Tom Cain - Assassin

Carver lunged despairingly, trying to reach the overturned bottle and the last litre or two that remained within it. He strained until he felt that his shoulder sockets would be torn apart and his head torn from his body. He fought against suffocation and unconsciousness. But it was no good. The bottle remained out of reach, untouchable, its open top staring blankly at him.

He knew then that it was over. Tyzack had won. He would hit the President. And Carver was going to die within the next few days. From now on it was simply a matter of exactly how and when.

The road map of Oslo’s northern suburbs looks like a maze in a children’s puzzle book. The roads twist and switchback as they snake across the hills. Some side roads link back into the system, while others run blindly away to dead ends. Had she not had Thor navigating for her in the passenger seat, Maddy would have become hopelessly lost. Instead he gave her instructions in a voice as irritatingly calm and emotionless as a sat-nav, while she channelled her anger and desperation into the business of getting to Carver as fast as humanly possible.

Larsson owned a Volvo XC90 4 × 4 whose engine growled like an angry bear as Maddy flung it round corners, slicing across the oncoming traffic, seeking out the racing line. She braked like a racing driver, too: one decisive deceleration, then straight back on the power and a slingshot round the bend, trusting the Volvo’s four-wheel drive to keep it on the blacktop. She broke every rule in the book, overtaking on blind corners, aiming for tiny gaps between vehicles, playing chicken with trucks and buses. Her face was a tight mask of concentration, the only outward signs of her tension coming from the occasional flicker of her cheek, just below the left eye, and the clenching of her jaw as she worked the wheel and the brakes.

The ground was flattening out and the individual detached chalets that lined the streets on the edge of the city, each with their patch of garden, were giving way to more tightly packed housing when Larsson spotted a run of shops a hundred metres or so ahead.

‘Pull in there,’ he said.

‘Are you outta your freakin’ mind?’ Maddy shouted, her temper pumped up by the adrenalin flooding her system.

‘Just do it,’ Larsson insisted. ‘If you want Carver to live.’

Fuming, she pulled into a small line of parking spots.

‘I won’t be long,’ Larsson said, jumping out of the car and running over to one of the shops. Maddy couldn’t work out what the sign on the front meant, but, from the gear displayed in the window, it looked like a tool-hire store.

Larsson emerged from it barely a minute later carrying what looked like a gigantic, super-vicious pair of orange kitchen scissors, with a chainsaw where the top blade would be.

‘Alligator loppers,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘Yeah, I know what they are,’ she said dismissively. She’d already started the engine as he was walking towards the car and was now pulling back out into the traffic.

Within a few minutes they were on the ring road that ran around the north of the city, still going fast, but travelling more smoothly. Larsson didn’t have to give directions any more. He tried making conversation.

‘Where did you learn to drive like that?’

‘Back home, when I was a girl. I come from the boonies, didn’t Carver tell you? Oh, no, I guess he didn’t have time. Look, just don’t talk to me, all right? Don’t tell me how it’s all a terrible mistake. Don’t try to justify yourself. Just shut up unless you’re giving me directions.’

Larsson lowered his head for a moment, cradling it in his right hand. Then he took a deep breath, pulled himself back together and sat back in his seat.

‘Yeah, I get it,’ he said. ‘So, where are we?’ He glanced out of the window. ‘OK, turn left at the next exit. Take the E6. Follow the signs to Lørenskog and Lillestrøm. Got that?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Fine then, I’ll shut up.’

The police Saab 9-5 was powered by environmentally conscious biofuel, but that didn’t seem to slow it down as Ravnsborg raced down a country road on the way to Tvillingtjenn. He leaned forward and looked up through the windscreen as a helicopter clattered overhead, painted in drab, military green.

‘The anti-terrorist boys!’ he shouted over the noise. ‘Let us hope they manage to control themselves until we get there. Not long now.’

Another car, filled with Ravnsborg’s own people, was hurtling after them. The local force from Bjørkelangen had already established a perimeter around the farmhouse and barn where the Lists had reported hearing sounds of violence and seeing a helicopter take off. Grantham was on the phone, listening more than talking.

‘Thanks,’ he said at last. ‘Appreciate it. Sorry if I caused you any grief. Speak to you later. Bye.’

He put his phone away and turned his head towards the driver’s seat.

‘The man’s name is Damon Tyzack,’ he said. ‘He’s an all-purpose nasty piece of work. Suspected links with various unpleasant gangland activities, including trafficking of people and drugs. He’s also rumoured to work on the side as a hitman, though no one’s ever got enough evidence on him to bring charges. One interesting thing, though: he’s an ex-marine, spent some time in the Special Boat Service, but got cashiered, kicked out. Seems like a mission went wrong, though the SBS didn’t release any specific details. They like to keep things close to their chests, those boys, but friend Tyzack must have been a very naughty boy indeed, judging by the speed with which they shoved him out the door. There’s one other interesting wrinkle. It was the commanding officer on the mission who insisted Tyzack had to go. Guess who that was…’

‘I thought you said Mr Carver did not work for Her Majesty.’

‘That’s right, he doesn’t.’

‘But he did once? In the SBS?’

‘Bingo.’

‘And Tyzack has never forgiven him for destroying his military career?’

‘Well,’ said Grantham, ‘that’s certainly a possibility.’

‘We may soon find out, one way or the other,’ Ravnsborg said, hitting the brakes and bringing the Saab screeching to a halt at a police roadblock. Up ahead, to the left of the road, a long, narrow stretch of water was lined with rows of trees rising up into jagged, rocky hills. Three fire-engines and a couple of ambulances were lined up along the side of the road, their crews standing around, chatting, smoking, or lying on the verge, soaking up the sun.

Ravsnborg opened his window and showed his badge. One of the officers manning the block leaned down and gave directions, pointing across the water towards the trees. Ravnsborg turned off the road on to a dirt track and drove the car, much more gingerly now, around the narrow end of the lake and along the far bank.

The track had taken them round the back of the property, up to the patch of open ground now occupied by the anti-terrorist unit’s helicopter. It led past the farmhouse and round to the barn, which was just visible through the trees in the distance. Black-uniformed and helmeted assault troops and local police were lined up behind a line of squad cars opposite the farmhouse. A couple of the men were pointing guns at the building, but most were standing round with the unmistakable air of men awaiting orders and wondering when something would happen.

As Ravnsborg parked and got out of the Saab one of the black-clad figures walked towards him with a tough, purposeful stride in keeping with his menacing appearance. A pot-bellied policeman followed after him, almost having to jog to keep up. Ravnsborg was a superb detective, but it didn’t require a man of his talents to deduce that this was the local inspector.