own body, he was able to react fast enough to save it. With a supreme effort he stretched up and reached the edge of the door above and heaved the box out into the snow. He was really frightened now. He flailed around, but could already feel his movements becoming torpid, his arms and legs not obeying his commands. With another huge effort he grabbed the bucket hook again, mentally crossing his fingers for the bolts in the thin plywood to hold. Hauling himself upwards, he managed to get high enough to stretch one arm over the side of the door aperture. He took the risk of letting go of the bucket hook and thrust the upper part of his body through the opening. Moments later he was standing dripping wet and gasping for breath in the moonlight. His heart had intensified its protests and he had to clutch at his chest to ease the intolerable pain. Leaving the well door open, he picked up the box and staggered back to the cottage.
He ripped off his clothes to stand naked in front of the fire. He almost felt like climbing right into it, but in fact crouched down on the wide hearth as close to the flames as he could get. Eventually it occurred to him to fetch a quilt. It was cold and rough, but at least he wouldn’t freeze to death. The clawing at his breast had stopped, though his skin was burning and prickly. His teeth were chattering as if possessed-he regarded that as a good sign. It was already at least fifteen degrees Celsius in the room, and in half an hour he’d recovered sufficiently to put on an old tracksuit, a sweater, woollen socks, and felt slippers. He got himself another cup of coffee, and settled down to open the box. It was made of metal but had a rubber seal and coating and a waterproof lock.
Everything was there. Twenty-three sheets of code, a bound nine-page document, a list of seventeen names. It was all in a plastic envelope, a safety measure that was redundant in view of the watertight nature of the box itself. He took the envelope out. Beneath it the box was completely filled by seven bundles of banknotes, two hundred thousand kroner in each. Five lay crosswise, the other two lengthwise. One million four hundred thousand kroner.
He extracted a quarter of one pack, at random, leaving the rest there. He locked the box carefully and set it back down on the floor.
The papers were totally dry. He looked first at the list of names, and then poked it into the fire. He held it until it burst into flames, and had to let go hastily in order not to scorch his still numb fingers. Then he turned to the nine-page document and started leafing through it.
The organisation couldn’t have been simpler. He was the unknown godfather in the background. He had selected his two assistants with great care. Hansy Olsen because he had a useful relationship with the criminal classes, an innate understanding of money, and a flexible attitude to the law. Jorgen Lavik because he appeared to be Olsen’s absolute antithesis: clever, successful, sober, and cold as ice. The young man’s recent hysteria seemed to indicate that he had been mistaken. He had felt his way step by step, with extreme caution, as if he were seducing a virgin. An equivocal remark here, a few ambiguous words there, and in the end he got both of them. He had never participated in any of the actual work himself. He was the brains, and he had the investment capital. He knew all the names and planned all the moves. After long experience of defence cases he recognised where the traps lay. Greed. It was greed that caused their downfall. Smuggling drugs was easy. He had found out where the stuff came from, and what connections could be relied on. So many clients had told him mournfully about the little error that had brought them down: excessive greed. The answer was to keep every operation within limits. Not to aim too high. It was better to have a steady flow of modest earnings than to be tempted by a couple of successes to go for the “big haul.”
No, the problem wasn’t on the import side; the risks lay in the distribution. In an environment full of informers, stoned buyers, and avaricious pushers, you had to tread warily. That was why he’d never had any direct involvement with the lower echelons of the organisation.
Only once or twice had things gone wrong. The runners were caught, but the operation had been so small that the police didn’t suspect a larger outfit behind it. The lads had kept their mouths shut, taken their sentences like men, and had a promise smuggled in of a significant bonus when they came out in the not-too-distant future. Four years was the longest sentence, but they knew they were earning a good salary for every year inside. Even if the runners had chosen to grass, they wouldn’t have had that much to say. At least that’s what he’d thought until a short while ago, before he’d realised that his two crown princes had exceeded their mandate.
He’d cleaned up a considerable amount of money. On top of a significant legitimate salary, it made him pretty well off. He’d used some of it gradually and circumspectly, but never in a way that couldn’t be justified from his valid finances. The money in the well was his. There was also a corresponding amount hidden away in a Swiss bank account. But the major portion of the surplus was in an account he couldn’t use himself. He could put money in, but not take it out. That account was for the Cause. He felt proud of it. The pleasure of being able to contribute to the Cause had effectively suppressed a lifetime’s conviction of right and wrong, of criminality and legality. He saw himself as chosen, and doing what was right. Fate, which had held its protective hand over their operations for so many years, was on his side. The few mistakes they had made were inevitable, and recent events merely a warning from that same Fate to wind up the business. That could only mean that his task was accomplished. The greying man looked upon Fate as a good friend, and heeded its auguries. He’d earned countless millions; now others could take over.
The bonuses for the unlucky couriers had depleted the capital somewhat, but it was worth it. Only his two colleagues had known who he was. Olsen was dead. Lavik was keeping quiet. At least for the time being. He would take things slowly-he had plans for all eventualities.
Hansy Olsen was his first murder victim in peacetime. It had been remarkably easy. And it had been imperative, no different in essence from the occasion when two German soldiers had lain in the snow in front of him, each with a bloody hole in his uniform. He’d been seventeen then, making his way to Sweden. The shots had continued to ring in his ears as he searched them both for valuables and then trudged on full of national fervour to Sweden and freedom. It was just before Christmas 1944, and he knew he was on the winning side. He had killed two of the enemy, and felt no remorse over it.
Nor had the murder of Hans E. Olsen given him any sense of guilt. It had been a simple necessity. He’d experienced a kind of elation, a joy rather like the feeling of triumph after a raid on his neighbour’s apple orchard over fifty years ago. The weapon was old, unregistered, but in perfect condition, bought from a long-deceased client.
He’d finished reading through the document. He rolled it up and screwed it round tight like a spill before throwing it on the fire. The twenty-three pages of code went the same way. Ten minutes later there were no documents anywhere in the world that could connect him to anything other than respectable activities. No signatures, no handwriting, no fingerprints. No proof.
He stood up and fetched some dry clothes from the cupboard. Replacing the box in the well was a more straightforward job than getting it out. He emptied the coffee grounds on the fire before changing back into the clothes he’d come in, hung his wet things in an outside shed, and locked the cottage. It was two o’clock, and he would be back in town in time to have a shower and turn up at the office. Cold and tired, admittedly, but that was acceptable. His secretary thought so, anyway.
TUESDAY 3 NOVEMBER
Fredrick Myhreng was in top form. While Hans Olsen was still alive, he had given him a few reasonable three- column articles, in exchange for a couple of beers. He’d sought out journalists with the enthusiasm of a small boy collecting returnable bottles. Even so, Myhreng preferred him dead. He had the full confidence of his editor, had been released from other work to concentrate on the mafia case, and met with encouragement from colleagues, who could see that he was making a niche for himself. “Contacts, you know, contacts,” he grinned when people wondered what he was actually doing.
He lit a cigarette and the smoke blended with the exhaust fumes that formed a leaden haze to a height of three metres above the road. He leant against a lamppost, turned up the collar of his sheepskin jacket, and imagined himself James Dean. He breathed in a flake of tobacco as he inhaled and it caught in his windpipe, making him cough so violently that tears came to his eyes, his spectacles misted over, and he couldn’t see a thing. Gone was James Dean, and he shook his head vigorously, opening his eyes wide to peer through the lenses.
On the opposite side of the busy street was Jorgen Ulf Lavik’s office. A solid brass plate announced that Lavik, Saetre & Villesen occupied the second floor of the imposing turn-of-the-century brick building. Very central and
