flak jacket turned up. Falkeid's boys were in the cold, ice-bound darkness beneath them. He checked his watch. Five to three.
It was nineteen minutes since one of the dog patrol's Alsatians had indicated that a person was inside a red container. Nevertheless Falkeid did not like the situation. Even though the task seemed easy enough. That was not what he disliked.
So far everything had gone like clockwork. It had taken a mere fortyfive minutes from the time he received Hagen's call for the five selected soldiers to appear primed and ready at the police station. Delta consisted of seventy people, in the main highly motivated, well-trained men with an average age of thirty-one. Details were drawn up according to need, and their spheres of activity included so-called 'difficult armed actions', the category into which this job fell. In addition to the five men from Delta there was one person from FSK, Forsvarets Spesialkommando, the military Special Forces. And this was where his misgivings began. The man was an ace marksman personally drafted in by Gunnar Hagen. He called himself Aron, but Falkeid knew that no one in FSK operated under their real name. In fact, the whole force had been secret since its inception in 1981, and it was only during the famous Enduring Freedom Operation in Afghanistan that the media had managed to get hold of any specific details at all about this crack unit which, in Falkeid's opinion, was more reminiscent of a secret brotherhood.
'Because I trust Aron,' had been Hagen's brief explanation to Falkeid. 'Do you recall the rifle shot in Torp in '94?'
Falkeid remembered the hostage drama at Torp airfield very well. He had been there. No one was told afterwards who had fired the shot that saved the day, but the bullet had gone through the armpit of a bulletproof vest hanging in front of the car window and into the bank robber's head, which had then exploded like a pumpkin in the back seat of a brand-new Volvo, which the car dealer took in part exchange, washed and resold. That wasn't what bothered him. Nor that Aron was carrying a rifle that Falkeid had not seen before. The letters MAR on the gunstock did not mean a thing to him. At this moment Aron was lying somewhere outside the terrain with laser sights and night-vision goggles, and had reported in that he had a clear view of the container. Otherwise Aron confined himself to grunts when Falkeid asked for updates on the radio. But that didn't bother him, either. What Falkeid did not like about the situation was that Aron should have been there at all. They had no need whatsoever of a marksman.
Falkeid hesitated for a moment. Then he raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. 'Flash the light if you're ready, Atle.'
A light next to the container moved up and down.
'Everyone in position,' Falkeid said. 'We're ready to move in.'
Hagen nodded. 'Good. Before we go into action I would just like to have confirmation that you share my view, Falkeid. That it's best to make the arrest now and not to wait for Hole.'
Falkeid shrugged. It would be light in six hours, Stankic would come out and they could arrest him with the dogs on open ground. They said Gunnar Hagen was being groomed for the job of Chief Super when the time came.
'Seems sensible enough, yes.'
'Good. And that's what will be in my report. This was a joint decision. In case anyone should maintain I put the arrest forward to claim the kudos.'
'I don't think anyone will suspect you of that.'
'Good.'
Falkeid pressed the talk button on the walkie-talkie. 'Ready in two minutes.'
Hagen and Falkeid's frosty breath was white and merged into the same cloud before disappearing again.
'Falkeid…' It was the walkie-talkie. Atle. He whispered, 'A man just came out through the door of the container.'
'Stand by, everyone,' Falkeid said. In a firm, calm voice. Expect the unexpected. 'Is he going out?'
'No. He's standing still. He's… it looks like…'
A single shot resounded across the darkness of Oslo fjord. Then it went still again.
'What the hell was that?' Hagen asked.
The unexpected, thought Falkeid.
24
Saturday, 20 December. The Promise.
It was early saturday morning, and he was still asleep. In Harry's flat, in Harry's bed, in Harry's clothes. And he was having Harry's nightmares. About returning ghosts, always about returning ghosts.
There was a tiny sound, a mere scratching outside the front door. But it was more than enough. He woke up, put his hand under the pillow and was on his feet in an instant. The freezing floor burnt his bare feet as he crept into the hall. Through the wavy glass he could see the silhouette of someone. He had switched off all the lights and knew that no one could see him from the outside. The person seemed to be bending down and fidgeting with something Couldn't he get the key in the lock? Was Harry Hole drunk? Perhaps he hadn't been travelling after all. He had been out drinking all night.
He stood close to the door now and stretched out his hand for the cold metal door handle. Held his breath and felt the comforting friction of the gunstock against his other palm. The person outside also seemed to be holding their breath.
He hoped it didn't mean there would be unnecessary trouble; he hoped that Hole would be sensible enough to realise he had no choice: he had to take him to Jon Karlsen, or if that proved to be inappropriate, to bring Karlsen here to the flat.
With his gun raised so that it was immediately visible, he yanked open the door. The person outside gasped and retreated two paces.
There was something stuck to the outside door handle. A bunch of flowers wrapped in paper and cellophane. With a large envelope glued to the paper.
He recognised her at once, despite her horrified expression.
'Come in here,' he growled.
Martine Eckhoff hesitated until he raised the gun again.
He waved her into the sitting room with the barrel and followed. Asked her politely to sit in the wing chair while he sat on the sofa.
She dragged her eyes away from the gun and looked at him.
'Sorry about the clothes,' he said. 'Where's Harry?'
'What do you want?' she asked in English.
He was surprised by her voice. It was calm, almost warm.
'To get hold of Harry Hole,' he said. 'Where is he?'
'I don't know. What do you want from him?'
'Let me ask the questions. If you don't tell me where he is I will have to shoot you. Do you understand?'
'I don't know. So you'll have to shoot me. If you think that will help you.'
He searched for fear in her eyes. Without success. Perhaps it was her pupils; there was something wrong with them.
'What are you doing here?' he said.
'I brought Harry a concert ticket.'
'And flowers?'
'Just a whim.'
He seized the bag that she had set down on the table, rummaged through it until he found a wallet and a bank card. Martine Eckhoff. Born in 1977. Address: Sorgenfrigata, Oslo. 'You're Stankic,' she said. 'You're the man who was on the white bus, aren't you.'
He looked at her again and she held his gaze. Then she nodded slowly.
'You're here because you want Harry to lead you to Jon Karlsen, aren't you. And now you don't know what to
