Jo Nesbo - The Thirst

‘There,’ he said. ‘Where were we? Oh yes, good and bad news. The bad news is that the obvious thought that I’m here to kill you is so obvious that … well, it’s correct. In other words, we’re now up to one hundred per cent certainty. I’m going to kill you.’ Valentin looked at Mehmet with a sad expression. Then he burst out laughing. ‘That’s the longest face I’ve seen today! And of course I can understand that, but don’t forget the good news. Which is that you get to choose how you die. Here are the options, so listen carefully. Are you with me? Good. Do you want to be shot in the head or have this drainage tube stuck in your neck?’ Valentin held up something that looked like a large drinking straw made of metal, one end of which was cut diagonally to form a sharp point.

Mehmet just stared at Valentin. The whole thing was so absurd that he was starting to wonder if this was a dream he was about to wake up from. Or was the man in front of him dreaming all of this? But then Valentin jabbed the tube towards him and Mehmet automatically took a step back and hit the sink.

Valentin snapped: ‘Not the drainage tube, then?’

Mehmet nodded cautiously as he saw the sharpened metal point glint in the light from the mirror shelf. Needles. That had always been his greatest fear. Having things inserted into his body through his skin. That was why he ran away from home and hid in the forest as a child when they were going to vaccinate him.

‘An agreement is an agreement, so no tube.’ Valentin put the straw down on the bar and pulled a pair of black antique-looking handcuffs from his pocket, all without the barrel of the revolver moving an inch from Mehmet. ‘Pass one of them behind the metal bar on the mirror unit, fasten them round your wrists, and lay your head in the sink.’

‘I …’

Mehmet didn’t see the blow coming. Just registered a crashing sound in his head, an instant of blackness, and the fact that he was facing a different direction when his vision returned. He realised he’d been hit with the revolver and that the barrel was now pressed to his temple.

‘The drainage tube,’ a voice whispered close to his ear. ‘Your choice.’

Mehmet picked up the strange, heavy handcuffs and passed one behind the metal bar. He fastened them round his wrists. He felt something warm trickle down his nose and top lip. The sweet, metallic taste of blood.

‘Tasty?’ Valentin said in a high voice.

Mehmet looked up and met his gaze in the mirror.

‘I can’t stand it myself,’ Valentin smiled. ‘It tastes of iron and beatings. Yes, iron and beatings. Your own blood, fine, but other people’s? And you can taste what they’ve been eating. Speaking of eating, does the condemned man have a last wish? Not that I’m thinking of serving a meal, I’m just curious.’

Mehmet blinked. A last wish? The words found their way in, no more than that, but as if in a dream his mind couldn’t help considering the answer. He hoped that the Jealousy Bar would one day be the coolest in Oslo. That Galatasaray would win the league. That Paul Rodgers’ ‘Ready for Love’ would be played at his funeral. What else? He tried, but couldn’t think of anything. And felt sorrowful laughter welling up inside him.

Harry saw a figure hurrying away from the Jealousy Bar as he approached. The light from the big window fell across the pavement, but he couldn’t hear any music from inside. He went over to the edge of the window and looked in. Saw the back of a figure behind the bar, but it was impossible to tell if it was Mehmet. It looked empty apart from that. Harry moved to the door and cautiously pushed the handle. Locked. The bar was open until midnight.

Harry pulled out the key ring with the broken plastic heart. Slowly inserted the key in the lock. Drew his Glock 17 with his right hand as he turned the key and opened the door with his left. He stepped inside, holding the pistol in front of him with both hands as he used his foot to make sure that the door closed gently behind him. But the sounds of the evening in Grünerløkka had drifted in, and the figure behind the bar straightened up and looked in the mirror.

‘Police,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t move.’

‘Harry Hole.’ The figure was wearing a peaked cap and the angle of the mirror meant Harry couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t need to. More than three years had passed since he had heard this high-pitched voice, but it was like yesterday.

‘Valentin Gjertsen,’ Harry said, and heard the tremble in his own voice.

‘At last we meet again, Harry. I’ve thought about you. Have you thought about me?’

‘Where’s Mehmet?’

‘You’re excited, you have thought about me.’ That high-pitched laugh. ‘Why? Because of my list of accomplishments? Or victims, as you call them. No, wait. It’s obviously because of your list of accomplishments. I’m the one you never caught, aren’t I?’

Harry didn’t answer, just stood where he was by the door.

‘It’s unbearable, is that it? Good! That’s why you’re so good. You’re like me, Harry, you can’t bear it.’

‘I’m not like you, Valentin.’ Harry changed his grip on the pistol, aimed and wondered what was stopping him from going closer.

‘No? You don’t let yourself get distracted by any consideration of the people around you, do you? You keep your eyes on the prize, Harry. Look at yourself now. All you want is your trophy, no matter what the cost. Other people’s lives, your own … If you’re really honest, all of that comes second, doesn’t it? You and me, we ought to sit down and get to know each other better, Harry. Because we don’t meet many people like us.’

‘Shut up, Valentin. Stay where you are, put your hands up where I can see them, and tell me where Mehmet is.’

‘If Mehmet is the name of your spy, I shall have to move in order to show you. And then the situation we find ourselves in will also become much clearer.’

Valentin Gjertsen took a step to one side. Mehmet was half standing, half hanging from his arms, which were tied to the metal bar that ran horizontally across the top of the mirror behind the bar. His head was bent forward, down into the sink, meaning that his long dark curls covered his face. Valentin was holding a long-barrelled revolver to the back of his head.

‘Stay where you are, Harry. As you can see, we have an interesting balance of terror here. From where you’re standing to here it’s – what? – eight to ten metres? The chances of your first shot putting me out of action so that I don’t have time to kill Mehmet are pretty slim, wouldn’t you agree? But if I shoot Mehmet first, you’d be able to fire at me at least twice before I manage to turn the revolver on you. Worse odds for me. In other words, we’ve got a lose-lose situation here, so it really boils down to this, Harry: are you prepared to sacrifice your spy in order to catch me now? Or shall we save him and you can catch me later? What do you say?’

Harry looked at Valentin over the sights of his pistol. He was right. It was too dark and too great a distance for him to be sure of hitting Valentin with a headshot.

‘I interpret your silence to mean that you agree with me, Harry. And because I believe I can hear police sirens in the distance, I presume we don’t have much time.’

Harry had considered telling them not to use sirens, but then they would have taken longer.

‘Put your pistol down, Harry, and I’ll walk out of here.’

Harry shook his head. ‘You’re here because he’s seen your face, so you’ll shoot him and me because now I’ve seen your face too.’

‘So come up with a suggestion within the next five seconds, otherwise I’ll shoot him and gamble on you missing before I hit you.’