Martine took a deep breath to suppress her irritation.
The job required one bullet.
Nevertheless, he pushed all the cartridges into the magazine. First of all, because the weapon was only in perfect balance when the magazine was full. And because it minimised the chances of a malfunction. Six in the magazine plus one in the chamber.
Then he put on the shoulder holster. He had bought it second-hand, and the leather was soft and smelt salty, acrid, from skin, oil and sweat. The gun lay flat, as it should. He stood in front of the mirror and put on his jacket. It could not be seen. Bigger guns were more accurate, but this was not a case of precision shooting. He put on his raincoat. Then the coat. Shoved the cap in his pocket and groped for the red neckerchief in his inside pocket.
He looked at his watch.
'Backbone,' said Gunnar Hagen. 'And courage. These are the qualities I seek above all else in my inspectors.'
Harry didn't answer. He didn't consider it a question. Instead, he looked around the office where he had sat so often, like now. But apart from the familiar scenario of POB-tells-inspector-what's-what, everything had changed. Gone were Bjarne Møller's piles of paper, the Donald Duck & Co. comics squeezed between legal documents and police regulations on the shelf, the big photograph of the family and the even bigger one of a golden retriever the children had been given and long forgotten about, as it had been dead for nine years, but which Bjarne was still grieving over.
What remained was a cleared desk with a monitor and a keyboard, a small silver pedestal with a tiny white bone and Gunnar Hagen's elbows, on which he was leaning at this very moment while eyeballing Harry from under his great thatched eyebrows.
'But there is a third quality I prize even higher, Hole. Can you guess what it is?'
'No,' Harry said in an even monotone.
'Discipline. Di-sci-pline.'
The POB's division of the word into syllables suggested to Harry that he was in for a lecture on its etymology. However, Hagen stood up and began to strut to and fro with his hands behind his back, a sort of marking out of territory which Harry had always found vaguely risible.
'I'm having this face-to-face conversation with everyone in the section to make it clear what my expectations are.'
'Unit.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'We've never been called a section. Even though your rank used to be known as "Section Head", PAS. Just for your information.'
'Thank you for drawing that to my attention, Inspector. Where was I?'
'Di-sci-pline.'
Hagen bored his eyes into Harry, who didn't turn a hair. So the POB resumed his strutting.
'For the last ten years I have been lecturing at the military academy. My area of speciality was the war in Burma. I suppose it may surprise you to hear that it has great relevance for my job here, Hole.'
'Well.' Harry scratched his leg. 'You can read me like an open book, boss.'
Hagen ran his forefinger over the window frame and studied the result with displeasure. 'In 1942, a mere hundred thousand Japanese soldiers conquered Burma. Burma was twice the size of Japan and at that time occupied by British troops who were superior in numbers and firepower.' Hagen raised the grubby forefinger. 'But there was one area where the Japanese were superior and this made it possible for them to beat the British and the Indian mercenaries. Discipline. When the Japanese marched on Rangoon, they walked for forty-five minutes and slept for fifteen. Slept on the road wearing their rucksacks and their feet pointing towards their destination. So that they didn't walk into the ditch or in the wrong direction when they woke up. Direction is important, Hole. Do you understand, Hole?'
Harry had an inkling of what was to come. 'I understand that they made it to Rangoon, boss.'
'They did. All of them. Because they did what they were told. I have just been told that you signed out the keys to Tom Waaler's flat. Is that correct, Hole?'
'I had a peep, boss. For therapeutic reasons.'
'I hope so. That case is buried. Snooping round Waaler's flat is not only wasted time, it also contravenes the orders you were given by the Chief and now by me. I don't think I need to spell out the consequences of refusing to obey orders. I might mention, however, that Japanese officers shot soldiers who drank water outside drinking times. Not out of sadism, but because discipline is about excising the tumours at the outset. Am I making myself clear, Hole?'
'As clear as . . . well, something which is very clear, boss.'
'That's all for now, Hole.' Hagen sat down on his chair, took a piece of paper from the drawer and started to read with a passion, as though Harry had already left the office. And looked up in surprise when he saw Harry was still sitting in front of him.
'Anything else, Hole?'
'Mm, I was wondering. Didn't the Japanese lose the war?'
Gunnar Hagen sat staring vacantly at the document long after Harry had gone.