Thus Zola maintained his grip as undisputed leader by acts of vengeance and other demonstrations of power, and no one withdrew from his circle without knowing they would be wise to stick to the unwritten laws and above all keep their mouths shut. But now he had encountered a problem that compelled him to submit to the decisions and motives of others, and here he wanted no witnesses. Not even Chris. For that reason, Zola locked himself in his bedroom at the appointed time and waited for the phone to ring.
“We have a renegade,” was the first thing he said when his contact called.
His words were followed by an uncomfortable silence.
Although the man at the other end hired Zola’s people to do his dirty work, he was more than capable of doing it himself if the need should arise, as Zola knew from several of his informants. The deal had been unequivocal from the start. If anything went wrong it would be Zola’s responsibility and his alone. And if Zola proved unable to fulfil his responsibility it was he who would have to suffer the consequences.
“Our relationship exists within a web,” the man had said when they entered into agreement. “It is a web of unanimity, silence, and loyalty from which we cannot and must not withdraw. And if in spite of this you should be tempted to try, the threads of this web will run with blood. That is the condition, and I shall assume we are in agreement.”
There were no ifs, ands, or buts. Zola realized the man was capable of anything.
“A renegade,” said the voice. “Would you be so kind as to explain to me how this occurred?”
Zola considered his reply. There was no other way than to tell it like it was. “One of the boys in the clan has run away. By chance, during his flight he hid himself in the grave we dug for William Star-”
“Careful what you say,” warned the voice immediately. “Where is the boy now?”
“We don’t know. I’m organizing a search.”
“How well do you know him?”
“He’s my nephew.”
“Is that a problem for you?”
“Not at all. He will be treated like anyone else.”
“Description?”
“Fifteen years old but looks younger. Approximately five foot five but still growing. Black curly hair, green-brown eyes, rather dark skin. No distinguishing marks, I’m afraid. He ran off in his pajamas, but we can assume he’s managed to change since then.” Zola laughed nervously with no response. “We know he took a necklace from the body. African origin. We might hope he decides to wear it himself.”
“A necklace? You left a necklace on the body? Are you stark raving mad?”
“We meant to retrieve it, but we never got round to it.”
“Idiocy!”
Zola clenched his teeth. It had been years since he had been spoken to like this. Had the man been a member of the clan it would have cost him dearly.
“And the boy’s name?”
“Marco. Marco Jameson.”
“Jameson, right. Does he speak Danish?”
“That and several other languages besides. He’s clever. A bit too clever.”
“Track him down and bring him back in. Where is he likely to have gone?”
Zola rubbed his brow. If only he knew. What the hell was he supposed to say? That Marco could be just about anywhere by now? That he had learned well and could be as inconspicuous as a chameleon in a rain forest?
“No need to worry,” Zola replied, as convincingly as he was able. “Our network covers the whole of Sjælland. We’ll take Copenhagen district by district, street by street, day and night. We’ll keep at it until we have him.”
“Are you up to it? Who’s on the job?”
“Absolutely everyone. Everyone in the clan, the Romanians, the boys from Malmö, my Ukrainian fence. His organization is especially widespread.”
“OK. I don’t need to know everything.” A brief silence ensued. “I’ll be following this closely, do you understand?”
And then he put the phone down.
Yes, Zola definitely understood.
Marco mustn’t have a chance.
It was imperative.
7
Spring 2011
The shadows were long and heavy when Carl finally pulled into a space in Rønneholtparken’s parking lot. Normally the sight of the light from the exhaust hood over the steaming pots and casseroles would have given him a sense of comfort at having returned to the nest, but not today. Crap days at work always had their price.
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment as Morten, his lodger, waved to him at the window. But for once he wished the house had been empty, devoid of all life.
“Hey, Carl, welcome home. Fancy a glass of wine?” were the first words of greeting, as he dumped his jacket onto the nearest chair.
One glass? This was one of those evenings he could drink a whole bottle, no bother.
“Your dear ex-wife, Vigga, called,” was Morten’s second offering. Carl groaned. “She says you owe her mother a visit.”
Carl glanced at the bottle. Unfortunately it was already half empty.
Morten handed him a glass and was about to pour. “You’re looking a bit peaky, Carl. Didn’t the trip go well? Is it one of those nasty cases again?”
Carl shook his head, took hold of his lodger’s wrist, and carefully removed the bottle from his grasp. He’d pour the stuff himself.
“Oh, like that, is it?” Morten wasn’t always the brightest of souls when it came to gauging Carl’s moods, but today seemed to be an exception. He turned and went back to his cooking. “Dinner’s in ten minutes.”
“Where’s Jesper?” Carl asked, downing the first glass in one gulp with scant attention to bouquet, oak-wood aging, or vintage.
“You might well ask. God knows.” Morten spread his fingers in the air and shook his head. “He said he was off to do some homework,” he tittered.
Carl found this rather less funny, his stepson’s final exam being only a month away. If he didn’t pass it would be a new Danish record for uncompleted preparatory exams and what would a lad of twenty-one do then, the way the world was shaping up these days? No, there was damn little to laugh about.
“Aloha, Carl,” came a voice from the bed in the middle of the living room, indicating that Hardy was awake.
Carl switched off the perennial drivel emanating from the flat-screen TV and went over to sit at Hardy’s bedside.
It had been a few days since he’d studied his friend’s ashen face so closely. Was that a little sparkle in the paralyzed man’s eyes? Certainly there was something there he hadn’t noticed before. It almost reminded him of someone whose love life was suddenly looking up, or perhaps a promise that had just been fulfilled.
But besides that, Hardy was equipped with a built-in prism that served to filter the moods of his surroundings and that most probably had evolved through years of experience in the questioning of criminals. It was as if he possessed the particular ability to draw all the colors from a person’s aura that represented his state of mind and emotions. It was through this filter he now looked at Carl.
“What’s up, mate? Things not go well in Rotterdam?” he asked.
“Can’t say they did, no. I’m afraid we’re no closer to clearing up the case, Hardy. Their reports were like a bad movie script. No substance, poor groundwork, and very little reflection in any of it.”
Hardy nodded. It obviously wasn’t what he’d been hoping for, yet strangely enough he didn’t seem bothered. What’s more, he’d called him mate. When had he last done that?