Assassin

39

Carver stood in the main concourse of Oslo station while his escape plans fell to pieces around him. There were no night trains to Stockholm, or anywhere else outside the country: nothing till seven the next morning. In any case, that was irrelevant. Carver had no money. It had only struck him when he stood in front of the ticket-machine that his wallet was still in his jacket, draped on his chair in the cafe of the King Haakon Hotel. He'd patted his trouser pockets, in that futile way men have, as if the act of striking their groins with their hands can somehow magic a lost possession into being. Needless to say, the magic had not worked.

He grimaced, hissed a single, heartfelt expletive and then cursed himself for letting his guard down. In the old days, when he worked on the principle that he might be forced on the run at any moment, he never went anywhere without a money-belt round his waist, containing cash, credit cards in at least two identities, matching passports and a clean pre-paid SIM card. Now he'd gone straight, he was as helpless as any other forgetful civilian.

So what did he have?

His most important asset was his phone. There wasn't much battery power left, so he'd have to ration its use, but its text log contained the messages he'd supposedly received from Jack Grantham. They were the only evidence in his defence, the only suggestion that he had called the fatal room-number at someone else's behest.

Besides the phone, his pockets produced his day-card for the Oslo public-transport network, a couple of two-euro coins left over from Paris, and sixty-eight Norwegian kroner in change. So was there anywhere he could go with that? He looked at a route map. The nearest station to the Swedish border was Halden, due south of Oslo. There was a train leaving in eight minutes' time, but the cheapest ticket was almost two hundred kroner. He'd just have to jump it and hope to avoid the ticket-collector once he got on board.

Carver looked around, as he had done repeatedly since he arrived at the station, sweeping the concourse for his enemies. This time he saw one, a man, apparently buying a bottle of water from a newsagent's stand. His back was turned to Carver, but his shaven head and the line of the black nylon bomber jacket stretched over his massive shoulders were familiar. He'd been third from the left in the picket line of men arrayed in front of the Mercedes.

Very calmly, without any sign of haste, Carver walked away from the ticket-machine.

The man put the mineral water back in the cooler and followed Carver, slightly behind him and a few paces to his right.

Carver spotted another familiar face, apparently losing interest in the departures board.

He was still walking quite slowly, as were the men tailing him. They were like competitors in a track-cycling sprint, idling around the track, waiting to see whose nerve would crack first, who'd be the first to try a burst of speed.

Carver walked beneath a sign directing passengers towards the airport express, the left-luggage office and the south exit. Ahead he could see another set of escalators. People were slowing down as they reached them, manoeuvring cases on and off. A mother was taking hold of her small child.

Now Carver ran.

He sprinted up to the start of the escalator, barging one man out of the way. Then he grabbed the long handle of a large roller suitcase and yanked it out of its owner's hand, dragging it behind him as he kept moving. As he stepped on to the downward escalator, Carver swung the case round so that it toppled over, blocking the entrance to the escalator. He got moving again, taking the moving steps three at a time while a barging, complaining, pleading knot of humanity formed around the case.

He reached the bottom and dashed towards the exit. Carver dared not slow down for an instant. He did not need to look behind him to know that his pursuers, whoever they were, had not been long delayed.