Mehmet stood where he was by the door.
It felt like the steam he was breathing in was making his airways tighter. He couldn’t wait any longer, he had to get out. Mehmet nudged the door gently and slipped out. Ran across the slippery tiles with short, careful steps so as not to fall, and reached the changing room. He swore as he struggled with the code on his padlock. Four digits. 1683. The Battle of Vienna. The year when the Ottoman Empire ruled the world, or at least the part of the world that was worth ruling. When the empire couldn’t expand any further, and the decline began. Defeat after defeat. Was that why he had picked that year, because it somehow reflected his own story, a story of having everything and losing it? Eventually he managed to open the lock. He grabbed his phone, tapped at it and held it to his ear. Stared at the door to the baths, which had swung shut again, every moment expecting the man to come rushing in and attack him.
‘Yes?’
‘He’s here,’ Mehmet whispered.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. In the hararet.’
‘Keep an eye on it, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
‘You’ve done what?’ Bjørn Holm said, taking his foot off the clutch as the lights turned green on Hausmannsgate.
‘I hired a civilian volunteer to watch the Turkish baths in Sagene,’ Harry said, looking in the wing mirror of Bjørn Holm’s legendary 1970 Volvo Amazon. Originally white, later painted black, with a chequered rally stripe across the roof and boot. The car behind disappeared in a cloud of black exhaust fumes.
‘Without asking us?’ Bjørn blew his horn and overtook an Audi on the inside.
‘It’s not entirely by the book, so there was no reason to make any of you accomplices.’
‘There are fewer traffic lights if you take Maridalsveien,’ Wyller said from the back seat.
Bjørn changed into a lower gear and wrenched the car to the right. Harry felt the pressure of the three-point seat belt that Volvo had been the first to install, but they had no slack which meant you could hardly move.
‘How are you doing, Smith?’ Harry called over the roar of the engine. He wouldn’t usually have brought an external adviser on an active operation like this, but at the last moment he decided to take Smith in case they found themselves in a hostage situation, when the psychologist’s ability to read Valentin could come in handy. The way he had read Aurora. The way he had read Harry.
‘A bit carsick, that’s all,’ Smith smiled weakly. ‘What’s that smell?’
‘Old clutch, heater and adrenalin,’ Bjørn said.
‘Listen up,’ Harry said. ‘We’ll be there in two minutes, so I repeat: Smith, you stay in the car. Wyller and I will go in through the front door, Bjørn will watch the back door. You said you know where it is?’
‘Yep,’ Bjørn said. ‘And your man is still online?’
Harry nodded and put his phone to his ear. They pulled up in front of an old brick building. Harry had looked at the plans. It was a former factory which now housed a printing firm, some offices, a recording studio and the hamam, and there was only one other door apart from the front entrance.
‘Everyone loaded, safety off?’ Harry asked, breathing out as he unfastened the tight seat belt. ‘We want him alive. But if that’s not possible …’ He looked up at the glinting windows on either side of the main entrance as he heard Bjørn recite in a low voice: ‘Police, warning shot, then shoot the bastard. Police, warning shot, then—’
‘Let’s go,’ Harry said.
They got out of the car, crossed the pavement and split up by the front entrance.
Harry and Wyller went up the three steps and in through a heavy door. The hallways inside smelt of ammonia and printers’ ink. Two of the doors had shiny gilded signs with ornate writing: small, optimistic law firms that couldn’t afford to rent in the city centre. On the third door was an unassuming sign saying CAGALOGLU HAMAM, so unassuming that it gave the impression they didn’t want customers who didn’t already know where it was.
Harry opened the door and walked in.
He found himself in a passageway with peeling paint on the walls and a simple desk, where a broad-shouldered man with dark stubble and a tracksuit was sitting and reading a magazine. If Harry hadn’t known better, he would have thought he’d walked into a boxing club.
‘Police,’ Wyller said, sticking his ID between the magazine and the man’s face. ‘Sit completely still and don’t warn anyone. This will be over in a couple of minutes.’
Harry carried on down the passageway and saw two doors. One said CHANGING ROOM, the other HAMAM. He went into the baths, and heard Wyller follow close behind him.
There were three small pools laid out in a row. To their right were booths containing massage tables. To the left were two glass doors which Harry assumed led to the sauna and steam room, and a plain wooden door that he remembered from the plans as the door to the changing room. In the nearest pool two men looked up and stared at them. Mehmet was sitting on a bench by the wall, pretending to look at his phone. He hurried over to them and pointed towards the glass door with a misted plastic sign saying HARARET.
‘Is he alone?’ Harry asked quietly as he and Wyller each pulled out their Glocks. He heard frantic splashing from the pool behind him.
‘No one’s entered or left since I called you,’ Mehmet whispered.
Harry went over to the door and tried to look in, but saw nothing but impenetrable whiteness. He gestured to Wyller to cover the door. He took a deep breath and was about to go in when he changed his mind. The sound of shoes. Valentin’s suspicions mustn’t be aroused by the entrance of someone who wasn’t barefoot. Harry pulled his shoes and socks off with his free hand. Then he pulled the door open and went in. The steam swirled around him. Like a bridal veil. Rakel. Harry didn’t know where the thought had come from, and thrust it aside. And managed to catch a glimpse of a solitary figure on the wooden bench in front of him before he closed the door behind him and was enveloped in whiteness again. That and silence. Harry held his breath and listened for the other man’s breathing. Had the man had time to see that the new arrival was fully clothed and holding a pistol? Was he scared? Was he scared the way Aurora had been scared when she saw his cowboy boots outside her toilet cubicle?
Harry raised his pistol and moved towards where he had seen the figure. And he could make out the shape of a seated man against the white. Harry squeezed the trigger until it resisted.
‘Police,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘Don’t move, or I’ll shoot.’ And another thought struck him. That in a situation like this he would usually say or we’ll shoot. It was simple psychology, it gave the impression that there were more of them, and increased the chances of the person surrendering immediately. So why had he said ‘I’? And now that his brain had accepted one question, others appeared: why was he on his own here, rather than the Delta team that specialised in this sort of job? Why had he really stationed Mehmet here in complete secrecy and not told anyone at all until after Mehmet had called?
Harry felt the slight resistance of the trigger against his index finger. So slight.
Two men in a room where no one else could see them.
Who would be able to deny that Valentin, who had already killed several people with just his bare hands and iron teeth, had attacked Harry, forcing Harry to shoot him in self-defence?
‘Vurma!’ the figure in front of him said, and raised his arms in the air.
Harry leaned closer.
The skinny man was naked. His eyes were wide with terror. And his chest was covered with grey hair, but was otherwise unblemished.
23
TUESDAY, LATE AFTERNOON