B had not killed anyone until the evening before. And then he had killed two people within minutes. He had been curious to know how it felt. But when he did kill his first victim, it was entirely according to plan and without drama. He had felt no sympathy for either of the men he had killed. After the murders, he had thought, just as he had before, that a fat country farmer and a long-haired student were not very important people, no more than a couple of small pawns that had to be sacrificed for the great cause.
The uninvited guest had left a murderer, and it had involved very little drama. He had seen Henry Alfred Lien as a traitor to the cause and decided in cold blood that the farmer had to die. He had not had anything against killing Lien, but he had not felt any great hatred for him either.
A measure of hatred had come later – when he suddenly stood face to face with Falko Reinhardt in the living room. Reinhardt had recognized him, seen the gun and run. The murderer had felt his hatred and contempt for the long-haired young man flare up. And he had known that the man now must die so he could not blow the whistle. The situation had instilled a different tension.
The murderer had pursued his victim, relishing the fact that he could keep pace with a younger man, and had first shot him in the foot. He had meant to kill him with the bullet to his chest, but had hit him a little too low. Reinhardt lay there, paralysed and helpless, only yards from the cliff. That was when the murderer had had the idea to cover all his tracks by pushing the victim over the edge. He was very pleased with himself and his quick thinking. He had got rid of the gun along with the victim when he heaved Reinhardt over the cliff. There was every reason to hope that Reinhardt would not be found until after Trond Bratten had been assassinated. And if he was found before this, the pistol in his pocket would support theories of murder and suicide.
It had been quite a shock for him to look over the edge and see someone else down there on the scree, close to where Reinhardt had landed. The murderer had immediately run to his car and taken off with a pulse well over 150. The fear of being caught and stopped before the planned attack had nearly driven him to despair in the first few minutes. But then he reasoned that Reinhardt had to be dead, and that the person down there could not possibly have recognized him from that distance. B had after all exceptional vision himself, and had only been able to see that there was a person down there, without being able to recognize him or her. His pulse had gradually slowed as he drove away from Valdres without any more drama, and without seeing any police cars.
He did not go home in the event that the police might have in some way tracked him down, and instead stayed overnight in a hotel near Hønefoss, under a false name. The atmosphere among the few guests at dinner was relaxed. None of the guests or staff appeared to recognize B in any way, and there were no policemen to be seen. B had fallen asleep without difficulty when he went to bed, and had slept long and well after the day’s excitement. After checking out, he had eaten an excellent lunch at the hotel without being disturbed. Then he had driven back into town two hours before the planned attack.
Everything had gone as hoped and planned. It was an office building that was under renovation, and the workmen were still on holiday.
The murderer had an escape route that would take no more than a minute, out the door and down the back stairs. All being well, he would be able to use it and then slip out and vanish into the mass of people below. A middle-aged man in a suit would hardly be the first to be suspected.
The man by the window did not think that he could get away with such a heroic deed, but the possibility of succeeding was very real. It was a seductive thought, that he might be able to walk home calmly after the assassination and go in to work as normal in the morning, while the whole of Norway and half of Europe talked about the murder of the leader of the Labour Party and speculated about what sort of cunning, daring man might do such a thing.
No matter what happened, he was standing here now, by an open window on the third floor, ready to raise the gun as soon as Trond Bratten went up onto the stage. If Bratten did this as planned, everything else would be simple. The angle was perfect, and the lectern stood there like the bull’s eye at a shooting range. He could see the leader of the Labour Party standing with his wife just below the stage, papers under his arms. It was so typical that he could not even do the simplest thing without a manuscript and hours of preparation.
The man in the window looked impatiently at his watch and saw that it was still only twenty-eight minutes past four.
It was when he looked up again that he noticed a worryingly fast movement on the periphery of his vision, down on Frogner Square.
XI
I later remembered remarkably little from my wild dash towards Frogner Square. When I got out onto the street, I remembered in a flash that the car was too far away and that the car radio was not working anyway.
So I carried on running down the street. I heard the soles of my shoes hitting the asphalt, without feeling that they were part of my body. I ran past people on the pavement, without ever thinking that they were people and that I might bump into them. When I then saw Frogner Square, I accelerated.
People continued to slip away in front of me until one of them, on the edge of the crowd in Frogner Square, did not see me in time. I vaguely noticed that she was holding something in her hands, and that she was just standing there without moving. And then we collided.
For a moment I stared straight into a pair of familiar eyes. I first saw confusion, then a spark of happiness, and then visible disappointment as I ran on. And somehow I still did not register that it was Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen I had bumped into.
Following the collision, I stopped and looked around but saw none of the four constables that I knew had been assigned to the rally. To make my way through the throng of people was never an option I considered. The sea of people in front of me looked impenetrable, and I had no idea where Trond Bratten might be. I was entirely focused on 66 Thomas Heftye’s Street, a four-storey brick building that faced onto Frogner Square. I saw two open windows, one to the right on the second floor and the other to the right on the third floor. Not a person was to be seen in either of them.
As I forced open the front door, I ran past a wall clock. It was one minute and forty seconds to half past four. I set my aim for the second floor and, still without feeling my feet, bounded up the steps two at a time.
XII
The murderer recognized the running man as soon as he saw him, and once again felt the adrenalin surge through his body.
It was Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen, who had come to his house to talk to him only a few days ago. The one that the newspapers, with their renowned lack of style, called ‘K2’. Kristiansen had seemed pretty stupid to him, but the murderer had later suspected that he might be smarter than he first appeared. The murderer had said more than he intended in the course of their conversation.
Christian Magnus Eggen had told him on the telephone yesterday that Kristiansen was on the right track, but they did not think he would manage to piece it all together in time. So his presence now was something of a shock, especially as he was heading at full speed towards the building. There was an odd little interruption when the detective inspector bumped into a young woman in the crowd who was standing there reading a book. But Kristiansen almost immediately carried on running towards the building.