by Jo Nesbo
In Muhammed's ahwa the thin boy behind the counter explained that the boss had suddenly decided to take the day off and go for a walk. Beate asked when he would be back, but the boy, at a loss, shook his head, pointed to the sun and said, 'Trancoso.'
The female receptionist at the hotel said the thirteen-kilometre walk along the unbroken stretch of white sand to Trancoso was d'Ajuda's greatest landmark. Apart from the Catholic church in the square, it was also the only one.
'Mm. Why are there so few people around, senhora?’ Harry asked.
She smiled and pointed to the sea.
That was where they were. On the scorching hot sand stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see in the heat haze. There were sunbathers lying in state, beach pedlars trudging through the loose sand, bowed beneath the weight of cooler bags and sacks of fruit, bartenders grinning from makeshift bars where loudspeakers blasted out samba music under straw roofs, and surfers in the yellow national strip, their lips painted white with zinc oxide. And two people walking south with their shoes in their hands. One in shorts, a skimpy top and a straw hat which she had changed into at the hotel, the other still bare-headed in his creased linen suit.
'Did she say thirteen kilometres?' Harry said, blowing away the bead of sweat hanging off the tip of his nose.
'It'll be dark before we get back,' Beate said, pointing. 'Look, everyone else is coming back.'
There was a black stripe along the beach, an apparently endless caravan of people on their way home with the afternoon sun at their backs.
'Just what we ordered,' Harry said, straightening his sunglasses. 'A line-up of the whole of d'Ajuda. We'll have to keep our eyes peeled. If we don't see Muhammed, perhaps we'll be lucky and bump into Lev in person.'
Beate smiled. 'Bet you a hundred we don't.'
Faces flickered by in the heat. Black, white, young, old, beautiful, ugly, stoned, abstemious, smiling, scowling faces. The bars and the surfboard hire stalls were gone. All they could see was sand and sea to the left, and dense jungle vegetation to the right. Here and there, people were sitting in groups with the unmistakable smell of joints wafting over.
'I've been thinking more about that intimate-space stuff and our insider theory,' Harry said. 'Do you think Lev and Stine Grette could have known each other as more than brother- and sister-in-law?'
'You mean she was involved in the planning, and then he shot her to cover his tracks?' Beate peered at the sun. 'Well, why not?'
Even though it was past four o'clock, the heat had not noticeably relented. They removed their shoes to cross some rocks, and on the other side Harry found a thick, dry branch the sea had washed up. He stuck the branch in the sand and took the wallet and passport out of his jacket before hanging it on the makeshift hatstand.
They could see Trancoso in the distance now and Beate said they had just passed a man she had seen in a video. At first Harry thought she meant some semi-famous actor until she said he was called Roger Person, and that in addition to various narcotics charges, he had done time for robbing the post office in Gamlebyen and Veitvet. He was suspected of robbing the post office in Ulleval.
Fred had knocked back three caipirinhas at the beach restaurant in Trancoso, but still thought it had been a senseless idea to walk thirteen kilometres just - as Roger had put it - to 'air their skin before it started to go mouldy, too'.
'Your problem is you can't sit still because of those new pills,' Fred whined to his friend, who was lolloping ahead on tiptoes with his knees raised.
'So what? You need to burn off a few calories before going back to the smorgasbord in the North Sea. Tell me what Muhammed said on the phone about the two police officers.'
Roger sighed and reluctantly searched his short-term memory. 'He talked about a small woman who was so pale she was almost transparent. And a big German with a boozer's nose.'
'German?'
'Muhammed was guessing. Could have been Russian. Or an Inca Indian or . . .'
'Very funny. Was he sure they were cops?'
'What do you mean?' Roger stopped and Fred almost walked into him.
'I'm just saying I don't like it,' Roger said. 'As far as I know Lev didn't do bank jobs outside Norway. And Norwegian police don't come to Brazil to nab one stinking bank robber. Probably Russian. Fuck. We know who sent them. And it isn't Lev they're after.'
Fred groaned. 'Don't start all that gypsy shit again, please.'
'You think it's paranoia, but he's Satan himself. He doesn't think twice before plugging people who cheated him out of a krone. I never thought he would find out. I just took a couple of thousand for pocket money from one of the bags, didn't I. But it's the principle, you know. If you're the leader of the pack, you've got to have respect unless—'
'Roger! If I wanted to hear all this mafia crap, I could hire a video.' Roger didn't answer. 'Hello? Roger?'
'Shut up,' Roger whispered. 'Don't turn round and keep going.'
'Hey?'
'If you weren't so pissed, you would have seen we just passed one transparent job and one boozer's conk.'
'Is that a fact?' Fred craned his head. 'Roger . . .'
'Yes?
'I think you're right.' They turned round.
Roger continued to walk without looking back. 'Fuckfuckfuck!'
'What do we do?'
When he didn't get an answer, Fred looked back and discovered Roger had gone. He examined the sand in amazement - the deep footprint Roger had left - and followed the prints leading abruptly to the left. Up ahead, he saw Roger's flailing heels. Then Fred began to run towards the dense, green vegetation, too.
Harry gave up almost at once.
'There's no point,' he shouted after Beate, who faltered, then stopped.
They were only a few metres from the beach, yet it was as if they were in another world. A steamy, stagnant heat hung between the tree trunks in the pitch black beneath the leafy ceiling. What might have been the sounds of the two fleeing men were drowned by the bird screams and the roar of the sea behind them.
'The one at the back didn't exactly look like a sprinter,' Beate said.
'They know the paths better than we do,' Harry said. 'We haven't got any weapons, but maybe they have.'
'If Lev hasn't already been warned, he will be now. So what do we do?'
Harry rubbed the soaked neck bandage. The mosquitoes had already managed to sneak in a few bites. 'We switch to plan B.' 'Oh? And that is?'
Harry looked at Beate and wondered how it could be that there wasn't a drop of sweat to be seen on her forehead while he was leaking like rotten guttering.
'We're going fishing.'
The sunset was brief but it was a pageant of all the spectrum's shades of red. Plus a few, Muhammed reckoned, pointing to the sun, which had just melted into the horizon like a knob of butter on a hot frying pan.
The German in front of the counter was not interested in the sunset, however. He had just said he would give a thousand dollars to anyone who could help him to find Lev Grette or Roger Person. Would Muhammed mind passing on the offer? Interested informants could apply to room 69 at Vitoria Hotel, said the German before leaving the ahwa with the pale woman.
The swallows ran amok when the insects came out for their brief evening dance. The sun had melted into a runny red mush on the surface of the sea and ten minutes later it was dark.
When Roger turned up an hour later, cursing, he was pale under his tan.
'Gyppo greaser,' he mumbled to Muhammed, and said he had already heard about the fat reward at Fredo's bar and had left instantly. On his way he had stuck his head into the supermarket, where Petra had told him the German and the blonde woman had been twice. The last time they had bought a fishing line; they hadn't asked any questions.
'What do they want that for?' he asked, casting cursory glances around him while Muhammed poured the coffee. 'Fishing perhaps?'
'There you are,' Muhammed said, motioning towards the cup. 'Good for paranoia.'
'Paran
oia?' Roger shouted. 'This is good common sense. A thousand fucking dollars! People round here would happily sell their mothers for a tenth of that.'
'What are you going to do then?'
'What I have to do. Pre-empt the German.'
'Really? How?'
Roger tasted the coffee while pulling out a black pistol with a short red-brown butt from his waistband. 'Say hello to Taurus PT92C from Sao Paulo.'
'No, thank you,' Muhammed hissed. 'Take that away this minute. You're insane. Do you think you can take the German on alone?'
Roger shrugged and put the pistol back in his waistband.
'Fred is at home shaking. He said he'll never sober up again.'
'This man is a pro, Roger.'
Roger sniffed. 'And me? I've robbed a few banks, I have. And do you know what the most important thing is, Muhammed? The element of surprise. It means everything.' Roger drained his cup of coffee. 'And I doubt he's much of a fucking pro if he goes around telling every Tom, Dick and Harry which room he's in.'
Muhammed rolled his eyes and crossed himself.
'Allah can see you, Muhammed,' Roger muttered drily and got up.
Roger saw the blonde woman as soon as he entered the reception area. She was sitting with a group of men watching a football match on the TV above the counter. That was right, it was flaflu tonight, the traditional local derby between Flamengo and Fluminese in Rio. That was why Fredo's had been so full.
He quickly walked past them, hoping he hadn't been seen. Ran up the carpeted stairs and continued along the corridor. He knew all too well which room it was. When Petra's husband was due to be out of town on business, Roger reserved room 69.
Roger placed his ear against the door, but heard nothing. He peered through the keyhole, but it was dark inside. Either the German had gone out or he was asleep. Roger swallowed. His heart was pounding, but the broken half of the upper he had taken kept him calm. He checked the pistol was loaded and the catch was off before gently pressing down the handle. The door was open! Roger slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He stood in the dark holding his breath. Neither sight nor sound of anyone. No movements, no breathing. Just the gentle revolutions of the ceiling fan. Fortunately Roger knew the room intimately. He pointed the pistol where he knew the heart-shaped bed to be, as his eyes became used to the dark. A narrow strip of moonlight cast a pale sheen on the bed where the duvet had been thrown aside. Empty. He thought quickly. Could the German have gone out and forgotten to lock up? If so, Roger could just settle down and wait until the German returned to be a target in the doorway. It all seemed too good to be true, like a bank which had forgotten to activate the time lock. It just doesn't happen. The ceiling fan.
Enlightenment came that very second.
Roger jumped when he heard the sudden sound of flushing water from the bathroom. The guy had been sitting on the toilet! Roger grabbed the pistol with both hands and with outstretched arms pointed it at where he knew the bathroom door was. Five seconds passed. Eight. Roger couldn't hold his breath any longer. What the fuck was the guy waiting for? He had flushed. Twelve seconds. Perhaps he had heard something. Perhaps he was trying to escape. Roger remembered there was a little window in one wall. Shit! This was his chance; he couldn't let the guy get away. Roger crept past the wardrobe containing the dressing gown which looked so good on Petra, stood in front of the bathroom door and rested his hand on the handle. Took a deep breath. He was about to press when he felt a tiny draught. Not from a fan or an open window. It was something else.
'Freeze,' said a voice directly behind him. And after raising his head and looking in the mirror on the bathroom door, Roger did just that. He froze so much his teeth were chattering. The door of the wardrobe had come open and inside, between the white dressing gowns, he could make out a powerfully built figure. But this wasn't what caused the sudden bout of freezing. The psychological effect of discovering someone has a much bigger weapon trained on you than the one you are holding is not diminished by having some understanding of weaponry. On the contrary. You know how much more efficiently large-bore bullets destroy a human body. Roger's Taurus PT92C was a peashooter compared with the large, black monster he glimpsed in the moonlight behind him. A squeaking noise made Roger look up. What seemed to be a fishing line glistened. It went from the crack over the bathroom door to the wardrobe.
'Guten Abend,' Roger whispered.
Six years later, when Roger happened to be waved over to a bar in Pattaya, only to discover Fred behind all the whiskers, he was at first so surprised that he stood there without reacting until Fred pulled over a chair.
Fred ordered drinks and told him he no longer worked in the North Sea. Disability allowance. Roger sat down hesitantly and explained, without going into detail, that for the last six years he had been running a courier business from Chang Rai. After a couple of drinks Fred cleared his throat and asked what had actually taken place the evening Roger suddenly upped sticks from d'Ajuda.
Roger peered into his glass, took a deep breath and said he hadn't had a choice. The German, who incidentally wasn't German, had tricked him and been on the point of dispatching him into the beyond there and then. However, at the last moment Roger had struck a deal with him. Roger would have thirty minutes to clear out of d'Ajuda, if he told him where Lev Grette lived.
'What kind of gun did you say the guy had?' Fred asked.
'Too dark to see. It wasn't a well-known make, anyway. I can promise you, though, it would have blown my head all the way down to Fredo's.' Roger threw a quick glance in the direction of the door.
'I've found a pad here,' Fred said. 'Have you got somewhere to
stay?'
Roger looked at Fred as if he hadn't given the idea a moment's thought. He rubbed his stubble for a long time before replying. 'Actually, I haven't.'
27
Edvard Grieg
Lev's house was at the end of a cul-de-sac. It was like most in the vicinity, a simple structure, the difference being that this house did actually have glass in the windows. One solitary streetlamp cast a yellow cone of light over an impressive variety of fauna fighting for living space as gluttonous bats dived in and out of the dark.
'Doesn't look like anyone is at home,' Beate whispered.
'Perhaps he's saving electricity,' Harry said.
They stopped in front of a low, rusty iron gate.
'How do we do this then?' Beate asked. 'Go up and knock on the door?'
'No. You switch on your mobile and wait here. When you can see I'm under the window, ring this number.' He gave her a page torn out of a notebook.
'Why?'
'If I hear a mobile phone ringing inside the house, we can assume Lev is at home.'
'Right. And how were you thinking of arresting him? With that?' She pointed to the black bulky object Harry held in his right hand. 'Why not?' Harry said. 'It worked on Roger Person.'
'He was in a dark room and only saw it in a fairground mirror, Harry.'
'Well, since we aren't allowed to carry weapons in Brazil, we have to use what we have.'
'Like fishing line tied to the loo and a toy?'
'This is not just any toy, Beate. This is a Namco G-Con 45.' He patted the super-lifesize plastic pistol.
'At least take off the Playstation sticker,' Beate said, shaking her head.
Harry undid his shoes and ran stooped across the dry, cracked ground which once had been laid as a lawn. He arrived, sat with his back to the wall under the window and signalled with his hand to Beate. He couldn't see her, but knew she could see him against the white wall. He gazed up at the sky where the universe was on display. Seconds later, the faint but distinct ringtone of a mobile phone sounded in the house. 'In the Hall of the Mountain King'. Peer Gynt. The man had a sense of humour.
Harry focused on one of the stars and tried to empty his head of all other thoughts than what he had to do. He couldn't. Once Aune had asked why we wonder if there is life out there, when we know there are more sun
s in our galaxy alone than grains of sand on the average beach? We ought to be asking ourselves if there was a chance they were peace-loving, then weigh up whether it was worth taking the risk of contacting them. Harry squeezed the handle of the gun. He was asking himself the same question now.
The telephone had stopped playing Grieg. Harry waited. Then he breathed in and tiptoed to the door. He listened but all he could hear was crickets. He wrapped his hand around the door handle, expecting it to be locked.
It was.
He cursed to himself. He had made up his mind beforehand that if it was locked and they lost the element of surprise, they should wait until the following day and buy some ironware before going back. He doubted it would be a problem buying two decent handguns in a place like this. But he also had the feeling Lev would soon be informed of the day's events and they didn't have a lot of time.