The Redeemer

  'I have to go to a concert.'

  'He killed one of my best friends, Martine.'

  Her face was closed and hard as she replied. 'Perhaps he shouldn't have got in the way.'

  Harry took his hands away as if burned. 'You can't just let Jon Karlsen be killed. What about forgiveness? Isn't that an intrinsic part of the business you're all in?'

  'You're the one who thinks that people can change,' Martine said. 'Not me. And I don't know where Stankic is.'

  Harry let her go; she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Harry stood waiting.

  'And you're wrong about our line of business,' Martine called from behind the door. 'It's not about forgiveness. We're in the same business as everyone else. Redemption, right?'

  Despite the cold, Rikard was standing outside the car leaning against the bonnet with his arms crossed. He didn't return Harry's nod as the police officer passed.

  32

  Monday, 22 December. The Exodus.

  IT WAS HALF PAST SIX IN THE EVENING, BUT THERE WAS feverish activity in Crime Squad.

  Harry found Ola Li by the fax machine. He glanced at the sheet coming through. Sent by Interpol.

  'What's going on, Ola?'

  'Gunnar Hagen rang round and scrambled the department. Absolutely everyone is here. We're going to get the guy who got Halvorsen.'

  There was a determination in Li's tone that Harry knew by instinct reflected the atmosphere on the sixth floor that evening.

  Harry went into his office where Skarre was standing behind the desk speaking on the telephone, fast and in a loud voice.

  'We can make more trouble for you and your boys than you imagine, Affi. If you don't help me by getting your boys on the street, you will shoot right up to first place on our most wanted list. Have I made myself clear? So: Croat, medium height—'

  'Blond, crew cut,' Harry said.

  Skarre looked up and sent Harry a nod. 'Blond crew cut. Call me back when you've got something.'

  He put down the receiver. 'Total Band Aid atmosphere out there. Everything on two legs is ready to roll. I've never seen anything like it.'

  'Mm,' Harry said. 'Still no sign of Jon Karlsen?'

  'Zilch. All we know is that his girlfriend, Thea, says they agreed to meet this evening at the concert hall. They're supposed to be sitting in the VIP box.'

  Harry consulted his watch. 'Then Stankic has an hour and a half to see if he can finish off the job.'

  'How do you make that out?'

  'I phoned the concert hall. All the tickets were sold out four weeks ago, and they won't let anyone in without a ticket, not even to the foyer. In other words, once Jon is inside he's safe. Ring and check whether Torkildsen is on tap at Telenor. If he is, ask him to trace Karlsen's mobile phone. Oh, and make sure we have enough police outside the concert hall, armed and with a description of Stankic. Then call the Prime Minister's Office and make them aware of the extra security measures.'

  'Me?' Skarre said. 'The . . . Prime Minister's Office?'

  'Do it,' Harry said. 'You're a big boy now.'

  From the office telephone Harry called one of the six numbers he knew off by heart.

  The other five were: Sis's, his parents' house in Oppsal, Halvorsen's mobile, Bjarne Møller's old private number and Ellen Gjelten's disconnected number.

  'Rakel here.'

  'It's me.' He heard an intake of breath.

  'I thought so.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I was thinking about you.' She chuckled. 'That's just the way it is. Don't you think?'

  Harry closed his eyes. 'I wondered about meeting Oleg tomorrow,' he said. 'As we discussed.'

  'Great!' she said. 'He'll be so pleased. Will you come here and pick him up?' On hearing his hesitation, she added, 'We're alone.'

  Harry both wanted and didn't want to ask what she meant by that.

  'I'll try to be there around six,' he said.

  According to Klaus Torkildsen, Jon Karlsen's mobile phone was located to the east of Oslo, in Haugerud or Høybråten.

  'That's not much help,' Harry said.

  After pacing the floors for an hour, from office to office, to hear how the others were getting on, Harry put on his jacket and said he was off to the concert hall.

  He parked in a restricted area down one of the small streets around Victoria terrasse, walked past the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and down the broad steps to Ruseløkkveien and took a right to the concert hall.

  In the large, open square in front of the glass facade people dressed in formal attire were hurrying through the biting sub-zero temperatures. By the entrance stood two broad-shouldered men wearing black coats and earpieces. And there were six further uniformed policemen standing at intervals in front of the building and receiving curious looks from shivering concert-goers unaccustomed to seeing Oslo police with machine guns.

  Harry recognised Sivert Falkeid in one of the uniforms and went over to him.

  'I didn't know Delta had been drafted in.'

  'We haven't been,' Falkeid said. 'I rang the police station and asked if we could be of help. He was your partner, wasn't he?'

  Harry nodded, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered one to Falkeid, who shook his head.

  'Jon Karlsen hasn't turned up yet?'

  'No,' Falkeid said. 'And when the Prime Minister's here we won't be letting anyone else in the VIP box.' At that moment two black cars swung into the square. 'Speak of the devil.'

  Harry watched the Prime Minister emerging and being led briskly inside. As the front door opened Harry caught a glimpse of the reception committee. He saw David Eckhoff with a broad smile and Thea Nilsen with not such a big smile, both wearing Salvation Army uniforms.

  Harry lit his cigarette.

  'Fuck, it's cold,' Falkeid said. 'I've lost feeling in both legs and half my head.'

  I envy you, thought Harry.

  With the cigarette half smoked the inspector said aloud: 'He's not coming.'

  'Looks like that. We'll have to hope he hasn't already found Karlsen.'

  'It's Karlsen I'm talking about. He knows the game's up.'

  Falkeid glanced at the tall detective whom, at one time, before the rumours of drinking and unruliness came to his ears, he had considered Delta material. 'What sort of game?' he asked.

  'Long story. I'm going in. If Jon Karlsen turns up, arrest him.'

  'Karlsen?' Falkeid looked perplexed. 'What about Stankic?'

  Harry let go of his cigarette, which fell in the snow at his feet with a hiss.

  'Yes,' he drawled, as though to himself. 'What about Stankic?'

  He sat in the dark fingering the coat he had spread across his lap. Hushed harp music issued forth from the speakers. Small cones of light from the spotlights in the ceiling swept across the audience, the purpose of which he assumed was to create a quiver of anticipation for what was to take place onstage in a short while.

  The rows in front of him began to stir as a group of a dozen or so guests appeared. A few people attempted to get to their feet but after some whispering and mumbling they sat down again. In this country it seemed you didn't show respect for politically elected leaders in that particular way. The company was ushered to seats three rows in front of him, which had been unoccupied for the half-hour he had been sitting and waiting.

  He saw a man in a suit with a wire leading to one ear, but no uniformed police. The police presence outside had not given rise to alarm, either. In fact he had been expecting a greater show of force. After all, Martine had told him the Prime Minister would be attending the concert. On the other hand, what difference did the number of police make? He was invisible. Even more invisible than usual. Pleased with himself, he cast his eyes around the auditorium. How many hundreds of men were here in dinner suits? He could already imagine the chaos. And the simple but effective getaway. He had popped in the day before and found the escape route. The last thing he did before entering this evening was to check no one had locked the win
dows in the Gents. The plain, frosted windows could be pushed outwards and were large enough and low enough for a man to escape onto the ledge outside without any problems. From there it was a jump of three metres onto one of the car roofs in the parking lot. Then on with the coat, into busy Haakon VII's gate and two minutes and forty seconds of rapid walking later he would be on the platform of the National Theatre station where the airport express stopped every twenty minutes. The departure he was aiming for was at 20.19. Before leaving the toilet he had put two urinal blocks in his jacket pocket.

  He had had to show his ticket a second time to enter the auditorium. He had shaken his head with a smile when the lady had pointed to his coat and asked him something in Norwegian. She had examined his ticket and shown him to a seat in the VIP box which, in fact, turned out to be four normal rows in the centre of the auditorium cordoned off with red tape for the occasion. Martine had explained where Jon Karlsen and his girlfriend, Thea, would be sitting.

  And there they were at last. He glanced at his watch. Six minutes past eight. The concert hall was in semi-darkness and the light on the stage was too strong for him to be able to identify anyone in the delegation, but all of a sudden one of the faces was illuminated by a small spotlight. He caught a brief glimpse of a pained, wan face, but he had no doubt: this was the woman he had seen in the back of the car with Jon Karlsen in Gøteborggata.

  Ahead of him there seemed to be some confusion regarding seat numbers, but then the situation was resolved and the wall of bodies sank into place. He squeezed the stock of the gun under his coat. There were six bullets in the drum. It was an unfamiliar weapon with a heavier trigger than a pistol, but he had been practising all day and had found the threshold for the trigger to release the bullet.

  Then, as if in response to an invisible signal, silence descended on the auditorium.

  A man in a uniform appeared, welcomed everyone, he supposed, and said something which made everyone stand up. He followed suit and watched the people around him lower their heads in silence. Someone must have died. Then the man at the front said something and everyone sat down.

  And then, at long last, the curtain went up.

  Harry was standing in the wings, in the dark, watching the curtain rise. The footlights prevented him from seeing the audience, but he felt its presence, like a large animal breathing.

  The conductor raised his baton and the Oslo 3rd Corps Choir burst into the song Harry had heard in the Citadel.

  'Let the flag of redemption wave, Onwards now to holy war!'

  'Excuse me,' he heard a voice say, turned and saw a young woman wearing glasses and a headset. 'What are you doing here?' she asked.

  'Police,' Harry said.

  'I'm the stage manager and I must ask you not to stand in the way.'

  'I'm looking for Martine Eckhoff,' Harry said. 'I was told she was here.'

  'She's there,' the stage manager said, pointing to the choir. Harry located her. She was at the back, on the top step, singing with a serious expression, almost one of suffering. As though it were lost love and not fighting and victory she was singing about.

  At her side was Rikard. Who, unlike her, had a beatific smile on his lips. His face looked quite different when he was singing. The harsh, repressed features were gone; there was a radiance in his young eyes as though he meant what he was singing from the bottom of his heart: that they would conquer the world for their God, for the cause of compassion and charity.

  Harry noticed, to his surprise, that the melody and the lyrics were having an impact.

  After they had finished, they received the applause and came towards the side of the stage. Rikard looked at Harry in astonishment, but said nothing. Martine, on catching sight of him, lowered her eyes and tried to skirt round him. But Harry was quick off the mark and stood in front of her.

  'I'll give you a last chance, Martine. Please don't throw it away.'

  She heaved a great sigh. 'I don't know where he is. I told you.'

  Harry grabbed her shoulders and in a hoarse whisper said: 'You'll be done for aiding and abetting. Do you want to give him the pleasure?'

  'Pleasure?' She put on a weary smile. 'He won't have any pleasure where he's going.'

  'And the song you sang? "Who always shows compassion and is the sinner's true friend." Does that mean nothing? Are they just words?'

  She did not answer.

  'I know this is more difficult,' Harry said, 'than the cheap forgiveness you in your self-glorification hand out at the Lighthouse. A helpless junkie who steals from anonymous persons to satisfy their needs, what is that? What is that compared to forgiving someone who does need your forgiveness? A real sinner on the path to hell?'

  'Stop it,' she sobbed, weakly trying to push him away.

  'You can still save Jon, Martine. Then he'll have another chance. Then you'll have another chance.'

  'Is he bothering you, Martine?' It was Rikard.

  Without turning, Harry clenched his right fist and prepared himself while looking into Martine's tear-wet eyes.

  'No, Rikard,' she said. 'It's fine.'

  Harry listened to Rikard's footsteps dying away as he watched her. Someone began to strum a guitar on the stage. Then a piano came in. Harry recognised the song. The night in Egertorget. And the radio in Østgård. 'Morning Song.' It seemed like an eternity ago.

  'They'll both die if you don't help me to stop this,' Harry said.

  'Why do you say that?'

  'Because Jon has a borderline personality disorder and is controlled by his anger. And Stankic is not afraid of anything.'

  'Are you trying to tell me you're so keen to save them because it's your job?'

  'Yes,' Harry said. 'And because I promised Stankic's mother.'

  'Mother? Have you spoken to his mother?'

  'I swore I would try to save her son. If I don't stop Stankic now he'll be shot. Same as at the container terminal. Believe me.'

  Harry looked at Martine, then turned his back on her and walked away. He had reached the steps when he heard her voice behind him:

  'He's here.'

  Harry froze mid-stride. 'What?'

  'I gave Stankic your ticket.'

  At that moment the remaining stage lights came up.

  The silhouettes of those in front of him stood out against the shimmering white cascade of light. He sank deeper into his chair, raised his hand slowly, placed the short barrel on the seat in front so that he had a clear line of fire at the dinner-suited back of the person to the left of Thea. He would shoot twice. Then stand up and fire a third if necessary. Although he already knew it wouldn't be.

  The trigger felt lighter than before, but he knew that was the effect of adrenalin. Nevertheless he was no longer afraid. Tighter and tighter he squeezed, and now he had reached the point where there was no more resistance, the .5 of a millimetre in the trigger's noman's-land, where you relaxed and squeezed because there was no way back, you were subject to the inexorable laws and vagaries of the gun's mechanism.

  The head on top of the back soon to receive a bullet turned to Thea and said something.