man was standing outside my door and he knew. Said I had a certain talent for sailing under the radar, and he was willing to pay a lot for a man like me. He spoke Norwegian, but with a bit of an accent. Sounded pretty decent. I let him in.’
‘You met Dubai?’
‘I did. He was alone. An old man in an elegant but old-fashioned suit. Waistcoat. Hat and gloves. He told me what he wanted me to do. And what he would pay. He was a careful guy. Said we wouldn’t meet face to face again, no phone calls, no emails, nothing that could be traced. And that was fine by me.’
‘So how did you organise the work?’
‘The jobs were written on a gravestone. He explained to me where it was.’
‘Where?’
‘Gamlebyen Cemetery. That was where I got the money as well.’
‘Tell me about Dubai. Who is he?’
Truls Berntsen stared into the distance. Tried to get a sense of the equation’s pluses and minuses. Of the consequences.
‘What are you waiting for, Berntsen? You said you could tell me everything about Dubai.’
‘Are you aware what I’m risking by tell-’
‘Last time I saw you, two of Dubai’s guys were trying to fill you with lead. So even without this gun pointing at you you’re already in the doghouse, Berntsen. Spit it out. Who is he?’
Harry Hole’s eyes bored into him. Saw straight through him, Truls thought. And now the hammer on the gun was moving and his equation was becoming simpler.
‘Alright, alright,’ Berntsen said, holding up his palms. ‘His name’s not Dubai. They call him that because his pushers wear football shirts advertising an airline that flies to the countries round there. Arabia.’
‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me something I haven’t worked out for myself.’
‘Hang on, hang on, it’s coming! His name’s Rudolf Asayev. He’s Russian, his parents were intellectual dissidents and political refugees — at least that’s what he said at the trial. He’s lived in lots of countries and speaks something like seven languages. Came to Norway in the seventies and was one of the hash-trafficking pioneers, you could say. He kept a low profile, but was grassed up by one of his own people in 1980. That was when selling and importing drugs carried the same sentence as treason. So he did a long stint. After being released he moved to Sweden and switched to heroin.’
‘About the same sentence as hash but a lot better mark-up.’
‘Sure. He built up a network in Gothenburg, but after an undercover policeman was killed, he had to go underground. He came back to Oslo about two years ago.’
‘And he told you all this?’
‘No, no, I found this out on my own.’
‘Oh, yes? How? I thought the man was a phantom no one knew anything about.’
Truls Berntsen looked down at his hands. Looked up again at Harry Hole. Had to smile, almost. For this was something he had often wanted to tell someone. How he had tricked Dubai himself. But there had been no one to tell. Truls licked his lips. ‘He was sitting in the chair where you are now, with his arms on the rests.’
‘And?’
‘His shirtsleeve slipped back and a gap opened between his gloves and jacket sleeve. He had some white scars. You know, the kind you have when you remove a tattoo. And when I saw that on his wrist I thought-’
‘Prison. He was wearing gloves so as not to leave fingerprints you could check against the register afterwards.’
Truls nodded. Hole was pretty quick on the uptake, had to give him that.
‘Exactly. But after I’d agreed to the conditions he seemed a bit more relaxed. And when I went to shake hands on the deal he took off one glove. I lifted a couple of semi-decent prints from the back of my hand afterwards. The computer found a match.’
‘Rudolf Asayev. Dubai. How has he managed to keep his identity hidden for so long?’
Truls Berntsen shrugged. ‘We see it at Orgkrim all the time. There’s one thing that separates the Mr Bigs that aren’t caught from those that are. A small organisation. Very few links. Very few trusted aides. The dope kings who reckon they’re safest with an army around them are always busted. There’s always some disloyal servant, someone who wants to take over or grass to get a reduced sentence.’
‘And you only saw him once, here?’
‘There was one other time. The Watchtower. I think it was him. He saw me, turned in the doorway and left.’
‘So, it’s true then, this rumour about him flitting around town like a phantom?’
‘Who knows.’
‘What did you do at the Watchtower?’
‘Me?’
‘The police aren’t allowed to operate there.’
‘I knew a girl working there.’
‘Mm. Martine?’
‘Do you know her?’
‘Did you sit there watching her?’
Truls felt the blood rushing to his head. ‘I…’
‘Relax, Berntsen. You just eliminated yourself from inquiries.’
‘Wh-what?’
‘You’re the stalker, the guy Martine thought was an undercover officer. You were at the Watchtower when Gusto was shot, weren’t you?’
‘Stalker?’
‘Forget it and answer.’
‘Jesus, you didn’t think that I…? Why would I have wanted to snuff out Gusto Hanssen?’
‘You could have been given it as an assignment by Asayev,’ Hole said. ‘But you did have a solid, personal reason. Gusto had seen you kill a man in Alnabru. With a drill.’
Truls Berntsen considered what Hole had said. Considered it the way a policeman whose life was a constant lie, every day, every hour, has to try to distinguish bluff from truth.
‘This murder of yours also gave you a motive for killing Oleg Fauke, who was another witness. The prisoner who tried to stab Oleg-’
‘Did not work for me! You have to believe me, Hole, I had nothing to do with that. I’ve only burned evidence. I’ve never killed anyone. The Alnabru job was sheer bad luck.’
Hole tilted his head. ‘And when you came to Hotel Leon, was that not with the purpose of killing me?’
Truls gulped. This Hole guy could kill him, he bloody could. Put a bullet through his temple, wipe the prints off the gun and leave it in his hand. No sign of a break-in. Vigdis A could say she had seen him return home alone, that he looked cold. Lonely. Had reported in sick. Depressed.
‘Who were the two guys who turned up? Rudolf’s men?’
Truls nodded. ‘They got away, but I got a slug in one of them.’
‘What happened?’
Truls shrugged. ‘I suppose I know too much.’ He attempted a laugh, but it sounded like a chesty cough.
They sat still, looking at each other.
‘What are you planning to do?’ Truls asked.
‘Catch him,’ Hole said.
Catch. It was a long time since Truls had heard anyone use that word.
‘So, will he have people around him?’
‘Three or four, tops,’ Truls said. ‘Maybe just those two.’
‘Mm. Got any other hardware?’
‘Hardware?’
‘Apart from that.’ Hole nodded to the coffee table where two of the pistols and the MP5 machine gun lay loaded and ready to fire. ‘I’ll cuff you and search the flat, so you might as well show me.’
Truls Berntsen weighed the options. Then he nodded towards the bedroom.
