The Redbreast(3)

She put the microphone back into position.

‘Everything in place and ready.’

‘Thanks. Put your helmet on.’

‘Eh? Honestly, Harry.’

‘You heard what I said.’

‘Put your helmet on yourself!’

‘Mine’s too small.’

A new voice. ‘Passed point 1.’

‘Oh shit, sometimes you’re just so . . .

unprofessional.’ Ellen pulled the helmet over her

head, fastened the chin strap and made faces in the

driving mirror.

‘Love you too,’ said Harry, studying the road in

front of them through binoculars. ‘I can see them.’

At the top of the incline leading to Karihaugen the

sun glinted off metal. For the moment Harry could

only see the first car in the motor-cade, but he

knew the order: six motorcycles from the

Norwegian police escort department, two

Norwegian police escort cars, a Secret Service

car, then two identical Cadillac Fleetwoods

(special Secret Service cars flown in from the US)

and the President sitting in one of them. Which one

was kept secret. Or perhaps he was sitting in both,

Harry thought. One for Jekyll and one for Hyde.

Then came the bigger vehicles: ambulance,

communications car and several Secret Service

cars.

‘Everything seems quiet enough,’ Harry said. His

binoculars moved slowly from right to left. The air

quivered above the tarmac even though it was a

cool November morning.

Ellen could see the outline of the first car. In thirty

seconds they would have passed the toll gates and

half the job would be over. And in two days’ time,

when the same cars had passed the toll going in the

opposite direction, she and Harry could go back to

their usual work. She preferred dealing with dead

people in the Serious Crime Unit to getting up at

three in the morning to sit in a cold Volvo with an

irritable Harry, who was clearly burdened by the

responsibility he had been given.

Apart from Harry’s regular breathing, there was

total quiet in the car. She checked that the light

indicators on both radios were green. The

motorcade was almost at the bottom of the hill. She

decided she would go to Tørst and get drunk after

the job. There was a guy there she had exchanged

looks with; he had black curls and brown, slightly

dangerous eyes. Lean. Looked a bit bohemian,

intellectual. Perhaps . . .

‘What the —’

Harry had already grabbed the microphone.

‘There’s someone in the third booth from the left.

Can anyone identify this individual?’

The radio answered with a crackling silence as

Ellen’s gaze raced from one booth to the next in the

row. There! She saw a man’s back behind the

brown glass of the box – only forty or fifty metres

away. The silhouette of the figure was clear in the

light from behind, as was the short barrel with the

sights protruding over his shoulder.

‘Weapon!’ she shouted. ‘He’s got a machine gun.’

‘Fuck!’ Harry kicked open the car door, took hold

of the frame and swung out. Ellen stared at the

motorcade. It couldn’t be more than a few hundred

metres off. Harry stuck his head inside the car.

‘He’s not one of ours, but he could be Secret

Service,’ he said. ‘Call HQ.’ He already had the

revolver in his hand.

‘Harry . . .’

‘Now! And give a blast on the horn if HQ say it’s

one of theirs.’ Harry started to run towards the toll

booth and the back of the man dressed in a suit.

From the barrel, Harry guessed the gun was an Uzi.

The raw early morning air smarted in his lungs.

‘Police!’ he shouted in Norwegian, then in

English.

No reaction. The thick glass of the box was

manufactured to deaden the traffic noise outside.

The man had turned his head towards the

motorcade now and Harry could see his dark Ray-

Bans. Secret Service. Or someone who wanted to

give that impression.

Twenty metres now.

How did he get inside a locked booth if he wasn’t

one of theirs? Damn! Harry could already hear the

motorcycles. He wouldn’t make it to the box.

He released the safety catch and took aim,

praying that the car horn would shatter the stillness

of this strange morning on a closed motorway he

had never wanted at any time to be anywhere near.

The instructions were clear, but he was unable to

shut out his thoughts: Thin vest. No

communication. Shoot, it is not your fault. Has he

got a family?

The motorcade was coming from directly behind

the toll booth, and it was coming fast. In a couple

of seconds the Cadillacs would be level with the

booths. From the corner of his left eye he noticed a

movement, a little bird taking off from the roof.