Phantom (52 page)

Harry blinked. “Who killed him, then?”

The old man straightened up. In his right hand he was holding a revolver. It was a large, ugly object and looked even older than its owner.

“You should know better than to come to me without a weapon, Harry.”

Harry didn’t answer. The MP5 was at the bottom of a water-filled cellar, the rifle at Truls Berntsen’s flat.

“Who killed Gusto?” Harry repeated.

“It could have been anyone.”

Harry seemed to hear a creak as the old man’s finger curled around the trigger.

“It’s not very difficult to kill, Harry. Don’t you agree?”

“I do,” Harry said, lifting his foot. There was a whistle as the thin nylon cord shot up toward the curtain pole holder.

Harry saw the question marks in the old man’s eyes, saw his brain working lightning-fast with the half-digested bits of information.

The light that didn’t work.

The chair that was in the middle of the room.

Harry, who hadn’t searched him.

Harry, who hadn’t moved an inch from where he was sitting.

And perhaps now he could see the nylon cord in the semi-gloom as it ran from under Harry’s shoe via the curtain pole holder to the
ceiling lamp fitting right above his head. Where there was no longer a lamp but the only thing Harry had taken from Blindernveien apart from the priest’s collar. Which was all he had in his mind as he lay on Rudolf Asayev’s four-poster bed, soaking wet, gasping for breath as black dots jumped in and out of his vision and he was sure he was going to pass out any second, but fought to stay conscious, to stay on this side of the darkness. Then he had got up, and taken the
zjuk
, which was beside the Bible.

Rudolf Asayev hurled himself to the left, so the steel nails embedded in the brick did not pierce his head but the skin between the collarbone and the shoulder muscle, which continued down to a juncture of nerve fibers, the cervico-brachial plexus, with the result that when, two hundredths of a second later, he pulled the trigger, the muscle in his upper arm was paralyzed, causing his revolver to drop three inches. The powder hissed and burned for the thousandth of a second the bullet needed to leave the barrel of the old Nagant. Three thousandths of a second later the bullet bored into the bed frame between Harry’s calves.

Harry got up. Flicked the security catch to the side and pressed the release button. The shaft quivered as the blade sprang out. Harry swung his hand, low, past the hip, with a straight arm, and the long, thin knife blade entered midway between the coat lapels, down the priest’s shirt. He felt the material and skin give, then the blade slid in up to the hilt without any resistance. Harry let go of the knife, knowing that Rudolf Asayev was a dying man as the chair tipped back and the Russian hit the floor with a groan. He kicked the chair away, but stayed where he was, curled up like an injured but still dangerous wasp. Harry stood astride him, bent down and pulled the knife out of his body. Looked at the abnormally deep-red color of the blood. From the liver, maybe. The old man’s left hand scrabbled across the floor, around the paralyzed right arm, searching for the pistol. And for one wild moment Harry wished the hand would find it, give him the pretext he needed to …

Harry kicked the pistol away, heard it thud against the wall.

“The iron,” whispered the old man. “Bless me with my iron, my boy. It’s burning. For both of our sakes, bring this to an end.”

Harry closed his eyes for a brief instant. Could feel he had lost it. It was gone. The hatred. The wonderful, white hatred that had been the fuel that had kept him going. He had run out of it.

“No, thank you,” Harry said. Stepped over and away from the old man. Buttoned up the wet coat. “I’m going now, Rudolf Asayev. I’ll ask
the boy in reception to call for an ambulance. Then I’ll call my ex-boss and tell him where they can find you.”

The old man chuckled, and red bubbles formed at the corner of his mouth. “The knife, Harry. It’s not murder—I’m already dead. You won’t end up in hell, I promise you. I’ll tell them at the gate not to drag you in.”

“It’s not hell that frightens me.” Harry put the wet pack of Camels in his coat pocket. “I’m a policeman. Our job is to bring alleged lawbreakers to justice.”

The bubbles burst when the old man coughed. “Come on, Harry, your sheriff’s badge is made of plastic. I’m ill. The only thing a judge can do is give me prison, kisses, hugs and morphine. And I committed so many murders. Rivals I hanged from bridges. Employees, like that pilot we used the brick on. The police, too. Beret Man. I sent Andrey and Peter to your room to shoot you. You and Truls Berntsen. And do you know why? To make it look like you two had shot each other. We had left the weapon as proof. Come on now, Harry.”

Harry wiped the knife blade on the bedsheet. “Why did you want to kill Berntsen? After all, he worked for you.”

Asayev turned onto his side and he seemed to be able to breathe better. He lay like that for a couple of seconds before answering. “He tried to steal a stockpile of heroin from Alnabru behind my back. It wasn’t my heroin, but when you discover your burner is so greedy you can’t trust him and at the same time he knows enough about you to bring you down, you know the sum of the risks has become too great. And then businessmen like me eliminate the risk, Harry. We saw a perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. You and Berntsen.” He chuckled. “Like I tried to murder your boy in Botsen. Feel the hatred now, Harry? I almost murdered your boy.”

Harry stopped by the door. “Who killed Gusto?”

“Humanity lives by the gospel of hatred. Follow the hatred, Harry.”

“Who are your contacts in the police and on the City Council?”

“If I tell you, will you help me to bring this to an end?”

Harry looked at him. Nodded quickly. Hoped the lie wasn’t transparent.

“Come closer,” whispered the old man.

Harry bent down. And suddenly the old man’s hand, like a stiff claw, had grabbed his lapels and pulled him close. The whetstone voice wheezed softly in his ear.

“You know I paid a man to confess to the murder of Gusto, Harry. But you thought it was because I couldn’t kill Oleg as long as he was
being held in a secret location. Wrong. My man in the police force has access to the witness protection program. I could have had Oleg stabbed to death just as easily where he was. But I had changed my mind. I didn’t want him to get away so …”

Harry tried to tear himself away, but the old man held him tight.

“I wanted him hung upside down with a plastic bag over his head,” the voice rumbled. “His head in a clear plastic bag. Water running down his feet. Water following the body all the way down into the bag. I wanted to film it. With sound, so that you could hear the screams. And afterward I would have sent you the film. And if you let me go this is still my plan. You’ll be surprised how quickly they release me for lack of evidence, Harry. And then I’ll find him, Harry, I swear I will—you just keep an eye on your mailbox for when the DVD comes.”

Harry acted instinctively, swung his hand. Felt the blade gain purchase. Go deep. He twisted it. Heard the old man gasp. Continued to twist. Closed his eyes and felt intestines and organs curling around, bursting, turning inside out. And when at last he heard the old man scream, it was Harry’s own scream.

Harry was woken by the sun shining on one side of his face. Or was it a noise that had woken him?

He carefully opened one eye and peered around him.

Saw a living-room window and blue sky. No noise—not now, at any rate.

He breathed in the smell of a smoke-ingrained sofa and raised his head. Remembered where he was.

He had left the old man’s room for his own, calmly packed his canvas suitcase, exited the hotel via the back stairs and taken a taxi to the only place he could be sure no one would find him: the house belonging to Nybakk’s parents in Oppsal. It didn’t look as if anyone had been there since he left, and the first thing he did was to ransack the drawers in the kitchen and bathroom until he had a packet of painkillers. He had taken four tablets, washed the old man’s blood off his hands and gone down to the cellar to see if Stig Nybakk had made a decision.

He had.

Harry had gone back up, undressed, hung his clothes to dry in the bathroom, found a blanket and fallen asleep on the sofa before his mind could start churning.

Harry rose and went to the kitchen. Took two painkillers and washed them down with a glass of water. Opened the fridge and looked inside. There was a lot of gourmet food; he had clearly been feeding Irene well. The nausea from the previous day returned, and he knew it would be impossible to eat. Went back to the living room. He had seen the liquor cabinet yesterday as well. Had given it a wide berth before finding somewhere to sleep.

Harry opened the cabinet door. Empty. He breathed out with relief. Fumbled in his pocket. The sham wedding ring. And at that moment heard a sound.

The same one he thought he had heard when he was waking up.

He went over to the open cellar door. Listened. Joe Zawinul? He descended and headed for the storeroom door. Peered through the wire. Stig Nybakk was twirling slowly, like an astronaut, weightless
in space. Harry wondered if the cell phone vibrating in Stig’s trouser pocket could be functioning as a propeller. The ringtone—the four, or actually three, notes from “Palladium” by Weather Report—sounded like a call signal from the beyond. And that was exactly what Harry was thinking as he took out the phone, that it was Nybakk ringing, wanting to talk to him.

Harry looked at the number on the display. And pressed the answer button. He recognized the voice of the receptionist at the Radiumhospitalet. “Stig! Hello! Are you there? Can you hear me? We’ve been trying to reach you, Stig. Where are you? You should have been here for a meeting, several meetings. We’re worried. Martin was at your flat, but you weren’t there, either. Stig?”

Harry hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He would need it; Martine’s had been ruined in the swim.

From the kitchen he fetched a chair and sat on the veranda. Sat there with the morning sun on his face. Took out his pack of smokes, stuck one of the stupid black cigarettes into his mouth and lit up. It would have to do. He dialed the number he knew so well.

“Rakel.”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Harry? I didn’t recognize your number.”

“I’ve got a new phone.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Did everything go OK?”

“Yes,” Harry said and had to smile at the happiness in her voice. “Everything went OK.”

“Is it hot?”

“Very hot. The sun’s shining, and I’m about to have breakfast.”

“Breakfast? Isn’t it four o’clock or thereabouts?”

“Jet lag,” Harry said. “Couldn’t sleep on the plane. I’ve found us a great hotel. It’s in Sukhumvit.”

“You’ve no idea how much I’m looking forward to seeing you again, Harry.”

“I—”

“No, wait, Harry. I mean it. I’ve been awake all night thinking about it. This is absolutely right. That is, we’ll find out if it is. But this is what’s right about it. Finding out. Oh, imagine if I’d said no, Harry.”

“Rakel—”

“I love you, Harry.
Love
you. Do you hear me? Can you hear how flat, strange and fantastic the word is? You really have to mean it to pull it off—like a bright-red dress. Love you. Is that a bit over the top?”

She laughed. Harry closed his eyes and felt the most wonderful sun
in the world kiss his skin and the most wonderful laughter in the world kiss his eardrums.

“Harry? Are you there?”

“Indeed I am.”

“It’s so strange. You sound so near.”

“Mm. I’ll soon be very near, darling.”

“Say that again.”

“Say what?”

“Darling.”

“Darling.”

“Mmmm.”

Harry could feel he was sitting on something. Something hard in his back pocket. He took it out. The sun made the veneer on the ring shine like gold.

“Rakel,” he said, stroking the black notch with the tip of his finger. “How would you feel about getting married?”

“Harry, don’t mess with me.”

“I’m not messing with you. I know you could never imagine marrying a debt collector from Hong Kong.”

“No, not at all. Who should I imagine marrying, then?”

“I don’t know. What about a civilian, an ex-police officer, who lectures at the police college about murder investigations?”

“Doesn’t sound like anyone I know.”

“Perhaps someone you might get to know. Someone who could surprise you. Stranger things have happened.”

“You’re the one who’s always said people don’t change.”

“So if now I’m someone who says people
can
change, there’s the proof that it is possible to change.”

“Glib bastard.”

“Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that I’m right. People can change. And it
is
possible to put things behind you.”

“To outstare the ghosts that haunt you?”

“Then what would you say?”

“To what?”

“To my hypothetical question of getting married.”

“Is that supposed to be a proposal? Hypothetical? On the
phone
?”