'Halt!' repeated the police officer.
The distance had shrunk to thirty metres. Twenty metres.
He raised his gun and shot.
People tend to overestimate the chances of hitting another person at distances over ten metres. On the other hand, they often underestimate the psychological effect of the sound, of the explosion combined with the pinging of lead against something close by. When the bullet hit the car windscreen, which went white then collapsed, the same thing happened to the policeman. He went white and sank to his knees as his fingers tried to cling to the rather too heavy Jericho 941.
Harry and Halvorsen arrived in Heimdalsgata at the same time.
'There,' Halvorsen said.
The young policeman was still on his knees beside the car with his gun pointing to the sky. But further up the street they caught sight of the back of the blue coat they had seen in the corridor.
'He's running towards Eika,' Halvorsen said.
Harry turned to the driver who had joined them.
'Give me the MP5.'
The officer passed Harry the weapon. 'It isn't…'
But Harry had already started running. He heard Halvorsen behind him, but the rubber soles of his Doc Martens gave him a better purchase on the blue ice. The man in front of him had a long lead; he had already rounded the corner to Vahls gate, which skirted the park. Harry held the machine gun in one hand and concentrated on breathing while trying to run with a light efficiency of movement. He slowed down and got the gun into a shooting position before arriving at the corner. Tried not to think too much as he stuck out his head and looked to the right.
There was no one waiting for him.
No one to be seen in the street, either.
But a man like Stankic would hardly have been stupid enough to run into any of the backyards, which were rat traps with their locked gates. Harry peered into the park where the large white surface of snow reflected the lights of the surrounding buildings. Wasn't something moving over there? Sixty, seventy metres away, a figure making slow headway through the snow. Blue jacket. Harry sprinted across the road, took off and sailed over the snowdrift and plunged into it, sinking up to his waist in fresh snow.
'Fuck!'
He had dropped the machine gun. The figure ahead of him turned, then struggled forward. Harry's hand searched for the gun as he watched Stankic feverishly fighting his way through the loose snow, which wouldn't allow him to gain a foothold. His fingers met something hard. There. Harry pulled out the weapon and heaved himself up. Got one leg out, stretched it as far as he could, rolled over, pulled the other leg, stretched it out. After thirty metres the lactic acid was burning in his thigh muscles, but the distance had shrunk. The other man was almost on the footpath and out of the mass of snow. Harry gritted his teeth and managed to speed up. He put the distance at fifteen metres. Close enough. Harry dropped onto his stomach in the snow and set up the weapon. Blew the snow off the sights, released the safety catch, selected the lever for single-fire mode and waited until the man had reached the cone of light from the street lamp by the footpath.
'Police!' Harry didn't appreciate the comical side of the word until he had shouted it: 'Freeze!'
The man ahead continued to plough his way through. Harry squeezed the trigger.
'Halt or I'll shoot!'
The man was only five metres from the path now.
'I'm aiming at your head,' Harry shouted. 'And I won't miss.'
Stankic dived forward, grabbed the lamp post with both hands and pulled himself out of the snow. Harry had the blue jacket in his sights. Held his breath and did what he had been taught, to overrule the impulse in the cerebellum which, with the logic of evolution, says you should not kill anyone of your kind; he concentrated on technique, on not pushing or jerking the trigger. Harry felt the spring mechanism give and heard a metallic click, but there was no recoil against his shoulder. A malfunction? Harry fired again. Another click.
The man stood up with a flurry of snow around him, stepped onto the path and stamped his feet. He turned and watched Harry. Harry didn't move. The man stood with his arms hanging down by his sides. Like a sleepwalker, thought Harry. Stankic raised his hand. Harry saw the gun and knew he was helpless where he lay. Stankic's hand continued up to his forehead in an ironic salute. Then he pivoted and set off at a run up the path.
Harry closed his eyes and felt his heart pounding against the inside of his ribs.
By the time Harry had fought his way through to the path, the man had long been swallowed up by the darkness. Harry slid out the magazine of the MP5 and checked. As he thought. In a sudden bout of fury he hurled the weapon in the air and it rose like an ugly black bird in front of the Plaza Hotel before falling and landing with a gentle splash in the black water beneath him.
When Halvorsen arrived Harry was sitting in the snow with a cigarette between his lips.
Halvorsen was bent double, holding his knees, his chest heaving. 'Christ, you can run,' he wheezed. 'Gone?'
'Vanished,' Harry said. 'Let's go back.'
'Where's the MP5?'
'Didn't you just ask me that?'
Halvorsen looked at Harry and decided not to dig any further.
Two police cars stood in front of the Hostel with blue lights flashing. A crowd of shivering men with long lenses protruding from their chests were thronging outside the front door, which was obviously locked. Harry and Halvorsen walked down Heimdalsgata. Halvorsen was finishing a conversation on his mobile.
'Why do I always think of the queue for a porn film when I see that?' Harry said.
'Journalists,' Halvorsen said. 'How did they get wind of this?'
'Ask the whelp on the walkie-talkie,' Harry said. 'My guess is he let the cat out of the bag. What did they say in the Ops Room?'
'They're sending all available patrol cars to the river at once. Uniformed Division is sending a dozen foot soldiers. What do you think?'
'He's good. They'll never find him. Call Beate and ask her to come.'
One of the journalists had spotted them and came over.
'Well, Harry?'
'You're up late, Gjendem.'
'What's going on?'
'Not a great deal.'
'Oh? I see someone has shot out the windscreen of one of your police cars.'
'Who says someone didn't hit it with a stick?' Harry said, with the journalist still trotting after him.
'The officer sitting in there. He says he was shot at.'
'Christ, I'd better have a word with him,' Harry said. 'Excuse me, gentlemen!'
The throng moved aside with grudging reluctance and Harry knocked on the front door. There was a clicking and buzzing of cameras and flashes.
'Is there any connection between this and the murder in Egertorget?' one of the journalists shouted. 'Is the Salvation Army involved?'
The door opened a crack and the driver's face came into view. He stepped back, and Harry and Halvorsen pushed through. They walked through reception where the young policeman was sitting in a chair staring into space with vacant eyes while a colleague crouched in front of him, speaking in a low voice.
On the floor above, the door to room 26 was still open.
'Touch as little as possible,' Harry said to the driver. 'Beate Lonn's sure to want fingerprints and DNA.'
They cast around, opened cupboard doors and peeked under the bed.
'Jeez,' Halvorsen said. 'Not a single thing. The guy had only what he was standing up in.'
'He must have had a suitcase or something to bring the gun into the country,' Harry said. 'He may have got
