Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle (174 page)

‘You met Dubai?’

‘I did. He was alone. An old man in an elegant but old-fashioned suit. Waistcoat. Hat and gloves. He told me what he wanted me to do. And what he would pay. He was a careful guy. Said we wouldn’t meet face to face again, no phone calls, no emails, nothing that could be traced. And that was fine by me.’

‘So how did you organise the work?’

‘The jobs were written on a gravestone. He explained to me where it was.’

‘Where?’

‘Gamlebyen Cemetery. That was where I got the money as well.’

‘Tell me about Dubai. Who is he?’

Truls Berntsen stared into the distance. Tried to get a sense of the equation’s pluses and minuses. Of the consequences.

‘What are you waiting for, Berntsen? You said you could tell me everything about Dubai.’

‘Are you aware what I’m risking by tell—’

‘Last time I saw you, two of Dubai’s guys were trying to fill you with lead. So even without this gun pointing at you you’re already in the doghouse, Berntsen. Spit it out. Who is he?’

Harry Hole’s eyes bored into him. Saw straight
through
him, Truls thought. And now the hammer on the gun was moving and his equation was becoming simpler.

‘Alright, alright,’ Berntsen said, holding up his palms. ‘His name’s not Dubai. They call him that because his pushers wear football shirts advertising an airline that flies to the countries round there. Arabia.’

‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me something I haven’t worked out for myself.’

‘Hang on, hang on, it’s coming! His name’s Rudolf Asayev. He’s Russian, his parents were intellectual dissidents and political refugees – at least that’s what he said at the trial. He’s lived in lots of countries and speaks
something like seven languages. Came to Norway in the seventies and was one of the hash-trafficking pioneers, you could say. He kept a low profile, but was grassed up by one of his own people in 1980. That was when selling and importing drugs carried the same sentence as treason. So he did a long stint. After being released he moved to Sweden and switched to heroin.’

‘About the same sentence as hash but a lot better mark-up.’

‘Sure. He built up a network in Gothenburg, but after an undercover policeman was killed, he had to go underground. He came back to Oslo about two years ago.’

‘And he told you all this?’

‘No, no, I found this out on my own.’

‘Oh, yes? How? I thought the man was a phantom no one knew anything about.’

Truls Berntsen looked down at his hands. Looked up again at Harry Hole. Had to smile, almost. For this was something he had often wanted to tell someone. How he had tricked Dubai himself. But there had been no one to tell. Truls licked his lips. ‘He was sitting in the chair where you are now, with his arms on the rests.’

‘And?’

‘His shirtsleeve slipped back and a gap opened between his gloves and jacket sleeve. He had some white scars. You know, the kind you have when you remove a tattoo. And when I saw that on his wrist I thought—’

‘Prison. He was wearing gloves so as not to leave fingerprints you could check against the register afterwards.’

Truls nodded. Hole was pretty quick on the uptake, had to give him that.

‘Exactly. But after I’d agreed to the conditions he seemed a bit more relaxed. And when I went to shake hands on the deal he took off one glove. I lifted a couple of semi-decent prints from the back of my hand afterwards. The computer found a match.’

‘Rudolf Asayev. Dubai. How has he managed to keep his identity hidden for so long?’

Truls Berntsen shrugged. ‘We see it at Orgkrim all the time. There’s
one thing that separates the Mr Bigs that aren’t caught from those that are. A small organisation. Very few links. Very few trusted aides. The dope kings who reckon they’re safest with an army around them are always busted. There’s always some disloyal servant, someone who wants to take over or grass to get a reduced sentence.’

‘And you only saw him once, here?’

‘There was one other time. The Watchtower. I think it was him. He saw me, turned in the doorway and left.’

‘So, it’s true then, this rumour about him flitting around town like a phantom?’

‘Who knows.’

‘What did you do at the Watchtower?’

‘Me?’

‘The police aren’t allowed to operate there.’

‘I knew a girl working there.’

‘Mm. Martine?’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Did you sit there watching her?’

Truls felt the blood rushing to his head. ‘I …’

‘Relax, Berntsen. You just eliminated yourself from inquiries.’

‘Wh-what?’

‘You’re the stalker, the guy Martine thought was an undercover officer. You were at the Watchtower when Gusto was shot, weren’t you?’

‘Stalker?’

‘Forget it and answer.’

‘Jesus, you didn’t think that I …? Why would I have wanted to snuff out Gusto Hanssen?’

‘You could have been given it as an assignment by Asayev,’ Hole said. ‘But you did have a solid, personal reason. Gusto had seen you kill a man in Alnabru. With a drill.’

Truls Berntsen considered what Hole had said. Considered it the way a policeman whose life was a constant lie, every day, every hour, has to try to distinguish bluff from truth.

‘This murder of yours also gave you a motive for killing Oleg Fauke, who was another witness. The prisoner who tried to stab Oleg—’

‘Did not work for me! You have to believe me, Hole, I had nothing to do with that. I’ve only burned evidence. I’ve never killed anyone. The Alnabru job was sheer bad luck.’

Hole tilted his head. ‘And when you came to Hotel Leon, was that not with the purpose of killing me?’

Truls gulped. This Hole guy could
kill him
, he bloody could. Put a bullet through his temple, wipe the prints off the gun and leave it in his hand. No sign of a break-in. Vigdis A could say she had seen him return home alone, that he looked cold. Lonely. Had reported in sick. Depressed.

‘Who were the two guys who turned up? Rudolf’s men?’

Truls nodded. ‘They got away, but I got a slug in one of them.’

‘What happened?’

Truls shrugged. ‘I suppose I know too much.’ He attempted a laugh, but it sounded like a chesty cough.

They sat still, looking at each other.

‘What are you planning to do?’ Truls asked.

‘Catch him,’ Hole said.

Catch
. It was a long time since Truls had heard anyone use that word.

‘So, will he have people around him?’

‘Three or four, tops,’ Truls said. ‘Maybe just those two.’

‘Mm. Got any other hardware?’

‘Hardware?’

‘Apart from that.’ Hole nodded to the coffee table where two of the pistols and the MP5 machine gun lay loaded and ready to fire. ‘I’ll cuff you and search the flat, so you might as well show me.’

Truls Berntsen weighed the options. Then he nodded towards the bedroom.

Hole shook his head as Truls opened the wardrobe door and switched on a neon tube that cast blue light over the contents: six pistols, two large knives, a black truncheon, knuckledusters, a gas mask and a so-called riot
gun, a short dumpy weapon with a cylinder in the middle holding large tear-gas cartridges. Truls had most of the police stock from the store where they reckoned on a small amount of wastage. ‘You’re out of your mind, Berntsen.’

‘Why’s that?’

Hole pointed. Truls had hammered nails into the wall and inked outlines around the weapons. Everything had its place.

‘Bullet-proof vest on a
clothes hanger
? Frightened it will crease?’

Truls Berntsen didn’t answer.

‘OK,’ Hole said, taking the vest. ‘Give me the riot gun, the gas mask and the ammo for the MP5 in the sitting room. And a rucksack.’

Hole followed while Truls filled the rucksack. They went back to the sitting room, where Harry picked up the MP5.

Afterwards they stood in the doorway.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Harry said. ‘But before you make any phone calls or try to stop me in any other way perhaps you should bear in mind that everything I know about you and this case is held by a solicitor. He has been instructed how to act if anything should happen to me. Understood?’

Lies, Truls thought, and nodded.

Hole chuckled. ‘Think I’m lying, don’t you. But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure, can you?’

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 bullet-proof vest. ‘It was you who deleted Blindernveien 74 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 analyse 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, 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 firm of solicitors, Bach & 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 block underneath, saw his coat flapping round him as he trotted towards the waiting taxi in the car park. 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 car park he would have an even safer shot. And that would be very practical; there weren’t many people in the car park so late and it wouldn’t be so far for Truls to drag the body to the car.

Instructed a solicitor? Had he bollocks. 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 bullet-proof vest was the type that went right up. Heavy as hell. He pressed the hammer right 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, that had been 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 cross hairs 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 had 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.

Blindernveien 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.

Blindernveien 74 lay behind a three-metre-high fence, about fifty metres from the road. Beside the house stood a cylindrical brick building measuring around four metres in height and diameter, like a water tower. Harry hadn’t seen any such water towers in Norway before, but noticed that the neighbouring house had one as well. Sure enough, a shingle 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 first.

Harry stood in the shadow of an oak tree on the opposite side of the road. Unhitched his rucksack 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 to get as close as he needed. He checked that the MP5 machine gun was loaded and the safety catch was off.

It was time.