Phantom (48 page)

Truls knew why he was so angry. It was the cell phone.

When they had finally got Telenor to track down Hole’s phone they had seen it was located downtown, around Oslo Central Station, to be precise. There is probably nowhere in Oslo so jam-packed with people day and night. Then a dozen police officers had trawled the crowds searching for Hole. They had kept at it for hours.
Nada
. In the end a fresh-faced cop had come up with the banal idea of synchronizing their watches, spreading around the area and then one of them would call Hole’s number every fifteen minutes. And if anyone heard a phone ring at that moment, or saw anyone taking out a phone, they had to pounce, it had to be here somewhere. No sooner said than done. And they had found the phone. In the pocket of a junkie sitting half
asleep on the steps at Jernbanetorget. He said he had been “given” the phone by a guy at the Watchtower.

The elevator stopped. “Good night,” Truls mumbled and got out.

He heard the door close behind him and the elevator start again.

Rissoles and a DVD now. The first
The Fast and the Furious
, maybe. Shit film, of course, but it had one or two scenes. Or
Transformers
, Megan Fox and a good, long jerk-off.

He heard her breathing. She had got out of the elevator with him. Some pussy. Truls Berntsen was going to get laid tonight. He smiled and turned his head. It met something. Something hard. And cold. Truls Berntsen strained his eyeballs. A gun barrel.

“Thank you very much,” said a familiar voice. “I’d love to come in.”

T
RULS
B
ERNTSEN SAT
in the armchair staring down the muzzle of his own pistol.

He had found him. And vice versa.

“We can’t keep meeting like this,” Harry Hole said. He had positioned the cigarette in the corner of his mouth so that he would not get smoke in his eyes.

Truls didn’t reply.

“Do you know why I’d rather use your gun?” he said, patting the hunting rifle he had placed in his lap.

Truls continued to keep his mouth shut.

“Because I’d prefer the bullets they find in you to be traced back to
your
weapon.”

Truls shrugged.

Harry Hole leaned forward. And Truls could smell it now: the alcoholic breath. Hell, the guy was drunk. He had heard stories about what the man did in a sober state, and now he’d been boozing.

“You’re a burner, Truls Berntsen. And here’s the proof.”

He held up the ID card from the wallet he had taken from him along with the gun. “Thomas Lunder? Isn’t that the man who collected the dope from Gardermoen?”

“What is it you want?” Truls said, closing his eyes and settling back in the chair. Rissoles and a DVD.

“I want to know what the link is between you, Dubai, Isabelle Skøyen and Mikael Bellman.”

Truls recoiled in the chair. Mikael? What the fuck did Mikael have to do with this? And Isabelle Skøyen? Wasn’t she the politician?

“I have no idea …”

He watched Harry cock the pistol.

“Careful, Hole! The trigger’s more sensitive than you think. It’s—”

The hammer of the gun rose farther.

“Wait! Wait, for Christ’s sake!” Truls Berntsen’s tongue circled his mouth in search of lubricating saliva. “I know nothing about Bellman or Skøyen, but Dubai—”

“Yes?”

“I can tell you about him …”

“What can you tell me?”

Truls Berntsen took a deep breath, held it. Then let it out with a groan. “Everything.”

Three eyes stared back at Truls Berntsen. Two with light-blue, booze-rinsed irises. And a round, black one, which was the muzzle of his own Steyr. The man holding the gun was lying rather than sitting in the armchair, and his long legs stretched out on the carpet. He said in a hoarse voice: “Tell me, Berntsen. Tell me about Dubai.”

Truls coughed twice. Fucking dry throat.

“There was a ring at the door one night. I lifted the intercom handset, and a voice said he wanted to have a few words with me. I didn’t want to let him in at first, but then he mentioned a name and … well …”

Truls Berntsen held his jaw between thumb and middle finger.

The other man waited.

“There was an unfortunate business I thought no one else knew about.”

“Which was?”

“A detainee. He needed to be taught some manners. I didn’t think anyone knew I was the one who had … taught him.”

“Any damage?”

“Parents wanted to sue, but the boy couldn’t point me out in the lineup. I must have damaged his optic nerve. Blessing in disguise, eh?” Truls laughed his nervous grunted laughter, then shut up quickly. “And now this man was standing outside my door and he knew. Said I had a certain talent for sailing under the radar, and he was willing to pay a lot for a man like me. He spoke Norwegian, but with a bit of an accent. Sounded pretty decent. I let him in.”

“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 organize 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.

“All right, all right,” 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 around 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 turned in 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.”

“Really? 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 database afterward.”

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 afterward. 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 who aren’t caught from those that are. A small organization. Very few links. Very few trusted aides. The dope kings who figure they’re safest with an army around them are always busted. There’s always some disloyal servant, someone who wants to take over or snitch 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 rumor 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 suspicion.”

“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 had been 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 fucking 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. Depressed. Plus he had called in sick.

“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 toward the bedroom.

• • •

H
OLE SHOOK HIS
head as Truls opened the closet door and switched on a fluorescent light that cast a blue hue over the contents: six pistols, two large knives, a black truncheon, brass knuckles, 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 taken it from the police store, where they factored in 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.

“Bulletproof vest on a
clothes hanger
? Afraid 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 MP-Five in the sitting room. And a knapsack.”

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

Afterward 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 lawyer. 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 percent sure, can you?”