Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

Sverre's gaze panned around the room. A girl and boy were tucking into a pizza. He hadn't seen them before, but they didn't look like undercover police. Nor like journalists. Were they from the anti-fascist newspaper Monitor perhaps? He had exposed a Monitor bozo last winter, a man with scared eyes who had been in here a couple of times too many, who had acted drunk and started conversations with some of the regulars. Sverre had sniffed treachery in the air and they had taken him outside and torn off his sweater. He'd been wearing a wire. He had confessed that he was from Monitor before they even laid a hand on him. Scared stiff. Bunch of twats, these Monitor types. Thought this boys' game, this voluntary surveillance of fascist elements, was extremely important and dangerous, that they were secret agents whose lives were in constant danger. Yeah, well, as far as that was concerned, perhaps they weren't so different from a few in his own ranks, he had to admit. Anyway, the bozo had been sure they would kill him and was so frightened that he pissed himself. Quite literally. Sverre had spotted the dark stripe meandering down his trouser leg and across the tarmac. That was what he remembered best from that evening. The little stream of urine glittered dimly as it sought the lowest point in the sparsely lit back alley.

Sverre Olsen decided that the couple was just two hungry youngsters who happened to be passing by. The speed they were eating suggested that now they had become aware of the clientele and just wanted to get out as quickly as possible. By the window sat an old man in hat and coat. Perhaps a dipso, although his clothes sent a different message. But then again, they often looked like that for the first few days after the Salvation Army had dressed them-in nice second-hand quality coats and suits which were a little out of fashion. As he observed him, the old man suddenly looked up and met his eye. He wasn't a dipso. The man had sparkling blue eyes and Sverre automatically looked away. How the old bastard stared!

Sverre concentrated on his mug of beer. It was time to earn a bit of cash. Let his hair grow over the tattoo on his neck, put on a long-sleeved shirt and get out there. There was enough work. Shit work. The blacks had all the nice, well-paid jobs. Poofs, heathens and blacks.

'May I sit down?'

Sverre raised his eyes. It was the old man; he stood above him. Sverre hadn't even noticed him walk over. 'This is my table,' Sverre rebuffed.

'I only want a little chat.' The old man laid a newspaper on the table between them and sat in the chair opposite. Sverre watched him warily. 'Relax, I'm one of you,' he said. 'One of who?'

'One of the people who come here. National Socialists.’

‘Oh yeah?'

Sverre moistened his lips and put the glass to his mouth. The old man sat there, motionless, watching him. Calmly, as if he had all the time in the world. And he probably did have, he looked about seventy. At least. Could he be one of the old extremists from Zorn 88? One of the shy financial backers Sverre had heard about but never seen?

'I need a favour.' The old man spoke in a low voice.

'Oh yeah?' Sverre said. But he had toned down the overtly condescending attitude a notch. You never knew, after all.

'Gun,' the old man said.

'What about a gun?'

'I need one. Can you help me?'

'Why should I?'

'Open the paper. Page twenty-eight.'

Sverre pulled the paper over and kept an eye on the old man as he flicked through. On page twenty-eight there was an article about neo-Nazis in Spain. By that bloody Resistance man, Even Juul. Thanks a lot. The big black and white picture of a young man holding up a painting of Generalissimo Franco was partially obscured by a thousand-kroner note.

'If you can help me…' the old man said.

Sverre shrugged.

'… there'll be nine thousand more on the way.'

'Oh yeah?' Sverre took another gulp. Looked around the room. The young couple had gone, but Halle, Gregersen and Kvinset were still sitting in the corner. And soon the others would be coming and it would be impossible to have a discreet conversation. Ten thousand kroner.

'What kind of gun?'

A rifle.'

'Should be able to manage that.' The old man shook his head. A Marklin rifle.'

'Marklin? As in model trains?' Sverre asked.

A crack opened in the wrinkled face beneath the hat. The old codger must have smiled.

'If you can't help me, tell me now. You can keep the thousand and we won't talk any more about it. I'll leave and we'll never see each other again.'

Sverre experienced a brief rush of adrenaline. This was not the everyday chat about axes, hunting rifles or the odd stick of dynamite. This was the real McCoy. This guy was for real.

The door opened. Sverre glanced over his shoulder at the old man coming in. Not one of the boys, just the alkie in the red Icelandic sweater. He could be a pain when he was scrounging booze, but otherwise he was harmless enough.

'I'll see what I can do,' Sverre said, grabbing the thousand-kroner note.

Sverre didn't see what happened next. The old-man's hand smacked down on his like an eagle's claw and fastened it to the table.

'That wasn't what I asked.' The voice was cold and crisp, like a sheet of ice.

Sverre tried to jerk his hand away, but couldn't. Couldn't release his hand from the grip of a senile old man!

'I asked if you could help me, and I want an answer. Yes or no. Understand?'

Sverre could feel his fury, his old friend and foe, mounting. For the time being, however, it had not repressed the other thought: ten thousand kroner. There was one man who could help him, a very special man. It wouldn't be cheap, but he had a feeling the old codger wouldn't haggle over the price.

'I… I can help you.'

'When?'

'Three days. Here. Same time.'

'Rubbish! You won't get hold of a rifle like that in three days.' The old man let go of his hand. 'But you run off to the man who can help you, and ask him to run over to the man who can help him, and then you meet me here in three days so that we can arrange the time and place for delivery.'

Sverre could lift 120 kilos on a bench press. How could this scrawny old…?

'You tell me if the rifle has to be paid cash on delivery. You'll get the rest of your money in three days.'

'Yeah? What if I just take the money?’

‘Then I'll come back and kill you.'

Sverre rubbed his wrists. He didn't ask for any further details.

An icy cold wind swept across the pavement outside the telephone booth by Torggata Baths as Sverre Olsen tapped in the numbers with trembling fingers. It was so fucking cold! He had holes in the toecaps of both boots too. The receiver was lifted at the other end.

'Yes?'

Sverre Olsen swallowed. Why was it the voice always made him feel so damned uneasy? 'It's me. Olsen.’

‘Speak.'

'Someone needs a gun. A Marklin.' No response.

'As in model trains,' Sverre added.

'I know what a Marklin is, Olsen.' The voice at the other end was flat, neutral; Sverre could feel the disdain. He didn't react because, though he hated the man at the other end, his terror of him was greater-he wasn't ashamed to admit that. This man had the reputation of being dangerous. Few people had heard of him, even in Sverre's circle, and Sverre didn't know his real name. But he had saved Sverre and his pals from a sticky situation more than once. All for the Cause, of course, not because he had any special liking for Sverre Olsen. Had Sverre known anyone else he thought could provide what he was after, he would have got in touch with them.

The voice: "Who's asking and what do they want it for?'

'Some old guy. I've never seen him before. Said he was one of us. And I didn't exactly ask him who he was going to blow away, let's put it like that. No one perhaps. Perhaps he just wants it to -'