The Redbreast(147)

had deserved his punishment whichever way you

looked at it. And it was there they had shot Vidkun

Quisling and the others who had been tried for war

crimes and sentenced to death. Quisling had been

imprisoned in the Powder Tower. The old man had

often wondered if the Powder Tower had inspired

Jens Bjørneboe’s book, in which he described, in

great detail, various methods of execution over the

centuries. Was his description of execution by

firing squad actually a portrait of the execution of

Vidkun Quisling that October day in 1945 when

they led the traitor out to the square to drill his

body with bullets? Had they, as the author wrote,

placed a hood over his head and fastened a white

square of cloth over his heart as a marker? Had

they given the command to shoot four times before

the shots rang out? And had the trained marksmen

shot so badly that the doctor with the stethoscope

had been forced to say that the condemned man

would have to be executed again – until they had

done it four or five times and death occurred

through loss of blood from the many surface

wounds?

The old man had cut out the description from the

book.

The grey coat had finished his business and was

on his way down the slope to his car. The woman

still stood by the wall; she had pulled her skirt

back into place and lit a cigarette which glowed in

the dark when she inhaled. The old man waited.

Then she crushed the cigarette under her heel and

began to walk down the muddy path round the

fortress and back to her ‘office’ in the streets

around Norges Bank.

The old man turned towards the back seat where

the gagged woman stared at him with the same

petrified eyes he had seen when she became

conscious after being given diethyl ether. He could

see her mouth moving behind the gag.

‘Don’t be frightened, Signe,’ he said, leaning

over and fastening something on to her coat. She

tried to bend her head to see what it was, but he

forced her head up.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ he said. ‘As we used to.’

He got out of the car, opened the rear door, pulled

her out and shoved her in front of him. She

stumbled and fell on the gravel in the grass beside

the path, but he caught hold of the rope which

bound her hands behind her back and pulled her to

her feet. He positioned her directly in front of one

of the floodlight projectors, with the light in her

eyes.

‘Stand still. I forgot the wine,’ he said. ‘Red

Ribeiros. You can remember it, can’t you? Quite

still, otherwise I . . .’

She was blinded by the light and he had to put the

knife right in front of her face for her to see it.

Despite the piercing light, the pupils were so large

that her eyes seemed almost completely black. He

went down to the car and scouted around. No one

in sight. He listened and all he heard was the usual

drone of the town. Then he opened the boot. He

shoved the black rubbish bag to the side and could

feel that the body of the dog inside had already

begun to go stiff. The steel of the Märklin rifle

twinkled darkly. He took it out and sat in the front

seat. He rolled the window half-down and rested

the gun on it. When he looked up he could see her

gigantic shadow dancing on the yellowish brown

sixteenth-century wall. The shadow had to be

visible all the way across the bay from Nesodden.

Beautiful.

He started up the car with his right hand and

revved the engine. He took a last look around

before peering through the sights. The distance was

barely fifty metres and her coat filled the whole of

the circle in the sight lens. He shifted his aim

marginally to the right and the black cross-hair

found what he was searching for – the white piece

of paper. He released the air from his lungs and

crooked his finger around the trigger.

‘Welcome back,’ he whispered.

Part Eight

THE REVELATION

85

Vienna. 14 May 2000.

HARRY TREATED HIMSELF TO THREE SECONDS OF

RELISHING the sensation of cool leather against the

back of his neck and forearms on the seats of

Tyrolean Air. Then he went back to his reflections.

Beneath them the countryside lay like an unbroken

patchwork of green and yellow, with the Danube

glittering in the sun like a weeping brown wound.

The air stewardess had just informed them that they

were about to land in Schwechat, and Harry

prepared himself.

He had never been ecstatic about flying, but in

recent years he had begun to be downright

frightened. Ellen had once asked him what he was

frightened of. ‘Crashing and dying, what the fuck

else?’ he had answered. She had told him that the

odds of dying in a plane on the occasional trip

were thirty million to one against. He had thanked