Nemesis(112)
S2MN
34
Pluvianus Aegyptius
A POLICE CAR WAS PARKED BY THE DOOR TO HARRY'S apartment building and another blocked the Dovregata entrance to Sofies gate.
Tom Waaler had given instructions not to use sirens or blue lights.
Over the walkie-talkie, he checked everyone was in position and received quick-fire, crackly confirmation by return. The word from Ivarsson was that the blue sheet–the arrest document and search warrant–from the police solicitor had arrived exactly forty minutes ago. Waaler had said quite clearly he didn't want the Delta group, he would lead the party himself and already had the people he needed on standby. Ivarsson had not made any fuss.
Tom Waaler rubbed his hands. Partly because of the icy-cold wind sweeping down the street from Bislett stadium, but mostly out of glee. Making arrests was the best part of the job. He had already realised that when he was small, and he and Joakim had lain in wait in their parents' orchard on autumn evenings for the riff-raff from the housing co-op on an apple-scrumping raid. And they came. Usually eight to ten of them in the gang. It made no difference how many there were, however, because it was total mayhem when he and Joakim shone their torches and yelled through their home-made megaphones. They followed the same principles as wolves hunting reindeer: they picked out the smallest and weakest. But it was the arrest–the cornering of the prey–which fascinated Tom, the punishment which appealed to Joakim, whose creativity in this area had advanced so far that Tom occasionally had to stop him. Not because Tom felt any sympathy for the thieves, but because, unlike Joakim, he could keep a clear head and assess the consequences. Tom often thought it was not chance that brought him and Joakim together as it had. He was now a deputy judge on the Oslo Law Court circuit with a glittering career beckoning.
When Tom applied to join the police force, what had attracted him was the thought of arrests. Tom's father had wanted him to study medicine, or theology as he had done. Tom achieved the best grades in his school, so why a policeman? It was important for your self-esteem to have a decent education, his father had said, and told him about his elder brother who worked in an ironmonger's selling screws and hating everyone because he felt he wasn't as good as they were.
Tom had listened to the admonitions with the wry smile he knew his father loathed. What his father worried about wasn't Tom's self-esteem, it was what the neighbours and relatives thought about his only son becoming a 'mere' policeman. His father had never understood that you could hate people even though you were better than they were. Because you were better.
He checked his watch. Thirteen minutes past six. He pressed one of the bells on the ground floor.
'Hello,' said a woman's voice.
'It's the police,' Waaler said. 'Could you open up for us?'
'How do I know you're the police?'
A Paki, Waaler thought, and asked her to take a peep out of the window at the police cars. The lock buzzed.
'And stay indoors,' he said to the intercom.
Waaler placed one man at the back of the house by the fire escape. After looking at the drawings of the apartment block on the Intranet, he had memorised where Harry's flat was and discovered there was no back staircase to worry about.
Each armed with an MP5 across their shoulders, Waaler and two men crept up the worn, wooden stairs. On the second floor, Waaler stopped and pointed to the door that didn't have–and had hardly ever needed–a nameplate. He eyed the two others. Their chests heaved under their uniforms. And not because of the stairs.
They put on balaclavas. The keywords were speed, efficiency and resolve. The latter actually meant the resolve to be brutal, and if necessary, to kill. That was seldom necessary. On the whole, even hardened criminals were totally paralysed when masked, armed men entered without warning. In short, they used the same tactics as bank robbers.
Waaler steadied himself and nodded to one of the others, who gently touched the door with two knuckles. That was in order to be able to write in the report that they had knocked first. Waaler smashed the glass panel with the barrel of his machine gun, reached a hand through and opened the door in one movement. He yelled as they stormed the apartment. A vowel or the first letter of a word, he wasn't sure. He just knew it was the same thing he used to yell when he and Joakim switched on their torches. That was the best bit.
* * *
'Potato dumpling,' Maja said, taking his plate and giving Harry a reproachful look. 'You haven't touched it.'
'Sorry,' Harry said. 'No appetite. Pay my respects to the chef and tell him it wasn't his fault. This time.'