The tannoy announced: 'Gardemoen Airport, Gardemoen. Passengers please alight on the right-hand side.'
'And now you're going to catch Stankic.'
'That's my job.'
'Will you kill him?'
Harry looked at her.
'He killed your colleague,' Martine said.
'Did he say that to you?'
'I said I didn't want to know anything, so he didn't say a word.'
'I'm a policeman, Martine. We arrest people and the court sentences them.'
'Is that so? Then why haven't you sounded a full alarm? Why haven't you called the airport police? Why isn't the Special Forces Unit on its way with all its sirens blaring? Why are you on your own?'
Harry didn't answer.
'No one else even knows what you've just told me, do they?'
Harry saw the designer-smooth, grey cement platform of Gardemoen Airport approach through the train window.
'Our stop,' he said.
34
Monday, 22 December. The Crucifixion.
There was one person between him and the check-in counter when he smelt it. A sweet soap smell that vaguely reminded him of something. Something that had happened not too long ago. He closed his eyes and tried to pinpoint what.
'Next please!'
Jon shuffled forwards, put the suitcase and rucksack on the conveyor belt and placed his ticket and passport on the counter in front of a suntanned man wearing the airline's white short-sleeved shirt.
'Robert Karlsen,' the man said, eyeing Jon, who confirmed with a nod. 'Two bags. And that's hand luggage, is it?' He gestured towards the black bag.
'Yes.'
The man flipped through the pages, typed and a hissing printer spat out tags marked Bangkok for the luggage. That was when Jon remembered the smell. For one second in the doorway of his flat, the last second he had felt safe. The man standing outside who said in English he had a message, then raised a black pistol. He forced himself not to look.
'Have a good trip, herr Karlsen,' the man said with an ultra-swift smile, handing over his boarding pass and the passport.
Jon walked without delay to the queues by the X-ray machines. Putting the ticket in his inside pocket, he snatched a glimpse over his shoulder.
He looked straight at him. For one desperate instant he wondered whether Jon Karlsen had recognised him, but then Jon's gaze moved on. What worried him, however, was that Karlsen appeared frightened.
He had been a little too slow to catch Karlsen at the check-in desk. And now he was in a hurry because Karlsen was already queueing for security where everything and everyone was screened and a revolver was impossible to conceal. It had to happen on this side.
He breathed in and tightened and slackened his grip on the gunstock inside his coat.
His instinct was to shoot the target on the spot, his usual practice. But even though he could soon disappear into the crowd, they would close the airport, check everyone's identities and he would not only miss his flight to Copenhagen in forty-five minutes but his freedom for the next twenty years.
He moved towards Jon Karlsen's back. It had to happen with speed and decisiveness. He would go up to him, thrust the gun in his ribs and give him the ultimatum in plain, concise terms. Thereafter lead him calmly through the jam-packed departures hall into the multistorey car park, behind a car, a shot to the head, body under the car, lose the gun before the security controls, gate 32, plane to Copenhagen.
He already had the gun out halfway and was two steps away when Karlsen stepped out of the queue and with long strides made for the other end of the departure hall. Do vraga! He turned to follow, forcing himself not to run. He hasn't seen you, he kept repeating to himself.
Jon told himself not to run, that it would make it obvious he knew he had been seen. He had not recognised the face, but he didn't need to. The man was wearing the red neckerchief. On the stairs down to the arrivals hall Jon felt the sweat coming. At the bottom he turned back on himself and when he was out of sight from those on the staircase, he placed the bag under his arm and began to run. The faces in front of him flashed past, with Ragnhild's empty eye sockets and unstoppable screams. He ran down another staircase and now there was no one around him any more, just cold, damp air and the echo of his own footsteps and breathing in a broad corridor sloping downwards. He realised he was in the corridor leading to the car park and hesitated for a moment to stare into the black eye of a surveillance camera, as if that could give him the answer. Further ahead he saw a neon sign over a door like a living image of himself: a man standing erect and helpless. The men's toilet. A hiding place. Out of sight. He could lock himself in. Wait until the plane was about to leave before coming out.
He heard an echo of rapid footsteps coming closer. He ran to the toilet, opened the door and stepped inside. The white light that was reflected towards him was how he imagined heaven would reveal itself to a dying man. Bearing in mind the isolated location of the toilet he thought it absurdly spacious. Rows of unoccupied white bowls stood in line, waiting along one wall, while cubicles of the same white hue lined the other. He heard the door glide to behind him and close with a metallic click.
The air in the cramped monitoring room at Gardemoen Airport was unpleasantly warm and dry.
'There,' Martine said, pointing.
Harry and the two security guards in the chairs faced her first, then the wall of screens she was pointing at.
'Which one?' Harry asked.
'There,' she said, walking over to the monitor showing an empty corridor. 'I saw him pass by. I'm positive it was him.'
'That's the surveillance camera in the corridor to the car park,' one of the guards said.
'Thanks,' Harry said. 'I'll handle this from here.'
'Hang on,' the guard said. 'This is an international airport and you may have police ID but you need authorisation to-'
He stopped in his tracks. Harry had drawn a revolver from his waistband and was weighing it in his hand. 'Can we say this authority is valid until further notice?'
Harry didn't wait for an answer.
Jon had heard someone enter the toilet. But all he could hear now was the flush of water in the white tear-shaped bowls outside the cubicle in which he had locked himself.
Jon was sitting on the toilet lid. The cubicles were open at the top, but the doors went right down to the floor so he didn't have to pull up his legs.
Then the flush stopped and he heard a splash.
Someone was peeing.
Jon's first thought was that it couldn't have been Stankic. No one could be so cold-blooded that they would think about urinating before committing murder. His second was that Sofia's father may have been right about the little redeemer you could hire for peanuts at Hotel International in Zagreb: he was fearless.
Jon clearly heard the swish of trouser flies being zipped up, and then the white porcelain orchestra's water music started up again.
It stopped as if at the command of a baton, and he heard running water from a tap. A man was washing his hands. With scrupulous care. The tap was turned off. Then more steps. The door creaked. The metallic click.
Jon slumped in a heap on the toilet lid with the bag in his lap.
There was a knock at the cubicle door.
Three light taps, but with the sound of something hard. Like steel.
The blood seemed to refuse to enter his brain. He didn't stir, just closed his eyes and held his breath. But his heart was pounding. He had read somewhere that some predators have ears that can pick up the sound of a victim's frightened heart, in fact that was how they found them. Apart from his heartbeat, the silence was total. He shut his eyes tight and thought that if he concentrated he would be able to see through the roof and catch sight of the cold, clear starry sky, see the planet's invisible but comforting plan and logic, see the meaning of everything.