The pressure around his neck eased. Harry's position on earth moved slowly away from the sun and it was pitch dark when he heard someone say: 'Are you alive? Can you hear me?'
Then a steel click close to his ear. Gun parts. Cocking the trigger.
'Fu…' He heard a deep groan and the splat of vomit as it hit the tarmac. More steel clicks. Safety catch being removed…In a few seconds it would all be over. That was how it felt. Not despair–not fear–not even regret. Only relief. There wasn't much to leave behind. Albu was taking his time. Time for Harry to realise there was something after all. Something he was leaving behind. He filled his lungs with air. The network of arteries absorbed the oxygen and pumped it up to the brain.
'Right, now…' the voice began, but it stopped abruptly as Harry's fist struck the larynx.
Harry got to his knees. He didn't have much strength left. He tried to retain consciousness while waiting for the final onslaught. A second passed. Two seconds. Three. The smell of vomit burned in his nose. The streetlights above him came into focus. The street was empty. Deserted. Apart from a man lying beside him in a blue quilted jacket and what looked like a pyjama top sticking out from the neck, gurgling. The light shone on metal. It wasn't a gun; it was a lighter. Only now did Harry see that the man was not Arne Albu. It was Trond Grette.
* * *
With a scalding hot cup of tea in his hand, Harry sat at the kitchen table opposite Trond, whose breath was still laboured and wheezy, and whose panic-stricken goitre eyes bulged out of his skull. As for himself, he was dizzy and nauseous, and the pains in his neck throbbed like burns.
'Drink,' Harry said. 'There's loads of lemon in it. It numbs the muscles and relaxes them so you can breathe more easily.'
Trond obeyed. To Harry's great surprise, the drink seemed to work. After a few sips and a couple of coughing fits a hint of colour returned to Trond's pale cheeks.
'Ulkterbl,' he wheezed.
'Sorry?' Harry sank back in the other kitchen chair.
'You look terrible.'
Harry smiled and felt the towel he had tied around his neck. It was already soaked in blood. 'Was that why you threw up?'
'Can't stand the sight of blood,' Trond said. 'I go all…' He rolled his eyes.
'Well, it could have been worse. You saved my bacon.'
Trond shook his head. 'I was a fair distance away when I saw you. I just shouted. I'm not sure that was what made him call off the dog. Sorry I didn't get the registration number, but I did see it was a Jeep Cherokee they made off in.'
Harry dismissed this with a wave of his hand. 'I know who he is.'
'Oh?'
'He's under investigation. But perhaps you'd better tell me what you were doing around here, Grette.'
Trond fidgeted with his teacup. 'You should definitely go to casualty with that wound.'
'I'll consider it. Have you had a little think since we last talked?'
Trond nodded slowly.
'And what conclusion did you come to?'
'I can't help him any longer.' It was difficult for Harry to determine whether it was only the sore larynx which made Trond whisper the last sentence.
'So where's your brother?'
'I want you to tell him it was me who told you. He'll understand.'
'Alright.'
'Porto Seguro.'
'Uhuh.'
'It's a town in Brazil.'
Harry wrinkled his nose. 'Fine. How will we find him there?'
'He's just told me he has a house there. He refused to give me an address, only a telephone number.'
'Why? He's not a wanted man.'
'I'm not sure that is correct.' Trond took another sip. 'At any rate, he said it would be better if I didn't have his address.'
'Mm. Is it a large town?'
'About a million, according to Lev.'
'Right. You haven't got anything else? Other people who knew him and might have his address?'
Trond hesitated before shaking his head.
'Out with it,' Harry said.
'Lev and I went for a coffee last time we met in Oslo. He said it tasted even worse than usual. Said he'd taken to drinking cafezinho at a local ahwa.'
'Ahwa? Isn't that an Arab coffee house?'
'Correct. Cafezinho is a kind of strong Brazilian variant of espresso. Lev says he goes there every day. Drinks coffee, smokes a hookah and plays dominoes with the Syrian owner who has become a kind of pal. I can remember his name–Muhammed Ali. Like the boxer.'
'And fifty million other Arabs. Did your brother say which coffee bar it was?'
'Probably, but I don't remember. There can't be so many ahwas in a Brazilian town, can there?'
'Maybe not.' Harry thought. Definitely something concrete to work on. He was about to put a hand to his forehead, but as soon as he tried to raise his hand his neck hurt.