Of course he had switched hotels, but not his name. So what good had it done?
Now the man in the coat was walking a mere twenty or thirty meters behind him, so René walked faster. Ahead lay another three or four narrow streets that led up to one of the wide avenidas, so all he had to do was keep up a good pace.
Then all of a sudden he had the impression he’d seen this man before. Was he the one who’d been standing at the counter in the police station when he had given a statement about a minor traffic accident on Calle Marino? Were they starting to catch on, in spite of everything? The thought sent a shudder down his spine.
Now he began to run, and despite his age and years of total physical inactivity, a personal trainer and a routine of early-morning jogging on the beaches had given his legs new life, enabling him to dart around corners and down a narrow alley without his pursuer being able to keep up.
Feeling victorious and quite pleased with himself, he hid behind a stack of cardboard boxes and promised himself he would forget about Yosibell at Choroní Beach and grab a flight south that very evening.
He stayed there for a while, until feeling certain the man was caught up in the lattice of small streets and had lost the scent.
But as he stepped out, there the man was at the end of the lane, aiming a gun at him.
His panicked brain screamed for a solution. Police salaries were miserable and René had the means to sort things out. So he approached the man, intending to make a deal.
But as he was about to put forward his proposal, the man instructed him to take off his watch and hand it to him.
René was startled. Had he fled from a simple thief? Was that all this was about? With ill-concealed annoyance he unfastened the timepiece, thinking the son of a bitch had no idea he was now in possession of something only ten other people in the world owned. May it put a curse on him.
“The bag, too,” said the man, pointing the barrel of his gun at the plastic bag containing René’s old Tag Heuer.
He handed it over.
“And your wallet.”
Dammit. This was getting out of hand and was going to cause him a lot of bother, cancelling credit cards and waiting around for new ones. He was going to be here longer than he’d wanted.
“C’mon,” said the man impatiently, eyes following René’s hand as he reached into his inside pocket and handed him his alligator skin wallet.
The man opened it, satisfying himself that it was full of credit cards and plenty of bolívars and dollars.
The fucking bastard just stood there smiling at him. Had it not been for the gun, he would have given him the same treatment he gave Brage-Schmidt’s black slave.
“Now the cell phone,” he said.
No, goddammit, nothing more. That was it.
“Sorry, I haven’t got one,” René said.
The man seemed not to believe him.
“Give it to me now,” he said.
“I’ve already told you I haven’t got one. I’ve given you everything else, so if I had a phone I’d give you that, too. I’m not stupid.”
The man frisked him quickly, but missed the back pocket where his phone was.
“OK, so you don’t have a cell phone,” he said. Then he stepped back and for a moment looked like he was about to shoot. But instead he smiled toothlessly. “You’ve been cooperative, so I’m letting you go. Not everyone is that lucky.”
He began retreating backward, and as he reached the end of the alleyway, he stuck the pistol into his pocket and disappeared around the corner.
And at that moment the phone rang.
René reached instantly into his pocket and muted the ringtone. Then he put the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Richard, it’s Yosibell. The water up here is as clear as glass and my skin is moist. When will you be here?”
He was about to answer that he might be delayed, but he never got that far.
“You told me you had no cell phone!” a voice yelled from the far end of the lane, footsteps picking up speed.
René looked back over his shoulder. The man stopped a few meters away from him. Heart pounding, he turned and stared into the man’s eyes. They were totally calm, tranquil almost, just like the hand pointing the gun at him.
“You know what?” he said coldly. “I hate people like you. People who lie.”
He shook his head, rather like an exasperated father scolding a naughty child.
“So now you have to pay the price,” he said, and fired the gun.
René heard Yosibell’s voice berating him as he fell to the ground.
The last thing René E. Eriksen sensed was the pounding of heavy footsteps on the ground next to him. And then, finally, the phone being eased from his hand.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my tireless and patient wife, Hanna, for keeping my nose to the grindstone and helping me through the long process of writing. Thanks to our marvelous assistant, Elisabeth Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, for her research and innumerable talents. Thanks to Kjeld Skærbæk for transport and all manner of help. Thanks also to Eddie Kiran, Hanne Petersen, Micha Schmalstieg, and Karlo Andersen for valuable and insightful comments, and to my inestimable editor, Anne C. Andersen, for her keen eye, boundless energy reserves, and overview. Thanks to Karsten Dybvad and Anne G. Jensen for showing me around Copenhagen’s House of Industry in the early stages of its conversion. Thanks to Gitte and Peter Q. Rannes of the Danish Centre for Writers and Translators at Hald Hovedgaard for their hospitality. Thanks to Peter Garde for use of his magnificent house in Kera, Crete. Thanks to the girls of the Maeva publishing house in Barcelona for their sterling efforts in various situations, to Mathilde Sommeregger for purchase of a writing desk and rental of an swivel chair, and to Alba for recovering my lost suitcase with the book’s synopsis and all my research inside it. Thanks to Gordon Alsing for use of his retreat in Liseleje. Thanks to Police Superintendent Leif Christensen for corrections relating to police matters, as well as to Police Superintendent and Press Coordinator Lars-Christian Borg. Thanks to physiotherapist Mette Andresen and to Leo Poulsen of the Royal Library in Copenhagen.
Special thanks go to Henning Kure for his fantastic editorial work, cutting and trimming and thereby giving me back my enthusiasm and clear-sightedness when it was most needed.
Thanks to Dirk Henning for his hospitality in Yaoundé. Thanks to our guide, Louis Fon, who has given name to one of the characters in this book; to my friend and traveling companion Jesper Helbo; and our nine strong and good-humored scouts, as well as to our Bantu ranger and cook for an amazing expedition into the Da jungle of Cameroon.
With the publication of this novel, adlerolsen.de has provided support to the Baka Sunrise Association in recognition of that foundation’s important efforts to provide schooling to the children of the Baka people.
Jussi Adler-Olsen
Carl Valdemar Jussi Henry Adler-Olsen is a Danish author who, after following several different courses of study and engaging in various professions, embarked on his literary career with two books about Groucho Marx in 1984. His bestsellers include the thriller Alfabethuset (Alphabet House) (1997) and, most recently, Journal 64 (2010).
