'A man of ordered habits,' Martine said.
Two of the male students had started singing a drinking song: a twovoice experiment, accompanied by the loud snoring of one of the recruits.
'But why?' Martine asked. 'Why would he kill Robert?'
'Because Robert represented a threat. According to Sergeant Major Rue, Robert supposedly threatened Jon that he would 'destroy' him if he ever approached a certain woman again. The first thing that came to my mind was that they were talking about Thea. But you were right when you said that Robert did not entertain any special feelings for her. Jon claimed Robert had a sick obsession with Thea so that it would seem as though Robert had a motive for wishing to kill Jon. The threat that Robert made, however, concerned Sofia Miholjec. A Croatian girl of fifteen who has just told me everything. How Jon forced her to have sex with him on regular occasions, saying he would evict her family from the Salvation Army flat and have them thrown out of the country if she put up any resistance or told anyone. When she became pregnant, however, she went to Robert, who helped her and promised to stop Jon. Unfortunately Robert did not go straight to the police or those in command in the Salvation Army. He must have considered it a family affair and wanted to solve the problem within the organisation. I gather there's a bit of a tradition of that in the Salvation Army.'
Martine was staring out at the snow-covered, night-faded fields rolling by like the swell of the sea.
'So that was the plan,' she said. 'What went wrong?'
'What always goes wrong,' Harry said. 'The weather.'
'The weather?'
'If the flight to Zagreb had not been cancelled because of snow that night, Stankic would have travelled home, found out that they had killed their go-between by mistake and the story would have finished there. Instead Stankic had to spend a night in Oslo and he discovers he has killed the wrong person. But he doesn't know that Robert Karlsen is also the name of the go-between, so he continues his hunt.'
The tannoy announced: 'Gardemoen Airport, Gardemoen. Passengers please alight on the right-hand side.'
'And now you're going to catch Stankic.'
'That's my job.'
'Will you kill him?'
Harry looked at her.
'He killed your colleague,' Martine said.
'Did he say that to you?'
'I said I didn't want to know anything, so he didn't say a word.'
'I'm a policeman, Martine. We arrest people and the court sentences them.'
'Is that so? Then why haven't you sounded a full alarm? Why haven't you called the airport police? Why isn't the Special Forces Unit on its way with all its sirens blaring? Why are you on your own?'
Harry didn't answer.
'No one else even knows what you've just told me, do they?'
Harry saw the designer-smooth, grey cement platform of Gardemoen Airport approach through the train window.
'Our stop,' he said.
34
Monday, 22 December. The Crucifixion.
THERE WAS ONE PERSON BETWEEN HIM AND THE CHECK-IN counter when he smelt it. A sweet soap smell that vaguely reminded him of something. Something that had happened not too long ago. He closed his eyes and tried to pinpoint what.
'Next please!'
Jon shuffled forwards, put the suitcase and rucksack on the conveyor belt and placed his ticket and passport on the counter in front of a suntanned man wearing the airline's white short-sleeved shirt.
'Robert Karlsen,' the man said, eyeing Jon, who confirmed with a nod. 'Two bags. And that's hand luggage, is it?' He gestured towards the black bag.
'Yes.'
The man flipped through the pages, typed and a hissing printer spat out tags marked Bangkok for the luggage. That was when Jon remembered the smell. For one second in the doorway of his flat, the last second he had felt safe. The man standing outside who said in English he had a message, then raised a black pistol. He forced himself not to look.
'Have a good trip, herr Karlsen,' the man said with an ultra-swift smile, handing over his boarding pass and the passport.
Jon walked without delay to the queues by the X-ray machines. Putting the ticket in his inside pocket, he snatched a glimpse over his shoulder.
He looked straight at him. For one desperate instant he wondered whether Jon Karlsen had recognised him, but then Jon's gaze moved on. What worried him, however, was that Karlsen appeared frightened.
He had been a little too slow to catch Karlsen at the check-in desk. And now he was in a hurry because Karlsen was already queueing for security where everything and everyone was screened and a revolver was impossible to conceal. It had to happen on this side.
He breathed in and tightened and slackened his grip on the gunstock inside his coat.
His instinct was to shoot the target on the spot, his usual practice. But even though he could soon disappear into the crowd, they would close the airport, check everyone's identities and he would not only miss his flight to Copenhagen in forty-five minutes but his freedom for the next twenty years.