“If you can, then so can I,” he had said.
Kasparov had whimpered and squirmed as Sung-min picked him up and carried him towards their wet fate, but somehow or other they had managed to get across.
And now, after twenty minutes of sliding about, their path was blocked by this rock face. Or was it? He followed the tracks that led to the side of the cliff, and there he saw a worn, slippery rope that was tied to a tree trunk farther up the almost vertical surface. Then he spotted that the rope carried on through the trees, and that there were some steps cut into the ground to make a path. But he wouldn’t be able to climb the rope and carry Kasparov at the same time.
“Sorry, my friend, this is bound to hurt,” Sung-min said, then knelt down, put Kasparov’s front legs around his neck, turned and strapped the dog’s legs around him tightly with his belt.
“If we don’t see anything up there, we’ll go back,” he said. “I promise.”
Sung-min grabbed the rope and braced his feet. Kasparov howled as he hung helplessly round his owner’s neck like a rucksack, his back legs scratching and scrabbling at the jacket of Sung-min’s suit.
It went quicker than Sung-min expected, and suddenly they were standing at the top of the cliff, where the forest carried on in front of them.
There was a red cabin twenty metres away.
Sung-min freed Kasparov, but instead of following the trail that led straight to the cabin, the dog shrank between his owner’s legs, whimpering and whining.
“There now, there’s nothing to be scared of,” Sung-min said. “Finne’s dead.”
Sung-min spotted animal tracks—large tracks, at that. Could that be what Kasparov was reacting to? He took a step towards the cabin. He felt the wire against his leg, but it was too late, and he knew he’d walked into a trap. There was a hissing sound, and he had time to see a flash of light from the object filled with explosive that flew up in front of him. He closed his eyes instinctively. When he opened them again, he had to lean his head back to see the object as it rose up into the sky, leaving a thin trail of smoke behind it. Then there was a dampkerblamas the rocket exploded, and even though it was daylight he saw the shower of yellow, blue and red, like a miniature Big Bang.
Someone had evidently wanted to be warned if anything was approaching. Possibly also to scare something off. He could feel Kasparov trembling against his leg.
“It’s only a firework,” he said, patting the dog. “But thanks for the warning, my friend.”
Sung-min walked over to the wooden terrace in front of the cabin.
Kasparov had plucked up courage again and ran past him, up to the door.
Sung-min saw from the splintered door frame beside the lock that he wasn’t going to have to break in, that job had already been done for him.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
He noted at once that the cabin had no electricity or water. There were ropes hanging from hooks on the walls, possibly strung up there to stop mice eating them.
But there was food on the bench by the west-facing window.
Bread. Cheese. And a knife.
Not like the short, all-purpose blade with the brown handle he had found when they searched Finne’s body. This one had a blade that he estimated to be just under fifteen centimetres long. Sung-min’s heart started to beat harder, more happily, almost like when he had seen Alexandra Sturdza walk into Statholdergaarden.
“You know what, Kasparov?” he whispered as he looked along the oak handle and horn collar. “I think winter really is almost over.”
Because there was no doubt. This was a Tojiro kitchen knife. This was the knife.
53
“What can I get you?” the white-clad bartender asked.
Harry let his eyes roam along the bottles of aquavit and whisky on the shelves behind him before settling once again on the silent television screen. He was the only person in the bar, and it was oddly quiet. Quiet for Gardermoen Airport, anyway. A sleep-inducing voice was making an announcement at one of the gates in the distance, and a pair of hard shoes was clicking on the floor. It was the sound of an airport that would soon be closing down for the night. But there were still several options. He had arrived on the flight from Lakselv, via Tromsø, an hour ago, and with only his hand luggage he had walked to the transit area instead of the arrivals hall. Harry squinted at the large screen of departures hanging next to the bar. The options were Berlin, Paris, Bangkok, Milan, Barcelona or Lisbon. There was enough time, and the SAS ticket desk was still open.
He looked back at the bartender, who was waiting for his order.
“Since you ask, I’d quite like some volume,” Harry said, pointing towards the television, where Katrine Bratt and the Head of Information, Kedzierski, a man with a head of thick, curly hair, were sitting behind the desk in the Parole Hall, the usual venue for press conferences, on the fourth floor of Police Headquarters. Below them ran the single, repeated line of text:Murder suspect Svein Finne shot by unknown sniper in Smestad.
“Sorry,” the bartender said. “All televisions in the airport have to be silent.”
“There’s nobody here except us.”
