dipso, although his clothes sent a different
message. But then again, they often looked like that
for the first few days after the Salvation Army had
dressed them – in nice second-hand quality coats
and suits which were a little out of fashion. As he
observed him, the old man suddenly looked up and
met his eye. He wasn’t a dipso. The man had
sparkling blue eyes and Sverre automatically
looked away. How the old bastard stared!
Sverre concentrated on his mug of beer. It was
time to earn a bit of cash. Let his hair grow over
the tattoo on his neck, put on a long-sleeved shirt
and get out there. There was enough work. Shit
work. The blacks had all the nice, well-paid jobs.
Poofs, heathens and blacks.
‘May I sit down?’
Sverre raised his eyes. It was the old man; he
stood above him. Sverre hadn’t even noticed him
walk over.
‘This is my table,’ Sverre rebuffed.
‘I only want a little chat.’ The old man laid a
newspaper on the table between them and sat in the
chair opposite. Sverre watched him warily.
‘Relax, I’m one of you,’ he said.
‘One of who?’
‘One of the people who come here. National
Socialists.’
‘Oh yeah?’
Sverre moistened his lips and put the glass to his
mouth. The old man sat there, motionless, watching
him. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world.
And he probably did have, he looked about
seventy. At least. Could he be one of the old
extremists from Zorn 88? One of the shy financial
backers Sverre had heard about but never seen?
‘I need a favour.’ The old man spoke in a low
voice. ‘Oh yeah?’ Sverre said. But he had toned
down the overtly condescending attitude a notch.
You never knew, after all.
‘Gun,’ the old man said.
‘What about a gun?’
‘I need one. Can you help me?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Open the paper. Page twenty-eight.’
Sverre pulled the paper over and kept an eye on
the old man as he flicked through. On page twenty-
eight there was an article about neo-Nazis in
Spain. By that bloody Resistance man, Even Juul.
Thanks a lot. The big black and white picture of a
young man holding up a painting of Generalissimo
Franco was partially obscured by a thousand-
kroner note.
‘If you can help me . . .’ the old man said.
Sverre shrugged.
‘. . . there’ll be nine thousand more on the way.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Sverre took another gulp. Looked
around the room. The young couple had gone, but
Halle, Gregersen and Kvinset were still sitting in
the corner. And soon the others would be coming
and it would be impossible to have a discreet
conversation. Ten thousand kroner.
‘What kind of gun?’
‘A rifle.’
‘Should be able to manage that.’
The old man shook his head. ‘A Märklin rifle.’
‘Märklin? As in model trains?’ Sverre asked.
A crack opened in the wrinkled face beneath the
hat. The old codger must have smiled.
‘If you can’t help me, tell me now. You can keep
the thousand and we won’t talk any more about it.
I’ll leave and we’ll never see each other again.’
Sverre experienced a brief rush of adrenaline.
This was not the everyday chat about axes, hunting
rifles or the odd stick of dynamite. This was the
real McCoy. This guy was for real.
The door opened. Sverre glanced over his
shoulder at the old man coming in. Not one of the
boys, just the alkie in the red Icelandic sweater. He
could be a pain when he was scrounging booze, but
otherwise he was harmless enough.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Sverre said, grabbing the
thousand-kroner note.
Sverre didn’t see what happened next. The old-
man’s hand smacked down on his like an eagle’s
claw and fastened it to the table.
‘That wasn’t what I asked.’ The voice was cold
and crisp, like a sheet of ice.
Sverre tried to jerk his hand away, but couldn’t.
Couldn’t release his hand from the grip of a senile
old man!
‘I asked if you could help me, and I want an
answer. Yes or no. Understand?’
Sverre could feel his fury, his old friend and foe,
mounting. For the time being, however, it had not
repressed the other thought: ten thousand kroner.
There was one man who could help him, a very
special man. It wouldn’t be cheap, but he had a
feeling the old codger wouldn’t haggle over the
price.
‘I . . . I can help you.’
‘When?’
‘Three days. Here. Same time.’
‘Rubbish! You won’t get hold of a rifle like that
in three days.’ The old man let go of his hand. ‘But