Phantom (49 page)

Truls felt a deep hatred for Hole. Hated his condescending, indifferent smile.

“And what happens if you survive, Hole?”

“Then your problems are over. I’ll be gone. I’ll fly to the other side of the globe. And I won’t be coming back. One final thing …” Hole buttoned up the long coat over the bulletproof vest. “It was you who deleted the Blindernveien address from the list Bellman and I received, wasn’t it?”

Truls Berntsen was about to answer “No” as an automatic response. But something—an intuition, a semi-digested thought—stopped him. The truth was he had never found out where Rudolf Asayev lived.

“Yes,” Truls Berntsen said as his brain churned, absorbing information. Tried to analyze what it implied.
The list Bellman and I received
. Tried to draw a conclusion. But he couldn’t think fast enough—it had never been his strong suit—and he needed more time.

“Yes,” he repeated, hoping his surprise was not obvious. “Of course it was me who deleted the address.”

“I’ll leave this rifle,” Harry said, opening the chamber and releasing the cartridge inside. “If I don’t come back it can be delivered to a law firm, Bach and Simonsen.”

Hole slammed the door and Truls heard his long strides down the stairs. Waited until he was sure they would not be returning. And then he reacted.

Hole had not found the Märklin leaning against the wall behind the curtain beside the balcony door. Truls grabbed the heavy assassination rifle, tore open the balcony door. Rested the barrel on the railings. It was cold and drizzly, but more important, there was almost no wind.

He saw Hole coming out of the building underneath, saw his coat flapping around him as he trotted toward the waiting taxi in the parking lot. Spotted him through the light-sensitive sights. German optics and engineering expertise. The image was grainy, but in focus. He could take Hole from here, no problem; the bullet would pierce him from head to toe, or—even better—exit right by his reproductive equipment. After all, the weapon was originally made for hunting elephants. But if he waited until Hole was under one of the street lamps in the parking lot he would have an even safer shot. And that would be very practical; there weren’t many people in the lot so late and it wouldn’t be so far for Truls to drag the body to the car.

Instructed a lawyer? He had balls. But of course he would have to assess whether he should be eliminated as well, for safety’s sake. Hans Christian Simonsen.

Hole was getting closer. The neck. Or the head. The bulletproof vest was the type that went all the way up. Heavy as hell. He pressed the hammer back. A small but barely audible voice told him he shouldn’t do this. It was murder. Truls Berntsen had never killed anyone before. Not deliberately. Tord Schultz—that hadn’t been him, but Rudolf Asayev’s hellhounds. And Gusto? Yes, who the fuck had nailed Gusto? Not him, at any rate. Mikael Bellman. Isabelle Skøyen.

The little voice fell quiet and the crosshairs seemed to be fixed to the back of Hole’s head. Kapow! He could already see the spray. Pressed the trigger. In two seconds Hole would be in the light. Shame he couldn’t film this. Burn it onto a DVD. Would have beaten Megan Fox with or without Fjordland rissoles.

Truls Berntsen breathed in, deep and slow. His pulse had risen, but it was under control.

Harry Hole was in the light. And filled the sights.

Real
shame he couldn’t film …

Truls Berntsen hesitated.

Thinking on his feet wasn’t his forte. Not that he was stupid, but now and then things just went a bit slowly.

When they were growing up this is what had always divided him and Mikael; Mikael was the thinker and talker. The point was that Truls had made it in the end as well. Like now. Like this business of the missing address on the list. And like the small voice that told him not to shoot Harry Hole, not now. It was basic mathematics, Mikael would have said. Hole was after Rudolf Asayev and Truls—in that order, fortunately. So if Hole shot Asayev he would at least have eliminated one of Truls’s problems. And ditto if Asayev shot Hole. On the other hand …

Harry Hole was still in the light.

Truls’s finger tightened on the trigger with even pressure. He had been the second-best rifle marksman at Kripos, the best pistol marksman.

He emptied his lungs. His body was utterly relaxed; there wasn’t going to be an uncontrolled jerk. He breathed in again.

And lowered the rifle.

B
LINDERNVEIEN LAY IN
front of Harry, illuminated. It ran like a switchback through hilly terrain surrounded by older houses, large gardens, university buildings and lawns.

He waited until he could see the lights of the taxi fade into the distance, then he began to walk.

It was four minutes to one, and there was not a soul in sight. He had told the taxi driver to stop outside number 68.

The house lay behind a nine-foot-high fence, about fifty yards
from the road. Beside it stood a cylindrical brick building measuring around twelve feet in height and diameter, like a water tower. Harry hadn’t seen any such water towers in Norway before, but noticed that the neighboring house had one as well. Sure enough, a gravel path led up to the front steps of the imposing timber house. A single lit lamp hung above a door of dark and probably solid wood.

There was light in two of the windows on the ground floor and one on the second.

Harry stood in the shadow of an oak tree on the opposite side of the road. Unhitched his knapsack and opened it. Prepared the riot gun and put the gas mask on his head so that all he had to do was bring it down over his face.

He hoped the rain would help him get as close as he needed. He checked that the MP5 machine gun was loaded and the safety catch was off.

It was time.

But the anesthetic was dwindling fast.

He took the bottle of Jim Beam, unscrewed the cap. There was a barely visible heel left at the bottom. He looked at the house again. Looked at the bottle. If this worked he would need a swig afterward. He screwed the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in his inside pocket with the extra magazine for the MP5. Checked to ensure he was breathing normally, his brain and muscles were getting oxygen. Looked at his watch. One minute past one. In twenty-three hours the plane would be leaving. The plane for him and Rakel.

He took two more deep breaths. The gate was probably alarmed, but he was too heavily laden to gain entrance over the fence at speed, and he had no desire to hang there as a live target as he had been on Madserud Allé.

Two and a half, Harry thought. Three.

Then he walked to the gate, pressed the handle, swung it open. Holding the riot gun in one hand, the MP5 in the other, he began to run. Not on the gravel path, but on the grass. He ran toward the living-room window. As a police officer he had been on enough lightning arrests to know what an amazing advantage the element of surprise was. Not only the advantage of shooting first, but also shock effects in the form of sound and light could reduce an opponent to total paralysis. But he knew the shelf life of the element of surprise as well. Fifteen seconds. He reckoned that was all he had. If he hadn’t knocked them out in that time they would be able to collect themselves,
regroup, fight back. They knew the house; he had never even seen a floor plan.

Fourteen, thirteen.

From the moment he shot two gas cartridges at the living-room window, which exploded and became an avalanche of white, it was as though time stood still and became a juddering film in which he registered that he was in motion, his body was doing what it should, his brain was capturing mere fragments.

Twelve.

He pulled down his gas mask, threw the riot gun into the living room, swept away the largest shards of glass in the window with his MP5, placed the knapsack on the sill and put his hands on it, raised a foot high and swung himself into the white smoke billowing toward him. The lead bulletproof vest made movement more difficult, but once he was inside it was like flying into a cloud. He heard shots being fired and threw himself to the floor.

Eight.

More shots. The dry sound of the parquet floor being shredded. They had
not
been paralyzed into inaction. He waited. Then he heard it. Coughing. The kind you are powerless to restrain with tear gas stinging your eyes, nose, lungs.

Five.

Harry jerked up the MP5 and shot at the sound in the gray-and-white mist. Heard short, pumping steps. Running-on-stairs-type steps.

Three.

Harry rose to his feet and sprinted.

Two.

On the second floor there was no smoke. If the fugitive got away Harry’s odds would be dramatically worsened.

One, zero.

Harry could discern the outline of a staircase, then the banister with the rails below. He threaded the MP5 between the rails, wrenched it to the side and up. Pressed the trigger. The weapon shook in his hand, but he held on tight. Emptied the magazine. Pulled the machine gun back, released the magazine while his other hand searched his coat pocket for the other one. Found only the bottle. He had lost the spare magazine while lying on the floor! The others were still in the knapsack on the windowsill.

Harry knew he was dead when he heard footsteps on the stairs. On their way down. They came slowly, hesitantly. Then faster. Then they
raced down. Harry saw a figure dive out of the mist. A reeling ghost in a white shirt and black suit. He hit the banister, bent in the middle and slid lifelessly down to the newel post. Harry saw the frayed edges of the wounds in the back of the suit where the bullets had entered. He walked over to the body, grabbed the bangs and lifted the head. Felt sensations of asphyxiation and had to fight the impulse to pull off the gas mask.

One bullet had torn half of the nose away as it exited. Nonetheless, Harry still recognized him. The little guy from the doorway at Hotel Leon. The man who had shot at him from the car on Madserud Allé.

Harry listened. There was silence except for the hiss of the tear-gas cartridges from which white smoke was still gushing forth. He retreated to the living-room window, found the knapsack, inserted a fresh magazine and stuffed one under his bulletproof vest. Only now did he notice the sweat running down the inside.

Where was the big man? And where was Dubai? Harry listened again. The hiss of the gas. But hadn’t he heard footsteps on the floor above?

Through the gas he glimpsed another room and an open door leading to the kitchen. Only one closed door. He stood beside the door, opened it and pointed the riot gun inside and fired twice. Closed the door and waited. Counted to ten. Opened and entered.

Empty. Through the smoke he identified bookshelves, a black leather armchair and a large fireplace. Above it hung a painting of a man wearing a Gestapo uniform. Was this an old Nazi house? Harry knew the Norwegian storm trooper boss Karl Marthinsen had been living in a confiscated house on Blindernveien when he ended his days riddled with bullets outside the Science Building.

Retracing his steps, Harry went through the kitchen and the door behind to what used to be the maid’s room, and found what he was looking for: the back staircase.

Usually these stairs also functioned as a fire escape, but these didn’t stop at an external door; they continued down to a cellar, and what had once been a back door had been bricked up.

Harry checked that there was still a gas cartridge left in the magazine and mounted the stairs in long, soundless strides. Fired the last cartridge into the corridor, counted to ten and followed. Pushed open the doors, with stabbing pains in his neck, but still managed to concentrate. Apart from the first door, which was locked, all the rooms were empty. Two of the bedrooms looked to be in use. The bed in one didn’t have any sheets, though, and Harry could see the mattress
was dark, as if drenched in blood. On the bedside table in the second bedroom there was a Bible. Harry studied it. Cyrillic letters. Russian Orthodox. Beside it a prepared
zjuk
. A red brick with six nails in it. Exactly the same thickness as the Bible.

Harry walked back to the locked door. The sweat inside the mask had made the glass mist up. He leaned back against the opposite wall, lifted his foot and kicked at the lock. The door cracked at the fourth kick. Harry crouched down and fired a salvo into the room, heard the tinkle of glass. Waited until the smoke from the corridor had drifted inside. Went in. Found the light switch.

The room was bigger than the others. The four-poster bed by the long wall was unmade. A blue jewel on a ring flashed from the bedside table.

Harry put his arm under the duvet. Still warm.

He looked around. Whoever had just been lying in this bed might of course have left the room and locked it after him—had the key not still been on the inside. Harry checked the window: closed and locked. He examined the solid-looking closet on the short wall. Opened it.

At first glance it was a standard closet. He pressed the back wall. It opened.

An escape passage. German thoroughness.

Harry shoved the shirts and jackets to the side and poked his head through the false panel. A cold gust of air met him. A shaft. Harry groped. Iron rungs had been hammered into the wall. Looked as if there were more rungs farther down; they had to lead to the cellar. An image fluttered through his brain, a detached fragment of a dream. He repressed the image, removed his gas mask and forced his way through the false wall. His feet found the rungs, and when he carefully made his way down and his face was level with the closet floor, he saw something lying there. It was a U-shaped, stiffened cotton material. Harry put it in his coat pocket and continued down into the darkness. He counted the rungs. After twenty-two one foot touched terra firma. But as he was about to lower the other foot, the no longer quite so firma terra moved. He lost his balance, but his landing was soft.