Harry Hole Oslo Sequence 10 - Police

gear. And riding a bike.’
    Harry already had the receiver in his hand. ‘Hagen? We need Delta. Right now.’

33
    ‘ SO THAT’S WHAT you want me to do?’ Truls said, twirling the beer glass between his fingers. They were sitting in Kampen Bistro. Mikael had said it was a very good place to eat. East Oslo chic, popular among those who count , the ones with more cultural capital than money, the in-crowd who had salaries low enough to maintain their student lifestyle without it seeming pathetic.
    Truls had lived in East Oslo all his life and had never heard of the place. ‘And why should I?’
    ‘The suspension,’ Mikael said, pouring the rest of the mineral water into his glass. ‘I’ll get it revoked.’
    ‘Oh?’ Truls regarded Mikael with mistrust.
    ‘Yes.’
    Truls took a swig from his glass. Ran the back of his hand across his mouth although the foam had settled long ago. Took his time. ‘If it’s so easy, why didn’t you do it before?’
    Mikael closed his eyes, inhaled. ‘It’s not so easy, but I want to do it.’
    ‘Because?’
    ‘Because I’m screwed unless you help me.’
    Truls chuckled. ‘Strange how quickly the tables turn. Eh, Mikael?’
    Mikael Bellman glanced in both directions. The room was full, but he had chosen it because it wasn’t somewhere frequented by police officers, and he shouldn’t be seen with Truls. And he had a feeling Truls knew. But so what?
    ‘What’s it going to be? I can ask someone else.’
    Truls guffawed. ‘Can you hell!’
    Mikael scoured the room. He didn’t want to tell Truls to keep his voice down, but . . . In times gone by Mikael had largely been able to predict how Truls would react, had been able to coax him into doing what he wanted. There had been a change in him; there was something sinister, something evil and unpredictable about his childhood friend now.
    ‘I need an answer. It’s urgent.’
    ‘Fine,’ Truls said, draining the glass. ‘The suspension’s fine. But I need one more thing.’
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘A pair of Ulla’s panties – unwashed.’
    Mikael stared at Truls. Was he drunk? Or was the ferocity in his moist eyes a permanent feature now?
    Truls laughed even louder and banged his glass down on the table. Some of those who count turned round.
    ‘I . . .’ Mikael started. ‘I’ll see what—’
    ‘I’m kidding, you dick!’
    Mikael gave a short laugh. ‘Me too. Does that mean you will . . .?’
    ‘For Christ’s sake, we’ve been pals since we were kids, haven’t we?’
    ‘Of course. You have no idea how grateful I am, Truls.’ Mikael struggled to smile.
    Truls passed a hand across the table. Placed it heavily on Mikael’s shoulder.
    ‘Oh yes, I have.’
    Too heavily, Mikael thought.
    There was no reconnaissance, no examining the floor plan for exits or possible escapes, no circle of police cars blocking the roads at the point where the Delta all-terrain vehicles drove in. There was a short briefing as they went, with Sivert Falkeid barking orders and the heavily armed men at the back staying quiet, which meant they understood.
    It was a question of time, and even the world’s best-laid plan would be useless if the bird had already flown.
    Harry, sitting at the back of the nine-seater and listening, knew they didn’t have the world’s second- or even third-best-laid plan.
    The first thing Falkeid had asked Harry was if he thought Valentin would be armed. Harry had answered that a gun had been used to murder René Kalsnes. And he thought Beate had been threatened with a gun.
    He looked at the men in front of him. Police officers who had volunteered for armed operations. He knew what they were paid for the extra work, and it wasn’t too much. And he also knew what taxpayers thought they could demand of Delta troops, and it was much too much. How many times had he heard people with the benefit of hindsight criticising the Delta officers for not exposing themselves to greater danger, for not having a sixth sense to tell them what was going on behind a closed door, in a hijacked plane, on a forest-clad beach and for not rushing in headlong? For a Delta officer with, on average, four missions a year, so approximately a hundred in a career of twenty-five years, such a policy would have meant being killed on active duty. But the main point was still this: being killed in the line of fire was the best way to ensure the failure of an operation and to expose other officers to danger.
    ‘There’s just one