Phantom (37 page)

He craned his head. Saw a figure pass through the light under the lamp at the top of the hill. A big man, but with a light running style. Tight-fitting black clothes. Not a police uniform. Could it be a Delta guy? In the middle of the night, at such short notice? Because someone was digging in a cemetery?

Harry swayed but managed to steady himself. He had no hope of outrunning anyone in this state. He had to find a place to hide.

Harry aimed for one of the houses on Madserud Allé. Left the path, sprinted down a grass slope, had to stretch out his arms so as not to fall, continued across the paved road, jumped over the low picket fence, carried on into the apple trees and around the back of the house. Where he threw himself into the long, wet grass. Took a deep breath, felt his stomach constrict, braced himself to vomit. Concentrated on breathing as he listened.

Nothing.

But it was just a matter of time before they would be here. And he needed a decent bandage for his neck. Harry got to his feet and walked to the terrace of the house. Peered through the glass in the door. Dark living room.

He kicked in the glass and slipped his hand inside. Good old naïve Norway. The key was in the door. He slid into the gloom.

Held his breath. The bedrooms were probably on the second floor.

He switched on a table lamp.

Plush chairs. Cabinet TV. Encyclopedia. A table covered with family photographs. Knitting. So elderly occupants. And old people slept well. Or was it badly?

Harry found the kitchen, switched on the light. Searched the drawers. Cutlery, cloths. Tried to remember where they had always kept that kind of thing when he was small. Opened the second-to-last drawer. And there it was. Standard tape, masking tape, duct tape. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and opened two doors before he found the bathroom. Pulled off his jacket and shirt, held his head over the bathtub and the hand-held shower over his neck. Watched the white
enamel gain a red filter in a second. Then he dried himself with the T-shirt and squeezed the edges of the wound together with his fingers while winding the silver tape around his neck several times. Tested to make sure it wasn’t too tight. After all, he needed some blood to go to the brain. Put on his shirt. Another attack of dizziness. He sat down on the edge of the bath.

He noticed a movement. Raised his head.

From the doorway an elderly woman’s pale face was staring at him with enlarged, frightened eyes. Over her nightgown she was wearing a red quilted bathrobe. It gave off a strange sheen and electric static whenever she moved. Harry guessed it was made of some synthetic material that no longer existed, was banned because it was carcinogenic, made of asbestos or something.

“I’m a police officer,” Harry said. Coughed. “Ex-police officer. And in a little trouble right now.”

She said nothing, just stood there.

“Of course I’ll pay for the broken glass.” Harry lifted his jacket off the bathroom floor and took out his wallet. Put some notes on the sink. “Hong Kong dollars. They’re … better than they sound.”

He managed a smile and then saw a tear running down wrinkled cheeks.

“Oh, dear,” Harry said, feeling panic, a sense that he was on the slide, losing control. “Don’t be frightened. I really won’t do anything to you. I’ll leave this minute, OK?”

He forced his arm into the jacket sleeve and walked toward her. She backed away, taking tiny, shuffling steps, but not releasing him from her gaze. Harry held up the palms of his hands and made swiftly for the terrace door.

“Thank you,” he said. “And sorry.”

Then he pushed open the door and went onto the terrace.

The power of the explosion suggested it was a heavy-caliber weapon. Then came the sound of the shot, the primer blast, and that was the confirmation. Harry fell to his knees as the next bullet splintered the back of the garden chair beside him.

A very heavy caliber.

Harry scrabbled back into the living room.

“Keep down!” he shouted as the living-room window shattered. Glass tinkled onto the parquet floor, the TV and the table covered with family photographs.

Bent double, Harry ran through the living room, the hall, to the front door. Opened it. Saw the muzzle of flame from the open door of a
black limousine under a street lamp. He felt a stinging pain on his face, and a high-pitched, piercing metallic sound rang out. Harry turned automatically and saw that the wall-mounted doorbell had been shot to pieces. Large white splinters of wood stuck out.

Harry retreated. Lay down on the floor.

A heavier caliber than any of the police weapons. Harry thought of the tall figure he had seen running across the ridge. That had not been a police officer.

“You’ve got something in your cheek …”

It was the woman; she had to shout over the shrill ringing of the bell that had got stuck. She was standing behind him, at the back of the hall. Harry groped with his fingers. It was a splinter of wood. He pulled it out. Had time to think it was lucky it was on the same side as the scar: It shouldn’t reduce his market value to any dramatic extent. Then there was another bang. This time it was the kitchen window. He was running out of Hong Kong dollars.

Over the ringing he could hear sirens in the distance. Harry raised his head. Through the hallway and living room he saw that lights had come on in the surrounding houses. The street was illuminated like a Christmas tree. He was going to be a floodlit moving target whichever route he took. The options were being shot or arrested. No, not even that. They heard the sirens as well, and knew time was running out for them. And he hadn’t returned fire, so they must have assumed he was unarmed. They would follow him. He had to get away. He pulled out his cell. Shit, why hadn’t he taken the trouble to file his number under
T
? It wasn’t as if his contacts list was exactly full.

“What’s the number for directory assistance again?” he shouted.

“The number … for … directory assistance?”

“Yes.”

“Well.” She stuck a pensive finger in her mouth, tucked the red asbestos robe underneath her as she sat down on a wooden chair. “There’s 1880. But I think they’re nicer on 1881. They’re not as quick or stressed. They take their time and will talk to you if you’ve—”

“Directory assistance 1880,” said a nasal voice in Harry’s ear.

“Asbjørn Treschow,” Harry said. “With a
c
and an h.”

“We’ve got an Asbjørn Berthold Treschow in Oppsal, Oslo, and an Asbjø—”

“That’s him! Could you give me his cell number?”

Three seconds of an eternity later, a familiar crabby voice answered.

“I don’t want any.”

“Tresko?”

Protracted pause without an answer. Harry visualized his fat friend’s astonished face.

“Harry? Long time—”

“Are you at work?”

“Ye-es.” The extended
e
indicated suspicion. No one called Tresko without a reason.

“I need a quick favor.”

“Yes, I suppose you do. Doh, what about the hundred kroner you borrowed? You said—”

“I need you to turn off the electricity in the Frogner Park/Madserud Allé area.”

“You what?”

“We’ve got a police emergency here. There’s a guy who’s gone nuts with a gun. We need cover of darkness. Are you still at the substation in Montebello?”

Another pause.

“So far, but are you still a cop?”

“Of course. Tresko, this is actually pretty urgent.”

“I don’t give a shit. I don’t have the authorization to do that. You’ll have to talk to Henmo, and he—”

“He’s asleep and we don’t have the time!” Harry shouted. At that moment another shot rang out and a cupboard in the kitchen was hit. A set of dishes slid out with a clatter and smashed on the floor.

“What on earth was that?” Tresko asked.

“What do you think? You can choose between the responsibility for a forty-second blackout or that for a pile of human bodies.”

Silence at the other end for a few moments. Then it came, slowly:

“Imagine that, eh, Harry? Now I’m sitting here and I’m in charge. You would never have believed that, would you, eh?”

Harry took a deep breath. Saw a shadow glide across the terrace. “No, Tresko. I wouldn’t have believed it. Can you—”

“You and Øystein never thought I’d amount to much, did you?”

“No, we made a big boo-boo there.”

“What about saying pleas—”

“Turn the fucking electricity off!” Harry yelled. And heard the dial tone. He got to his feet, took the elderly woman under his arm and half-dragged her into the bathroom. “Stay here,” he whispered, closing the door behind him and running to the open front door. He charged into the light, steeling himself for the deluge of bullets.

And then everything went black.

So black that he landed on the flagstones and rolled forward, thinking
for a confused instant that he was dead. Before he realized that Asbjørn “Tresko” Treschow had flicked the switch or pressed the key or whatever it was they did at the substation. And that he had forty seconds.

Harry ran blindly into the pitch black. Stumbled over the picket fence, felt pavement under his feet and ran on. Heard shouting and sirens coming closer. But also the growl of a powerful car engine starting up. Harry kept to the right, could see enough to stay on the road. He was south of Frogner Park. There was a chance he would make it. He passed darkened detached houses, trees, forest. The district was still without electricity. The car engine was coming closer. He lurched left into the parking lot by the tennis courts. A puddle in the gravel almost brought him to grief, but he stumbled on. The only objects reflecting enough light to be seen were the white chalk stripes on the tennis courts behind the wire fence. Harry saw the outline of the OTC clubhouse. He sprinted to the wall in front of the dressing-room door and dived headlong as the light from two car headlights swept across. He landed and rolled sideways on the concrete. It was a soft landing, but nevertheless it made him dizzy.

He lay as still as a mouse, waiting.

Heard nothing.

Stared up into the dark night.

Then, without warning, he was dazzled by light.

The outside lamp beneath the roof. The electricity was back.

For two minutes Harry lay there, listening to the sirens. Cars came and went on the road by the clubhouse. The search parties. The area was probably already surrounded. Soon they would be bringing in the dogs.

He couldn’t move away, so he would have to break into the building.

He stood up, peered over the edge of the wall.

Saw the box with the red light and the keypad beside the door.

The year the King was born. God knows when that was.

He visualized a photo from a gossip magazine and tried 1941. It beeped and he wrenched at the door handle. Locked. Hang on—hadn’t the King just been born when the family went to London in 1940? Or was it 1939? A little older, maybe. Harry feared it would be three strikes and you’re out. Maybe 1938. Grabbed the handle. Shit—1937? Green light. The door opened.

Harry slipped in and heard the door lock behind him.

Silence. Safe.

He switched on the light.

Dressing room. Narrow wooden benches. Iron lockers.

It was only now that he realized how exhausted he was. He could stay here until dawn, until the hunt had been called off. He inspected the space. A sink with a mirror. Four showers. One toilet. He opened a heavy wooden door at the end of the room.

A sauna.

He went in and let the door close behind him. The smell of wood. He lay down on one of the broad benches by the cold stove. Closed his eyes.

There were three of them. They were running down a corridor, holding one another’s hands, and Harry shouted that they would have to hold tight when the avalanche hit so they wouldn’t be separated. He heard the snow coming behind them, first as a rumble, next as a roar. Then it was there, the white darkness, the black chaos. He held on as hard as he could, yet still he felt their hands slipping from his.

Harry woke with a start. Looked at his watch and saw he had been asleep for three hours. He let out his breath in a long wheeze as though he had been holding it. His body felt battered and bruised. His neck ached. He had a thundering headache. And he was sweating. Was so drenched in sweat that his suit had dark patches. He didn’t need to turn to see the reason. The stove: Someone had switched on the sauna.

He got to his feet and staggered into the dressing room. There were clothes lying on the benches, and he heard the sound of balls on racket strings outside. They wanted a sauna after the tennis.

Harry went to the sink. Looked at himself in the mirror. Red eyes, bloated red face. The ridiculous necklace of silver duct tape; the edge had dug into the soft skin. He threw water over his face and walked into the morning sun.

Three men, all retired-person tan with thin, retired-person legs, stopped playing and stared at him. One of them straightened his glasses.

“We’re one short for doubles, young man. Feel like …?”

Harry stared ahead and concentrated on speaking calmly.

“Sorry, boys. Tennis elbow.”

Harry felt their eyes on his back as he walked down toward Skøyen. There should be a bus around here somewhere.