Oleg and I would steal part of their heroin store in Alnabru. First of all, there would be no one in the clubhouse as Odin would take the muscle they had with them. Second, Odin would never find out that he had been robbed as he would be arrested at McDonald’s. When he was sitting in the witness box he would in fact thank Oleg and me for reducing the number of kilos the heavies had found in the raid. The only problem would be the cops and the old boy. If the cops realised that someone had been a step ahead of them and nabbed the stash, and this came to the old boy’s ears, we would be fucked. The problem solved itself in the way the old boy had taught me: castling, a strategic alliance. I went straight to the block of flats in Manglerud, and this time Truls Berntsen was at home.
He stared at me sceptically as I explained, but I wasn’t concerned. Because I had seen it in his eyes. The greed. Another of these people after payback, who believe that money can buy them medicine for despair, loneliness and bitterness. That there is not only something called justice, but that it’s a consumer product, sort of. I explained we needed his expertise to cover any clues we left for the police, and to burn anything they found. Perhaps even direct suspicion on others if necessary. I saw the glint in his eye when I said we would take five of the twenty kilos in the stash. Two for me and him, one for Oleg. I watched him doing the calculations, one point two mil times two, two point four for him.
‘And this Oleg is the only other person you’ve spoken to?’ he asked.
‘Cross my heart.’
‘Have you got any weapons?’
‘An Odessa between us.’
‘Eh?’
‘The H amp;M version of a Stechkin.’
‘OK. It’s unlikely the detectives will give the number of kilos a thought if there are no signs of a break-in, but I suppose you’re scared Odin will come after you?’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a shit about Odin. It’s my boss I’m scared of. I have no idea how, but I just know he knows to the gram how much heroin they have stored there.’
‘I want half,’ he said. ‘You and Boris can share the rest.’
‘Oleg.’
‘Be happy I’ve got a bad memory. And it works both ways. It’ll take me half a day to find you and nothing to destroy you.’ He lovingly rolled the ‘r’ in destroy.
It was Oleg who worked out how we should camouflage the robbery. It was so simple and obvious I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it myself.
‘We swap what we pinch with potato flour. The police will report how many kilos they confiscate, not the purity of its content, right?’
The plan was, as I said, as brilliant as it was simple.
The same night that Odin and the old boy were having a birthday party at McDonald’s and discussing the price of violin in Drammen and Lillestrom, Berntsen, Oleg and I were standing in the darkness outside the fence round the bikers’ clubhouse in Alnabru. Berntsen had taken control, and we were wearing nylon stockings, black jackets and gloves. In our rucksacks we had shooters, a drill, a screwdriver, a jemmy and six kilos’ worth of plastic bags packed with potato flour. Oleg and I had explained where Los Lobos had placed their surveillance cameras, but by climbing over the fence and running to the wall on the left we stayed in the blind spot the whole time. We knew that we could make as much noise as we wanted as the heavy traffic on the E6 below would drown everything, so Berntsen drilled through the wall while Oleg kept lookout and I hummed ‘Been Caught Stealing’, which was on the soundtrack of Stein’s GTA game, and he said it was by a band called Jane’s Addiction, and I remembered because it was a cool name, cooler than the songs actually. Oleg and I were in familiar territory and the layout of the clubhouse was simple: it consisted of one large lounge area. But as all the windows had been cleverly covered with wooden shutters the plan was to drill a peephole, then we would be sure the clubhouse was unoccupied before we entered. Berntsen had insisted on this, he had refused to believe that Odin would leave twenty kilos of heroin, with a street value of twenty-five million, unguarded. We knew Odin better, but gave in. Safety first.
‘There we are,’ Berntsen said, holding the drill, which died with a snarl.
I put my eye to the hole. Couldn’t see fuck. Either someone had switched off the light or else we hadn’t drilled right through. I turned to Berntsen who was wiping the drill. ‘What kind of bloody insulation is this?’ he said, holding up a finger. It looked like egg yolk and fricking hair.
We walked a couple of metres further down and bored a new hole. I peered through. And there was the good old clubhouse. With the same old leather chairs, the same bar and the same picture of Karen McDougal, Playmate of the Year, arranged over some customised motorbike. I never found out what gave them the biggest hard-on: women or bikes.
‘All clear,’ I said.
The back door was festooned with hinges and locks.
‘I thought you said there was one lock!’ Berntsen said.
‘So there was,’ I said. ‘Odin’s obviously developing a bit of paranoia.’
The plan had been to drill the lock off and screw it back on before leaving, so that there would be no signs of a break-in. That was still possible but not in the time we had calculated. We got down to work.
After twenty minutes Oleg checked his watch and said we had to hurry. We didn’t know exactly when the raid was due, only that it would happen at some point after the arrests, and the arrests would have to take place pretty quickly as Odin wouldn’t want to hang around when he realised the old boy wasn’t coming.
We spent half an hour cleaning up the crap, three times as much as calculated. We took out our shooters, pulled the stockings down over our faces and went in, Berntsen first. We had hardly got inside the door when he fell onto one knee and held the shooter in front of him with both hands like a member of the fricking SWAT team.
A guy was sitting on a chair by the west wall. Odin had left Tutu as a watchdog. In his lap he had a sawn-off shotgun. But the watchdog was sitting with his eyes closed, gob open and head against the wall. Rumours were circulating that Tutu stammered even when he snored, but he was sleeping as sweetly as a baby now.
Berntsen got to his feet again and tiptoed towards Tutu, gun first. Oleg and I followed, also on tiptoe.
‘There’s only one hole,’ Oleg whispered to me.
‘What?’ I whispered back.
But then I realised.
I could see the last drill hole. And worked out where the first must have been.
‘Oh shit,’ I whispered. Even though I realised there was no longer any reason to whisper.
Berntsen had reached Tutu. He gave him a nudge. Tutu rolled sideways off the chair and fell to the floor. He lay face down on the concrete and we could see the circular entry into the back of his head.
‘Drill went right through, OK,’ Berntsen said. He poked his finger into the hole in the wall.
‘Bloody hell,’ I whispered to Oleg. ‘What are the chances of that happening, eh?’
But he didn’t answer. He was staring at the body as though he didn’t know whether to vomit or cry.
‘Gusto,’ he said finally, ‘what have we done?’
I don’t know what got into me, but I started laughing. It was impossible to hold back. The ubercool hip gyration from the cop with the massive underbite, the despair on Oleg’s face, flattened behind the stocking, and Tutu, who turned out to have a brain after all, with his mouth hanging open. I laughed so much I howled. Until I was slapped and saw sparks in front of my eyes.
‘Shape up unless you want another,’ Berntsen said, rubbing his palm.
‘Thank you,’ I said and meant it. ‘Let’s find the dope.’
‘First we have to figure out what to do with Drillo here,’ Berntsen said.
‘It’s too late,’ I said. ‘Now they’ll find out there’s been a break-in anyway.’
‘Not if we get Tutu into the car and screw the locks on again,’ Oleg whined in a reedy, tear-filled voice. ‘If they discover some of the dope’s gone they’ll think he ran off with it.’
Berntsen looked at Oleg and nodded. ‘Bright partner you’ve got there, Wussto. Let’s get going.’
‘Dope first,’ I said.
‘Drillo first,’ Berntsen said.
‘Dope,’ I repeated.
‘Drillo.’
‘I intend to become a millionaire this evening, you pelican.’
Berntsen raised a hand. ‘Drillo.’
