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 Vitуria 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.'
'Paranoia?' 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 Sгo 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.