The Redbreast(163)

of the silent majority, as someone seeking

security in the crowd, someone who allows others

to take decisions for them. I have taken this final

decision so that I will be ready when I meet the

Lord and my Helena.

‘Fuck!’

Harry stamped on the brakes as the crowd of

people wearing suits and national costumes

streamed out on to the pedestrian area at the

crossing in Majorstuen. The whole city seemed to

be on the move already. And it felt as if the lights

would never change to green again. Finally he

could slip the clutch and accelerate. He double-

parked in Vibes gate, located Fauke’s doorbell and

pressed. A toddler ran past on loud leather soles

and the ear-piercing bray of his toy horn made

Harry jump.

Fauke didn’t answer. Harry went back to his car

and collected the crowbar he always kept in the

car rather than the boot because of the fickle boot

lock. He returned and put both arms across the two

rows of doorbells. After a few seconds there was

a cacophony of animated voices, probably

belonging to people rushing against the clock, with

hot irons or shoe polish in their hands. He said he

was from the police and someone must have

believed him, because there was an angry buzz and

he was able to push open the door. He sprinted up,

four steps at a time. Then he was on the third floor,

his heart now beating even faster than it had since

he had seen the photograph a quarter of an hour

earlier.

The task I have set myself has already cost

several innocent human lives, and of course there

is the risk it may cost more. It will always be that

way with war. So judge me as a soldier who

wasn’t given many options. That is my wish. But

if you should judge me harshly, know that you too

are only fallible, and it will always be thus, for

both you and me. In the end there is only one

judge: God. These are my memoirs.

Harry hit Fauke’s door twice with his fist and

shouted his name. On hearing nothing, he jammed

the crowbar in beneath the lock and launched

himself at it. At the third attempt the door gave

with a loud bang. He stepped across the threshold.

It was dark and quiet in the flat and in a strange

way it reminded him of the bedroom he had just

left. There was something vacant and utterly

abandoned about it. He understood why when he

went into the sitting room. It was abandoned. The

papers that had been strewn over the floor, the

books on the slanting book shelves and the half-full

coffee cups were gone. The furniture had been

shoved into a corner and draped with white sheets.

A stripe of sunlight through the window fell on a

pile of papers bound together with string, lying in

the middle of the cleared sitting-room floor.

When you read this, I hope I will be dead. I hope

we will all be dead.

Harry crouched down beside the pile of papers.

On the top sheet was typed The Great Betrayal:

A Soldier’s Memoirs.

Harry untied the string.

Next page: I am writing this so that whoever

finds it shall know a little about why I have taken

the decisions I have. Harry leafed through the pile.

There must have been several hundred densely

written pages. He glanced at his watch: 8.30. He

found Fritz’s number in his notebook, pulled out

his mobile phone and caught the Austrian on his

way home after night duty. After talking to Fritz for

a minute, Harry rang directory enquiries, who

found the number and put him through.

‘Weber.’

‘Hole. Happy Independence Day. Isn’t that what

we’re supposed to say?’

‘To hell with that. What do you want?’

‘Well, you probably have plans for today . . .’

‘Yes, I was planning to keep the door locked and

the windows closed and read the papers. Spit it

out.’

‘I need to have some fingerprints taken.’

‘Great. When?’

‘Right now. You’ll have to bring your case with

you, so we can send them from here. And I’ll need

a Smith & Wesson.’

Harry gave him the address. Then he took the pile

of papers with him to one of the shrouded chairs,

sat down and began to read.

95

Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Leningrad. 12 December 1942.

The flares light up the grey night sky, making it

resemble a filthy top canvas drawn over the drab,

bare landscape surrounding us on all sides.

Perhaps the Russians have launched an offensive,

perhaps it is a feint, we never know until

afterwards. Daniel has proved himself as a

fantastic marksman again. If he was not a legend

before, he assured himself immortality today. He

hit and killed a Russian from a range of half a

kilometre. Then he went into no man’s land alone

and gave the dead man a Christian burial. I have

never heard of anyone doing anything like that