Chapter 9
The distant headlights of a fast car weave their way in between the tree trunks and cast a white veil over the approaching autumn. Orjan Mjones grips the steering wheel hard and checks the mirrors to make sure that he isn’t being followed. It would be something of an achievement if he was, he thinks, given the speed he is travelling.
The clock on the sat nav shows 02.15, and it is some time since he left the nearest main road. A loud but brief rumble under the tyres tells him he has just driven over a cattle grid before the tyres resume spraying gravel at the verges.
Mjones knows that the others have already arrived. It has been a while since they last worked together, but he knew that they would be just as ready for action as he was. Flurim Ahmetaj is there because he knows everything about computers and surveillance equipment and has easy access to them. Durim Redzepi, because nobody is better at getting in and out of someone’s home than he is. And Jeton Pocoli, because he is a master at following people. In addition, he has bedroom eyes and a bad-boy image, which makes it easy for him to chat up Norwegian women. The reports he has supplied so far suggest that these skills in particular will prove useful.
As far as these men are concerned, it has always been a matter of showing up to a table already set, to a plan already laid, and they do what they are told to and what they are paid for. This has never motivated Mjones. He lives for the craftsmanship. The preliminary work, gathering pieces of information, fitting them into a bigger picture, planning for the unexpected. It is during this phase that he feels alive. And when everything works according to plan, his plan, it makes him delirious with happiness. His favourite pastime is reading about himself in the newspaper afterwards and being absolutely certain that the police will never be able to catch him.
Mjones slows down, turns into a narrow track, and a red-painted cabin appears a couple of hundred metres further down the road. He pulls up next to two motorbikes and a dark-blue BMW estate. Mjones smiles and shakes his head, takes a long look at the desirable car before he steps out on to the makeshift car park. He glances at the cabin where the light is still on and the murmur of conversation fills the night.
Mjones takes the cage and the backpack from the boot of his car. He walks over to the cabin, doesn’t bother to knock, but pushes down the door handle firmly and enters. The arm of a short, thin man on the sofa reaches swiftly for a pistol lying on the table in front of him. He cocks the weapon and points it at Mjones.
Twice in one week, he thinks. It’s becoming a habit.
‘Relax, Durim, it’s only me.’
Durim Redzepi looks at Mjones for a few seconds before he lowers the pistol. Mjones smiles and takes a few steps inside. Playing cards and chips are spread across the oval table. The smoke from countless cigarettes hangs like a blue cobweb across the room.
‘Who is winning?’ he asks and sets down the cage, inside which a tortoiseshell cat is dozing on its stomach. He also removes his backpack.
‘Flurim has the most chips,’ Redzepi says in broken Swedish. A man with a Mohican turns to Mjones. His broad smile reveals a pointed silver stud in his tongue. The men’s attention reverts to their game.
‘Hurry up, it’s your turn,’ Ahmetaj says with the same East European Swedish accent, addressing a compact man in grey tracksuit bottoms who is leaning on the table while he contemplates his next move. A hairy stomach is visible under his white T-shirt. Jeton Pocoli taps his nose with his index finger before he puts down two cards and pushes all his chips to the centre of the table. ‘I’m all in.’
The men around the table stare at him in disbelief.
‘You’re bluffing.’
Pocoli shakes his head.
‘Screw you.’ Redzepi runs his hand over his stubbled head, throws his cards on the table, picks up a can of beer from the floor and lifts it to his lips. Ahmetaj looks at Pocoli, searching for signs of bluffing. He scrutinises him for a long time before he heaves a sigh, looks at the chips in front of him, grabs a large chunk of his own pile and shoves them into the pot.
The last card is played. Ahmetaj’s hopeful look dissolves instantly. ‘For fuck’s sake!’ he groans and tosses aside his cards. ‘Just my rotten luck.’
‘Luck, or the lack of it, has nothing to do with it,’ Pocoli gloats as he scoops up the chips with a broad grin.
Mjones laughs and goes over to the kitchen in the corner. He looks at the messy row of empty beer cans and takes out a plastic carrier bag from one of the drawers. One by one the cans disappear into the bag.
‘Okay,’ he says when he has made the place look reasonably tidy. ‘Have you done everything I told you?’
‘Do you have the money?’ Ahmetaj doesn’t look at him, but interlocks his fingers at the top of his Mohican. It shines, even in the modest lighting in the room. Mjones opens his backpack, takes out a wad of banknotes and runs his finger quickly over them. Fifty notes. He takes out another five wads and throws two to each man.
‘If we pull it off, you’ll get the same again,’ Mjones says while the trio around the table count their money. Ahmetaj nods happily.
‘The equipment is over there,’ he says, pointing to a black bag.
‘What about his email? His mobile? His bank accounts?’
‘Already taken care of.’
Mjones nods and looks at Pocoli. ‘Anything specific I need to know?’
‘I’ll brief you later.’
‘Okay.’
Mjones’s eyes shift to Redzepi.
‘I’m ready when you are.’
Mjones nods again. Everything is as it should be. He sees no point in explaining the plan to them in detail even though he is itching to do so. They are supplying a service. End of story. And yet he can’t resist giving them a preview.
‘Why did you bring the cat?’ Pocoli asks him.
Mjones smiles. ‘To check that I didn’t buy a pig in a poke.’ Mjones laughs at his own joke, but the card players stare blankly at him. ‘Right, I realise you don’t speak Norwegian. But I promise you, you’ve never seen anything like it. It’s quite-’
A contented smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He puts his hand inside the backpack and produces two identical boxes the size of a matchbox, which he puts down on the table.
‘What are they?’ Redzepi asks.
Mjones touches the first box with his index finger. ‘Piercing needles,’ he says.
‘And the other?’
Mjones smiles and opens the second box. ‘You really don’t want to know.’
With reverential movements he takes out an ampoule sealed with a small plastic cap. He unscrews the top, takes out a piercing needle and dips it in the clear liquid with the utmost care. He holds the needle, with the tip pointing upwards. The needle gleams.
‘Who wants to do the honours?’ he asks and looks at them before he nods in the direction of the cat. The eyes around the table light up immediately. He assesses them in turn.
‘Durim,’ he decides. Redzepi smiles and gets up. Mjones hands him the needle. ‘Watch yourself.’
Redzepi takes a step backwards and is extra careful to avoid the point of the needle.
‘No screw-ups this time.’
Mjones looks at him long and hard. Beads of sweat force their way out of the pores of Redzepi’s forehead. He pinches the needle so hard that his knuckles go white.
Calmly, he approaches the cat in the cage. Behind him the others get up and move closer. Redzepi’s look is one of deep concentration.
He opens the cage and looks at the sleepy animal, which barely raises its eyelids to look back at him.