He sat in the dark fingering the coat he had spread across his lap. Hushed harp music issued forth from the speakers. Small cones of light from the spotlights in the ceiling swept across the audience, the purpose of which he assumed was to create a quiver of anticipation for what was to take place onstage in a short while.
The rows in front of him began to stir as a group of a dozen or so guests appeared. A few people attempted to get to their feet but after some whispering and mumbling they sat down again. In this country it seemed you didn't show respect for politically elected leaders in that particular way. The company was ushered to seats three rows in front of him, which had been unoccupied for the half-hour he had been sitting and waiting.
He saw a man in a suit with a wire leading to one ear, but no uniformed police. The police presence outside had not given rise to alarm, either. In fact he had been expecting a greater show of force. After all, Martine had told him the Prime Minister would be attending the concert. On the other hand, what difference did the number of police make? He was invisible. Even more invisible than usual. Pleased with himself, he cast his eyes around the auditorium. How many hundreds of men were here in dinner suits? He could already imagine the chaos. And the simple but effective getaway. He had popped in the day before and found the escape route. The last thing he did before entering this evening was to check no one had locked the windows in the Gents. The plain, frosted windows could be pushed outwards and were large enough and low enough for a man to escape onto the ledge outside without any problems. From there it was a jump of three metres onto one of the car roofs in the parking lot. Then on with the coat, into busy Haakon VII's gate and two minutes and forty seconds of rapid walking later he would be on the platform of the National Theatre station where the airport express stopped every twenty minutes. The departure he was aiming for was at 20.19. Before leaving the toilet he had put two urinal blocks in his jacket pocket.
He had had to show his ticket a second time to enter the auditorium. He had shaken his head with a smile when the lady had pointed to his coat and asked him something in Norwegian. She had examined his ticket and shown him to a seat in the VIP box which, in fact, turned out to be four normal rows in the centre of the auditorium cordoned off with red tape for the occasion. Martine had explained where Jon Karlsen and his girlfriend, Thea, would be sitting.
And there they were at last. He glanced at his watch. Six minutes past eight. The concert hall was in semi- darkness and the light on the stage was too strong for him to be able to identify anyone in the delegation, but all of a sudden one of the faces was illuminated by a small spotlight. He caught a brief glimpse of a pained, wan face, but he had no doubt: this was the woman he had seen in the back of the car with Jon Karlsen in Goteborggata.
Ahead of him there seemed to be some confusion regarding seat numbers, but then the situation was resolved and the wall of bodies sank into place. He squeezed the stock of the gun under his coat. There were six bullets in the drum. It was an unfamiliar weapon with a heavier trigger than a pistol, but he had been practising all day and had found the threshold for the trigger to release the bullet.
Then, as if in response to an invisible signal, silence descended on the auditorium.
A man in a uniform appeared, welcomed everyone, he supposed, and said something which made everyone stand up. He followed suit and watched the people around him lower their heads in silence. Someone must have died. Then the man at the front said something and everyone sat down.
And then, at long last, the curtain went up.
Harry was standing in the wings, in the dark, watching the curtain rise. The footlights prevented him from seeing the audience, but he felt its presence, like a large animal breathing.
The conductor raised his baton and the Oslo 3rd Corps Choir burst into the song Harry had heard in the Citadel.
'Let the flag of redemption wave, Onwards now to holy war!'
'Excuse me,' he heard a voice say, turned and saw a young woman wearing glasses and a headset. 'What are you doing here?' she asked.
'Police,' Harry said.
'I'm the stage manager and I must ask you not to stand in the way.'
'I'm looking for Martine Eckhoff,' Harry said. 'I was told she was here.'
'She's there,' the stage manager said, pointing to the choir. Harry located her. She was at the back, on the top step, singing with a serious expression, almost one of suffering. As though it were lost love and not fighting and victory she was singing about.
At her side was Rikard. Who, unlike her, had a beatific smile on his lips. His face looked quite different when he was singing. The harsh, repressed features were gone; there was a radiance in his young eyes as though he meant what he was singing from the bottom of his heart: that they would conquer the world for their God, for the cause of compassion and charity.
Harry noticed, to his surprise, that the melody and the lyrics were having an impact.
After they had finished, they received the applause and came towards the side of the stage. Rikard looked at Harry in astonishment, but said nothing. Martine, on catching sight of him, lowered her eyes and tried to skirt round him. But Harry was quick off the mark and stood in front of her.
'I'll give you a last chance, Martine. Please don't throw it away.'
She heaved a great sigh. 'I don't know where he is. I told you.'
Harry grabbed her shoulders and in a hoarse whisper said: 'You'll be done for aiding and abetting. Do you want to give him the pleasure?'
'Pleasure?' She put on a weary smile. 'He won't have any pleasure where he's going.'
'And the song you sang? 'Who always shows compassion and is the sinner's true friend.' Does that mean nothing? Are they just words?'
She did not answer.
'I know this is more difficult,' Harry said, 'than the cheap forgiveness you in your self-glorification hand out at the Lighthouse. A helpless junkie who steals from anonymous persons to satisfy their needs, what is that? What is that compared to forgiving someone who does need your forgiveness? A real sinner on the path to hell?'
'Stop it,' she sobbed, weakly trying to push him away.
'You can still save Jon, Martine. Then he'll have another chance. Then you'll have another chance.'
'Is he bothering you, Martine?' It was Rikard.
Without turning, Harry clenched his right fist and prepared himself while looking into Martine's tear-wet eyes.
'No, Rikard,' she said. 'It's fine.'
Harry listened to Rikard's footsteps dying away as he watched her. Someone began to strum a guitar on the stage. Then a piano came in. Harry recognised the song. The night in Egertorget. And the radio in Ostgard. 'Morning Song.' It seemed like an eternity ago.
'They'll both die if you don't help me to stop this,' Harry said.
'Why do you say that?'
'Because Jon has a borderline personality disorder and is controlled by his anger. And Stankic is not afraid of anything.'
'Are you trying to tell me you're so keen to save them because it's your job?'
'Yes,' Harry said. 'And because I promised Stankic's mother.'
'Mother? Have you spoken to his mother?'
'I swore I would try to save her son. If I don't stop Stankic now he'll be shot. Same as at the container terminal. Believe me.'
Harry looked at Martine, then turned his back on her and walked away. He had reached the steps when he heard her voice behind him:
'He's here.'
Harry froze mid-stride. 'What?'
'I gave Stankic your ticket.'
At that moment the remaining stage lights came up.
The silhouettes of those in front of him stood out against the shimmering white cascade of light. He sank deeper into his chair, raised his hand slowly, placed the short barrel on the seat in front so that he had a clear line of fire at the dinner-suited back of the person to the left of Thea. He would shoot twice. Then stand up and fire a third if necessary. Although he already knew it wouldn't be.
The trigger felt lighter than before, but he knew that was the effect of adrenalin. Nevertheless he was no
