Instructed a solicitor? Had he bollocks. But of course he would have to assess whether he should be eliminated as well, for safety’s sake. Hans Christian Simonsen.
Hole was getting closer. The neck. Or the head. The bullet-proof vest was the type that went right up. Heavy as hell. He pressed the hammer right back. A small but barely audible voice told him he shouldn’t do this. It was murder. Truls Berntsen had never killed anyone before. Not deliberately. Tord Schultz, that hadn’t been him, that had been Rudolf Asayev’s hellhounds. And Gusto? Yes, who the fuck had nailed Gusto? Not him at any rate. Mikael Bellman. Isabelle Skøyen.
The little voice fell quiet and the cross hairs seemed to be fixed to the back of Hole’s head. Kapow! He could already see the spray. Pressed the trigger. In two seconds Hole would be in the light. Shame he couldn’t film this. Burn it onto a DVD. Would have beaten Megan Fox with or without Fjordland rissoles.
40
TRULS BERNTSEN BREATHED IN, deep and slow. His pulse had risen, but it was under control.
Harry Hole was in the light. And filled the sights.
Real shame he couldn’t film …
Truls Berntsen hesitated.
Thinking on his feet wasn’t his forte. Not that he was stupid, but now and then things just went a bit slowly.
When they were growing up this is what had always divided him and Mikael; Mikael was the thinker and talker. The point was that Truls had made it in the end as well. Like now. Like this business of the missing address on the list. And like the small voice that had told him not to shoot Harry Hole, not now. It was basic mathematics, Mikael would have said. Hole was after Rudolf Asayev and Truls – in that order fortunately. So if Hole shot Asayev he would at least have eliminated one of Truls’s problems. And ditto if Asayev shot Hole. On the other hand …
Harry Hole was still in the light.
Truls’s finger tightened on the trigger with even pressure. He had been the second-best rifle marksman at Kripos, the best pistol marksman.
He emptied his lungs. His body was utterly relaxed, there wasn’t going to be an uncontrolled jerk. He breathed in again.
And lowered the rifle.
Blindernveien lay in front of Harry, illuminated. It ran like a switchback through hilly terrain surrounded by older houses, large gardens, university buildings and lawns.
He waited until he could see the lights of the taxi fade into the distance, then he began to walk.
It was four minutes to one, and there was not a soul in sight. He had told the taxi driver to stop outside number 68.
Blindernveien 74 lay behind a three-metre-high fence, about fifty metres from the road. Beside the house stood a cylindrical brick building measuring around four metres in height and diameter, like a water tower. Harry hadn’t seen any such water towers in Norway before, but noticed that the neighbouring house had one as well. Sure enough, a shingle path led up to the front steps of the imposing timber house. A single lit lamp hung above a door of dark and probably solid wood.
There was light in two of the windows on the ground floor and one on the first.
Harry stood in the shadow of an oak tree on the opposite side of the road. Unhitched his rucksack and opened it. Prepared the riot gun and put the gas mask on his head so that all he had to do was bring it down over his face.
He hoped the rain would help him to get as close as he needed. He checked that the MP5 machine gun was loaded and the safety catch was off.
It was time.
But the anaesthetic was dwindling fast.
He took the bottle of Jim Beam, unscrewed the cap. There was a barely visible heel left at the bottom. He looked at the house again. Looked at the bottle. If this worked he would need a swig afterwards. He screwed the cap back on and stuffed the bottle in his inside pocket with the extra magazine for the MP5. Checked to ensure he was breathing normally, his brain and muscles were getting oxygen. Looked at his watch. One minute past one. In twenty-three hours the plane would be leaving. The plane for him and Rakel.
He took two more deep breaths. The gate was probably alarmed, but he was too heavily laden to gain entrance over the fence at speed, and he had no desire to hang there as a live target as he had been in Madserud allé.
Two and a half, Harry thought. Three.
Then he walked to the gate, pressed the handle, swung it open. Holding the riot gun in one hand, the MP5 in the other, he began to run. Not on the shingle path, but on the grass. He ran towards the living-room window. As a police officer he had been on enough lightning arrests to know what an amazing advantage the element of surprise was. Not only the advantage of shooting first, but also shock effects in the form of sound and light could reduce an opponent to total paralysis. But he knew the shelf life of the element of surprise as well. Fifteen seconds. He reckoned that was all he had. If he hadn’t knocked them out in that time they would be able to collect themselves, regroup, fight back. They knew the house; he had never even seen a floor plan.