Assassin

68

The police Saab 9-5 was powered by environmentally conscious biofuel, but that didn't seem to slow it down as Ravnsborg raced down a country road on the way to Tvillingtjenn. He leaned forward and looked up through the windscreen as a helicopter clattered overhead, painted in drab, military green.

'The anti-terrorist boys!' he shouted over the noise. 'Let us hope they manage to control themselves until we get there. Not long now.'

Another car, filled with Ravnsborg's own people, was hurtling after them. The local force from Bjorkelangen had already established a perimeter around the farmhouse and barn where the Lists had reported hearing sounds of violence and seeing a helicopter take off. Grantham was on the phone, listening more than talking.

'Thanks,' he said at last. 'Appreciate it. Sorry if I caused you any grief. Speak to you later. Bye.'

He put his phone away and turned his head towards the driver's seat.

'The man's name is Damon Tyzack,' he said. 'He's an all-purpose nasty piece of work. Suspected links with various unpleasant gangland activities, including trafficking of people and drugs. He's also rumoured to work on the side as a hitman, though no one's ever got enough evidence on him to bring charges. One interesting thing, though: he's an ex-marine, spent some time in the Special Boat Service, but got cashiered, kicked out. Seems like a mission went wrong, though the SBS didn't release any specific details. They like to keep things close to their chests, those boys, but friend Tyzack must have been a very naughty boy indeed, judging by the speed with which they shoved him out the door. There's one other interesting wrinkle. It was the commanding officer on the mission who insisted Tyzack had to go. Guess who that was…'

'I thought you said Mr Carver did not work for Her Majesty.'

'That's right, he doesn't.'

'But he did once? In the SBS?'

'Bingo.'

'And Tyzack has never forgiven him for destroying his military career?'

'Well,' said Grantham, 'that's certainly a possibility.'

'We may soon find out, one way or the other,' Ravnsborg said, hitting the brakes and bringing the Saab screeching to a halt at a police roadblock. Up ahead, to the left of the road, a long, narrow stretch of water was lined with rows of trees rising up into jagged, rocky hills. Three fire-engines and a couple of ambulances were lined up along the side of the road, their crews standing around, chatting, smoking, or lying on the verge, soaking up the sun.

Ravsnborg opened his window and showed his badge. One of the officers manning the block leaned down and gave directions, pointing across the water towards the trees. Ravnsborg turned off the road on to a dirt track and drove the car, much more gingerly now, around the narrow end of the lake and along the far bank.

The track had taken them round the back of the property, up to the patch of open ground now occupied by the anti-terrorist unit's helicopter. It led past the farmhouse and round to the barn, which was just visible through the trees in the distance. Black-uniformed and helmeted assault troops and local police were lined up behind a line of squad cars opposite the farmhouse. A couple of the men were pointing guns at the building, but most were standing round with the unmistakable air of men awaiting orders and wondering when something would happen.

As Ravnsborg parked and got out of the Saab one of the black-clad figures walked towards him with a tough, purposeful stride in keeping with his menacing appearance. A pot-bellied policeman followed after him, almost having to jog to keep up. Ravnsborg was a superb detective, but it didn't require a man of his talents to deduce that this was the local inspector.

'Morten,' snapped the anti-terrorist officer, shooting out a hand towards Ravnsborg, who shook it and introduced himself.

'Inspector Petersen,' said the policeman, presenting a sweaty paw. He spoke a couple of further sentences in Norwegian. Grantham did not understand a word, but he didn't have to. A nervous, eager-to-please subordinate sounded the same in any language.

'This is Mr Grantham… from London,' Ravnsborg said, in English, with a wave of his hand. 'He may be able to help us with the man in the barn.' He gave one of his weary smiles. 'If he is who we think he is… If he is there at all.'

Morten gave a grunt that seemed to convey disapproval of Ravnsborg's apparently vague manner, and scepticism of Grantham's value to proceedings, all without a word being spoken.

'Hope I can be of assistance,' said Grantham, offering his own hand and noting Morten's reluctance to take it.

'Now that you are here, we can proceed,' Morten said, also switching to English. 'We have reconnoitred the main building thoroughly. No heat-signatures of any occupants have been detected, nor any sounds. With your permission, we will secure this building, then move on to the barn.'

Ravnsborg shrugged. 'That sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Mr Grantham?'

'Fine by me,' said Grantham with a smile whose graciousness was calculated to irritate Morten still further.

He told himself he really shouldn't be winding the poor bastard up like this. They all had serious work to do. But it was fun. And Grantham was a great believer in trying to enjoy his work.

Morten turned on his heel and walked back down towards his men, shouting orders. He was efficient enough, Grantham had to grant him that. There were already men posted on all sides of the farmhouse, covering every possible exit. Now the personnel behind the cars were transformed in seconds from bored layabouts to fast-moving fighting men. Three of them scurried across the open ground towards the front door while the rest stood behind the cars, guns pointed towards the house, ready to fire at the slightest sign of trouble.

The first blast, however, came from a shotgun blasting the lock on the door. It was followed by the crash of a hand-held battering ram.

'Close your eyes and cover your ears,' Ravnsborg said to Grantham just seconds before the deafening blast of a flashbang erupted from within the front hall of the farmhouse.

The three men by the door were already moving into the house before the last echoes had stopped ringing round the surrounding hills. Three more men raced across from the cars, following them into the building. Barely a minute later, Morten was taking a message on his headset.

Ravnsborg was standing next to him.

'The building's clear,' Morten reported. 'No occupants.'

'Good,' said Ravnsborg. 'Now for the barn. And fast. Someone may still be alive in there. There's no time to waste.'