And now, a couple of years on, he was sitting with the modified documents based on Stark’s notes. Notations that had once cast doubt upon René’s management of the project but which, thanks to his manipulations, now pointed the finger at Teis Snap and William Stark himself.
Next it was only logical that he took out the rearmost sheet from the folder and in the corner, using William Stark’s characteristic handwriting, wrote:
Transfer to Maduro & Curiel’s Bank, followed by Teis Snap’s mobile phone number.
17
For yet another entire night he had slept outdoors like one of the homeless as the gray tones of the street began permeating his clothes and countenance.
Marco was not afraid, yet he felt insecure and had every reason to be.
Kasim, who owned the Internet café, had already warned him as he drove down Randersgade in his shiny BMW and caught sight of Marco rummaging through the local supermarket’s Dumpsters in search of discarded fruit and bread. He was there by chance, though Dumpster diving was a lot more productive there than behind the big supermarkets like Netto or Brugsen, where there was competition from young Danes living in communes who were unwilling to share. Class warfare existed, even on that level.
“Every piece of scum on the street is out looking for you,” Kasim called out to him. “Best to stay away from here, Marco. Find somewhere safe.”
So the hunt was still on.
But Marco couldn’t just vanish. He didn’t really believe they would be looking for him in Østerbro, and he still had thousands of kroner stashed in Eivind and Kaj’s apartment. The money was his, and until it was in his possession again he would remain in the neighborhood.
Several times he had walked by and seen their windows lit up in the evening. He had also noted the sign was still hanging on the door of the dry cleaners, saying they were closed due to illness.
Apparently Kaj had yet to recover.
But when he did, and they began going to work again, he would force entry into the apartment in some way. The important thing now was to keep an eye out for Zola’s people. In a week’s time they would probably believe he’d disappeared and he would hopefully be able to move more freely.
For that reason he kept away from the crowds, wary of any sudden shadow, anything unexpected or untoward. He observed where the cars with foreign plates and tinted windows parked, and thus knew when all-too-alert, foreign-looking men were in the vicinity.
This Saturday morning everything seemed normal. Østerbro had awoken to a lazy summerlike weekend. It was the kind of day where the Danes mingled and meandered along the pavements, benevolent smiles of spring on their faces.
Marco had made his daily reconnaissance of the dry cleaners, hugging the wall on the other side of the street and noting that his wait would continue.
He wondered if Kaj was more badly injured than he had thought, since Eivind was apparently still unable to look after the shop.
He stood in the basement well of a disused corner shop on Willemoesgade and pondered for the thousandth time the series of events that had led him here. If Kaj and Eivind had helped him instead of throwing him out, he would have felt more guilty about what had happened to Kaj. He understood how scared they were and how reluctant to have him stay on with them after what had happened. But it wasn’t he who had assaulted them. He hadn’t volunteered to live the life of a slave in Zola’s service either, or chosen a father who was prepared to sacrifice the health and life of his own son in order to please his younger brother. And had he, Marco, ever killed a person?
He raised his head and straightened his shoulders. No, he had no reason to feel guilty or ashamed. Perhaps he was beginning to smell a bit rancid and his pockets were empty, but the important thing was he had broken free. He no longer stole, and he’d begun deciding for himself who he was and what he wanted to become. For the time being he was a gypsy, and when all this was over with he would just be himself.
Staring at the facades of the buildings across the street, he saw a pale face withdraw quickly from a curtain in a ground-floor apartment. Something’s wrong, he told himself instinctively, and in the same instant a van he knew all too well tore round the corner from Fiskedamsgade against the traffic and bore down on him.
Immediately he realized a second vehicle was headed toward him from the opposite end of the street and any second now he would be trapped.
When he recognized Hector behind the wheel of the van, his pulse raced wildly as he made a dash along the cobbles of Lipkesgade.
Where to, where to? he thought feverishly, as tires squealed behind him. Classensgade was too open and too wide, so he would make for Kastelsvej and see if he could find a bolt hole.
It was simply the worst possible place to be discovered. Here, of all places, where the traffic was so light and where he had felt safe. How could he have known they also had spies inside these apartment buildings?
He heard them shout from the windows for him to stop, that they meant him no harm.
Now the British Embassy loomed before him on Kastelsvej with all its labyrinths of gates and security sluices. A car parked outside the complex had attracted attention, drawing a swarm of security guards out onto the street where they now stood blocking the path that led down in the direction of Garnison’s Kirkegård cemetery. A security guard was exchanging words with the driver, who seemed ill at ease with the situation. Any irregularity in this particular neighborhood was a matter of utmost concern, and the last guard to arrive turned his stern authoritative face toward the oncoming vehicles bearing down on Marco, thereby prompting them to slow down.
Marco glanced toward Østerbrogade. The distance to the cemetery, where he knew of several hiding places, was too far.
A couple of men in bulletproof vests approached him, telling him in no uncertain terms to get lost.
Realizing he could expect no help from the guards, he ran on. Within seconds his pursuers had abandoned their car and had likewise been waved on by security, and now Marco had no choice but to turn down a street lined by lush trees and homes whose residents could never imagine the calamity that was about to befall him.
He heard the van brake behind him and the door being flung open. Their mission was almost complete.
Marco ran for his life, tearing to the bottom of the cul-de-sac where, thankfully, a path running between an apartment house and a fenced-in asphalt soccer pitch appeared before him.
A group of boisterous immigrant kids were running around after a ball on the pitch while their more indolent companions hung out on the other side of the fence, smoking and making comments about the match.
“Help me, the biker pigs are after me,” he pleaded, as he sprinted past.
For once his ethnic appearance stood him in good stead. Cigarettes were dashed to the ground, and the soccer game was abandoned so abruptly that the ball was still in the air as every dark face turned to confront Marco’s pursuers.
As he veered off toward side streets leading down to the marina, he glanced back and saw Hector and the others come to an abrupt halt, hands raised defensively before the immigrant kids jumped them.
He didn’t dare contemplate the results of such a one-sided match, but it was hardly going to make things easier for him next time he ran into Hector and company.
He had to make sure it didn’t happen.
–
He waited on Randersgade until the headlights of Kasim’s blue BMW appeared beyond the rows of parked cars.
He seemed tired, and yet somehow surprised, when Marco stepped out and held up his hand to stop him.
“Are you still here, Marco? I thought I told you to vanish.”
“I’ve got no money.” He bowed his head. “I know I already owe you. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Can’t you go to the police?”