The man with the eagle tattoo on his neck had put on a turtleneck for the occasion. He used to really like Oslo Central Station—the crowds had made it the perfect place for a man of his profession—but these days there were so many cameras that practically nowhere was safe. He had long ago started arranging his meetings and transactions at other venues, movie theaters and kebab shops, places where you were less likely to be identified should your business lead to a major investigation, though it rarely did; he did not operate on such a large scale anymore, but still, better safe than sorry.
The man with the eagle tattoo pulled the cap deep down over his head and entered the station concourse. He had not chosen the venue, but the amount offered was so high that he was happy to obey orders. He had no idea how the client had found him, but one day he had received an MMS with a photo, an assignment, and a sum of money. And he had done what he always did, replied “OK” without asking any questions. It was a strange assignment, no doubt about it, and he had never done anything like it, but over the years he had learned not to probe, to just do the job and collect the money. It was what you needed to do in order to survive and retain your credibility out there in the shadowy world. Though the number of assignments was falling, as were the amounts, every now and again something big would fall into his lap. Like this one. A bizarre request, yes—quite extraordinary, in fact—but well paid, and that was exactly what he was about to do now, pick up his check.
Suit jacket, smart trousers, shiny shoes, business briefcase, turtleneck. Even a pair of fake eyeglasses. The man with the eagle tattoo looked like the complete opposite of what he was, and that was precisely the intention. In his profession you never knew when the police might order a complete review of all CCTV recordings, so it was best to blend in. He looked like an accountant or any other kind of businessman, and though you might not think so, the man with the eagle tattoo was rather vain. You would never mistake him for a well-groomed, privileged member of the elite; he liked his rough appearance, his tattoos, and the leather jacket. These revolting trousers rubbed his groin, and he felt like a jerk in the tight jacket and the stupid shiny brown shoes. Never mind, just grin and bear it. The money waiting for him in one of the safe-deposit boxes was worth it. Totally worth it. He needed the cash. He was going to party now. He smiled faintly under the unfamiliar glasses and walked calmly but vigilantly through the station building.
The first message had arrived about a year ago, and more had followed. An MMS with a photograph and an amount. That first time the request had been so unusual and bizarre that he had taken it to be some kind of joke, but he carried it out nevertheless. And been paid. As he was the next time. And the time after that. Then he had ceased caring what it was about.
He stopped at a kiosk and bought a newspaper and a pack of cigarettes. A completely ordinary man commuting home after a day at the office. Nothing unusual about this accountant. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and continued down toward the safe-deposit boxes. Stopped outside the entrance to the boxes and sent the text message.
I’m here.
He waited only a short while for the reply. As usual it came promptly. The number of the safe-deposit box and the code to open it beeped as it whizzed into his cell phone. He glanced around a few times before he walked along the boxes to find the right one. He would have to grant Oslo Central Station at least one thing: the days of keys changing hands in back streets and alleyways were over. Now all you needed was a code. The man with the eagle tattoo entered the digits on the keypad and heard a click as the box opened. As usual, the familiar brown envelope was lying within. He removed the envelope from the box and tried not to look around, drawing as little attention to himself as possible in view of all the cameras present before he opened the briefcase and deftly slipped the envelope inside it. There was a smile at one corner of his mouth as he gauged that the envelope was much fatter this time. His final assignment. Time to settle his accounts. He left the safe-deposit boxes, walked up the steps, continued through the station, entered a Burger King, and locked himself in a cubicle in the men’s room. He opened the briefcase and took out the envelope. He could hardly contain himself. He grinned from ear to ear when he saw the contents. There was more than just the agreed sum of money, in two-hundred-kroner notes as he always requested; there was also a small bag of white powder. The man with the eagle tattoo opened the transparent plastic bag, carefully tasted the contents, and the smile on his face broadened even further. He had no idea who his client was, but there was clearly nothing wrong with his contacts or information. Those who knew him well were also aware of his great love for this substance.
He took out his cell and sent his usual reply.
ok. thanks.
He did not normally say thank you—this was pure business, nothing personal—but he couldn’t help it this time, what with the bonus and all. It took a few seconds before the reply came.
have fun.
The man with the eagle tattoo smiled as he returned the envelope and the bag to the briefcase and made his way back to the station concourse.