fourteenth. He checked his watch. It was fifteen seconds over.

  Eleventh floor. Still nothing. The countdown mechanism might not have been quite accurate or a deliberate delay had been built in. The two boys in front of him began to slow down. Macbeth yelled and they speeded up again.

  On the eighth floor they burst through the fire escape door into a corridor, but Macbeth continued downwards, using the main stairs. The lift was a death trap. When he reached the ground floor the bomb was almost three minutes overdue.

  He walked into reception. The same members of staff were there, hovering over the counter as though nothing had happened, unaware of him. He went out into the rain. Looked up. Stood like that until his neck hurt. Then he started across the deserted square towards Seyton and the waiting car. What the hell had happened? Or rather, what hadn’t happened? Had the bomb got damp in the police HQ basement? Had someone managed to stop the countdown after he left the penthouse suite? Or had it detonated, but with much less power than SWAT’s bomb expert had given him to believe? And what now? He pulled up. What if Hecate or his people went to the suite and discovered he had left a bomb there? He had to go back and fetch the suitcase.

  Macbeth turned. Took two paces. Saw his shadow outlined on the cobbles and heard a dull boom like thunder. For a moment he thought it was hail. White granules hit him on the face and hands, pitter-pattered on the cobbles around him and danced on the parked cars. A shower head smacked to the ground a few metres from him. He glanced upwards, then was sent flying as he heard something crash beside him. Macbeth raised his arms to protect himself, but the man who had tackled him had already got up, brushed down his grey coat and run off. Macbeth saw a smashed brown fridge where he had been standing a second ago.

  He rested his head on the cool cobbles.

  Flames rose from the top of the Obelisk, and black smoke billowed into the sky. Something bounced over the cobbles towards him and came to rest beside his head. He picked it up. It was still wrapped in its wire cage.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ Seyton said as Macbeth got in the car.

  ‘Tourtell,’ Macbeth said. ‘He warned Hecate. Drive.’

  ‘Tourtell?’ Seyton said, pulling away from the
pavement as the wipers swept small fragments of white glass from the windscreen.

  ‘Tourtell’s the only person who knew about our plan, and he must have informed Hecate hoping that he would kill me instead.’

  ‘And Hecate didn’t try to kill you?’

  ‘No. Quite the contrary. He saved me.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘He needs his puppets.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing, Seyton. Drive to the Inverness.’

  Macbeth scanned the pavement, scanned the people gawping up. He searched for grey coats. How many were there? Did they all wear grey coats or only some of them? Were they always there? He closed his eyes. Immortal. As immortal as a wooden puppet. The pressure inside his head rose. And a strange thought whirled past. Hecate’s promise to make him invulnerable was not a blessing but a curse. He could feel the wire on his skin as he rolled the cork from the champagne bottle between his fingers and heard the first police siren.

  Seyton had stopped in front of the Inverness and Macbeth was about to get out of the car when he heard Tourtell’s voice.

  ‘Turn up the radio,’ Macbeth said and got back in.

  ‘ . . . and to counter the rumours and out of respect for you, my dear fellow citizens, and your right to know about your elected representatives, I have today decided to tell you that fifteen years ago I had a brief extramarital affair which led to the birth of a son. In agreement with the relevant parties – that is, my son’s mother and my wife – it was decided to keep this out of the public eye. I’ve always stayed in close contact with my son and his mother and maintained them using my my own means. Not going public at that time was a judgement, taking several parties into consideration. The town was not one of them as at that juncture I wasn’t in office and didn’t need to answer to anyone except those closest to me and to myself. Now, however, things are different, and now is the right time to disclose this information. My son’s mother is seriously ill, and with her consent two months ago he came to live with me. Since then I have taken Kasi with me to public events, where I have introduced him as my son, but paradoxically it seems my honesty has led to other rumours. The truth, as we know, is the last thing to be believed. I am not proud of being unfaithful fifteen years ago, but beyond having sought the forgiveness of those closest to me, there’s little I can do about it. Just as little as I can do about people judging my abilities as a leader on the basis of my private life. All I can do is ask you for your trust as indeed I trust you now by making public details which are extremely painful and precious to me. I may not have always acted in ways that make me feel proud; however, I am proud of my fifteen-year-old son, Kasi. Last night I had a long talk with him, and he told me to do what I’m doing now. To tell the whole of this town that I’m his father.’ Tourtell took a deep breath before concluding with a clear vibrato in his voice, ‘And that he’s my son.’ He coughed. ‘And to win the coming mayoral election.’

  Pause. A woman’s voice, also clearly moved.

  ‘That was an announcement from Mayor Tourtell. Now back to the news. There has been a major explosion in District 4, to be precise at the top of the Obelisk Casino. No one has been reported dead or injured, but—’

  Macbeth switched off the radio.

  ‘Damn,’ he said. Then he burst into laughter.

  36

  LADY LAY BACK AGAINST THE pillows and stretched a foot out from under her dressing gown. Towards Macbeth, who was sitting on a low stool by the end of the bed. She had hung up two red dresses. He stroked her slim ankle and her smooth shaved leg.

  ‘So Hecate knew about our plans,’ he said. ‘Did he say who had told him?’

  ‘No,’ Lady said. ‘But he said you would be my Tithonos if we behaved.’

  ‘Who’s Tithonos?’

  ‘A handsome Greek who was granted eternal life. But he also said that if we don’t obey he’ll kill us like dogs that don’t respond to training.’

  ‘Hm. It could only have been Tourtell who told him.’

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve said that, darling.’

  ‘And not only did the slippery bugger blab. The boy really is his son. The question is now whether people in this town want a lecher as their mayor.’

  ‘One single affair fifteen years ago?’ Lady said. ‘Which Tourtell admitted at the time, begged forgiveness for and has since paid for by looking after mother and son? And now when she’s ill St Tourtell takes his son in? People will love him for it, darling. He’s made a mistake most people will understand and shown shame and kindness afterwards. Tourtell has become of the people. This announcement is a stroke of genius. They’re going to turn out in full force to vote for him.’

  ‘Tourtell’s going to stand and win. So what can we do?’

  ‘Yes, what can we do? Well, first things first. Which dress, Jack?’

  ‘The Spanish one,’ Jack said, taking a cup of tea from the tray and placing it on Lady’s bedside table.

  ‘Thank you. What about Tourtell and Hecate, Jack? Shall we do something or is it too risky?’

  ‘I’m no strategist, ma’am. But I’ve read that when you have enemies on two fronts there are two classic strategies. One is to negotiate an armistice with one enemy, then concentrate your forces to knock out the other and attack without warning. The second is to set the two enemies against each other, wait until they are both weakened and then strike.’

  He gave a cup of coffee to Macbeth.

  ‘Remind me to promote you,’ Macbeth said.

  ‘Oh, he’s already been promoted,’ Lady said. ‘We’re fully booked for the next two weeks, so Jack now has an assistant. An assistant who’ll address him as sir.’

  Jack laughed. ‘This wasn’t my idea.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ Lady said. ‘And it’s not an idea. It’s only sensible to have rules for forms of address. It reminds everyone about the hierarchy so that misunderstandings can be avoided. If a mayor declares a state of emergency, it’s important for example to know who runs the town. And who does?’

  Jack shook his head.

  ‘The chief commissioner,’ Macbeth said, sipping his coffee. ‘Until the chief commissioner suspends the state of emergency.’

  ‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘And what if the mayor dies? Does the chief commissioner take over then too?’

  ‘Yes,’ Macbeth said. ‘Until a new mayor is elected.’

  ‘These are rules Kenneth introduced right after the war,’ Lady said. ‘At that time they placed a lot of emphasis on dynamic, assertive leadership in crises.’

  ‘Sounds sensible,’ Jack said.

  ‘The great thing about a state of emergency is that the chief commissioner runs absolutely everything. He can suspend the justice system, censor the press, defer elections indefinitely; he is in brief . . .’

  ‘A dictator.’

  ‘Exactly, Jack.’ Lady stirred her tea. ‘Unfortunately, Tourtell will hardly agree to declare a state of emergency, so we’ll have to make do with the next best option.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Tourtell dying, of course.’ Lady sipped her tea.

  ‘Dying? As in . . . ?’

  ‘An assassination,’ Macbeth said, squeezing her calf muscle gently. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it, my love?’

  She nodded. ‘The chief commissioner announces that he’s taking over the running of the town while the assassination is investigated. Could there be political motives behind it? Hecate? Did it have anything to do with Tourtell’s infidelity? The investigation drags on of course.’

  ‘I can only rule temporarily,’ Macbeth said, ‘until a new mayor is elected.’

  ‘But, darling, look, there’s blood on the streets. Police officers murdered and politicians assassinated. The chief commissioner, who now functions as mayor, would probably decide to declare a state of emergency. And postpone the election indefini
tely until things have calmed down. And it’s the chief commissioner who determines when things have calmed down.’

  Macbeth felt the same childish pleasure as when he and Duff had been kings of the castle in the school playground at the orphanage, and even the tough older kids had to accept it. ‘In practice we’d have limitless power for as long as we wanted. And you’re sure Capitol can’t intercede?’

  ‘Darling, I’ve had a long and interesting conversation with one of our Supreme Court judges today. Capitol has few or no sanctions, provided that the measures Kenneth introduced don’t conflict with federal laws.’

  ‘I see.’ Macbeth rubbed his chin. ‘Interesting indeed. So all that’s needed is for Tourtell to die or declare a state of emergency himself.’

  Jack coughed. ‘Anything else, ma’am?’

  ‘No, thanks, Jack.’ Lady cheerfully waved him away.

  Macbeth heard the hollow bass from the ground floor as Jack opened the door to the corridor and the wailing siren of an ambulance that followed after he closed it.

  ‘Tourtell’s making plans to stop us,’ Lady said. ‘The assassination will have to be soon.’

  ‘What about Hecate? If this snake is Tourtell and Hecate, then Tourtell is the tail and Hecate the head. And cutting off the tail only makes it more dangerous. We have to tackle the head first!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No? He says he’ll kill us if we don’t obey. Do you want to be his trained dog?’

  ‘Sit still and listen to me now, darling. You heard Jack. Arrange an armistice with one party and attack the other. This is not the moment to challenge Hecate. What’s more, I’m not sure that Hecate and Tourtell actually work together. If so, Hecate would have said we should stay away from Tourtell and the mayoral office. But he hasn’t, not even after the speculation that you would stand. As long as Hecate thinks we’ve been taught a lesson and we’re now his obedient dogs he’ll only applaud us – and indirectly himself – taking political control of the town. Do you understand? We take care of one enemy now and get what we want. Then we decide what we have to do about Hecate afterwards.’