Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (125 page)

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 & Wesson. The case with the Märklin 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 & 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.

‘T
HERE 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 grabbed the Kalashnikov.

Then he dragged the other man to the wall, as far from Kinzonzi as possible, and shone the light on him. Predictably enough, he had reacted as Harry had; blinded, he had shot into the sun. Harry’s detective eyes automatically registered that the man’s groin was soaked in blood; the bullet must have have continued up into his stomach but was hardly likely to have killed him. A bleeding shoulder, therefore one bullet had probably entered his armpit. That explained why the Kalashnikov had come first. Harry crouched down. But that didn’t explain why the man wasn’t breathing.

He shone the light on his face. Why the
boy
wasn’t breathing.

The bullet had gone in under his chin. From the angle he had fired the lead must have passed into his mouth, through his palate and up into the brain. Harry inhaled. The boy couldn’t have been much more than sixteen or seventeen. An altogether good-looking lad. Wasted beauty. Harry stood up, put the gun barrel to the dead man’s head and shouted: ‘Where are they? Mr Leike. Tony. Where?’

He waited a bit.

‘What? Louder. I can’t hear you. Where? Three seconds. One. Two …’

Harry pressed the trigger. The weapon must have been on full auto because it fired at least four times before he managed to release his finger. Harry closed his eyes when the salvo hit his face, and when he opened them again he saw that the boy’s attractive features had disintegrated. Harry noticed hot, wet blood was running down his naked body.

Harry stepped over to Kinzonzi. Stood astride him, shone the torch on his face, pointed the gun to his forehead and repeated the question word for word.

‘Where are they? Mr Leike. Tony. Where? Three seconds …’

Kinzonzi opened his eyes. Harry saw the whites quiver. The terror of dying is a prerequisite for wanting to live. It had to be, at least here in Goma.

Kinzonzi answered, slowly and clearly.

K
INZONZI LAY QUITE STILL.
T
HE TALL, WHITE MAN HAD
placed the torch on the floor so that it lit up the ceiling. Kinzonzi watched him put on Oudry’s clothes. Watched him tear his T-shirt into strips and tie them round his chin and head so that the gaping jaw, the wound running from his mouth to his ear, was covered. Tightened it to stop the mandible from hanging on one side. Blood soaked through the cotton material as Kinzonzi looked on.

He had answered the few questions the man had asked. Where. How many. What weapons they had.

Now the white man went to the shelf, pulled out a black case, opened it and examined the contents.

Kinzonzi knew he was going to die. A young, violent death. But perhaps not now, not tonight. His stomach stung as though someone had poured acid on him. But it was OK.

The white man was holding Oudry’s Kalashnikov. He moved towards Kinzonzi, stood over him with the light behind his back. A towering figure with his head wrapped in white cloth, the way they used to bind the chin for death before the deceased was buried. If Kinzonzi was going to be shot, it would happen now. The man dropped the torn strips of T-shirt he hadn’t used on Kinzonzi.

‘Help yourself.’

Kinzonzi heard him groaning as he went up the ladder.

Kinzonzi closed his eyes. If he didn’t wait too long, he could stop the
worst bleeding before he fainted from blood loss. Get to his feet, crawl across the road, find people. And he might be lucky, they
might
not belong to the species: Goma vulture. He might find Alma. He could make her his. Because she had no man now. And Kinzonzi no longer had an employer. He had seen what was in the case the tall white man had taken with him.

Harry stopped the Range Rover in front of the low church walls, radiator-to-radiator with the chunky Hyundai that was still standing there.

A cigarette glowed in the car.

Harry switched off the headlamps, rolled down the window and stuck his head out.

‘Saul!’

Harry saw the cigarette glow move. The taxi driver came out.

‘Harry. What happened? Your face …’

‘Things didn’t quite go to plan. I didn’t imagine you’d still be here.’

‘Why not? You paid me for the whole day.’ Saul ran his hand over the bonnet of the Range Rover. ‘Nice car. Stolen?’

‘Borrowed.’

‘Borrowed car. Borrowed clothes, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Red with blood. The previous owner’s?’

‘Let’s leave your car here, Saul.’

‘Will I want this trip, Harry?’

‘Probably not. Does it help if I say I’m one of the good guys?’

‘Sorry, but in Goma we’ve forgotten what that means, Harry.’

‘Mm. Would a hundred dollars help, Saul?’

‘Two hundred,’ Saul said.

Harry nodded.

‘… and fifty.’

Harry got out and let Saul take the wheel.

‘Are you sure that’s where they are?’ Saul asked, as the car purred onto the road.

‘Yes,’ Harry said from the back seat. ‘Someone once told me that it’s the only place where people in Goma can get to heaven.’

‘I don’t like the place,’ Saul said.

‘Oh?’ Harry said, opening the case beside him. The Märklin. The instructions for how to assemble the rifle were glued to the inside of the lid. Harry set about the job.

‘Evil spirits. Ba-Toye.’

‘You studied in Oxford, didn’t you say?’ Matt, greased parts readily clicked into place.

‘You don’t know anything about the fire demon, I suppose.’

‘No, but I know these ones,’ Harry said, holding up one of the cartridges from its own compartment in the Märklin case. ‘And I would back them against Ba-Toye.’

The feeble yellow interior light made the gold-coloured cartridge casing gleam. The lead bullet inside had a diameter of sixteen millimetres. The world’s largest calibre. When he had been working on the report after the Redbreast investigation, a ballistics expert had told him the calibre of a Märklin was way beyond all sensible limits. Even for shooting elephants. It was better suited to felling trees.