Free Phantom by Jo Nesbø Page A

by you now; he wants to live up to you.”
    Harry stamped on the floorboards while looking at the wall. “I’m not worth it, Beate. He knows that.”
    “Harry …”
    “Shall we go down to the river?”
    S ERGEY STOOD IN front of the mirror with both arms hanging down by his sides. Flicked the safety catch and pressed the button. The blade shot out and reflected the light. It was an attractive knife, a Siberian switchblade, or “the iron” as the
urkas
—the criminal class in Siberia—called it. It was the world’s best weapon to stab with. A long, slim shaft with a long, thin blade. The tradition was that you were given it by an older criminal in the family when you had done something to deserve it. However, traditions were receding; nowadays you bought, stole or pirated the knife. This knife, though, had been a present from his uncle. According to Andrey, the
ataman
had kept the knife under his mattress before it was given to Sergey. He thought about the myth that if you put the iron under the mattress of a sick person it absorbed the pain and suffering and transferred them to the next person stabbed with it. This was one of the myths the
urkas
loved so much, like the one that claimed if anyone came into the possession of your knife he would soon meet with an accident and death. Old romanticism and superstition, which were on their way out. Nonetheless, he had received the gift with enormous, perhaps exaggerated, reverence. And why shouldn’t he? He owed his uncle everything. He was the one who had got him out of the trouble he had landed in, organized his papers so that he could come to Norway; his uncle had even arranged for the cleaning job at Gardermoen for him. It was well paid, and easy to find, but apparently it was the type of work Norwegiansdeclined; they preferred to draw social security. And the minor offenses Sergey brought with him from Russia were no problem, either; his uncle had had his criminal record doctored. So Sergey had kissed his benefactor’s blue ring when he was given the present. And Sergey had to admit that the knife in his hand was very beautiful. A dark-brown handle made from deer horn, inlaid with an ivory-colored Orthodox cross.
    Sergey pushed from the hip the way he had been taught, could feel he was properly poised, and thrust upward. In and out. In and out. Fast, but not so fast that the blade did not enter to the hilt each and every time.
    The reason it had to be with the knife was that the man he was going to kill was a policeman. And when policemen were killed the hunt afterward was always more intensive, so it was vital to leave as few clues as possible. A bullet could always be traced back to places, weapons or people. A slash from a smooth, clean knife was anonymous. A stabbing wasn’t quite as anonymous—it could reveal the length and shape of the blade—which was why Andrey had told him not to stab the policeman in the heart, but to cut his carotid artery. Sergey had never cut anyone’s throat before, nor stabbed anyone in the heart, just knifed a Georgian in the thigh for no more than being a Georgian. So he had decided he needed something to train on, something living. His Pakistani neighbor had three cats, and every morning, when he walked into the entrance hall, the smell of cat piss assailed his nostrils.
    Sergey lowered his knife, stood with bowed head, rolled his eyeballs upward so that he could see himself in the mirror. He looked good: fit, menacing, dangerous, ready. Like a film poster. His tattoo would reveal that he had killed a police officer.
    He would stand behind the policeman. Step forward. With his left hand he would grab his hair, pull him backward. Place the knife tip against his neck, to the left, penetrate the skin, arc the blade across the throat in a crescent shape. Like that.
    The heart would pump out a cascade of blood; three heartbeats and the flow would diminish. The man would already be brain-dead.
    Fold the knife, slip it into his pocket