He was still barely halfway across the open floor between his chair and the table.
Carver leaned forward into his next step. His blood was pounding in his ears and the edges of his vision were becoming blurred. For a moment he craved the vicious sting of the cane on his back, forcing him to go onwards whether he wanted to or not. It was even harder making himself do it.
One more step: he pushed his left foot ahead of him as far as it would go, till the toe of his shoe was almost touching the table. Then he leaned forward one last time.
He could almost feel his larynx collapsing under the pressure from the collar. His craving for oxygen was as desperate as a drowning man's.
He reached out his arms, joints and tendons straining, fingers outstretched, and somehow his left hand managed to curl around the neck of the bottle, while his right fumbled for the little plastic cup beside it.
Carver was close to blacking out as he lifted the cup to the lip of the bottle.
He tilted the bottle towards him. Water gurgled up the spout, but did not reach the lip. He would have to tilt it further before any came out.
The bottle tipped over another few degrees. Now Carver felt as though he was fighting a war on two fronts. The weight of the bottle was dragging him downwards, just as the cord was pulling him up and away.
He was desperate for air now. But if he let go of the bottle, he might never manage to get it again.
He had to get the water into the plastic cup, but still it wouldn't come out.
He tilted the bottle a few more degrees, the strain becoming worse as its centre of gravity shifted over.
And then something gave.
What went first he didn't know. But suddenly his back foot was slipping and scrabbling for purchase on the wooden floor. The bottle was sliding on the table.
There was even more tension pulling against his throat. The full weight of the bottle was bearing down on his fingers wrapped around its neck. As the bungee cord pulled him inexorably away, his fingers lost a fraction of their purchase. But that was enough.
The bottle slipped from his grasp, teetered for a fraction of a second and then toppled over, thudding against the top of the table and then rolling sideways, water now pouring from its spout, and all Carver could do was watch as it fell from the side of the table, crashed down on to the floor and poured its precious cargo over the pine boards.
A pool of water spread across the floor, too far away and too low for him even to touch, let alone scoop into his hands.
The water gurgled. It splashed. It puddled. And every drop of it was wasted.
He could only stand and watch despairingly as little by little it slipped between the cracks in the floorboards and seeped, agonizingly slowly, into the soft, pale wood.
Carver lunged despairingly, trying to reach the overturned bottle and the last litre or two that remained within it. He strained until he felt that his shoulder sockets would be torn apart and his head torn from his body. He fought against suffocation and unconsciousness. But it was no good. The bottle remained out of reach, untouchable, its open top staring blankly at him.
He knew then that it was over. Tyzack had won. He would hit the President. And Carver was going to die within the next few days. From now on it was simply a matter of exactly how and when.
67
The road map of Oslo's northern suburbs looks like a maze in a children's puzzle book. The roads twist and switchback as they snake across the hills. Some side roads link back into the system, while others run blindly away to dead ends. Had she not had Thor navigating for her in the passenger seat, Maddy would have become hopelessly lost. Instead he gave her instructions in a voice as irritatingly calm and emotionless as a sat-nav, while she channelled her anger and desperation into the business of getting to Carver as fast as humanly possible.
Larsson owned a Volvo XC90 4? 4 whose engine growled like an angry bear as Maddy flung it round corners, slicing across the oncoming traffic, seeking out the racing line. She braked like a racing driver, too: one decisive deceleration, then straight back on the power and a slingshot round the bend, trusting the Volvo's four-wheel drive to keep it on the blacktop. She broke every rule in the book, overtaking on blind corners, aiming for tiny gaps between vehicles, playing chicken with trucks and buses. Her face was a tight mask of concentration, the only outward signs of her tension coming from the occasional flicker of her cheek, just below the left eye, and the clenching of her jaw as she worked the wheel and the brakes.
The ground was flattening out and the individual detached chalets that lined the streets on the edge of the city, each with their patch of garden, were giving way to more tightly packed housing when Larsson spotted a run of shops a hundred metres or so ahead.
'Pull in there,' he said.
'Are you outta your freakin' mind?' Maddy shouted, her temper pumped up by the adrenalin flooding her system.
'Just do it,' Larsson insisted. 'If you want Carver to live.'
Fuming, she pulled into a small line of parking spots.
'I won't be long,' Larsson said, jumping out of the car and running over to one of the shops. Maddy couldn't work out what the sign on the front meant, but, from the gear displayed in the window, it looked like a tool-hire store.
Larsson emerged from it barely a minute later carrying what looked like a gigantic, super-vicious pair of orange kitchen scissors, with a chainsaw where the top blade would be.
'Alligator loppers,' he said, by way of explanation.
'Yeah, I know what they are,' she said dismissively. She'd already started the engine as he was walking towards the car and was now pulling back out into the traffic.
Within a few minutes they were on the ring road that ran around the north of the city, still going fast, but travelling more smoothly. Larsson didn't have to give directions any more. He tried making conversation.
'Where did you learn to drive like that?'
'Back home, when I was a girl. I come from the boonies, didn't Carver tell you? Oh, no, I guess he didn't have time. Look, just don't talk to me, all right? Don't tell me how it's all a terrible mistake. Don't try to justify yourself. Just shut up unless you're giving me directions.'
Larsson lowered his head for a moment, cradling it in his right hand. Then he took a deep breath, pulled himself back together and sat back in his seat.
'Yeah, I get it,' he said. 'So, where are we?' He glanced out of the window. 'OK, turn left at the next exit. Take the E6. Follow the signs to Lorenskog and Lillestrom. Got that?'
'Uh-huh.'
'Fine then, I'll shut up.'
68
The police Saab 9-5 was powered by environmentally conscious biofuel, but that didn't seem to slow it down as Ravnsborg raced down a country road on the way to Tvillingtjenn. He leaned forward and looked up through the windscreen as a helicopter clattered overhead, painted in drab, military green.
'The anti-terrorist boys!' he shouted over the noise. 'Let us hope they manage to control themselves until we get there. Not long now.'
Another car, filled with Ravnsborg's own people, was hurtling after them. The local force from Bjorkelangen had already established a perimeter around the farmhouse and barn where the Lists had reported hearing sounds of violence and seeing a helicopter take off. Grantham was on the phone, listening more than talking.
'Thanks,' he said at last. 'Appreciate it. Sorry if I caused you any grief. Speak to you later. Bye.'
He put his phone away and turned his head towards the driver's seat.
'The man's name is Damon Tyzack,' he said. 'He's an all-purpose nasty piece of work. Suspected links with various unpleasant gangland activities, including trafficking of people and drugs. He's also rumoured to work on the side as a hitman, though no one's ever got enough evidence on him to bring charges. One interesting thing, though: he's an ex-marine, spent some time in the Special Boat Service, but got cashiered, kicked out. Seems like a mission went wrong, though the SBS didn't release any specific details. They like to keep things close to their chests, those boys, but friend Tyzack must have been a very naughty boy indeed, judging by the speed with which they shoved him out the door. There's one other interesting wrinkle. It was the commanding officer on the mission who insisted Tyzack had to go. Guess who that was…'