Phantom

  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.

  TRULS BERNTSEN KNOCKED on the unit head’s door.

  “Come in!”

  Bellman was standing with the phone to his ear. He looked calm, but Truls knew Mikael too well: the hand that kept going to his well-tended hair, the slightly accelerated manner of talking, the concentrated furrow in his brow. Bellman cradled the receiver.

  “Stressful morning?” Truls asked, passing Bellman a steaming cup of coffee.

  The unit head looked at the cup with surprise, but took it.

  “The Chief of Police,” Bellman said, nodding toward the phone. “The papers are on his back about this old lady on Madserud Allé. Her house has been shot half to bits, and he wants me to explain what happened.”

  “What did you answer?”

  “Ops Room sent out a patrol car after the guard at Vestre Cemetery informed us there were people digging up Gusto Hanssen. The culprits had escaped by the time the car arrived, but then some shooting broke out around Madserud Allé. Someone was shooting at someone else who broke into the house. The lady’s in shock, just says the intruder was a polite young man, six foot four, with a scar on his face.”

  “Do you think the shooting is connected with the grave desecration?”

  Bellman nodded. “There were clods of mud on her living-room floor that certainly come from the cemetery. So now the Chief of Police is wondering if this is drug-related, if this is another showdown between gangs. Whether I have the situation under control, that sort of thing.” Bellman went to the window and stroked the ridge of his narrow nose with his first finger.

  “Is that why you asked me to come?” Truls asked, taking a careful swig of coffee.

  “No,” Bellman said with his back to Truls. “I was wondering about the night we got that anonymous tip that the whole Los Lobos gang would be at McDonald’s. You weren’t on that arrest, were you?”

  “No,” Berntsen said with a cough. “I couldn’t make it. I was ill that night.”

  “Same illness as recently?” Bellman asked without turning.

  “Eh?”

  “Some officers were surprised that the door to the bikers’ clubhouse wasn’t locked when they arrived. And wondered how this Tutu, who, according to Odin, was keeping watch there, managed to get away. No one could have known we were coming. Could they?”

  “As far as I know,” Truls said, “there was only us.”

  Bellman continued to stare out the window and rocked on his heels, hands behind his hips. Rocked back. And rocked forward.

  Truls wiped his upper lip. Hoped the sweat wasn’t visible. “Anything else?”

  Kept rocking. Backward and forward. Like a boy trying to see over something, but he’s too short.

  “That was all, Truls. And thank you … for the coffee.”

  When Truls was back in his own office he went to the window. Saw what Bellman must have seen. The red poster was hanging from the tree.

  IT WAS TWELVE O’CLOCK, and outside Schrøder’s there were the usual thirsty souls waiting for Rita to open up.

  “Ooooh,” she said, as she caught sight of Harry.

  “Relax—I don’t want any beer, just breakfast,” Harry said. “And a favor.”

  “I mean the neck,” Rita said, holding the door for him. “It’s turned blue. And what’s that …?”

  “Duct tape,” Harry said.

  Rita nodded and went to take orders. At Schrøder’s the policy was that you kept yourself to yourself.

  Harry sat down at his regular corner table by the window and called Beate Lønn.

  Got her voicemail. Waited until the beep.

  “It’s Harry. I bumped into an elderly lady I may have made something of an impression on, so I don’t think I should approach police stations or the like for a while. I’m leaving two specimen bags here at Schrøder’s. Come in person and ask for Rita. There’s another favor I’d like to ask. Bellman’s started a collection of addresses in Blindern. I’d like you, as discreetly as possible, to see if you could get copies of the teams’ lists, before they’re sent on to Orgkrim.”

  Harry hung up. Then he called Rakel. Another voicemail again.

  “Hi, this is Harry. I need some clean clothes that fit; there used to be some hanging up at your place from … from then. I’m going for a minor upgrade and checking into the Plaza, so if you could send some there in a taxi when you come home that would be …” He found himself automatically hunting for a word that might have a chance of making her smile. Like “spiffing” or “mega” or “wi-icked.” But failed and settled on a conventional “great.”

  Rita arrived with coffee and a fried egg while Harry was calling Hans Christian. She sent him a reproving look. Schrøder’s had a more or less un
spoken rule that computers, board games and cell phones were out of bounds. This was a place for drinking—preferably beer—eating, chatting or shutting up and in a pinch reading newspapers. Presumably reading books was a gray area.

  Harry signaled that this would only take a few seconds, and Rita nodded graciously.

  Hans Christian sounded relieved and horrified. “Harry? My God. Everything all right?”

  “On a scale from one to ten …”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you hear about the shooting on Madserud Allé?”

  “Oh, Lord! Was that you?”

  “Do you have a weapon, Hans Christian?”

  Harry thought he could hear him gulp.

  “Do I need one, Harry?”

  “You don’t. I do.”

  “Harry …”

  “For self-defense only. Just in case.”

  Pause. “I’ve got an old hunting rifle my father left me. For hunting elk.”

  “Sounds good. Could you get it, wrap it up and deliver it to Schrøder’s in forty-five minutes?”

  “I can try. Wh-what are you going to do?”

  “I,” Harry said, meeting Rita’s admonishing eyes from the counter, “am going to have breakfast.”

  AS HE APPROACHED Gamlebyen Cemetery, Truls Berntsen noticed that a black limousine was parked outside the gate where he generally entered. The door opened on the passenger side and a man stepped out. He was wearing a black suit and had to be well over six feet tall. Powerful jaw, flat bangs and something indefinably Asian that Truls had always associated with the Sami, Finns and Russians. The jacket must have been made to measure, yet it was still too narrow on the shoulders.

  He moved aside and gestured that Truls was to take his place in the passenger seat.

  Truls stopped. If these were Dubai’s men it was an unexpected breach of the rules regarding direct contact. He looked around. No one in sight.

  He hesitated.

  If they had decided to rid themselves of the burner, this is how they would do it.

  He looked at the enormous man. It was impossible to read anything from his facial expression, and Truls could not decide whether it was a good or a bad sign that the man had taken the trouble to put on a pair of sunglasses.

  Of course he could turn and flee. But what then?

  “Q-Five,” Truls mumbled to himself under his breath.

  The door was immediately closed after him. It was strangely dark inside—probably due to the tinted windows. And the air-conditioning must have been unusually effective; it felt as if it were several degrees below zero. In the driver’s seat was a man with the face of a wolf. Black suit as well and flat bangs. Probably Russian.

  “Nice you could make it,” said a voice behind Truls. He didn’t need to turn. The accent. It was him. Dubai. The man no one knew. No one else knew. But what good was it to Truls to know a name, to recognize a face? Furthermore, you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

  “I want you to get hold of someone for us.”

  “Get hold of?”

  “Collect. And deliver to us. You don’t need to bother yourself with the rest.”

  “I’ve told you I don’t know where Oleg Fauke is.”

  “This isn’t Oleg Fauke, Berntsen. This is Harry Hole.”

  Truls Berntsen could scarcely believe his own ears. “Harry Hole?”

  “Don’t you know who he is?”

  “ ’Course I do. He was at Crime Squad. Mad as a hatter. A drunk. Solved a couple of cases. Is he in town?”

  “He’s staying at Hotel Leon. Room Three-oh-one. Collect him from there at twelve sharp tonight.”

  “And how should I collect him?”

  “Arrest him. Knock him down. Say you want to show him your boat. Do whatever you like—just get him to the marina at Kongen. We’ll take the rest from there. Fifty thousand.”

  The rest. He was talking about killing Harry Hole. He was talking about murder. Of a policeman.

  Truls opened his mouth to say no, but the voice in the backseat was quicker.

  “Euros.”

  Truls Berntsen’s jaw dropped with a shipwrecked “no” somewhere between his brain and his vocal cords. Instead he repeated the words he thought he had heard but scarcely believed.

  “Fifty thousand euros?”

  “Well?”

  Truls looked at his watch. He had a little more than eleven hours. He coughed.

  “How do you know he’ll be in his room at midnight?”

  “Because he knows we’re coming.”

  “Eh? Don’t you mean he doesn’t know you’re coming?” The voice behind him laughed. It sounded like the motor on a wooden boat. Chug-chug.

  It was four o’clock and Harry was standing under a shower on the eighteenth floor of the Radisson Blu Plaza. He hoped the duct tape would hold in the hot water—at least it was dulling the pain for a short while. He had been allocated Room 1937, and something fluttered through his mind as he was given the key. The King’s year of birth, Koestler, synchronicity and all that. Harry didn’t believe it. What he believed in was the human mind’s ability to find patterns. And where, in fact, there were none. That was why he had always been a doubter as a detective. He had doubted and searched, doubted and searched. Seen patterns, but doubted the guilt. Or vice versa.

  Harry heard the phone peep. It was audible but discreet and pleasant. The sound of an expensive hotel. He turned off the shower and went to the bed. Lifted the receiver.

  “There’s a lady here,” the receptionist said. “Rakel Fauske … my apologies … Fauke, she says. She has something she would like to give you.”

  “Give her an elevator key and send her up,” Harry said. He eyed his suit hanging in the closet. It looked as though it had been through two world wars. He opened the door and wound a couple of yards of towel around his waist. Sat down on the bed listening. Heard a pling from the elevator and then her footsteps. He could still recognize them. Quite firm but short steps, with a high frequency, as though she always wore a tight skirt. He closed his eyes for a second, and when he reopened them she was standing in front of him.

  “Hi, naked man.” She smiled, dumping the bags on the floor and herself on the bed beside him. “What’s this?” She stroked the duct tape with her fingers.

  “Just an improvised bandage,” he said. “You didn’t need to come in person.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I couldn’t find any of your clothes. They must have gone missing during the move to Amsterdam.”

  Thrown out, Harry thought. Fair enough.

  “But then I spoke to Hans Christian, and he had a closet full of clothes he doesn’t wear. Not quite your style, but you’re not too far apart size-wise.”

  She opened the bags, and he looked with horror as she took out a Lacoste shirt, four pairs of ironed underpants, a pair of Armani jeans with a crease, a V-neck sweater, a Timberland jacket, two shirts bearing polo players and even a pair of soft brown leather shoes.

  She began to hang them in the closet, and he got up and took over. She observed him from the side, smiled as she tucked a lock of hair behind an ear.

  “You wouldn’t have bought any new clothes until that suit literally fell off you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well,” Harry said, moving the hangers. The clothes were unfamiliar but there was a faint, familiar aroma. “I have to concede that I was considering a new shirt and perhaps a pair of underpants.”

  “Don’t you have any clean underpants?”

  Harry looked at her. “Define clean.”

  “Harry!” She slapped his shoulder with a laugh.

  He smiled. Her hand remained on his shoulder.

  “You’re hot,” she said. “Feverishly hot. Are you sure whatever is under your so-called bandage isn’t infected?”

  He shook his head. Knowing full well, from the dull, pulsating pain, that the wound was inflamed. But with his many years of experience from Crime Squad he knew something else as well. That the police had interviewed the barman and
the customers at the Nirvana bar and would know the person who had killed the knifeman had left the place with deep cuts to his chin and neck. They would also have alerted all the doctors in town and checked all the local emergency rooms. And this was no time to be picked up by the police.

  She stroked his shoulder, up as far as his neck and back again. Over his chest. And he thought she must be able to feel his heart beating and that she was like the Pioneer TV they had stopped producing because it was too good, and you could see it was good because the black part of the picture was so black.

  He had managed to open a window a fraction; they didn’t want suicides on their hands at the hotel. And even up on the eighteenth floor he could hear the rush hour, the occasional car horn, and from somewhere else, perhaps another room, an inappropriate, belated summer song.

  “Are you sure you want this?” he said without trying to cough away his hoarseness. They stood there, she with a hand on his shoulder, her eyes fixed on his like a concentrated tango partner.

  She nodded.

  Such a cosmic, intense black in the blackness that it sucked you in. He didn’t even notice her raise her foot and close the door. He heard it close, so gently—that was all—like a kiss.

  And while they made love he thought only of the darkness and the aroma. The darkness of her hair, eyebrows and eyes. And the aroma of the perfume he had never asked her about, but that was only hers, which was in her clothes, in her closet, which had rubbed off on his clothes then, when they hung together with hers. And which was now in the closet here. Because the other man’s clothes had also hung in her closet. And that was where she had found them, not at his house—perhaps it had not even been his idea, perhaps she had just taken them straight from the closet and brought them here. But Harry said nothing. Because he knew he had her on loan; that was all. He had her right now, and it was either that or nothing. So he held his tongue. Made love to her the way he always had, with intensity and at his leisure. Not allowing himself to be influenced by her greed or impatience, but did it with such slow passion that she alternated between cursing him and gasping. Not because that was how he thought she wanted it, but because that was how he wanted it. Because he only had her on loan. He only had these few hours.