Gudbrand panicked of course, but fortunately Daniel acted swiftly.
I grabbed the keys from the other two bedrooms, and one of them fitted the room where Even was hanging. I put it on the floor inside the door, took out the original key from the lock and used it to lock the door from the outside. Then I switched it with the key that didn't fit and left that one in the lock. Finally, I put the original key in the other bedroom door. It was done in a few seconds. Then I calmly walked down to the ground floor and called Harry Hole's mobile.
And the very next moment he strolled in.
Although I could feel the laughter bubbling up inside me, I think I managed to put on a look of surprise, probably because I was a little surprised. In fact, I had seen one of the policemen before. That night in the Palace Gardens. But I don't think he recognised me. Perhaps it was Daniel he saw today. And, YES, I remembered to wipe the fingerprints off the keys.
'Harry! What are you doing here? Is something up?’
‘Listen, get through on your walkie-talkie to…'
'Hey?'
Boltelokka School drum band was marching past.
'I said to…' Harry shouted.
'What?' shouted Halvorsen.
Harry snatched the walkie-talkie out of his hand.
'Listen carefully, everyone out there. Keep your eyes peeled for a man, seventy years old, one metre seventy-five, blue eyes, white hair. He's probably armed, repeat armed, and extremely dangerous. There is reason to suspect an assassination attempt, so check open windows and roofs in the area. I repeat…'
Harry repeated the message while Halvorsen stared at him with his mouth hanging open. When Harry had finished he threw the walkie-talkie back to him.
'Now it's your job to get 17 May cancelled, Halvorsen.'
'What did you say?'
'You're on duty. I look like someone… who's been on the piss. They won't listen to me.'
Halvorsen's stare focused on Harry's unshaven chin, the badly buttoned, creased shirt and the sockless feet in shoes.
'Who's they?'
'Have you still not understood what I'm talking about yet?' Harry roared, pointing upwards with a quivering finger.
103
Oslo. 17 May 2000.
This morning. A range of four-hundred metres. I have managed that before. The gardens will be fresh and green, so full of life, so devoid of death. But I have cleared the way for the bullet. A dead tree without foliage. The bullet will come from the sky, like God's finger it will point out the offspring of the traitor, and everyone will see what He does to those who are not pure of heart. The traitor said he loved his country, but he left it, he left us to save it from the intruders from the east and then branded us traitors afterwards.
Halvorsen ran towards the Palace entrance while Harry remained in the open square, walking round in circles like a drunk. It would take a few minutes to clear the royal balcony. Important men would have to make decisions first which they would have to answer for. You didn't cancel 17 May simply because a policeman from the sticks had been chatting to a dubious colleague. His gaze swept the crowd, up and down, without quite knowing what he was looking for.
It would come from the sky.
He looked up. The green trees. So devoid of death. They were so tall and the foliage was so dense that even with good rifle sights it would be impossible to shoot from neighbouring houses.
Harry closed his eyes. His lips moved. Help me now, Ellen.
I have cleared the way.
Why had they been so surprised, the two Palace gardeners, when lie was walking by yesterday? The tree. It didn't have any leaves. He opened his eyes again, looked across the treetops and there it was: the dead brown oak. Harry felt his heart begin to thump. He turned, almost knocked over a drum major and ran up towards the Palace. When he reached the direct line between the balcony and the tree, he stopped. His eyes followed the line to the tree. Behind the naked branches towered a frozen blue giant made of glass. The SAS Hotel. Of course. So easy. One bullet. No one would notice a single gunshot on 17 May. Then he strolls calmly into a busy reception area and out into the crowded streets where he will vanish. And then? What happens after that?
Couldn't think about that now; had to act. Had to act. But he was so tired. Instead of excitement Harry felt a sudden urge to get away, to go home, to lie down and sleep and wake up to a new day in which all of this was a dream. He was roused by the sirens from a passing ambulance in Drammensveien. The sound cut right through the blanket of brass-band music.
'Fuck. Fuck!'
He broke into a run.
104
Radisson SAS. 17 May 2000.
The old man was leaning against the window with his legs drawn up beneath him, holding the gun with both hands and listening to the ambulance siren slowly fading away into the distance. It's too late, he thought. Everyone dies.
He had been sick again. Mostly blood. The pain had almost deprived him of consciousness and afterwards he lay bent double on the floor, waiting for the pills to take effect. Four of them. The pain had subsided, with one last stab to remind him that it would soon come back, and the bathroom had assumed normal proportions again. One of the two bathrooms. With a Jacuzzi. Or was it a sauna? There was a TV anyway, and he had turned it on. There were patriotic songs, the national anthem, festively dressed journalists reporting on the children's parade on all the channels.
Now he was sitting in the living room, and the sun hung in the sky like a huge flare, lighting up everything. He knew he shouldn't look straight at the flare, because you would become night-blind and you wouldn't be able to see the Russian snipers wriggling through the snow in no man's land.
I can see him, Daniel whispered. One o'clock, on the balcony right behind the dead tree.
Trees? There were no trees here in the crater landscape. The Crown Prince has walked out on to the balcony, but he doesn't say anything.
'He'll get away!' a voice sounding like Gudbrand's shouted. No, he won't, Daniel said. No bloody Bolshevik gets away. 'He knows we've seen him, he's crawling into the hollow.' No, he isn't.
The old man rested the gun against the edge of the window. He had used a screwdriver to open it further than the permitted crack. What was it that the girl in reception had told him that time? It was to prevent guests from 'getting silly ideas'. He looked through the rifle sights. People were so small down there. He set the range. Four-hundred metres. Shooting from above and down, you have to take into account the fact that gravity affects the bullet differently; it is a different trajectory from shooting on the level. But Daniel knew that, Daniel knew everything.
The old man looked at his watch: 10.45. Time to let it happen. He rested his cheek against the cold, heavy rifle butt, placed his left hand on the barrel slightly further down. Contorted his left eye. The railing on the balcony filled the sights. Then black coats and top hats. He found the face he was searching for. There was certainly a strong resemblance. It was the same young face as in 1945.
Daniel had gone even quieter and took aim. There was almost no frost smoke coming out of his mouth any
