Olsen.’
‘Speak.'
'Someone needs a gun. A Marklin.' No response.
'As in model trains,' Sverre added.
'I know what a Marklin is, Olsen.' The voice at the other end was flat, neutral; Sverre could feel the disdain. He didn't react because, though he hated the man at the other end, his terror of him was greater-he wasn't ashamed to admit that. This man had the reputation of being dangerous. Few people had heard of him, even in Sverre's circle, and Sverre didn't know his real name. But he had saved Sverre and his pals from a sticky situation more than once. All for the Cause, of course, not because he had any special liking for Sverre Olsen. Had Sverre known anyone else he thought could provide what he was after, he would have got in touch with them.
The voice: 'Who's asking and what do they want it for?'
'Some old guy. I've never seen him before. Said he was one of us. And I didn't exactly ask him who he was going to blow away, let's put it like that. No one perhaps. Perhaps he just wants it to -'
'Shut up, Olsen. Did he look as if he had money?'
'He was well dressed. And he gave me a thousand just to tell him whether I could help him or hot.'
'He gave you a thousand to keep your mouth shut, not to answer any questions.'
'Right.'
'Interesting.'
'I'm meeting him again in three days. He wants to know then if we can get it.’
‘We?'
'Yes, well…'
'If J can get it, you mean.'
'Of course, but…'
'What's he paying you for the job?'
Sverre paused. 'Ten big ones.'
'I'll match it. Ten. If the deal works out. Got it?'
'Got it.'
'So what are the ten for?’
‘To keep my mouth shut.'
There was no feeling in Sverre's toes when he put down the phone.
He needed new boots. He stood still, studying an inert crisp packet which the wind had hurled into the air and which was now being blown between cars in the direction of Storgata.
20
Herbert's Pizza. 15 November 1999.
The old man let the glass door to Herbert's Pizza close behind him. He stood on the pavement and waited. A Pakistani woman with a pram and her head wrapped in a shawl passed by. Cars whizzed by in front of him and he could see his flickering reflection in their windows and in the large glass panes of the pizzeria behind him. To the left of the entrance the window had a large white cross taped over it; it looked as if someone had tried to kick it in. The pattern of white cracks in the glass was like a spider's web. Behind, he could see Sverre Olsen, still sitting at the table where they had agreed the details. Five weeks. The container port. Pier 4. Two a.m. Password: Voice of an Angel. Probably the name of a pop song. He'd never heard of it, but the tide was appropriate. Unfortunately, the price had been rather less appropriate: 750,000 Norwegian kroner. But he wasn't going to discuss it. The question now was only whether they would keep their end of the bargain or whether they would rob him at the container port. He had appealed to the young neo-Nazi's sense of loyalty by divulging that he had fought at the Eastern Front, but he wasn't sure if he had believed him. Or if it made any difference. He had even invented a story about where he had served in case the young man started asking questions. But he hadn't.
Several more cars passed. Sverre Olsen had stayed put in the pizzeria, but someone else had stood up and was staggering towards the door at this moment. The old man remembered him; he had been there the last time too. And today he had kept his eyes on them the whole time. The door opened. He waited. There was a break in the traffic and he could hear that the man had come to a halt behind him. Then it came.
'Well now, is that him?'
The voice had that very special rasping quality which only many years of heavy alcohol abuse, smoking and insufficient sleep can produce. 'Do I know you?' the old man asked without turning. I reckon so, yes.'
The old man twisted his head round, studied him for a brief moment and turned away again.
'Can't say that I recognise you.'
'Jesus! You don't recognise an old war comrade?'
'Which war?'
'We fought for the same cause, you and I did.'
'If you say so. What do you want?'
'Eh?' the drunk asked, with one hand behind his ear.
'I asked what you wanted,' the old man repeated, louder this time.
Ah, there's wanting and wanting. Nothing unusual about having a chat with old acquaintances, is there? Especially acquaintances you haven't seen for a long time. And especially people you thought were dead.'
The old man turned round. 'Do I look dead?'
The man in the red Icelandic sweater stared at him with eyes so bright blue they looked like turquoise marbles. It would be impossible to guess his age. Forty or eighty. But the old man knew exactly how old the drunk was. If he concentrated, he might even be able to remember his birthday. During the war they had been very particular about celebrating birthdays.
The drunk came a step closer. 'No, you don't look dead. Sick, yes, but not dead.'
He stretched out an enormous, grimy hand and the old man recognised the sweet stench of sweat, urine and vomit.
'What's up? Don't you want to shake an old comrade's hand?' His voice sounded like a death rattle.
The old man pressed the outstretched hand fleetingly with his own gloved hand.
'That's it,' he said. 'Now we've shaken hands. If there's nothing else you were wondering about, I'll be on my way.'
'Ah, wondering, yes.' The drunk rocked to and fro as he tried to focus on the old man. 'I was wondering what a man like you was doing in a hole like this. It's not so strange wondering about that, is it? He's just got lost, I thought, the last time I saw you here. But you sat talking to that nasty piece of work who goes round beating people up with baseball bats. And you were sitting there today too…'
'Yes?'
'I was thinking I would have to ask one of the journalists who occasionally come here, you know. If they know what a respectable man like you is doing in such company. They know everything, you know. And what they don't know, they find out. For example, how it can be that a man everyone thought died during the war is alive again. They get their information quick as fuck. Like that.'
He made a vain attempt at flicking his fingers.
'And then it's in the papers, you know.'
The old man sighed. 'Is there perhaps something I can help you with?'
'Do I look like I need anything?' The drunk spread his arms and flashed a toothless grin.
'I see,' said the old man, taking stock around him. 'Let's walk a little. I don't like spectators.'
'Eh?'
'I don't like spectators.'
'No, what do we want with them?'
The old man laid a hand lightly on the drunk's shoulder.
'Let's go in here.'
'Show me the way to go, comrade,' the drunk hummed hoarsely with a laugh.
