Blood on Snow

Chapter 15

The day before Christmas Eve.

It had got colder again. That was the end of the mild weather for the time being.

I called the travel agent’s from the phone box on the corner. They told me what plane tickets to Paris would cost. I said I’d call back. Then I phoned the Fisherman.

I said without any preamble that I wanted money for fixing Hoffmann.

“We’re on an open line, Olav.”

“You’re not being bugged,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Hoffmann pays a guy at the phone company who knows what phones are being bugged. Neither of you is on the list.”

“I’m helping you sort out your problem, Olav. Why should I pay you for that?”

“Because you’ll earn so much from Hoffmann being out of the way that this will be small change.”

A pause. But not a long one.

“How much?”

“Forty thousand.”

“Okay.”

“In cash, to be picked up from the shop first thing tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“One more thing. I’m not going to risk coming to the shop this evening — Hoffmann’s people are getting a bit too close. Get the van to pick me up round the back of Bislett Stadium at seven o’clock.”

“Okay.”

“You got hold of the coffins and van?”

The Fisherman didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m used to organising everything myself.”

“Unless there was anything else?”

We hung up. I stood there looking at the phone. The Fisherman had agreed to forty thousand without a word of complaint. I’d have been happy with fifteen. Didn’t the old shyster know that? It didn’t make any sense. Okay, so it didn’t make sense. I’d undersold myself. I should have asked for sixty. Eighty, maybe. But it was too late now; I’d just have to be happy with the fact that I’d actually managed to renegotiate the terms once.

As a rule I get nervous more than twenty-four hours before a job. And then I get less and less nervous as I start to count down the hours.

It was the same this time.

I stopped by the travel agent’s and booked the Paris tickets. They recommended a small hotel in Montmartre. Reasonably priced, but cosy and romantic, the woman behind the counter said.

“Great,” I said.

“A Christmas present?” The woman smiled as she typed in the booking under a name that was close to mine, but not quite the same. Not yet. I’d correct it just before we set off. She had her own name on a badge on the front of the pear-green jacket that was evidently the agency’s uniform. Heavy make-up. Nicotine stains on her teeth. Suntan. Maybe subsidised trips to the sun were part of the job. I said I’d be back the following morning to pay in full.

I went out onto the street. Looked left and right. Longing for darkness.

On my way home I realised I was mimicking her. Maria.

Was. That. It.

“We can buy what you need in Paris,” I said to Corina, who seemed considerably more nervous than I was.

By six o’clock I had dismantled, cleaned and oiled my pistol and put it back together. Filled the magazine. I showered and changed in the bathroom. Thought through what was about to happen. Thought that I’d have to make sure Klein was never behind me. I put my black suit on. Then sat down in the armchair. I was sweating. Corina was freezing.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said, then got up and left.