‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Røed snarled. ‘You do that and I’ll make sure you and everyone you care about rot in hell. Don’t think I’m not capable of it. And another thing. You might be under the impression I can’t reverse a wire transfer to the Cayman Islands two days after I’ve instructed my bank to pay it. Wrong.’
Something snapped in Harry, a familiar feeling of free fall. He took a step towards Røed’s chair, and before he knew it, his hand was round the property mogul’s throat and he was squeezing. Røed jerked back in his chair, gripped Harry’s forearm with both hands and tried to pull it away as his face turned red from lack of blood flow.
‘You do that, and I’ll kill you,’ Harry whispered. ‘Kill. You.’
‘Harry!’ Krohn had also risen to his feet.
‘Sit down, I’ll let go,’ Harry hissed, staring into the bulging, imploring eyes of Markus Røed.
‘Now, Harry!’
Røed gurgled and kicked, but Harry held him down in the chair. He squeezed even harder and felt the power, the thrill, that he could squeeze the juice out of this anti-human. Yes, thrill, and that same feeling of free fall as when he lifted the glass of his first drink after months of sobriety. But he could already feel the thrill subside, the power in his grip ebb. Because there was no reward for this free fall either, other than it was free for the briefest of moments, and only led one way. Down.
Harry let go, and Røed drew in air in a drawn-out wheeze before leaning forward in a fit of coughing.
Harry turned to Krohn. ‘I’m guessing that
Krohn nodded. Harry smoothed his tie and left.
Mikael Bellman stood by the window gazing longingly down towards the city centre, where he could make out the high-rise in the government quarter. Closer, down by Gullhaug Bridge, he could see the treetops waving. The wind speed was supposed to increase even further; there had been talk of strong gales overnight. Something else had been forecast too, something about a lunar eclipse on Friday; apparently the events weren’t connected. He raised his arm and looked at his classic Omega Seamaster watch. One minute to two. He had spent much of the day discussing in his own mind the dilemma the Chief of Police had presented to him. In principle, an individual case like this had of course no business being on the desk of the Minster of Justice, but Bellman had made it his business by getting involved earlier, and now he couldn’t just drop it. He cursed.
Vivian tapped gently on the door and opened it. When he hired her as his personal assistant, it wasn’t just because she had a master’s in political science, spoke French after two years as a model in Paris and was willing to do everything from making coffee to greeting visitors and transcribing his speeches. She was pretty. There was much to be said about the function of physical appearance in today’s world, and much was said. So much that one thing was certain: it was as important as it had always been. He himself was a handsome man and was under no illusions as to it having played a part in his career advancement. Despite the modelling career, Vivian was not taller than him, and was therefore someone he could take into meetings and to dinners. She had a live-in boyfriend, but he saw that as more of a challenge than a drawback. Actually, it was an advantage. A visit to a couple of South American countries was planned for winter; the main issue on the agenda was human rights, a pure pleasure trip, in other words. And like he told himself, there’re a lot less flashbulbs and shepherding of a Minister of Justice than a Prime Minister.
‘It’s the Chief of Police,’ Vivian said softly.
‘Send him in.’
‘On Zoom,’ she said.
‘Oh? I thought he was coming—’
‘Yes, but he just called and said it was too far to get up to Nydalen because he has another meeting downtown afterwards. He sent a link — shall I...?’
She went over to the desk and the PC. Quick fingers, so much quicker than his own, ran across the keyboard. ‘There.’ She smiled. And added, as though to ease his irritation, ‘He’s sitting waiting for you.’
‘Thank you.’ Bellman remained standing by the window until Vivian left the room. And then waited some more. Until he tired of his own childishness, walked over and sat down in front of the PC. The Chief of Police looked tanned, probably a recent autumn break abroad somewhere. But it didn’t help much when the camera angle was so unfortunate that his double chin dominated. He had obviously placed the laptop on the desk that had been there when Bellman himself was Chief of Police, instead of on top of a stack of books.
‘Compared to down where you are, there’s hardly any traffic up here,’ Bellman said. ‘I get home to Høyenhall in twenty minutes. You should try it.’
‘Apologies, Mikael, I was called into an emergency meeting about the state visit next week.’
‘OK, let’s get straight to business. Are you alone, by the way?’
‘Completely alone, go for it.’
