Assassin (18 page)

When the tram stopped again, Carver got off and raced across the paved square, under the awning and into the station. Ahead of him rose an escalator. Above it hung a dark blue sign, printed with Norwegian words in white and English in yellow. Carver read ‘Station hall’ as he dashed on to the escalator. He stood still on the moving steps, happy to let them do the work as he checked to see if his pursuers had caught up with him.

He couldn’t spot any sign of them. He’d made it.

For now, at any rate.

Carver stood in the main concourse of Oslo station while his escape plans fell to pieces around him. There were no night trains to Stockholm, or anywhere else outside the country: nothing till seven the next morning. In any case, that was irrelevant. Carver had no money. It had only struck him when he stood in front of the ticket-machine that his wallet was still in his jacket, draped on his chair in the cafe of the King Haakon Hotel. He’d patted his trouser pockets, in that futile way men have, as if the act of striking their groins with their hands can somehow magic a lost possession into being. Needless to say, the magic had not worked.

He grimaced, hissed a single, heartfelt expletive and then cursed himself for letting his guard down. In the old days, when he worked on the principle that he might be forced on the run at any moment, he never went anywhere without a money-belt round his waist, containing cash, credit cards in at least two identities, matching passports and a clean pre-paid SIM card. Now he’d gone straight, he was as helpless as any other forgetful civilian.

So what did he have?

His most important asset was his phone. There wasn’t much battery power left, so he’d have to ration its use, but its text log contained the messages he’d supposedly received from Jack Grantham. They were the only evidence in his defence, the only suggestion that he had called the fatal room-number at someone else’s behest.

Besides the phone, his pockets produced his day-card for the Oslo public-transport network, a couple of two-euro coins left over from Paris, and sixty-eight Norwegian kroner in change. So was there anywhere he could go with that? He looked at a route map. The nearest station to the Swedish border was Halden, due south of Oslo. There was a train leaving in eight minutes’ time, but the cheapest ticket was almost two hundred kroner. He’d just have to jump it and hope to avoid the ticket-collector once he got on board.

Carver looked around, as he had done repeatedly since he arrived at the station, sweeping the concourse for his enemies. This time he saw one, a man, apparently buying a bottle of water from a newsagent’s stand. His back was turned to Carver, but his shaven head and the line of the black nylon bomber jacket stretched over his massive shoulders were familiar. He’d been third from the left in the picket line of men arrayed in front of the Mercedes.

Very calmly, without any sign of haste, Carver walked away from the ticket-machine.

The man put the mineral water back in the cooler and followed Carver, slightly behind him and a few paces to his right.

Carver spotted another familiar face, apparently losing interest in the departures board.

He was still walking quite slowly, as were the men tailing him. They were like competitors in a track-cycling sprint, idling around the track, waiting to see whose nerve would crack first, who’d be the first to try a burst of speed.

Carver walked beneath a sign directing passengers towards the airport express, the left-luggage office and the south exit. Ahead he could see another set of escalators. People were slowing down as they reached them, manoeuvring cases on and off. A mother was taking hold of her small child.

Now Carver ran.

He sprinted up to the start of the escalator, barging one man out of the way. Then he grabbed the long handle of a large roller suitcase and yanked it out of its owner’s hand, dragging it behind him as he kept moving. As he stepped on to the downward escalator, Carver swung the case round so that it toppled over, blocking the entrance to the escalator. He got moving again, taking the moving steps three at a time while a barging, complaining, pleading knot of humanity formed around the case.

He reached the bottom and dashed towards the exit. Carver dared not slow down for an instant. He did not need to look behind him to know that his pursuers, whoever they were, had not been long delayed.

Tyzack had a vision in his head of how he wanted this to go. He’d make Carver sweat. He’d even give him the illusion that he might get away. But that illusion wouldn’t last long. Tyzack had always been the fitter, faster and stronger man: that was one of the many things that had been so unjust about the way Carver had betrayed him. So he’d win, that was inevitable. He’d hunt Carver down, corner him and take him away - he had the place prepared, a farmhouse miles from anywhere. And then, when Carver was tired and hungry, when the arrogance had been knocked out of him and he knew for sure that no one was coming for him, Tyzack would sit down with him and have a little chat. They’d talk about the old days, put a few things straight before Tyzack pulled the plug.

So far, it was all going nicely. Carver had got away from his men in Karl Johans Gate, but that was all part of the game. It would have been a disappointment to catch him too easily. And the momentary illusion of success had only made Carver’s failure at the station all the sweeter: it had been a joy to watch him search for the wallet. Only a few minutes gone, and already he was broke. His only shirt was covered with blood, and once he stopped running, he’d feel the evening chill something rotten.

But Carver wasn’t going to stop running for a while yet. He’d keep moving till he felt the way they used to on training runs - past the point when you wanted to stop, and the point where you wanted to puke, to the point where you wanted to die. Tyzack would make sure of that.

He’d had enough of leaving it to his men to do the job. As Carver fled from the station, Tyzack stepped out of the fast-food joint from which he’d been observing the main concourse and broke into a steady jog. As he set off in pursuit, Tyzack felt in great shape, well on top of his game. This was a race he was going to win.

A motorway ran past the railway station before plunging into a tunnel that hid its traffic out of sight of the city. Carver didn’t stop moving, trusting in his agility and the good sense of Norwegian drivers to keep him alive. He crossed the last two lanes and, breathing heavily now, ran beneath a ramp that carried traffic up to a raised intersection. He needed to slow down, get his bearings and gather his strength. As he looked around it struck him that he’d been driven right down to the sea. The men on his trail were like a pack of hounds running down a stag, backing him into a corner till he had nowhere left to run.

Ahead of him, to his left, lay a long thin strip of water that must once have been a dock. Away to his right, past a line of buildings, he could see a car park, beyond which was a much larger expanse of open water. Carver did not believe in stealing cars. He did not approve of petty criminals who preyed on innocent civilians, nor did he enjoy attracting undue attention from the police. But it was a bit late for scruples now. If he was going to get away, he’d need wheels. He turned right, picked up his pace again, and made for the car park.

He was running parallel to a development, which lay between the narrow dock and the car park, the size of a full city block. At first glance, it looked ordinary enough: modern, flat-roofed, maybe half a dozen storeys tall. The lower storeys were glass-fronted, revealing workshops of some kind. As he went further, however, Carver realized that this was actually just a rear extension to a much larger structure. And the more he saw of it, the stranger it became.

The whole thing was an exercise in asymmetry and skewed geometry, with almost no true horizontal or vertical lines: everything was tilted or off-centre. Its angular aggression reminded Carver of a gigantic, architectural stealth bomber, as though all the brain-scrambling planes of stone and glass had been chosen to deflect radar beams. Then he realized that there were people walking along great ramps that ran up the side of the building along and out on to the roof. Some were standing at the very top of the facade, waving down to friends on the ground far below, like figures in a Maurice Escher drawing of staircases that lead round and round in an infinite, impossible spiral.

This must be the famous Oslo Opera House that Thor Larsson had mentioned.

He was approaching the car park now. A narrow strip of water ran like a moat between the car park and the opera house, bridged by a single stone walkway. He looked around, trying to find a car to take, one left in a place where he would not be spotted.

It wasn’t going to be easy. A cluster of figures was standing at the near side of the opera house roof, directly opposite him. For now, their attention was directed across the city towards the pillar of smoke and dust still rising from the wreckage of the King Haakon Hotel, but if they ever dropped their eyes, they would have a clear view over the parked cars. There were more people dotted around him, going to and from their vehicles.

A group of sightseers was standing by the sea wall, taking in the view of the opera house and the water. One of them was pointing across to the far side of the harbour, where a giant ferry, belching black smoke from its funnel, was just getting under way, slowly nosing its way out of its berth and into open water. The moment the tourists lost interest in it and turned back in Carver’s direction, they’d see him. Meanwhile, the men pursuing him were getting closer. He ducked down between two lines of cars and considered his situation.

He had no money to buy a way out. He had no weapon with which to fight. He had no tools with which to force open a car. His only hope was to hijack a car as it arrived or left the car park. He’d get out of town, dump the car and think of his next move.

Carver was hiding behind a chunky Audi Q7. It was fast, tough and equipped with four-wheel drive: the perfect getaway vehicle but as inaccessible to his bare hands as Fort Knox. He heard the sound of a car coming into the car park, its tyres crunching on the gravelly surface. Raising his head and peering through the Audi’s windows, he spotted an old VW Golf manoeuvring into a space. That would have to do.

The moment the engine died, Carver made his move. He got to his feet and sprinted towards the car.

The car door was opening. The driver emerged, a grey-haired, elderly woman. Carver hesitated. Christ, had he really been reduced to beating up old ladies for their car keys?

As he stopped, he heard a shout. He couldn’t make out the exact words, but he didn’t have to. He turned his head and saw three men walking towards him, sixty or seventy metres away. They were spread out, each walking between a different line of cars and they moved with a calm, purposeful stride as they cut off Carver’s line of escape, knowing that they had him.

The middle man of the three was Damon Tyzack. Carver could see that he was smiling, just as he had been at the King Haakon Hotel. But his mocking smirk had given way to the rapacious, scavenging grin of the hyena, made in anticipation of the taste of blood, the tearing of flesh and the cracking of bones against teeth.

The woman looked up, reacting to the shout, and saw Carver standing barely ten metres away. They looked at one another and he saw her eyes flicker with alarm as she locked her car door and hurriedly stuffed the key in her bag. Then she held it to her chest, silently daring him to take it from her. She’d seen the other men and sensed that they were after him. Now she knew the odds were on her side.

Carver could still have escaped. All he needed was three strides; one punch; barely five seconds to grab the bag, rip out the keys, get in the car and go.

He couldn’t do it.

He spun towards the sea wall and sprinted in the direction of the walkway that led to the opera house, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps as Tyzack and his men came after him.

The sightseers were watching him now, their eyes fixed on the chase, but their bodies backing away as they struggled between curiosity and fear.

Carver reached the walkway, which was made of the same white stone that had been used on the opera house and the paved area in front of it. Ahead of him, a tourist couple - almost certainly British or American - were waddling back towards him. It wasn’t hard to place them. No Norwegian would ever be that grossly overweight. Carver pushed his way between them, popped out the far side like a cork from a champagne bottle, then turned and aimed a short, chopping kick at the man’s leg. He fell to the ground like a tower block being demolished from the bottom, collapsing in on itself. His wife started screaming. Between them, they blocked the entire walkway. Perfect.

Carver heard the squeals of the woman and the pained cries of her husband mix with Tyzack’s shouts telling them to get out of the way. For a moment he was almost amused, but then he saw something that dashed any brief flicker of optimism.

Ahead of him, coming round the far side of the opera house, were another three men, line abreast, eating up the ground in a relaxed loping stride. When they caught sight of Carver, they didn’t speed towards him, but slowed down. One of them raised a hand to his mouth. Carver couldn’t see if he had a phone held in it or was using a wrist-mike, but the upshot was the same. The net was closing in. From their point of view it was just a matter of where they took him and when. He wasn’t going to get away now.