Hole shook his head as Truls opened the wardrobe door and switched on a neon tube that cast blue light over the contents: six pistols, two large knives, a black truncheon, knuckledusters, a gas mask and a so-called riot gun, a short dumpy weapon with a cylinder in the middle holding large tear-gas cartridges. Truls had most of the police stock from the store where they reckoned on a small amount of wastage.
‘You’re out of your mind, Berntsen.’
‘Why’s that?’
Hole pointed. Truls had hammered nails into the wall and inked outlines around the weapons. Everything had its place.
‘Bullet-proof vest on a clothes hanger? Frightened it will crease?’
Truls Berntsen didn’t answer.
‘OK,’ Hole said, taking the vest. ‘Give me the riot gun, the gas mask and the ammo for the MP5 in the sitting room. And a rucksack.’
Hole followed while Truls filled the rucksack. They went back to the sitting room, where Harry picked up the MP5.
Afterwards they stood in the doorway.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Harry said. ‘But before you make any phone calls or try to stop me in any other way perhaps you should bear in mind that everything I know about you and this case is held by a solicitor. He has been instructed how to act if anything should happen to me. Understood?’
Lies, Truls thought, and nodded.
Hole chuckled. ‘Think I’m lying, don’t you. But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure, can you?’
Truls felt a deep hatred for Hole. Hated his condescending, indifferent smile.
‘And what happens if you survive, Hole?’
‘Then your problems are over. I’ll be gone, I’ll fly to the other side of the globe. And I won’t be coming back. One final thing…’ Hole buttoned up the long coat over the bullet-proof vest. ‘It was you who deleted Blindernveien 74 from the list Bellman and I received, wasn’t it?’
Truls Berntsen was about to answer ‘no’ as an automatic response. But something — an intuition, a semi- digested thought — stopped him. The truth was he had never found out where Rudolf Asayev lived.
‘Yes,’ Truls Berntsen said as his brain churned, absorbing information. Tried to analyse what it implied. The list Bellman and I received. Tried to draw a conclusion. But he couldn’t think fast enough, it had never been his strong suit, he needed more time.
‘Yes,’ he repeated, hoping his surprise was not obvious. ‘Of course it was me who deleted the address.’
‘I’ll leave this rifle,’ Harry said, opening the chamber and releasing the cartridge inside. ‘If I don’t come back it can be delivered to a firm of solicitors, Bach amp; Simonsen.’
Hole slammed the door and Truls heard his long strides down the stairs. Waited until he was sure they would not be returning. And then he reacted.
Hole had not found the Marklin leaning against the wall behind the curtain beside the balcony door. Truls grabbed the heavy assassination rifle, tore open the balcony door. Rested the barrel on the railings. It was cold and drizzly, but more important, there was almost no wind.
He saw Hole coming out of the block underneath, saw his coat flapping round him as he trotted towards the waiting taxi in the car park. Spotted him through the light-sensitive sights. German optics and engineering expertise. The image was grainy, but in focus. He could take Hole from here, no problem; the bullet would pierce him from head to toe, or — even better — exit right by his reproductive equipment. After all, the weapon was originally made for hunting elephants. But if he waited until Hole was under one of the street lamps in the car park he would have an even safer shot. And that would be very practical; there weren’t many people in the car park so late and it wouldn’t be so far for Truls to drag the body to the car.
Instructed a solicitor? Had he bollocks. But of course he would have to assess whether he should be eliminated as well, for safety’s sake. Hans Christian Simonsen.
Hole was getting closer. The neck. Or the head. The bullet-proof vest was the type that went right up. Heavy as hell. He pressed the hammer right back. A small but barely audible voice told him he shouldn’t do this. It was murder. Truls Berntsen had never killed anyone before. Not deliberately. Tord Schultz, that hadn’t been him, that had been Rudolf Asayev’s hellhounds. And Gusto? Yes, who the fuck had nailed Gusto? Not him at any rate. Mikael Bellman. Isabelle Skoyen.
The little voice fell quiet and the cross hairs seemed to be fixed to the back of Hole’s head. Kapow! He could already see the spray. Pressed the trigger. In two seconds Hole would be in the light. Shame he couldn’t film this. Burn it onto a DVD. Would have beaten Megan Fox with or without Fjordland rissoles.
40
Truls Berntsen breathed in, deep and slow. His pulse had risen, but it was under control.
Harry Hole was in the light. And filled the sights.
Real shame he couldn’t film…
Truls Berntsen hesitated.
Thinking on his feet wasn’t his forte. Not that he was stupid, but now and then things just went a bit slowly.
When they were growing up this is what had always divided him and Mikael; Mikael was the thinker and talker. The point was that Truls had made it in the end as well. Like now. Like this business of the missing address on the list. And like the small voice that had told him not to shoot Harry Hole, not now. It was basic mathematics, Mikael would have said. Hole was after Rudolf Asayev and Truls — in that order fortunately. So if Hole shot Asayev he would at least have eliminated one of Truls’s problems. And ditto if Asayev shot Hole. On the other hand…
Harry Hole was still in the light.
Truls’s finger tightened on the trigger with even pressure. He had been the second-best rifle marksman at Kripos, the best pistol marksman.
He emptied his lungs. His body was utterly relaxed, there wasn’t going to be an uncontrolled jerk. He breathed in again.
And lowered the rifle.
Blindernveien lay in front of Harry, illuminated. It ran like a switchback through hilly terrain surrounded by older houses, large gardens, university buildings and lawns.
He waited until he could see the lights of the taxi fade into the distance, then he began to walk.
It was four minutes to one, and there was not a soul in sight. He had told the taxi driver to stop outside number 68.
Blindernveien 74 lay behind a three-metre-high fence, about fifty metres from the road. Beside the house stood a cylindrical brick building measuring around four metres in height and diameter, like a water tower. Harry hadn’t seen any such water towers in Norway before, but noticed that the neighbouring house had one as well. Sure enough, a shingle path led up to the front steps of the imposing timber house. A single lit lamp hung above a door of dark and probably solid wood.
There was light in two of the windows on the ground floor and one on the first.
Harry stood in the shadow of an oak tree on the opposite side of the road. Unhitched his rucksack and opened it. Prepared the riot gun and put the gas mask on his head so that all he had to do was bring it down over his face.
He hoped the rain would help him to get as close as he needed. He checked that the MP5 machine gun was loaded and the safety catch was off.
It was time.
But the anaesthetic was dwindling fast.
He took the bottle of Jim Beam, unscrewed the cap. There was a barely visible heel left at the bottom. He looked at the house again. Looked at the bottle. If this worked he would need a swig afterwards. He screwed the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in his inside pocket with the extra magazine for the MP5. Checked to ensure he was breathing normally, his brain and muscles were getting oxygen. Looked at his watch. One minute past one. In
