black. Lying on the concrete floor gasping for breath, he heard a vehicle pull up. He heard voices and doors slamming. Harry struggled to his feet, groped in the dark, took the steps in two strides, got a hand on the hatch and closed it as he heard the front door open and the savage click of the apple.
Harry moved back down the ladder with care until he sensed the cold concrete floor beneath his soles. Then he closed his eyes and strained his memory. Conjured up the image of his previous visit here. The shelves to the left. Kalashnikov. Glock. Smith amp; Wesson. The case with the Marklin rifle. Ammunition. In that order. He fumbled his way forward. Fingers strayed over a gun barrel. The smooth steel of a Glock. And, there, they recognised the shape of a Smith amp; Wesson. 38 calibre, the same as his service revolver. He took it with him and fumbled on towards the ammo boxes. Felt the wood on his fingertips. He heard angry voices and footsteps above. Just had to open the lid. Needed a bit of luck now. He stuffed his hand in and grabbed one of the cardboard packets. Ran his fingers over the contours of the cartridge. Fuck, too big! As he raised the lid of the next wooden box, the trapdoor opened. He grabbed at a packet, had to take a chance on it being the right calibre. At that moment light penetrated the cellar darkness, a circle, as from a spotlight, lit up the floor around the steps. It gave Harry enough light to read the label on the packet. 7.62 millimetres. Fuck! Harry looked on the shelf. There. The box next to it.. 38 calibre. The light went from the floor and juddered across the ceiling. Harry saw the silhouette of a Kalashnikov in the opening and a man on his way down the steps.
The brain is a fantastic computer.
As Harry pulled open the lid of the box and took a cardboard packet, it had already done its calculations. It was too late.
87
Kalashnikov
‘There wouldn’t be a road here if we hadn’t been running a mining business,’ Tony Leike said as the car bounced along the narrow cart track. ‘Entrepreneurs like me are the only hope for people in countries like the Congo to get to their feet, to follow us, to become civilised. The alternative is to leave them to their own devices so that they can continue doing what they have always done: kill each other. Everyone on this continent is both a hunter and a victim. Don’t forget that as you look into the imploring eyes of a starving African child. Give them a bit of food and those eyes will soon be looking at you again, from behind an automatic weapon. And then there is no mercy.’
Kaja didn’t answer. She stared at the red hair of the woman in the passenger seat. Lene Galtung had neither moved nor said anything, merely sat there with an erect back and retracted shoulders.
‘Everything in Africa goes in cycles,’ Tony continued. ‘Rain and drought, night and day, eating and being eaten, living and dying. The course of nature is everything, nothing can be changed, swim with the flow, survive for as long as you can, take what’s offered, that’s all you can do. Because your forefathers’ lives are your life, you cannot make a change, development is not possible. That’s not African philosophy, just the experience of generations. And it is the experience that has to change. It is experience that changes mindsets, not the other way round.’
‘And if it’s your experience that white people exploit you?’ Kaja said.
‘The idea of exploitation has been sown by white men,’ Tony said. ‘But the term has proved to be a useful tool for African leaders who need to point to a common enemy to get their people behind them. Right from the dismantling of colonialist governments in the sixties, they have used white people’s feelings of guilt to acquire power, so that the real exploitation of the population could begin. The whites’ guilt about colonising Africa is pathetic. The real crime was to leave the African to its own butchering and destructive ways. Believe me, Kaja, the Congolese never had it better than under the Belgians. The revolts had no foundation in popular will, but in individuals’ greed for power. Tiny factions stormed the Belgians’ houses here by Lake Kivu because the houses were so elegant they assumed they would find something there they desired. That was how it was, and that is how it is. That’s why properties always have at least two gates, one at each end. One through which robbers can charge in and one through which inhabitants can flee.’
‘So that was how you left the house without me seeing you?’
Tony laughed. ‘Did you really think it was you tailing us? I’ve been keeping an eye on you ever since you both arrived. Goma is a small town with little money and a clear power structure. It was very naive of you and Harry to come alone.’
‘Who’s naive?’ Kaja said. ‘What do you think will happen when it comes out that two Norwegian police officers have gone missing in Goma?’
Tony hunched his shoulders. ‘Kidnapping is a relatively common occurrence in Goma. It wouldn’t surprise me if the local police soon receive a letter from a freedom fighter demanding an exorbitant sum of money for you two. Plus the release of named prisoners who are known opponents of President Kabila’s regime. Negotiations will continue for a few days, but lead nowhere, as of course the demands will be impossible to fulfil. And then you won’t be seen again. Daily fare, Kaja.’
Kaja tried to catch Lene Galtung’s eye in the mirror, but she kept her gaze averted.
‘What about her?’ Kaja said. ‘Does she know you’ve killed all these people, Tony?’
‘She does now,’ Tony said. ‘And she understands me. That’s real love for you, Kaja. And that’s why Lene and I are getting married this evening. You’re invited.’ He laughed. ‘We’re on our way to the church. I think it will be a very atmospheric ceremony when we swear eternal fidelity to each other, don’t you, Lene?’
At that moment Lene bent forward in her seat, and Kaja saw the reason for her retracted shoulders: her hands were held behind her back by a pair of pink handcuffs. Tony leaned over, grabbed Lene’s shoulder and roughly pushed her back. Just then Lene twisted round to face them, and Kaja recoiled in horror. Lene Galtung was nigh on unrecognisable. Her face was smeared with tears, one eye was swollen, and her mouth was forced open in such a way that her lips formed an O. Inside the O she glimpsed matt metal. From the golden sphere hung a short red wire.
And the words Tony uttered were for Kaja an echo of another marriage proposal on the threshold of death, a burial in snow: Till death do us part.
Harry slipped behind the shelf of masks as the figure stepped down from the ladder, turned and flashed his torch. There was nowhere to hide, just a countdown to when he would be seen. Harry closed his eyes so as not to be blinded, while opening the packet of cartridges with his left hand. Took four bullets; his fingers knew exactly what four bullets felt like. He swung the cylinder to the left with his right hand, let the by now reflex movements take place, the way they had done when he was sitting alone in Cabrini Green and, out of sheer boredom, practising quick-loading. But here he was not alone enough. Nor bored enough. His fingers trembled. He saw the red insides of his eyelids as the light fell on his face. He braced himself. But the shots did not materialise. The light moved. He wasn’t dead, not yet. His fingers obeyed. They pushed bullets into four of the six empty chambers, relaxed, fast, one-handed. The cylinder fell into place. Harry opened his eyes as the light hit his face. Blinded, he fired into the sun.
The light swung upwards, over the ceiling and was gone. The echo of the shots hung in the air while the torch rolled on its own axis, making a loud rumbling noise and shining a low beam around the walls like a lighthouse.
‘Kinzonzi! Kinzonzi!’
The torch came to rest, against the shelf. Harry rushed forward, grabbed it, rolled onto his back, holding the torch at arm’s length, as far from his body as possible, concertinaed his legs against the shelving unit and pushed off towards the ladder until he had the trapdoor directly above him. Then the bullets came, sounding like whiplashes, and he felt the spray of concrete dust against his arm and chest as they bored into the floor by the torch. Harry took aim and shot at the illuminated figure standing astride the hatchway. Three quick squeezes.
The Kalashnikov came first. It hit the floor beside Harry’s head with a loud bang. Then came the man. Harry just managed to wriggle away before the body landed. No resistance. Meat. Dead weight.
It was quiet for a couple of seconds. Then Harry heard Kinzonzi – if that was his name – give a low groan. Harry got up, still with the torch at his side, saw a Glock lying on the floor near Kinzonzi and kicked it away. He
