The Valkyrie Song

Chapter Three
1

After Birta picked up the hire car from the municipal car park and drove out of Oslo, she tossed the ticket out of the window as she cleared the city limits. When she returned the car there would be no evidence that she had ever been in Oslo or even in Norway. She had programmed several false destinations around Stockholm into the car’s satnav system, the sum of which would account for the kilometres accrued on the odometer. Throughout her trip she had observed every speed limit, every traffic regulation. And because she hadn’t stopped over in a hotel and had paid for all fuel with cash, there was no evidence that she had crossed the border.

Birta switched on the music system and Wolfgang Haffner filled the car. The German jazz and the Norwegian winter landscape fitted together perfectly and she eased back into her seat. But she found she couldn’t stop thinking back to the cafe and the woman with her children.

Birta’s client’s place was to the north of Drobak, set deep into the forest on the shore of a small lake. She knew he worked from home and this had been the ideal location for a meeting. She had even identified the ideal window in his schedule.

She parked in a car park in Drobak: she had established in her reconnaissance that it was unmetered and not overlooked by CCTV cameras. She changed in the back of the car, pulling on three layers of thick woollen socks, partly to keep out the cold but mainly to allow the heavy oversized men’s boots she then put on to fit her: carrying out a meeting in snow was a blessing and a curse at the same time. She would leave the tracks she wanted, where she wanted. But she’d have to take care not to leave unintentional signs of her passing.

Birta slipped into her dark parka and tucked her blonde hair under the black woollen beanie hat, making sure every strand was secure and out of sight. She put on her rucksack and slung the rifle case by its strap over one shoulder, then made her way on foot from the car park and out through the back of the town, keeping out of sight of the houses.

It took her half an hour to reach where the forest opened up around the lake. At the north end the lights of a house reflected on the water. Three rooms were illuminated, but she knew he would be alone. His wife and children were visiting family in Frederikstad and wouldn’t be back until lunchtime tomorrow. He was staying at home to pack and prepare for his trip to China in two days’ time.

Birta made her way through the trees and around to where the long drive swept round to the front of the house. The drive had been cleared, the snow pushed into metre-high banks on either side. Birta edged along backwards, sweeping her footprints away as she moved, until she found a thinner stretch of piled snow. She jumped over it and onto the drive. From here on there would be no tracks to find. Before moving closer to the house, she unslung the rifle from her shoulder, unrolled the canvas sheet and laid out the parts for assembly.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ A male voice came from behind her.

Everything happened in one movement: she stood, turned, unfastened the sheath, and arced the knife up and into his chest, under his sternum. She thrust it with calculated extra force to penetrate the man’s heavy parka and the layers beneath. The man didn’t react: he would not have seen the knife, its non-reflective black polycarbide surface and the speed of her strike making it invisible in the dark. Still in the same continuous movement, Birta twisted the knife. The man’s eyes and mouth gaped at her as if in outrage or confusion, then he sank to his knees. Birta stood to one side and let him tilt forward and crash onto his face. She turned him over and established two facts within a second: he was dead; he was not her client. The dead man was in his late forties. It was difficult to tell through the layers of clothes, but he looked heavy-set. She opened up his parka and felt the warmth of a body that would no longer generate its own temperature. She checked him for a weapon. None. Not a bodyguard or cop. He had been carrying a large snow shovel and Birta guessed he must have been some kind of handyman. Why hadn’t he come up in her reconnaissance? She cursed to herself and wiped the blade of her knife clean on the shoulder of his coat, at the same time scanning the length of the driveway and the forest on its fringes. She resheathed the knife, unzipped her parka and unholstered her silenced automatic. No sign of anyone else.

Scanning the forest and the snowbank edge of the drive, Birta chose a spot and dragged the dead man across to it, through the snow and into the woods.

Back on the drive she picked up the unattached telescopic sight and used it to study the big bright squares of window on the house. She knew where the client’s study was and that he should be there working until about nine. The blinds had been left open and she could see the whole study. No client. She checked the other illuminated rooms. Nothing.

This was not good. Birta felt a vague panic in her chest and used her will to force it from her, as she’d been taught to do. When you were afraid, when you became stressed, that was when things went wrong. That was when you slipped up with the meeting; that was when people noticed you as you made your departure. Calm. Stay calm.

Birta again checked the driveway. Nothing. She stood motionless, holding her breath, absorbing the sounds of the night and the forest. She cursed again. She was going to have to close the forensic distance. It was a simple rule: the greater the forensic distance, the less the chance of detection and interception. The long-range sniper rifle was the perfect example: the bullet, which might have endured the trauma of passing through wood or glass, then flesh and bone before becoming impacted into brick or deformed by stone, was the only forensic link between you and the dead client. You had a forensic distance from point and moment of death, meaning you had a greater chance of getting away unseen.

But if she couldn’t see the client, she couldn’t use the rifle. He could, of course, simply be in the kitchen making himself a sandwich, but the fact that she had had to take care of a secondary meant she didn’t have the luxury of time. If she hadn’t been discovered by the handyman, then she would have sat it out, maybe an hour, maybe more, waiting for the client to reappear. She would have to get close. Maybe even go into the house. And that meant she was no longer forensically distant from the meeting.

Birta repacked the rifle in its case, again unholstered her handgun, and made her way towards the house.