Tag: kurt hammer

Third chapter from Murder in Lima

– Did you shoot many men?

Anastasia was white in the face.

– It was front-page news in all the big newspapers. But you’re … a Belarusian, aren’t you? Anyway, they killed my wife and child. I completely lost it. I lost my job in NCIS, but they didn’t find me guilty of murder. The perps had weapons and were preparing the biggest shipment of cocaine in Norwegian history. But obviously, I should have called for backup. Fortunately, I got a job as a reporter afterward.

– You did the right thing, said Petter. Without you, maybe we’d experience a generation of young adult Norwegians growing up to become cocaine addicts.
– Thanks, said Kurt and flashed an apologetic smile.
– Thank you, Kurt, for the gripping story. Now, my friends. While we wait for the food we will be served, I want to show you the reason for inviting you here tonight, John remarked.

He pressed a button under the table. Slowly but surely, a video screen slid down from the restaurant’s ceiling next to them.
When it was completely down, John turned himself and his chair  towards the screen and picked up his cellular phone, a Samsung Galaxy Beam I8530.

– Kurt and Rebecca, please turn. You don’t want to miss this!

Both turned around as John put the mobile on the tabletop and started an embedded projector.

– What’s that?

On the screen, a room in a salt color palette appeared.

– This, my friends, is a fire, bullet and bomb safe storage room in the house. Right now it contains only two things: the paintings I just appropriated, Autumn in Bavaria and Several Circles.

John pressed on the screen of his mobile phone and Kurt noticed that when he did it, the camera in the room began moving. Soon it had zoomed in on a painting that represented something that looked like an alley surrounded by trees. The alley led to something that looked like a church spire far away.

– My God exclaimed Petter. How much did you give for this again?
– About 206 million. But you already know that …

Petter sighed.

– Still, cannot believe that you got Autumn in Bavaria so cheap …

Kurt turned to Petter.

– Don’t you read newspapers? Aftenbladet just wrote a story about how the selling price was at a record high.

John smirked.

– Quite unflattering, that portrayal …

Petter snorted.

– I could have paid twice that amount if I wasn’t busy that weekend.
– There, there, said Anastasia and patted Petter on his back. You can do it next time.

Just then Hugo Friis came out of the restaurant building beside them with two deep plates.

– The first dish, he announced. Northern Norwegian fish soup!

All eyes around the table turned to him as he placed the plates in front of Kurt and John.

– Bon appétit, he said.
– Is that fish soup, asked Rebecca.
– Yes, it is, said Kurt.
– Looks tasty, said Rebecca.

When everyone had eaten chowder, John once again turned and directed everyone’s attention to the screen.

– As you should know, I also purchased another painting, Several Circles.

Again he pressed on the mobile phone, and soon a new painting had emerged on the display.

Rebecca gasped.

– It’s gorgeous!

The painting consisted of several circles of different sizes on a matte background.

– It is even more beautiful in reality, replied John. It reminds me of space.
– Didn’t Kandinsky say that it was his favorite painting, Anastasia marveled.

Petter nodded.

– That’s right, dear. He never managed to surpass it later in life, he said.
– So, said Karl Homme and gazed at John with a sly smile. A bird told me that you had purchased Casa de Aliaga from the Aliaga family and live there now?

John sent Karl Homme a look of astonishment.

– How did you know?
– I have my sources. It’s pretty sad for Lima’s many tourists, but all the better for me.

Karl grinned.

– I planned to dedicate a chapter in my new book to it. Now my book will become even more popular. Because I may come to visit, John?

John sighed but smiled wryly.

– Of course, you may.

Karl smiled.

– Many thanks! For those of you who do not know, Casa de Aliaga is the former house of the General Jerónimo Aliaga. It was bestowed upon him by Fransisco Pizarro himself, so that they could be neighbors. Aliaga was Pizarro’s most trusted general. He was involved in the execution of Atahualpa, the last Aztec king. Is the sword still in the house, John?

John smirked.

– Nothing escapes you, does it? The sword was one of the treasures that the family, unfortunately, insisted on retaining. Which is understandable, given that it is over four hundred years old.

*

– Should we go to the top of the pyramids? John wiped his face with a napkin.
– Sounds like a good idea, said Kurt and put down his spoon.
Tiramisu was the best desert Kurt knew about. But right now he was so full after two portions of Ceviche that there was a half eaten Tiramisu left on his plate.

– Agreed, said Karl Homme. Let’s go, he declared, standing up immediately from his chair.
– I’m old and tired, and can’t bear to go there. But I can certainly join around the rest of the site, declared Rebecca.

John smiled.

– That’s fine; I can pick you up later.
– How fascinating, said Anastasia. Is it possible to view the whole city from here?
– Well, parts of it, in any case, said John.

Kurt took up a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it before he got up from his chair and joined the little train of people which was moving towards the pyramids, led by John Fredly.

– How long did it take to build these, asked Kurt as they were halfway up the biggest pyramid.
– No one knows, responded John.
– They sacrificed young women and babies to their God of the seas, said John. He pointed to some skyscrapers on the horizon.

As John had arrived at the top of the pyramid, Anastasia started to scream.

– What’s up, asked Kurt. He still had a few meters left to go before he reached the top. Watch out, screamed Petter as John came falling towards Kurt in at a furious pace with his back first.

He held his hands to his throat and landed in the arms of Kurt with such speed that Kurt almost toppled from the impact. Kurt laid down John Fredly and stood over him with a worried expression on his face as Petter’s and Karl’s faces emerged from the top of the pyramid.

– Are you all right down there, Petter and Karl shouted to him.
– He’s shot in the chest, said Kurt. He was dead when he landed in my arms.

A few hours later, Kurt Hammer found himself in a dark glass building in General Vidal Street number 250. More specifically, in a whitewashed interrogation room. Two young police officers with black caps pulled well down on their foreheads sat across a small table with a microphone in front of them.

Because Kurt didn’t know much more than tourist-Spanish, the local police station had spent almost an hour finding an officer who knew more than primary school English.

Eventually, they found one that looked as if she’d barely finished the Police Academy.
Now she stood in a corner and simultaneously translated the ongoing conversation. She looked at them with weary, slightly triangular Peruvian eyes.

– … what makes you believe he is shot, Mr. Hammer?
– The fact that he has a bullet hole through his chest?
– … So why was he dead when he landed in your arms?
– Figuring that out is not my job. But he held his arms to his throat when he hit me.
– Well, señor Hammer. That’s all for now. You may go, but until you are checked out of the case you may not leave the country.
– Wasn’t planning on it.
– Senorita Lopez can follow you out.

Kurt stood up. He took out a cigarette from his breast pocket and put it in his mouth before going to the young lady in the corner.

– Excuse me, but this is a non-smoking area, señor Hammer.

Kurt just nodded and walked out of the door. Behind him, he could hear a resigned sigh as the young lady closed the door.

When Kurt was standing on the street, he looked at his watch as a black cab with a yellow and black checker pattern on the side stopped to pick him up. The time had crawled to two AM.

As Kurt entered the whitewashed reception of his hostel, a sleepy French man with dreads sitting behind the counter greeted him.

– Kurt! Where have you been? Not on the wagon again, are you?
– At the police station.

The French man had presented himself to Kurt, when he arrived, as Jean-Luc. Now he rolled his eyes.

– Haha, very funny.

Kurt was too tired to explain further, so he left the lobby, heading for his room.
When he had locked himself in the red room, he sat down on the edge of the double bed and began to undress. He put his light blue Hawaii shirt and jeans in a neat pile on the floor beside the bed.

Finally, Kurt put his head on the pillow. He knew that he was not going to be able to sleep.

Second chapter from Murder in Lima

By Felicia Alvdal and Frank Hansen
The paintings Several Circles and Autumn in Bavaria by the Russian artist Vassily Kandinsky (1866 – 1944) sold during the weekend for 15 and 18.9 million pounds, respectively, at Sotheby’s in London.

– Kandinsky is a very popular artist, and I expected that these came to be sold for much. Yet we are overwhelmed by the result, said auctioneer David Bennett NTB weekend.

Record

The previous record for a painting was 11 million pounds, and was beaten by the sale of Several Circles. This record was then beaten again by the sale of Autumn in Bavaria. At the end of the bidding process there was a fight between an unknown Russian buyer and the Norwegian tax fugitive John Fredly.
Fredly’s spokesman Hans Eriksen said to NTB;
– John Fredly has been interested in art for all of his adult life, and Kandinsky is his favorite artist. That the price he paid for these works is a record is just a footnote in the grand scheme of things.

Unsure

Asked whether Fredly would like to lend the paintings to a museum to share the works with a larger audience, he replied;
– This is something he has not yet considered. It is not impossible that it will happen in the future, but if so it  will be to a Peruvian museum in Lima, where he lives.
The Russian buyer refused to be identified, but said through his spokesman;
– We are very disappointed with the result. Kandinsky is a part of Russian national history, and does not belong in South America. We are willing to pay Fredly twice the purchase price over ten years if he wants to sell, and informed him of this.

Won’t happen

For Fredly, this is unacceptable.
– Fredly is going to keep the paintings at his home in Lima, Peru in the near future, where he will enjoy them with his family and guests, concluded Eriksen.

 

My new book – Murder in Lima

Murder in Lima - Cover

Murder in Lima – Cover

My new book has been under way since this summer, and is finally ready to be revealed to the world! 😀

As per usual, janielescueta has done an absolutely gobsmacking job with the cover – he exceeded my expectations and then some. If you’re looking for a cover artist, look no further.

With that out of the way, here is the prologue for the new book. I hope you’ll enjoy it! 😀

A black Mercedes Maybach Pullman pulled up outside 34-35 New Bond Street, London. The creamy white marble facade with two showcase windows on the ground floor housed one of the most fashionable auction houses in London.

From between the second and third floors glistened gold letters which formed the name “Sotheby’s” in the rain. A man wearing black bowler hat and coat stepped out of the driver’s seat. He closed the door behind him and walked with determined steps to the back door which was situated nearly five meters behind the front of the car. As he opened it, he bowed and said, “Welcome, sir!”

– Thanks!

The man answered and went out of the car was light brown skin and had black, curly hair lying in a neat bundle on top of his head. He was wearing a tan leather jacket under if he wore a dark blue polo shirt and an orange t-shirt.

Around the neck, he had a green cotton scarf that stood in stark contrast to glasses with black frames which he wore at the tip of the nose.

He arrived at the stately black doors with gold handles that constituted the entrance to the Sotheby’s auction house. There, a tall man wearing a black coat and top hat greeted him.

– Please hurry, sir, he said in a perfect Cockney accent. “The auction begins in five minutes!”

– Thanks, said the man with the green scarf. I guess I have a reserved seat?

– Of course, answered the tall one and opened one of the black doors. “Welcome!”

Finally done!

So, it finally happened. I finished Trouble in Trondheim: Bikers and Gangsters, and you can read the first 15% here. You can also preorder it from there, so you’ll get it on the 29th of March.

Soon, previews should be available from iTunes, Kobo and Nook also.

This is a monumental achievement for me, because it’s the longest novel I ever wrote. Right now I am immensely proud.

Postponed – again…

Unfortunately, I’ve had to postpone again. But this time the book really will be released on March 29th, I swear!

I’m also going to have a public reading of the book in Trondheim, it seems. I’ve been in contact with Trondheim’s litterary circle, and the leader seemed positive. 😀

I might just post a new chapter soon to wet your appetite – until then, enjoy this funny GIF:

The Mask :D

The Mask 😀

 

 

First chapter of Trouble in Trondheim

I’ve had a recent influx of likes for my Facebook page, and to celebrate I’m posting the first chapter from my forthcoming book, Trouble in Trondheim. It will be released on Amazon within the next few months. Watch this space!

Prologue

Chapter 1

Everything started at Trolla Brug in Trondheim. Outside the old, run down shipyard stood three trailers with Russian license plates. Each of them had a tail of people throwing bags containing heroin to each other in the rain.

Kurt Hammer stood on one of the trailers, relieved that ten tons of heroin were soon out of the cars. Out of the shipyard walked Padda, a bald man with a considerable frame and a flat face, which made up one half of the leadership in Trondheim Hells Angels.

— Lars?

Kurt looked questioningly at the bald face, planted between two enormous shoulders.

— You’re free to go, I’ll take it from here. The guys have done well, the trailers are almost empty!

— Sure?

— Unless you want to help us split the shit into bags?

— No thanks, I’ll pass on that, at least until tomorrow!

Kurt threw the bag in his hands to the russian behind him, before jumping down from the trailer and onto his Triumph Thunderbird. It originated from a police seizure, and this past month had barely seen him outdoors without it.
The drive to Ila took him all of six minutes, and three minutes later in front of Thon Hotell Prinsen he thought about making a detour to the police station to hand in his pistol and machinegun – the thought of seeing his fiancé Marte and hid newly born daughter again made him quickly ditch the idea.

He sped on past the old grey brick building with red details that was Prinsen cinema. When he passed Studentersamfundets red facade he was bombarded with raindrops the size of golf balls. Finally, outside his flat in Volveveien 11A at Nardo, water and sweat dripped off his entire body. The four room flat looked like a wooden square, painted white, with a small quadratic shed in front of it, which also served as a storage place for garbage containers. Coupled with the first flat was another flat, this one oblong and painted black, also with its own shed in front.

He jumped off the bike and gave it a clap on its seat, before walking across the gravel and putting his hand on the doorknob. Closed – perhaps she was sleeping in?
He found the key under the mat on which he stood before putting it in the keyhole and turning the lock.

— Hello, Marte? I’m home!

No one answered. Instinctively he went out the door again and picked up his gun from the bag on the bike.
Inside he could feel a cold breeze emanating from the kitchen. The living room window turned out to be shattered, but beyond that, he could find no signs of anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t find any footprints. That should be impossible in this weather. The people who had broken in must have removed their shoes, he reasoned. With his pistol still in both hands, he entered the bedroom.

At once, all doubts about the unknown perpetrator’s identity faded. In the black double bed Fjell from Ikea, Marte lay chained with two handcuffs. Her long, curly tresses wound neatly down past her shoulders. A gaping grimace had melted itself onto her face as a sort of cruel last goodbye. A bullet hole had manifested itself in her forehead, another in her stomach. The duvet was steeped in blood. He could barely watch the cot in the other side of the room. What was there wasn’t so much the remains of a human being as a cadaver.

He turned on his heel and went back to his bike. Rationally speaking, he should have dialed 112 – rational thinking had just passed into another dimension.
He drove from Nardo to Trolla Brug in a blind, violent rage with an average speed of 80 kilometers an hour. When he arrived, the trailers were already gone, but he found most of the bikes still parked outside. The last thing he did before going in was to put on the bulletproof vest safely placed in his bike’s bag. Inside the warehouse stood Padda, Martin, Ramberg, Flisa and several others. Some were opening bags; others were splitting the heroin into small zip lock bags. “If my colleagues had been here, they’d have laughed at the entire operation – how extremely careless,” he thought.
However, they weren’t here, it was just him and his machinegun. It turned into a real battle – heroin and blood squirted everywhere, like paint onto the misty grey relief outside.

Half an hour later it was all finished – twenty or so bodies were scattered on the grey concrete floor, on wooden tables and behind boxes.

Without a word, he hoisted himself up from a crouching position, went outside, positioned himself on the bike and drove home.
A few hours later, he turned on the television in Volveveien 11A.

— Trolla Brug has seen what looks to be a gang war. Trolla Brug is the headquarters of Hells Angels in Trondheim. Seventeen people were murdered and three people severely injured in what police describes as the worst shootout in the history of Trondheim.

Kurt Hammer opened another bottle of Jack Daniels and waited for the sirens.

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