Thomas Enger: Pierced

‘Yes. Other people live there now.’

‘So any evidence is gone for good. And there are many ways to torch a flat which are impossible to detect. Unfortunately.’

Henning nods silently. They sit there looking at each other until Henning looks away. He knows that he has to find the person or persons who set fire to his flat and get them to admit it. It is the only thing that will satisfy him.

His eyes wander to the junction.

‘So you think that someone was trying to get you? Kill you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, that’s the big question. I don’t know. I don’t even know where to begin.’

‘And this happened two years ago?’

‘More or less.’

Ophus looks at Henning for a long time. ‘Don’t you think they would have made a second attempt?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Has anyone tried to kill you since?’

‘Not that I’ve noticed.’

Ophus doesn’t reply but Henning can see what he is thinking all the same. It would suit you to be arson, wouldn’t it? So you can blame someone other than yourself?

They listen to the traffic.

Eventually, Ophus says, ‘I don’t think there is very much I can do to help you.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ Henning replies, quietly.

‘You mentioned that you hadn’t seen the police report. Perhaps there is something in that which could be useful to you? I might be able to get you a copy of it, if you like.’

‘I don’t know if it will make a difference, but — but why not?’

‘They owe me a favour down at the police station. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you so much. I really do appreciate it.’

Ophus straightens up, but Henning is aware that his eyes are still on him. He can’t bear to look him in the eye. So he says, without raising his gaze, ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary, Ophus. Thank you so much for meeting with me.’

‘Not at all. You’re welcome to contact me if you think of anything else.’

Henning smiles and nods. They shake hands before Ophus gets up and heads for the junction. He passes a man leaning against the whitewashed wall sucking at a thin roll-up, the embers barely alive.

Orjan Mjones presses his forehead against the United Airlines window and looks out over Oslo. Green trees surround Ekeberg Restaurant on the eastern slope of the city. Nearer the city centre people lie sunbathing, stretched out on the grass in Fjordbyen. The roof of the opera house sparkles like an ice floe in the sunshine. Below the belly of the plane, the red-brick towers of Oslo Town Hall stick up towards him like rotten teeth.

The aeroplane glides slowly through the quiet air. The captain announces that they will be landing in a few minutes. Mjones closes his eyes. It has been a long journey. A return trip to Bogota, changing in Newark both there and back, and he hasn’t managed a wink of sleep the whole time. He had to make do with a thirty-minute power nap on a airport bench while waiting for the flight back to Oslo. Soon he will have spent thirty-five hours in the air. It has been exciting. It has been exhausting. But it has been worth it.

It all started five days ago when he saw his fictitious contact name in the subject field in an advert on the website finn. no. Later the same day he called the number listed in the advert, which was answered by a voice he hadn’t heard for almost two years. Bearing in mind the rage in the voice the last time the two of them spoke, Mjones hadn’t expected to hear from Langbein ever again, but they agreed to meet at the bottom level of the multi-storey car park under Oslo City Shopping Centre. Mjones walked west until a sharp voice from behind a pillar ordered him to stop. A long shadow stretched out across the concrete.

Mjones did as he was told and looked around. He could hear tyres squeal in the distance, but he saw no one.

‘It has been a long time,’ he said, but Langbein made no reply. Instead, a C4 envelope was slid along the ground towards him. Reluctantly, he bent down to pick it up. He took out a photograph. There was a red cross covering the face of the man in the picture. Mjones’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘No.’

Mjones looked at the photograph again, took out a sheet of paper which had been inserted behind it and skimmed the text. Then he shook his head and spoke the words he rarely allowed himself to utter: ‘That’s impossible.’

‘Nothing is impossible. And if you hadn’t screwed up the last time, there would be no need for this job.’

Mjones was about to protest, but he knew that Langbein was right. He was haunted by the incident. Mistakes are bad for his reputation. And yet he said, ‘It’s too risky.’

The turn in conversation caught him completely by surprise.

‘In my office there is an envelope identical to the one you’re holding in your hands. With one sole exception. It also contains a picture of you.’

‘Of me?’

‘Yes, of you. If you don’t take the job, you become the job.’

Mjones was about to go behind the pillar to confront Langbein, but the sight of an arm and the mouth of a pistol stopped him in his tracks.

‘If I’m not back in fifteen minutes that envelope goes to the next man on the list. But I want you. I thought it would be an appropriate way for you to correct the mistake you made last time. Besides, you’ll be well paid.’

Mjones tried to shake off his initial shock.

‘How much?’

‘Two million kroner. Twenty-five per cent up front, cash. You’ll get the rest when all the loose ends have been tied up.’

Mjones said nothing for a long time. He was contemplating the level of difficulty, his options. He scratched the back of his head and rubbed his nostrils with two fingers. Then he said:

‘I’ll do it for three.’

A few seconds of silence followed. Then Langbein said, ‘Done.’

An intense rush surged through Mjones’s body, but he didn’t have time to savour it. The next moment, a suitcase was pushed in his direction.

‘It must happen quickly and quietly. No traces. No questions. And no mistakes this time.’

Mjones nodded. Ideally, he would have liked plenty of time to plan, but he had always been good at thinking on his feet. In his head he had already come up with one possible scenario. But he had no time to ask Langbein any more questions because immediately afterwards a car door slammed shut. And when Mjones walked around the pillar, Langbein had gone.

Mjones thought for several minutes about what he was being forced to do. Langbein could be bluffing, but even before the threats and the money were mentioned Mjones had already made up his mind. It was an opportunity to redeem himself. To be generously paid for it as well was simply an added bonus. Besides, it was a long time since he had taken on a job of this magnitude and his fingers were already itching. All of his senses seemed heightened. He felt so much more alive.

Five days go quickly, Mjones thinks, and prepares himself for landing. So much has happened in that time. And yet so little. Perhaps that’s why he has been unable to sleep. Perhaps his body can’t relax until it’s all over. Nor will he have much time to rest when he gets home. The operation begins in a few hours. Everything must be in place.

The aeroplane lands, and half an hour later Mjones is on the train to Oslo. He thinks about the small box in his suitcase, about the plan he has come up with. It’s daring. It’s fiendish.

But if it works, it’s pure genius.

Henning stares out of the window while the silence fills the space between the walls. The facade of the white building opposite him is streaked with brown trails of grime. His gaze continues down towards windowsills and intricate decorations. But he doesn’t look down. Not all the way down. He never can.