eyebrows under curly blonde hair resembling a
wig sized him up from top to toe. Harry spotted her
name badge.
‘Betty Andresen, what I’m going to tell you now
is not a joke in poor taste, so listen carefully. I’m a
policeman and you have an assassin in the hotel.’
Betty Andresen contemplated the tall, half-
dressed man with the bloodshot eyes whom she
had, quite understandably, judged to be either
drunk or crazy, or both. She studied the ID card he
held up for her. She scrutinised him again. At
length.
‘Name,’ she said.
‘His name’s Sindre Fauke.’
Her fingers danced across the keyboard. ‘Sorry,
there’s no one here by that name.’
‘Fuck! Try Gudbrand Johansen.’
‘No Gudbrand Johansen either, Inspector Hole.
Wrong hotel perhaps?’
‘No! He’s here, he’s in his room right now.’
‘So you’ve spoken to him, have you?’
‘No. No, I . . . it’ll take too long to explain.’
Harry ran his hand across his face. ‘Let’s see. I
have to think. He must be high up. How many
floors are there here?’
‘Twenty one.’
‘And how many of them have not handed in room
keys yet?’
‘Quite a few, I’m afraid.’
Harry threw both hands into the air and stared at
her. ‘Of course,’ he whispered. ‘This is a Daniel
job.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Please check for Daniel Gudeson.’
What would happen afterwards? The old man
didn’t know. There was nothing afterwards. At
least, there hadn’t been so far. He had put four
bullets on the window-sill. The yellowish-brown
matt metal of the housing reflected the rays of the
sun.
He peered through the rifle sights again. The bird
was still there. He recognised it. They had the
same name. He pointed the sights at the crowds.
Scanned the lines of people at the barriers.
Stopped when he saw something familiar. Could it
really be . . . ? He focused the sights. Yes, no
doubt about it, it was Rakel. What was she doing
in the Palace Square? And there was Oleg too. He
seemed to be running over from the children’s
parade. Rakel lifted him over the barrier with
outstretched arms. She was strong. Strong hands.
Like her mother. Now they were walking up
towards the guardhouse. Rakel looked at her
watch. She seemed to be waiting for someone.
Oleg was wearing the jacket he had given him for
Christmas. Rakel said Oleg called it Grandpa’s
jacket. It seemed to be a little on the small side
already.
The old man chuckled. He would have to buy him
a new one for autumn.
The pains came without warning this time and he
gasped helplessly for air.
The flare was sinking and their stooped shadows
scrambled towards him along the walls of the
trench.
Everything went dark, but just as he felt himself
slipping into the blackness, the pains released their
hold again. The gun had slid on to the floor, and the
sweat made his shirt stick to his body.
He straightened up, put the gun back on the
window ledge. The bird had flown away. He had a
clear line of fire.
The youthful face filled the telescopic sights
again. The Prince had studied. And so should Oleg.
That was the last thing he had said to Rakel. That
was the last thing he said to himself before he shot
Brandhaug. Rakel had not been at home the day he
had dropped into Holmenkollveien to pick up a
couple of books, so he had let himself in and he
happened to see the envelope lying on the desk and
the Russian embassy on the letterhead. He had read
it, put it down and stared through the window at the
garden, at the snowflakes lying there after the
shower, the last throes of winter. Afterwards he
had sifted through the other drawers in the desk
until he found the other letters, the ones with the
Norwegian embassy on the letterhead, and also
those without letterheads, written on serviettes and
sheets torn out of notepads, signed by Bernt
Brandhaug. And he had thought about Christopher
Brockhard.
No Russian arsehole will be able to shoot at our
watch tonight. The old man released the safety
catch. He felt a strange calm. He had just
remembered how easy it had been to cut
Brockhard’s throat. And to shoot Bernt Brandhaug.
Grandpa’s jacket, a new Grandpa’s jacket. He
emptied the air out of his lungs and crooked his
finger around the trigger.
With a key card to all the rooms in his hand,
Harry did a sliding tackle into the lift and got one
foot between the closing doors. They slid open
again. Amazed faces met him as he stood up.
‘Police!’ Harry shouted. ‘Everyone out!’
It was as if the school bell had rung for