Assassin

43

Carver got to his feet, shoved the pistol into his waistband, and charged down the ramp until he was close to the bottom. Then he ran to the parapet and vaulted over the side. He dropped fifteen feet and landed on a narrow path that ran beside the opera house and the sea. He turned left, making his way back towards the rear of the building and the motorway beyond that. He stuck as close as possible to the wall of the opera house, so that anyone looking over the parapet, up above, would have to lean right out to see him.

He could hear shouts and running footsteps above him, but they hadn't spotted him yet. In the distance there was another sound, something new: a helicopter, and getting closer, too.

A side door opened and a man walked out, a kid, really, early twenties at most. He was dressed in a red and beige seventies-style Fila tracksuit top, carrying a motorbike helmet. He stopped by a moped propped up against the wall. It wasn't what Carver would have chosen. For urban getaway work, he'd always specified fast, nimble trailbikes, with 400-cc engines as an absolute minimum. This kid's machine had about as much power as an old washing machine. But Carver had long since ceased to be in any position to be fussy.

The kid was bent over, taking the chain off his bike. The helmet was resting on the moped's seat. Carver slowed to a walk, came up behind him as quietly as possible and jammed the tip of the gun barrel into the back of his neck, just below the skull.

'Don't move. Don't say anything. Just listen. OK?'

The kid's head nodded frantically.

'Undo the chain, then place it on the ground beside you.'

The order was obeyed. Carver slid his foot across and shifted the chain out of the kid's reach.

'Now stand up slowly, nice and easy, no sudden movements.'

He waited while the order was obeyed.

'Turn around and face me… Now, your keys, please. And again, easy does it.'

Holding his gun in his right hand, Carver took the keys in his left and shoved them into a trouser pocket. The kid began to tremble, his panicked eyes focused upwards at the gun pointing directly at the middle of his forehead. He was trying to grow a beard, Carver saw: little more than a dusting of mouse-brown hair across cheeks still not completely clear of teenage acne.

'Please, don't kill me,' he begged, his voice little more than a whimper.

'I don't plan to,' said Carver, darting a quick glance back down the path. It was clear. They hadn't yet tracked him down. 'Not if you do exactly as you're told.'

'Sure, sure,' said the kid. 'Anything.'

'OK, then, take off the jacket and put it next to the helmet. I'm putting my gun away now.'

The kid was half turned away from Carver, leaving the jacket on his moped. Carver saw the tension ease from his shoulders as he realized the gun was no longer aimed at him. And it was then, at that brief moment of relaxation, that Carver grabbed the scrawny young man and spun him round, kept him moving across the narrow path and flung him into the water. It was hardly any drop, but the slick marble stonework would make it impossible for the kid to climb back ashore. He'd have to swim round to the front of the building, and that would give Carver all the time he needed.

He looked at the kid, who was treading water and looking at him with an expression that had changed from fear to indignation.

'I'm taking your bike,' said Carver. 'But I'm not going far. Go to Aker Brygge. Your bike will be there. I won't.'

Carver went back to the moped, put on the jacket and the helmet, turned on the engine, and moved away. He was thinking about the ferry that had just set sail. That was his way out of Oslo. And he'd worked out how to get on it.