you run off to the man who can help you, and ask
him to run over to the man who can help him, and
then you meet me here in three days so that we can
arrange the time and place for delivery.’
Sverre could lift 120 kilos on a bench press. How
could this scrawny old . . . ?
‘You tell me if the rifle has to be paid cash on
delivery. You’ll get the rest of your money in three
days.’
‘Yeah? What if I just take the money?’
‘Then I’ll come back and kill you.’
Sverre rubbed his wrists. He didn’t ask for any
further details.
An icy cold wind swept across the pavement
outside the telephone booth by Torggata Baths as
Sverre Olsen tapped in the numbers with trembling
fingers. It was so fucking cold! He had holes in the
toecaps of both boots too. The receiver was lifted
at the other end.
‘Yes?’
Sverre Olsen swallowed. Why was it the voice
always made him feel so damned uneasy?
‘It’s me. Olsen.’
‘Speak.’
‘Someone needs a gun. A Märklin.’
No response.
‘As in model trains,’ Sverre added.
‘I know what a Märklin is, Olsen.’ The voice at
the other end was flat, neutral; Sverre could feel
the disdain. He didn’t react because, though he
hated the man at the other end, his terror of him
was greater – he wasn’t ashamed to admit that.
This man had the reputation of being dangerous.
Few people had heard of him, even in Sverre’s
circle, and Sverre didn’t know his real name. But
he had saved Sverre and his pals from a sticky
situation more than once. All for the Cause, of
course, not because he had any special liking for
Sverre Olsen. Had Sverre known anyone else he
thought could provide what he was after, he would
have got in touch with them.
The voice: ‘Who’s asking and what do they want
it for?’
‘Some old guy. I’ve never seen him before. Said
he was one of us. And I didn’t exactly ask him who
he was going to blow away, let’s put it like that.
No one perhaps. Perhaps he just wants it to —’
‘Shut up, Olsen. Did he look as if he had money?’
‘He was well dressed. And he gave me a
thousand just to tell him whether I could help him
or not.’
‘He gave you a thousand to keep your mouth shut,
not to answer any questions.’
‘Right.’
‘Interesting.’
‘I’m meeting him again in three days. He wants to
know then if we can get it.’
‘ We?’
‘Yes, well . . .’
‘If I can get it, you mean.’
‘Of course, but . . .’
‘What’s he paying you for the job?’
Sverre paused. ‘Ten big ones.’
‘I’ll match it. Ten. If the deal works out. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘So what are the ten for?’
‘To keep my mouth shut.’
There was no feeling in Sverre’s toes when he
put down the phone. He needed new boots. He
stood still, studying an inert crisp packet which the
wind had hurled into the air and which was now
being blown between cars in the direction of
Storgata.
20
Herbert’s Pizza. 15 November 1999.
THE OLD MAN LET THE GLASS DOOR TO HERBERT’S
PIZZA close behind him. He stood on the pavement
and waited. A Pakistani woman with a pram and
her head wrapped in a shawl passed by. Cars
whizzed by in front of him and he could see his
flickering reflection in their windows and in the
large glass panes of the pizzeria behind him. To the
left of the entrance the window had a large white
cross taped over it; it looked as if someone had
tried to kick it in. The pattern of white cracks in the
glass was like a spider’s web. Behind, he could
see Sverre Olsen, still sitting at the table where
they had agreed the details. Five weeks. The
container port. Pier 4. Two a.m. Password: Voice
of an Angel. Probably the name of a pop song.
He’d never heard of it, but the title was
appropriate. Unfortunately, the price had been
rather less appropriate: 750,000 Norwegian
kroner. But he wasn’t going to discuss it. The
question now was only whether they would keep
their end of the bargain or whether they would rob
him at the container port. He had appealed to the
young neo-Nazi’s sense of loyalty by divulging that
he had fought at the Eastern Front, but he wasn’t
sure if he had believed him. Or if it made any
difference. He had even invented a story about
where he had served in case the young man started
asking questions. But he hadn’t.
Several more cars passed. Sverre Olsen had
stayed put in the pizzeria, but someone else had