happened to him. That way they would have less to give away, if and when the police caught up with them, and less chance of incriminating themselves along with him. He would find a way of getting word to them later. For now, all that mattered was escape.
He looked around, trying to pick the best way out through the crowd, and then he saw, by the now-abandoned concierge desk, flickering in front of him as people ran across his field of vision, the mocking smile, the pale blue eyes and the flame-red hair of a man who was holding up a phone, clearly enough for him to see; turning it round so that he could clearly see the lens of the camera; taunting him as it flashed.
Only then did Carver become conscious of the weight in his hand. He glanced down and realized that he still had the handset in his hands. Barely ten seconds had passed since the detonation. He hadn’t even thought to put it back down.
He flung the phone away, furious with himself. By the time he looked up, the face had gone.
Carver turned towards the door, letting himself be carried along with the torrent of people, out through the hotel’s glass doors on to the street.
The pandemonium was even worse out there. The blast had bombarded the area in front of the hotel with a deadly eruption of brickwork, glass, wood and metal. Dead bodies were strewn across the road, bloodied and half buried by falling rubble. Between them, the fatal shards of razor-edged glass glittered in the late evening sun, the prettiness of the flickering light incongruous, even obscene, amidst the slaughter.
Up above a gaping black emptiness had been punched into the hotel. It was fringed at top and bottom by sagging floors and ceilings, their loose planks and beams flopping like unbrushed strands of hair. Yet as shocking as the sight of the atrocity was, the blandly imperturbable look of the untouched facade to either side of the wound was almost as bad. It was as if the rest of the building were simply ignoring the damage that had been done.
Carver heard sirens in the distance as the first police units and emergency services made their way to the scene. He saw a milling group of bemused, leaderless people as the guests fleeing the hotel met both the survivors of the carnage outside and the first rubber-neckers making their way from the neighbouring streets and the great open space on the far side of the road. And then all that was forgotten as he felt the prick of a knife- point in the small of his back, the choking grip of an arm around his neck, and the hot breath against his left ear, as intimate as a lover.
He heard a man’s voice, halfway between a whisper and a hiss, ‘Hello, old chap… remember me?’
And then it all came back to Carver: the voice, the face, the memories.
‘Tyzack,’ he croaked. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Hasn’t it just. Feel this?’ Tyzack pressed the knife a little harder, just enough to draw blood. ‘You do know I could kill you, right now, if I wanted, if you tried anything stupid?’
Carver did not respond. Tyzack jabbed the knife again, making him wince.
‘I asked you a question. Answer it.’
‘I know you could kill me, yes,’ Carver muttered.
‘Good,’ said Tyzack. ‘But I’m not going to… not yet. I want to have some sport first, a bit of fun, just like you did with me. I assume you recall the occasion. You thought you were so much better than me. Well then, prove it. I’ve dumped you in the shit, see if you can get out of it. You see, the police know you did this. I just sent them the picture. So they’ll be after you. And I’ll be after you. And when I’ve finished with you I’m going to do a job that is so far beyond anything you’ve even attempted, you’re not even in the same league.’
Tyzack paused. It was plain to Carver that he was longing to be asked what the job was. So Carver kept silent. He didn’t want to give Tyzack the satisfaction. And anyway, he wasn’t interested. He’d never possessed any regard for Tyzack and didn’t give a damn about his desperate attempts to compete.
‘Aren’t you curious to know what I’m doing?’ said Tyzack, betraying a trace of frustration that his achievements still went unrecognized. ‘Oh well, mustn’t dally. As you once said to me: “What are you waiting for?” Well, come on… get on with it!’
The blade flashed across Carver’s lower back, cutting through his T-shirt and slicing open his skin in a horizontal line, right above the kidneys. He winced, took an involuntary step forward, away from the blade, but there was no second thrust. He turned round to face Tyzack, but he had disappeared again, swallowed in the crowds. When Carver’s eye caught a flash of red hair, it belonged to Thor Larsson, maybe thirty yards away.
Larsson’s head turned and his eye met Carver for a second. He shouted out, ‘Carver!’ But Carver had already broken eye contact, as furtive as a petty thief, and was dashing away from Larsson, pushing past anyone who got in his way, oblivious to the broken glass and blood beneath his feet. He knew that Damon Tyzack was right. He had to get out of it. Now.
36
Damon Tyzack’s eyes had never left Carver. He wanted to wallow in every second of his misery and confusion. Carver had been kippered and he knew it. He’d been framed good and proper, caught red-handed, still holding on to the phone like an absolute idiot. Back at the hotel, Tyzack had made sure that Carver had seen his smile, just to rub it in, let him know who’d set the trap he’d so kindly walked right into. And then he’d stuck the knife in Carver’s back and said his piece, though the words, like the blade, just scratched the surface of what Tyzack had in mind.
Watching him spot Larsson, though, that had been good. Tyzack had read Carver like a book, as even his mediocre mind grasped that he couldn’t go back to his American tart and his hippy chum. Tyzack smiled to himself. There was plenty about those two that he knew and Carver didn’t; lots more nasty surprises still to come; surprises that would knock that smug, superior expression off his face for good and all.
Tyzack pressed a speed-dial number on his phone. ‘He’s on the move,’ he said. ‘Track him. Let me know where he’s going. Don’t let him out of your sight.’
Next he punched in 22-66-90-50, the number of the Oslo Police District. When his call was answered he said, ‘I have important information about the bombing at the King Haakon Hotel. Please alert the detective in charge of the case that the identity of the bomber is now in your possession. A picture of him standing by the telephone used to detonate the bomb was posted to your standard email contact address, along with details of the perpetrator’s known associates. You will not hear from me again.’
He hung up without bothering to ask whether the call-centre operative to whom he had spoken had understood what he was saying. He simply assumed that she spoke English. Everyone in Norway spoke English.
When he had finished, he took the SIM and memory cards out of his phone, wiped the handset, made sure that no one was watching him and skidded it along the ground, into a pile of rubble from the explosion.
As he left the scene of the crime, Tyzack had already pulled another phone from his jacket and was talking into it: ‘Right, where is he? What’s he doing? Come on, I haven’t got all night…’
He was walking up a side street called Akersgata. A black Mercedes E-Class saloon was parked there, a driver sitting patiently behind the wheel. Tyzack got in. As he sat down, his phone rang. He listened for a few seconds, grunted an acknowledgement of what had been said, then turned to the driver and said, ‘Right, let’s get going. This should be amusing.’
37
Carver’s shirt was sticking to his skin, glued by the blood that seeped from the incision in his back. A wound in the back was the mark of a coward and a quitter, he thought bitterly, and he could hardly argue with that description. He was running away. He was running from the King Haakon Hotel and the savagery that had been unleashed there. He was fleeing from Tyzack’s vengeance; from Thor Larsson, who was still trying to chase him down the street; and from Maddy Cross, somewhere behind him in the chaos. He was getting away from his attacker and putting as much distance as he could between himself and the ones he loved. He hoped they would understand that he was doing it for them, saving them from being infected by his guilt.
