'Last I heard, he was going to Norway,' Fred said, slowly raising his head.
'Maybe he robbed a bank and got caught,' Roger said and smiled at the thought. Not because he wanted Lev to be caught, but because the thought of robbing banks always made him smile. He himself had done it three times, and it had given him a big kick every time. Fair enough, they were caught the first two times, but the third time they did everything right. When he described the coup, he usually omitted to mention the lucky circumstance that the surveillance cameras had been temporarily out of service, but nevertheless the rewards had allowed him to enjoy his otium-and from time to time his opium-here in d'Ajuda.
The beautiful little village lay to the south of Porto Seguro and until recently had housed the Continent's largest collection of wanted individuals south of Bogotб. It had begun in the seventies when d'Ajuda became a rallying point for hippies and travellers who lived off gambling and selling home-made jewellery and body decorations in Europe during the summer months. They meant welcome extra income for d'Ajuda and, by and large, didn't bother anyone, so the two Brazilian families who in principle owned all the trade and industry in the village came to an understanding with the local Chief of Police, as a result of which a blind eye was turned to the smoking of marijuana on the beach, in cafйs, in the growing number of bars and, as time went on, in the streets and anywhere at all.
There was one problem, however: the fines given to tourists for smoking marijuana and breaking other rather unknown laws were, as in other places, an important source of income for the police, who were paid a pittance by the state. So that the lucrative tourist business and the police could coexist in harmony, the two families had to provide the police with alternative secure earnings. This started with an American sociologist and his Argentinian boyfriend, who were responsible for the local production and sale of marijuana, being forced to pay a commission to the Chief of Police for protection and a guaranteed monopoly-in other words potential competitors were promptly arrested and delivered to the federal police with all due pomp and ceremony. Money trickled into the pockets of the few local police officers and everything was hunky-dory until three Mexicans offered to pay a higher commission, and one Sunday morning the American and the Argentinian were delivered to the federal police with all due pomp and ceremony in the market square in front of the post office. Nevertheless, the efficient market-regulated system for the buying and selling of protection continued to flourish, and soon d'Ajuda was full of wanted criminals from all corners of the world who could be sure of a relatively safe existence for a price way below what they would have to pay in Pattaya or many other places. However, in the eighties this beautiful and hitherto almost untouched jewel of nature with long beaches, red sunsets and excellent marijuana was discovered by the tourist vultures-the backpackers. They streamed to d'Ajuda in large numbers, with a determination to consume, which meant that the two families in the town had to reassess the economic viability of d'Ajuda as a camp for fugitives from the law. As the snug, dark bars were converted into diving equipment hire shops, and the cafй where the locals had danced their lambada in the old way began to arrange 'Wild-Wild-Moon party' nights, the police had to undertake lightning raids on the small white houses with increasing frequency and drive the wildly protesting captives off to the square. But it was still safer for a lawbreaker to be in d'Ajuda than in many other places in the world, even though paranoia had crept under everyone's skin, not just Roger's.
That was why there was also room for a man like Muhammed Ali in d'Ajuda's food chain. The main justification for his existence was that he had a strategic observation post in the square where the bus from Porto Seguro had its terminus. From behind the counter in his open ahwa Muhammed had a full view of everything that happened in d'Ajuda's sole, sun-baked, cobblestoned plaza. When new buses arrived he stopped serving coffee and putting Brazilian tobacco-a poor replacement for his home-grown m'aasil-in the hookah, in order to check over the new arrivals and spot possible police officers or bounty hunters. If his unerring nose placed anyone in the former category, he immediately sounded the alarm. The alarm was a kind of subscription arrangement whereby those who paid the monthly charge were phoned or had a message pinned to their door by the small, fleet-footed Paulinho. Muhammed also had a personal reason for keeping an eye on incoming buses. When he and Rosalita fled from her husband and Rio, he hadn't a moment's doubt what awaited them if the spurned party found out where they were. You could have simple murders carried out for a couple of hundred dollars if you went to the favelas of Rio or Sгo Paulo, but even an experienced professional hit man didn't take more than two to three thousand dollars plus expenses for a search-and-destroy job, and it had been a buyers' market for the last ten years. On top of that, there was a bulk discount for couples.
Sometimes people Muhammed had marked out as bounty hunters walked straight into his ahwa. For appearance's sake, they ordered a coffee, and at a suitable point down the coffee cup, they asked the inevitable question: Do-you-know-where-my-friend-such-and-such-lives? or Do-you-know-the-man-in-this-picture? I-owe-him-some-money. In such cases, Muhammed received a supplementary fee if his stock answer ('I saw him take the bus to Porto Seguro with a big suitcase two days ago, senhor') resulted in the bounty hunter leaving again on the first bus.
When the tall, blond man in the creased linen suit, with the white bandage around his neck, put a bag and a Playstation carrier bag on the counter, wiped the sweat off his brow and ordered a coffee in English, Muhammed could smell a few extra reais on top of the fixed fee. It wasn't the man who aroused his instincts, though; it was the woman with him. She might just as well have written POLICE across her forehead.
Harry scanned the bar. Apart from him, Beate and the Arab behind the counter, there were three people in the cafй. Two backpackers and a tourist of the more down-at-heel variety, apparently nursing a serious hangover. Harry's neck was killing him. He looked at his watch. It was twenty hours since they had left Oslo. Oleg had rung, the Tetris record was beaten and Harry had managed to buy a Namco G-Con 45 at the computer-game shop in Heathrow before flying on to Recife. They had taken a propeller plane to Porto Seguro. Outside the airport he had negotiated what was probably a crazy price with a taxi driver, who drove them to a ferry to take them to the d'Ajuda side where a bus jolted them the last few kilometres.
It was twenty-four hours since he had been sitting in the visitors' room explaining to Raskol that he needed another 40,000 kroner for the Egyptians. Raskol had explained to him that Muhammed Ali's ahwa wasn't in Porto Seguro but a village nearby.
'D'Ajuda,' Raskol had said with a big smile. 'I know a couple of boys living there.'
The Arab looked at Beate, who shook her head, before putting the cup of coffee in front of Harry. It was strong and bitter.
'Muhammed,' Harry said and saw the man behind the counter stiffen. 'You are Muhammed, right?'
The Arab swallowed. 'Who's asking?'
'A friend.' Harry put his right hand inside his jacket and saw the panic on the dark-skinned face. 'Lev's little brother is trying to get hold of him.' Harry pulled out one of the photographs Beate had found at Trond's and put it on the counter.
Muhammed closed his eyes for a second. His lips seemed to be mumbling a silent prayer of gratitude.
The photograph showed two boys. The taller of the two was wearing a red quilted jacket. He was laughing and had put a friendly arm around the other one, who smiled shyly at the camera.