Nemesis(2)

Harry didn't move a muscle; he simply let his eyes absorb every detail of their movements and gestures. Twenty-five seconds. He continued to look at the clock above the door, but from the corner of his eye he could see the branch manager unlocking the ATM from the inside, taking out two oblong metal dispensers and handing them over to the two men. The whole thing took place at high speed and in silence. Fifty seconds.





'These are for you, pop!' The little man had taken two similar metal dispensers from his case and held them out for Helge. The branch manager swallowed, nodded, took them and slotted them into the ATM.





'Have a good weekend!' the little one said, straightening his back and grabbing the case. One and a half minutes.





'Not so fast,' Helge said.





The little one stiffened.





Harry sucked in his cheeks and tried to concentrate.





'The receipt…' Helge said.





For one protracted moment the two men stared at the small, grey-haired branch manager. Then the little one began to laugh. Loud, reedy laughter with a piercing, hysterical overtone, the way people on speed laugh. 'You don't think we were going to leave here without a signature, do you? Hand over two million without a receipt!'





'Well,' Helge said. 'One of you almost forgot last week.'





'There are so many new bods on deliveries at the moment,' the little one said, as he and Helge signed and exchanged yellow and pink forms.





Harry waited for the front door to close again before looking at the clock once more. Two minutes and ten seconds.





Through the glass in the door he could see the white Nordea security van drive away.





Conversations between the people in the bank resumed. Harry didn't need to count, but he still did. Seven. Three behind the counter and four in front, including the baby and the man in overalls who had just come in and was standing by the table in the middle of the room, writing his account number on a payment slip. Harry knew it was for Sunshine Tours.





'Good afternoon,' August Schulz said and began to shuffle in the direction of the front door.





The time was exactly 15.21.10, and that was the moment the whole thing started.





* * *





When the door opened, Harry saw Stine Grette's head bob up from her papers and drop down. Then she raised her head again, slowly this time. Harry's attention moved to the front door. The man who had come in had already pulled down the zip of his boiler suit and whipped out a black-and-olive-green AG3. A navy blue balaclava completely covered his face, apart from his eyes. Harry started to count from zero.





The balaclava began to move where the mouth would have been, like a Bigfoot doll: 'This is a hold-up. Nobody move!'





He hadn't raised his voice, but in the small, compact bank building it was as if a cannon had gone off. Harry studied Stine. Above the distant drone of traffic he could hear the smooth click of greased metal as the man cocked the gun. Her left shoulder sank, almost imperceptibly.





Brave girl, Harry thought. Or maybe just frightened out of her wits. Aune, the psychology lecturer at Oslo Police College, had told them that when people are frightened enough they stop thinking and act the way they have been programmed. Most bank employees press the silent robbery alarm almost in shock, Aune maintained, citing post-robbery debriefings where many could not remember whether they had activated the alarm or not. They had been on autopilot. In just the same way as a bank robber has programmed himself to shoot anyone trying to stop him, Aune said. The more frightened the bank robber is, the less chance anyone has of making him change his mind. Harry was rigid as he tried to fix on the bank robber's eyes. Blue.





The robber unhitched a black holdall and threw it over the counter. The man in black took six paces to the counter door, perched on the top edge and swung his legs over to stand directly behind Stine, who was sitting still with a vacant expression. Good, Harry thought. She knows her instructions; she is not provoking a reaction by staring at the robber.





The man pointed the barrel of the gun at Stine's neck, leaned forward and whispered in her ear.





She hadn't panicked yet, but Harry could see Stine's chest heaving; her fragile frame seemed to be struggling for air under the now very taut white blouse. Fifteen seconds.





She cleared her throat. Once. Twice. Finally her vocal cords came to life:





'Helge. Keys for the ATM.' The voice was low and hoarse, completely unrecognisable from the one which had articulated almost the same words three minutes earlier.





Harry couldn't see him, but he knew that Helge had heard what the robber had said and was already standing in the office doorway.





'Quick, or else…' Her voice was hardly audible and in the following pause all that could be heard in the bank were the soles of August Schulz's shoes on the parquet flooring, like a couple of brushes swishing against the drum skin in an immeasurably slow shuffle.