hadn’t heard for almost two years. Bearing in mind the rage in the voice the last time the two of them spoke, Mjones hadn’t expected to hear from Langbein ever again, but they agreed to meet at the bottom level of the multi-storey car park under Oslo City Shopping Centre. Mjones walked west until a sharp voice from behind a pillar ordered him to stop. A long shadow stretched out across the concrete.
Mjones did as he was told and looked around. He could hear tyres squeal in the distance, but he saw no one.
‘It has been a long time,’ he said, but Langbein made no reply. Instead, a C4 envelope was slid along the ground towards him. Reluctantly, he bent down to pick it up. He took out a photograph. There was a red cross covering the face of the man in the picture. Mjones’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me.’
‘No.’
Mjones looked at the photograph again, took out a sheet of paper which had been inserted behind it and skimmed the text. Then he shook his head and spoke the words he rarely allowed himself to utter: ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Nothing is impossible. And if you hadn’t screwed up the last time, there would be no need for this job.’
Mjones was about to protest, but he knew that Langbein was right. He was haunted by the incident. Mistakes are bad for his reputation. And yet he said, ‘It’s too risky.’
The turn in conversation caught him completely by surprise.
‘In my office there is an envelope identical to the one you’re holding in your hands. With one sole exception. It also contains a picture of you.’
‘Of me?’
‘Yes, of you. If you don’t take the job, you become the job.’
Mjones was about to go behind the pillar to confront Langbein, but the sight of an arm and the mouth of a pistol stopped him in his tracks.
‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes that envelope goes to the next man on the list. But I want you. I thought it would be an appropriate way for you to correct the mistake you made last time. Besides, you’ll be well paid.’
Mjones tried to shake off his initial shock.
‘How much?’
‘Two million kroner. Twenty-five per cent up front, cash. You’ll get the rest when all the loose ends have been tied up.’
Mjones said nothing for a long time. He was contemplating the level of difficulty, his options. He scratched the back of his head and rubbed his nostrils with two fingers. Then he said:
‘I’ll do it for three.’
A few seconds of silence followed. Then Langbein said, ‘Done.’
An intense rush surged through Mjones’s body, but he didn’t have time to savour it. The next moment, a suitcase was pushed in his direction.
‘It must happen quickly and quietly. No traces. No questions. And no mistakes this time.’
Mjones nodded. Ideally, he would have liked plenty of time to plan, but he had always been good at thinking on his feet. In his head he had already come up with one possible scenario. But he had no time to ask Langbein any more questions because immediately afterwards a car door slammed shut. And when Mjones walked around the pillar, Langbein had gone.
Mjones thought for several minutes about what he was being forced to do. Langbein could be bluffing, but even before the threats and the money were mentioned Mjones had already made up his mind. It was an opportunity to redeem himself. To be generously paid for it as well was simply an added bonus. Besides, it was a long time since he had taken on a job of this magnitude and his fingers were already itching. All of his senses seemed heightened. He felt so much more alive.
Five days go quickly, Mjones thinks, and prepares himself for landing. So much has happened in that time. And yet so little. Perhaps that’s why he has been unable to sleep. Perhaps his body can’t relax until it’s all over. Nor will he have much time to rest when he gets home. The operation begins in a few hours. Everything must be in place.
The aeroplane lands, and half an hour later Mjones is on the train to Oslo. He thinks about the small box in his suitcase, about the plan he has come up with. It’s daring. It’s fiendish.
But if it works, it’s pure genius.
Chapter 7
Henning stares out of the window while the silence fills the space between the walls. The facade of the white building opposite him is streaked with brown trails of grime. His gaze continues down towards windowsills and intricate decorations. But he doesn’t look down. Not all the way down. He never can.
Behind a window without any curtains a woman is pacing up and down. She is talking on the telephone, gesturing angrily. Henning thinks about his conversation with Erling Ophus. Ophus is right, of course. Simply believing that the fire was arson is a sign of desperation. There has to be something he can investigate. But what?
Perhaps it’s true that he is only looking for another explanation so he doesn’t have to face the truth. And whether or not it was arson, nothing will change the fact that he could have saved Jonas if his eyes hadn’t been stuck together with melted skin. If he hadn’t slipped on that wet railing. If he hadn’t been so bloody A vibrating sound from the kitchen table makes him turn around. He doesn’t feel like talking to anyone right now, but the seven letters on the display arouse his curiosity. He presses the green answer button and puts the mobile to his ear.
‘Is this a better time?’
Tore Pulli’s voice is deeper than Henning managed to register in the noisy street in Gronland.
‘Eh, yes, I think so, but-’
‘11 September 2007.’
Henning stops.
‘What did you say?’
‘I know what happened that day.’
Henning feels a sudden rush of heat to his forehead. Something sharp stirs in his stomach. His throat tightens. He tries to swallow.
‘You lost your son,’ Pulli continues.
‘Y-yes,’ Henning replies in a weak and dry voice. ‘I did. What do you know about it?’
‘So now you’re prepared to listen to me? Now you’ve got time for me?’
‘Yes, I’ve got time to talk to you now,’ he says, rather more combatively this time. ‘What do you want? Why are you talking about my son?’
‘I’ve a story for you.’
‘Yes, so you said. What does that have to do with my son?’
Henning is unaware that he is standing on tiptoe.
‘Nothing. Not directly.’
‘What you mean? And cut the bullshit, Pulli, I’m starting to get annoyed-’
‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Yes, I told you when we spoke earlier today. What about it?’
‘Then perhaps you know why I’m calling.’
Henning racks his brains. He doesn’t remember reading anything about Tore Pulli since returning to work earlier in the summer. Before Jonas died, the former enforcer was forever in the newspapers, often depicted with a broad grin on his face and usually accompanied by his glamour-model wife.
‘No,’ Henning says.
Pulli starts to laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry, I just-’
He leaves the sentence hanging in the air.
