Jo Nesbo - The Redbreast

'Fine, so you understand that we in POT cannot prioritise an unregistered rifle in Buskerud.'

Meirik was struggling to maintain his composure. Harry exhaled smoke through his mouth and studied it as it rose to the ceiling.

'Siljan isn't in Buskerud,' he said.

Meirik's jaw muscles were working hard.

'Have you rung Customs amp; Excise, Hole?’

‘No.'

Meirik looked at his watch, a lumpen, inelegant steel job Harry guessed he had been given for long and faithful service.

'Then I suggest you do. This is a case for them. Right now I have more pressing -'

'Do you know what a Marklin rifle is, Meirik?'

Harry watched the POT boss's eyebrows jump up and down and wondered if it was already too late. He could feel the swish of the windmills.

'Not my business, either, by the way, Hole. You'd better take this up with…'

Kurt Meirik suddenly seemed to realise that he was Hole's only line manager.

'A Marklin rifle,' Harry said, 'is a German semi-automatic hunting rifle which uses 16 mm bullets, bigger than those of any other rifle. It is intended for use on big game hunts, such as for water buffalo or elephants. The first rifle was made in 1970, but only three hundred were made before the German authorities banned the sale of the weapon in! 973- The reason was that the rifle is, with a couple of simple adjustments and Marklin telescopic sights, the ultimate professional murder weapon, and it had already become the world's most sought after assassination weapon by 1973. Of the three hundred rifles at least one hundred fell into the hands of contract killers and terrorist organisations like Baader Meinhof and the Red Brigade.'

'Hm. Did you say one hundred?' Meirik passed the print-out back to Harry. 'That means that two out of three use the gun for what it was intended. Hunting.'

'This is not a weapon for hunting elk or any other kind of hunting common in Norway'

'Really? Why not?'

Harry wondered what it was that held Meirik back. Why didn't he ask him to finish his cigarette and go? And why was he himself so keen to provoke such a reaction? Perhaps it was nothing, perhaps he was just getting old and grumpy. Whatever it was, Meirik was behaving like a well-paid childminder who didn't dare touch the brat. Harry observed the long column of ash bending towards the floor.

'First of all, hunting is not a millionaire's sport in Norway. A Marklin rifle with telescopic sights costs around 150,000 Deutschmarks-in other words, the same as a new Mercedes. And every cartridge costs 90 Deutschmarks. Secondly, an elk hit by a 16 mm bullet looks as if it has been in a collision with a train. A pretty messy business.'

'Heh, heh.' Meirik had obviously decided to change tactics. Now he was leaning back with his hands behind his shiny pate, as a sign that he wouldn't mind Hole entertaining him for a while yet. Harry stood up, took the ashtray down from the top shelf and returned to his seat.

'Of course the cartridges may belong to some fanatical arms collector who has tested out his new rifle and now keeps it hanging in a glass showcase in a big house somewhere in Norway, never to be used again. But dare we assume that?' Harry shook his head. 'I suggest I take a trip up to Skien and have a peep at this place. Besides, I doubt that it was a pro up there.'

'Really?'

'Pros clean up after themselves. Leaving empty cartridges is like leaving a business card. But if it's an amateur with a Marklin rifle, that doesn't make me feel any more reassured.'

Meirik uttered a few hmm-sounds. Then he nodded.

'Fine. And keep me posted if you find out anything about the Independence Day plans of our neo-Nazis.'

Harry stubbed out his cigarette. Venice, Italy, it said on the side of the gondola-shaped ashtray.

Linz. 9 June 1944.

The family of five got off the train, and they had the compartment to themselves. When they slowly moved off again, Helena had already taken her seat by the window, although she couldn't see a great deal in the dark, only the contours of buildings adjacent to the train. He sat opposite and studied her with a little smile playing on his lips.

'You Austrians are good at observing the blackout,' he said. 'I can't see a single light.'

She sighed, 'We're good at doing what we're told.'

She looked at her watch. It was almost two o'clock.

'The next town is Salzburg,' she said. 'It's close to the German border. And then…'

'Munich, Zurich, Basle, France and Paris. You've said that three times already'

He leaned forward and squeezed her hand. 'It'll be fine, just you see. Sit over here.'

She moved without letting go of his hand and rested her head gently against his shoulder. He looked so different now he was in uniform.

'So this Brockhard has sent in another medical certificate, valid for a week?'

'Yes, he said he would send it by post yesterday afternoon.’

‘Why such a short extension?'

'Well, so that he had the situation-and me-better under control.

I would have had to give him a good reason to extend your sick leave each time. Do you understand?'

'Yes, I do,' he said and she saw his jaw muscles tensing. 'Let's not talk about Brockhard any more now,' she said. 'Tell me a story.'

She stroked his cheek and he gave a heavy sigh. 'Which one would you like to hear?'

'Whichever you like.'

The stories. That was how he had caught her attention at the Rudolf II Hospital. They were so different from the stories other soldiers told. Uriah's stories were about courage, comradeship and hope. Like the time he had come off duty and discovered a polecat on his best friend's chest ready to rip open his throat as he slept. The distance had been almost ten metres and the bunker with its black earthen walls almost pitch dark. But he had had no choice. He had put his gun to his cheek and kept firing until the magazine was empty. They had eaten the polecat for dinner the next day.

There were several stories like that one. Helena couldn't remember them all, but she remembered that she had started listening. His stories were lively and amusing; she wasn't sure if she could believe some of them. She wanted to, though, because they were an antidote to the other stories, stories about irredeemable fates and senseless deaths.

As the unlit train shook and juddered its way through the night on newly repaired rails, Uriah told about the time he had shot a Russian sniper in no man's land and had ventured out to give the atheistic Bolshevik a Christian burial, with psalms and everything.

'So beautifully did I sing that night,' Uriah said, I could hear them applauding from the Russian side.'

'Really?' she laughed.

'It was more beautiful than any singing you've heard in the Staatsoper'

'Liar.'

Uriah pulled her over to him and sang softly into her ear:

Join the circle of men round the fire, gaze at torches so golden and bright,

Urging soldiers to aim ever higher, pledge their beings to stand up and fight.

In the flickering glistening flashes, see our Norway in years of yore,

See its people emerging from ashes, see your kinsfolk at peace and at war.

See your fathers in action for freedom, suffer losses both woman and man,

See the thousands arise to defeat them, giving all in their fight for our land.

See the men out in snow every hour, proud and glad of the struggle and toil,

Hearts aflame with the will and the power, standing firm on our forefathers' soil.

See the names of the Norsemen appear, live in sagas of glittering words,

Who though centuries dead are still here, still remembered from fells to fjords.

But the man who has hoisted the penant, red and yellow the flag of the great,

We salute you our fiery lieutenant: Quisling, ruler of soldier and state.