The Redbreast(159)

feeling in his stomach. ‘You would like to be with

me if I get someone to do my shift?’

Rakel laughed.

‘Now you sound nice. I should point out that you

weren’t my first choice, but since father has

decided that he wants to be on his own this year,

the answer is yes, we would like to be with you.’

‘What does Oleg say to that?’

‘It was his suggestion.’

‘Yes? He’s a clever lad, that Oleg.’

Harry was happy. So happy that it was difficult to

speak with his normal voice. And he didn’t give a

damn that Halvorsen was sitting across the desk

from him with a grin spread from ear to ear.

‘Have we got a deal?’ Rakel’s voice tickled his

ear.

‘If I can make it, yes. I’ll ring you later.’

‘OK, or you could come over for something to eat

this evening. If you had the time, that is. Or the

inclination.’

The words came across as so exaggeratedly

offhand that Harry knew she had been practising

them before she rang. His laughter was bubbling

inside him, his head as light as if he had taken a

narcotic substance, and he was about to say yes

when he remembered something she had said in the

restaurant: I know it won’t stop with the one time.

It wasn’t something to eat she was offering him.

If you had the time, that is. Or the inclination.

If he was going to panic, now was the time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone

flashing.

‘I’ve got a call on the other line which I have to

take. Rakel, can you hang on for a second.’

‘Of course.’

Harry pressed the square key. It was Møller.

‘The arrest warrant is ready. The search

warrant’s on its way. Tom Waaler is all set with

two cars and four armed men. I hope to Christ that

the morse-code guy in your guts has a steady hand,

Harry.’

‘He fucks up the odd letter, but never a whole

message,’ Harry said, signalling to Halvorsen that

he should put on his jacket. ‘See you.’ Harry

slammed down the phone.

They were standing in the lift on their way down

when it occurred to Harry that Rakel was still on

the other line, waiting for an answer. He didn’t

have the mental energy to work out what that

meant.

91

Irisveien, Oslo. 16 May 2000.

THE FIRST SUMMER’S DAY OF THE YEAR HAD BEGUN

TO COOL as the police car rolled into the quiet

residential area of detached houses. Harry was ill

at ease. Not only because he was sweating under

the bullet-proof vest, but because it was too quiet.

He stared at the curtains behind the meticulously

trimmed hedges, but nothing stirred. It felt like a

Western and he was riding into an ambush.

At first, Harry had refused to put on a bulletproof

vest, but Tom Waaler, who was in charge of the

operation, had given him a simple ultimatum:

either put on the vest or stay at home. The argument

that a bullet from a Märklin rifle would cut through

the vest like the proverbial knife through butter had

occasioned only a bored shrug with Waaler.

They went in two police cars. The second, in

which Waaler sat, had gone up Sognsveien, into

Ullevål Hageby, to enter Irisveien from the

opposite direction, from the west. He could hear

Waaler’s voice crackle over the walkie-talkie.

Calm and confident. Asked for position, went

through the procedure again and the emergency

procedure, asked every single officer to repeat

their assignment.

‘If he’s a pro, he might have connected an alarm

to the gate, so we’ll go over not through.’

He was efficient, even Harry had to concede that,

and it was clear that the others in the car respected

Waaler.

Harry pointed to the red timber house.

‘There it is.’

‘Alpha,’ the policewoman in the front seat said

into the walkie-talkie. ‘We can’t see you.’

Waaler: ‘We’re right round the corner. Keep out

of sight from the house until you can see us. Over.’

‘Too late. We’re there now. Over.’

‘OK, but stay in the car until we come to you.

Over and out.’

The next moment they saw the nose of the second

police car coming round the bend. They drove the

last fifty metres to the house and parked the car to

block the exit from the garage. The second car

stopped in front of the garden gate.

As they got out of the cars, Harry heard the dull

echo of a tennis ball being struck by a not too tautly

strung tennis racquet. The sun was moving towards

Ullernåsen and he caught the smell of frying pork

chops coming from one window.

Then the show was on. Two police officers

jumped over the fence with MP-5 machine guns at

the ready and sprinted round the outside of the