Harry inhaled as though preparing for a long and deep dive.
The telephone rang.
Harry hesitated. The telephone went quiet after one ring.
He was raising the bottle when the telephone rang again. And went quiet.
He realised they were calling from reception.
He put the bottle down on the bedside table and waited. When there was a third ring, he picked up the receiver.
'Mr Hansen?'
'Yes.'
'There is somebody in the lobby for you.'
Harry stared at the gentleman in the red jacket on the label. 'Say I'm on my way.'
'Yes, sir.'
Harry held the bottle with three fingers. Then he leaned back and emptied the contents down his throat. Four seconds later he was bent over the toilet bowl throwing up his airline lunch.
* * *
The receptionist pointed to the suite of furniture by the piano where a small, grey-haired woman with a shawl over her shoulders was sitting erect in a chair. She observed Harry with calm, brown eyes as he walked towards her. He stopped in front of the table on which there was a small battery-powered radio. Excited voices were commenting on a sports event, perhaps a football match. The sound merged with a potpourri of classic film muzak that the pianist behind her was concocting as his fingers glided across the keys.
'Doctor Zhivago,' she said in English with a nod in the direction of the pianist. 'Nice, isn't it, Mr Hansen?'
Her pronunciation and intonation were precise. She smirked as if she had said something amusing and signalled with a discreet but firm flick of the hand that he should sit down.
'Do you like music?' Harry asked.
'Doesn't everyone? I used to teach music.' She leaned forward and turned up the volume of the radio.
'Are you frightened we're being monitored?'
She sat back in her chair. 'What do you want, Hansen?'
Harry repeated the story of his son and the man outside the school, while the bile burned in his throat and the pack of hounds in his stomach snapped and howled for more.
'How did you find me?' she asked.
'I was tipped off by a person from Vukovar.'
'Where do you come from?'
Harry swallowed. His tongue felt dry and swollen. 'Copenhagen.'
She studied him. Harry waited. He felt a drop of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades and another forming on his top lip. To hell with this. He needed his medicine. Now.
'I don't believe you,' she said at length.
'OK,' Harry said, getting up. 'I have to go.'
'Wait!' The small woman's voice was firm and she motioned for him to sit down again. 'This does not mean that I don't have eyes in my head,' she said.
Harry sat down.
'I can see hatred,' she said. 'And grief. And I can smell booze. I believe the bit about your dead son.' She evinced a brief smile. 'What is it you want done?'
Harry tried to collect himself. 'How much does it cost? And how quickly can it be done?'
'That depends, but you won't find any professional operatives more reasonable than us. We start at five thousand euros plus expenses.'
'OK. Next week?'
'That . . . may be rather short notice.'
The woman had hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but it had been enough. Enough for him to know. And now he could see that she knew he knew. The voices on the radio were screaming with excitement and the crowd in the background was cheering. Someone had scored.
'Aren't you sure your operative will return in time?' Harry said.
She looked at him long and hard. 'You're still a policeman, aren't you.'
Harry nodded. 'I'm an inspector in Oslo.'
The skin around her eyes recoiled.
'But I'm no danger to you,' Harry said. 'Croatia is not under my jurisdiction, and no one knows I'm here. Neither the Croatian police nor my own bosses.'
'So what do you want?'
'To strike a deal.'
'About what?' She leaned across the table and turned down the volume on the radio.
'Your operative in exchange for my target.'
'What do you mean?'
'A swap. Your man for Jon Karlsen. If he gives up his hunt for Karlsen we'll let him go.'
She raised an eyebrow. 'All of you protecting one man against an operative, Mr Hansen? And you're frightened?'
'We're frightened of a bloodbath. Your operative has already taken the lives of two people and stabbed one of my colleagues.'
'Has . . .' She paused. 'That can't be right.'
'There will be more dead bodies if you don't call him back. And one of them will be his.'
She closed her eyes. Sat like that for some time. Then she breathed in. 'If he's killed one of your colleagues you'll be out for revenge. How can I rely on you to keep your part of the deal?'
'My name's Harry Hole.' He placed his passport on the table. 'If it comes out that I've been here without permission from the Croatian authorities there will be a diplomatic incident. And I'll be without a job.'
She produced a pair of glasses. 'So you're putting yourself forward as a hostage? Do you think that sounds credible, Mr . . .' She placed the glasses on her nose and read the passport: 'Harry Hole.'