blood. Sergey had three further thoughts before the second heartbeat came and consciousness went.
He had let down his uncle.
He would never see his beloved Siberia again.
He was going to be buried with a tattoo that lied.
On the third beat of his heart he fell. And by the time the song finished, Sergey Ivanov was dead.
Harry got up from the stool. In the mirror he saw the cut running across his chin. But that wasn’t the worst; there were deep cuts to his throat from which blood was trickling and had already discoloured his entire collar.
The three other customers in the bar had gone. He looked down at the man lying on the floor. Blood was still flowing from the gash in his neck, but it wasn’t pumping. Which meant that his heart had stopped beating and there was no point trying to revive him. And even if there had been life left in him, Harry knew this person would never have revealed who had sent him. Because he saw the tattoos protruding above the shirt. He didn’t know any of the symbols, but he knew they were Russian. Black Corn maybe. They were different from the typically Western tattoo belonging to the barman, who was pressed up against the mirror shelf and staring with pupils so black with shock they seemed to cover the whites of his eyes. Nirvana had faded out and there was total silence. Harry looked at the whiskey glass lying on its side.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said.
Then he picked up the cloth from the counter, wiped first where his hands had been, then the glass, then the handle of the corkscrew, which he put back. He checked that none of his own blood had ended up on the counter or the floor. Then he bent over the dead man and wiped his bloody hand, the long, ivory knife handle and the thin blade. The weapon — for it was a weapon and useless for anything else — was heavier than any knife he had ever held. The edge was as sharp as a Japanese sushi knife. Harry hesitated. Then he folded the blade into the shaft, heard a soft click as it locked, flicked the safety catch and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
‘OK to pay with dollars?’ Harry asked, using the cloth to pick a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. ‘Legal tender in the United States, it says.’
Small whining noises came from the barman as if he wanted to say something, but had lost the power of speech.
Harry was about to go, then stopped. Turned to look at the bottle on the mirror shelf. Wetted his lips again. Stood unmoving for a second. Then his body seemed to twitch and he left.
Harry crossed the street in pouring rain. They knew where he was staying. They could have tailed him of course, but it could also have been the boy in reception. Or the burner who had got hold of his name via the routine registering of hotel guests. If he went in through the backyard he would be able to reach his room unnoticed.
The gate to the street was locked. Harry cursed.
The reception desk was unmanned as he entered.
On the stairs and in the corridor he left a trail of red dots, like Morse code, on the light blue linoleum.
Inside his room, he took the sewing kit from the bedside table to the bathroom, undressed and leaned over the washbasin, which was soon red from blood. He soaked a hand towel and washed his chin and neck, but the cuts to his neck soon filled up with more blood. In the cold, white light he managed to thread the cotton through the eye of the needle and put the needle through the white flaps of skin on his neck, first underneath and then above the wound. Sewed his way along, stopped to wipe away blood and carried on. The thread broke as he was almost finished. He swore, pulled the ends out and started again with the thread doubled. Afterwards he sewed the wound on his chin, which was easier. He washed the blood from his upper torso and took a clean shirt from his suitcase. Then he sat down on the bed. He was dizzy. But he was in a hurry, he doubted they would be far away, he had to act now before they found out he was alive. He called Hans Christian Simonsen’s number and after the fourth ring he heard a sleepy: ‘Hans Christian.’
‘Harry. Where’s Gusto buried?’
‘Vestre Cemetery.’
‘Have you got the gear ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll do it tonight. Meet me on the pathway on the eastern side in an hour.’
‘ Now? ’
‘Yes. And bring some plasters.’
‘Plasters?’
‘A clumsy barber, that’s all. Sixty minutes from now, OK?’
A slight pause. A sigh. And then: ‘OK.’
As Harry was about to ring off he thought he heard a sleepy voice, someone else’s voice. But by the time he had dressed he had already convinced himself that he had misheard.
29
Harry was standing beneath a lone street lamp. He had been waiting for twenty minutes when Hans Christian, wearing a black tracksuit, came barrelling up the footpath.
‘I parked in Monolittveien,’ he said, out of breath. ‘Is a linen suit standard garb for desecrating a grave?’
Harry raised his head, and Hans Christian’s eyes widened. ‘Good God, what do you look like? That barber-’
‘Isn’t recommended,’ Harry said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of the light.’
Once they were in the darkness, Harry stopped. ‘Plasters?’
‘Here.’
Hans Christian studied the unlit houses on the hill behind them while Harry carefully placed plasters over the stitches on his neck and chin.
‘Relax, no one can see us,’ Harry said, grabbing one of the spades and setting off. Hans Christian hurried after him, pulled out a torch and clicked it on.
‘Now they can see us,’ Harry said.
Hans Christian clicked it off.
They strode through the war memorial grove, past the British sailors’ graves and continued along the gravel paths. Harry established that death was not a great leveller; the headstones in this West Oslo cemetery were bigger and brighter than in the east of town. The gravel crunched whenever their feet hit it, they were walking faster and faster and in the end it sounded like one continuous noise.
They stopped at the gypsy’s grave.
‘It’s second left,’ Hans Christian whispered and tried to angle the map he had printed into the sparse moonlight.
Harry stared into the darkness behind them.
‘Something up?’ Hans Christian whispered.
‘Just thought I heard footsteps. They stopped when we stopped.’
Harry raised his head, as if scenting the air.
‘Echo,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
Two minutes later they were standing by a modest, black stone. Harry held the torch close to the stone before switching it on. The letters had been engraved and painted in gold.
Gusto Hanssen
14.03.1992 — 12.07.2011
Rest in Peace
‘Bingo,’ Harry whispered without ceremony.
‘How are we-’ Hans Christian began, but was interrupted by the sigh of Harry’s spade entering the soft earth. He grabbed his own and got stuck in.
It was half past three, and the moon had gone behind a cloud when Harry’s spade hit something hard.
Fifteen minutes later the white coffin was revealed.
They both grabbed a screwdriver, knelt down on the coffin and began to loosen the six screws in the lid.
‘We won’t get the lid off with both of us on top,’ Harry said. ‘One of us has to go up so the other can open the
