The Redbreast(177)

lunchbreak, but a man in his fifties with a black

goatee, a blue striped suit, a thick 17 May ribbon

on his chest and a thin layer of dandruff on his

shoulders remained where he was.

‘We are Norwegian citizens, my good man, and

this is not a police state!’

Harry walked round the man into the lift and

pressed 21. But the goatee had not finished.

‘Tell me one good reason why I as a taxpayer

should put up with . . .’ Harry took out Weber’s

Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster. ‘I have

six good reasons here, taxpayer. Out!’

Time passes quickly, and soon it is another day. In

the morning light we’ll see him better, see whether

he is friend or foe.

Foe, foe. Too soon or not, I’ll get him anyway.

Grandpa’s jacket.

Shit, there is nothing afterwards.

The face in the sights looks serious. Smile, boy.

Betrayal, betrayal, betrayal.

The trigger has been pulled back so far now there

is no longer any resistance, the threshold lies

somewhere in a no man’s land. Don’t think about

the noise and the recoil, just press, let it come

when it comes.

The bang took him completely by surprise. For a

fraction of a second it was totally quiet. Then the

echo reverberated and the wave of sound settled

over the city and the sudden silence of thousands of

sounds that died away at this instant.

Harry was sprinting through the corridors on the

twenty-first floor when he heard the bang.

‘Fuck!’ he wheezed.

The walls coming towards him and passing him

on both sides gave him the feeling he was moving

inside a funnel. Doors. Pictures, motifs of blue

cubes. His strides were almost inaudible on the

thick carpet. Great. Good hotels think about

reducing noise. And good policemen think about

what they have to do. Fuck, fuck, lactic acid on the

brain. An ice machine. Room 2154,room 2156.

Another bang. The Palace Suite.

His heartbeat drum rolls against his ribs. Harry

stood beside the door and pushed his key card into

the lock. There was a dull buzz. Then a smooth

click and the light on the lock went green. Harry

gingerly pressed down the handle.

The police had fixed procedures for situations

like this. Harry had been on the course and learned

them. He had no intention of following a single one

of them now.

He tore open the door, rushed in with his gun held

in front of him with both hands and threw himself

into a kneeling position in the doorway to the

living room. The light flooded into the room,

dazzled him and stung his eyes. An open window.

The sun behind the glass was like a halo over the

head of the white-haired man who slowly turned

round.

‘Police! Drop the gun,’ Harry shouted.

Harry’s pupils shrank and out of the light crept

the silhouette of the rifle pointing at him.

‘Drop the gun,’ he repeated.‘You’ve done what

you came to do, Fauke. Mission accomplished. It’s

over now.’

It was peculiar but the brass bands were still

playing outside as if nothing had happened. The

old man raised the rifle and rested the butt against

his cheek. Harry’s eyes had got used to the light

and he stared down the barrel of this weapon he

had hitherto only ever seen in pictures.

Fauke mumbled something, but it was drowned

out by a new bang, this time sharper and clearer.

‘Well I’m . . .’ Harry whispered.

Outside, behind Fauke, he saw a puff of smoke

rise into the air like a white speech bubble from

the cannon on the ramparts of Akershus Fortress.

The 17 May salutes. What he’d heard was the 17

May gun salutes! Harry heard the cheering. He

breathed in through his nostrils. The room didn’t

smell of burned powder. He realised that Fauke

had not fired the gun. Not yet. He gripped the butt

of his revolver tightly as he watched the wrinkled

face staring blankly back at him over the sights. It

wasn’t just a matter of his own and of the old

man’s life. The instructions were clear.

‘I’ve come from Vibes gate. I’ve read your

diary,’ Harry said. ‘Gudbrand Johansen. Or is it

Daniel I’m talking to now?’

Harry clenched his teeth and crooked his trigger

finger.

The old man mumbled again. ‘What was that?’

‘ Passwort,’ the old man said. His voice was

hoarse and totally unrecognisable from the one he

had heard before.

‘Don’t do it,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t force me.’

A drop of sweat ran down Harry’s forehead,

down to the bridge of his nose until it hung off the

tip, where it seemed unable to make up its mind.

Harry shifted his grip on the gun.

‘ Passwort,’ the old man repeated.

Harry could see the old man’s finger tighten