The Redeemer

Martine stood up. 'Now I think you should go.'

'Answer me first.'

'I don't need to answer for something I haven't done.'

She had reached the living room door when Harry caught up with her. He stood in front of her and gripped her shoulders. 'Martine.. .'

'I have to go to a concert.'

'He killed one of my best friends, Martine.'

Her face was closed and hard as she replied. 'Perhaps he shouldn't have got in the way.'

Harry took his hands away as if burned. 'You can't just let Jon Karlsen be killed. What about forgiveness? Isn't that an intrinsic part of the business you're all in?'

'You're the one who thinks that people can change,' Martine said. 'Not me. And I don't know where Stankic is.'

Harry let her go; she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Harry stood waiting.

'And you're wrong about our line of business,' Martine called from behind the door. 'It's not about forgiveness. We're in the same business as everyone else. Redemption, right?'

Despite the cold, Rikard was standing outside the car leaning against the bonnet with his arms crossed. He didn't return Harry's nod as the police officer passed.

32

Monday, 22 December. The Exodus.

It was half past six in the evening, but there was feverish activity in Crime Squad.

Harry found Ola Li by the fax machine. He glanced at the sheet coming through. Sent by Interpol.

'What's going on, Ola?'

'Gunnar Hagen rang round and scrambled the department. Absolutely everyone is here. We're going to get the guy who got Halvorsen.'

There was a determination in Li's tone that Harry knew by instinct reflected the atmosphere on the sixth floor that evening.

Harry went into his office where Skarre was standing behind the desk speaking on the telephone, fast and in a loud voice.

'We can make more trouble for you and your boys than you imagine, Affi. If you don't help me by getting your boys on the street, you will shoot right up to first place on our most wanted list. Have I made myself clear? So: Croat, medium height-'

'Blond, crew cut,' Harry said.

Skarre looked up and sent Harry a nod. 'Blond crew cut. Call me back when you've got something.'

He put down the receiver. 'Total Band Aid atmosphere out there. Everything on two legs is ready to roll. I've never seen anything like it.'

'Mm,' Harry said. 'Still no sign of Jon Karlsen?'

'Zilch. All we know is that his girlfriend, Thea, says they agreed to meet this evening at the concert hall. They're supposed to be sitting in the VIP box.'

Harry consulted his watch. 'Then Stankic has an hour and a half to see if he can finish off the job.'

'How do you make that out?'

'I phoned the concert hall. All the tickets were sold out four weeks ago, and they won't let anyone in without a ticket, not even to the foyer. In other words, once Jon is inside he's safe. Ring and check whether Torkildsen is on tap at Telenor. If he is, ask him to trace Karlsen's mobile phone. Oh, and make sure we have enough police outside the concert hall, armed and with a description of Stankic. Then call the Prime Minister's Office and make them aware of the extra security measures.'

'Me?' Skarre said. 'The… Prime Minister's Office?'

'Do it,' Harry said. 'You're a big boy now.'

From the office telephone Harry called one of the six numbers he knew off by heart.

The other five were: Sis's, his parents' house in Oppsal, Halvorsen's mobile, Bjarne Moller's old private number and Ellen Gjelten's disconnected number.

'Rakel here.'

'It's me.' He heard an intake of breath.

'I thought so.'

'Why?'

'Because I was thinking about you.' She chuckled. 'That's just the way it is. Don't you think?'

Harry closed his eyes. 'I wondered about meeting Oleg tomorrow,' he said. 'As we discussed.'

'Great!' she said. 'He'll be so pleased. Will you come here and pick him up?' On hearing his hesitation, she added, 'We're alone.'

Harry both wanted and didn't want to ask what she meant by that.

'I'll try to be there around six,' he said.

According to Klaus Torkildsen, Jon Karlsen's mobile phone was located to the east of Oslo, in Haugerud or Hoybraten.

'That's not much help,' Harry said.

After pacing the floors for an hour, from office to office, to hear how the others were getting on, Harry put on his jacket and said he was off to the concert hall.

He parked in a restricted area down one of the small streets around Victoria terrasse, walked past the Ministry for Foreign Affairs and down the broad steps to Ruselokkveien and took a right to the concert hall.

In the large, open square in front of the glass facade people dressed in formal attire were hurrying through the biting sub-zero temperatures. By the entrance stood two broad-shouldered men wearing black coats and earpieces. And there were six further uniformed policemen standing at intervals in front of the building and receiving curious looks from shivering concert-goers unaccustomed to seeing Oslo police with machine guns.

Harry recognised Sivert Falkeid in one of the uniforms and went over to him.

'I didn't know Delta had been drafted in.'

'We haven't been,' Falkeid said. 'I rang the police station and asked if we could be of help. He was your partner, wasn't he?'

Harry nodded, took out a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket and offered one to Falkeid, who shook his head.

'Jon Karlsen hasn't turned up yet?'

'No,' Falkeid said. 'And when the Prime Minister's here we won't be letting anyone else in the VIP box.' At that moment two black cars swung into the square. 'Speak of the devil.'

Harry watched the Prime Minister emerging and being led briskly inside. As the front door opened Harry caught a glimpse of the reception committee. He saw David Eckhoff with a broad smile and Thea Nilsen with not such a big smile, both wearing Salvation Army uniforms.

Harry lit his cigarette.

'Fuck, it's cold,' Falkeid said. 'I've lost feeling in both legs and half my head.'

I envy you, thought Harry.

With the cigarette half smoked the inspector said aloud: 'He's not coming.'

'Looks like that. We'll have to hope he hasn't already found Karlsen.'

'It's Karlsen I'm talking about. He knows the game's up.'

Falkeid glanced at the tall detective whom, at one time, before the rumours of drinking and unruliness came to his ears, he had considered Delta material. 'What sort of game?' he asked.

'Long story. I'm going in. If Jon Karlsen turns up, arrest him.'

'Karlsen?' Falkeid looked perplexed. 'What about Stankic?'

Harry let go of his cigarette, which fell in the snow at his feet with a hiss.

'Yes,' he drawled, as though to himself. 'What about Stankic?'

He sat in the dark fingering the coat he had spread across his lap. Hushed harp music issued forth from the speakers. Small cones of light from the spotlights in the ceiling swept across the audience, the purpose of which he assumed was to create a quiver of anticipation for what was to take place onstage in a short while.

The rows in front of him began to stir as a group of a dozen or so guests appeared. A few people attempted to get to their feet but after some whispering and mumbling they sat down again. In this country it seemed you didn't show respect for politically elected leaders in that particular way. The company was ushered to seats three rows in front of him, which had been unoccupied for the half-hour he had been sitting and waiting.

He saw a man in a suit with a wire leading to one ear, but no uniformed police. The police presence outside had not given rise to alarm, either. In fact he had been expecting a greater show of force. After all, Martine had told him the Prime Minister would be attending the concert. On the other hand, what difference did the number of police make? He was invisible. Even more invisible than usual. Pleased with himself, he cast his eyes around the auditorium. How many hundreds of men were here in dinner suits? He could already imagine the chaos. And the simple but effective getaway. He had popped in the day before and found the escape route. The last thing he did before entering this evening was to check no one had locked the windows in the Gents. The plain, frosted windows could be pushed outwards and were large enough and low enough for a man to escape onto the ledge outside without any problems. From there it was a jump of three metres onto one of the car roofs in the parking lot. Then on with the coat, into busy Haakon VII's gate and two minutes and forty seconds of rapid walking later he would be on the platform of the National Theatre station where the airport express stopped every twenty minutes. The departure he was aiming for was at 20.19. Before leaving the toilet he had put two urinal blocks in his jacket pocket.