Marco held his breath. They were all out looking for him.
He allowed the woman to pass, plucked a parking ticket from the wipers of one of the cars and wrote along its edge.
Then he ran after her, slowing down when he was ten meters behind and then keeping his distance.
When she got to the side entrance of Tivoli Gardens, opposite the station, he saw his chance.
Pedestrians from the station and the adjacent bus terminal mingled with a queue outside Tivoli’s ticket booth and people leaving the amusement park. Inevitably she was forced to slow down by the throng, clutching her bag tight to her hip, and in the meantime Marco’s hand darted out and delivered his note.
If they read it, they would know where the lockers were that Samuel and the others used as a temporary stash for their stolen goods. And they would know that every afternoon at five o’clock, all the clan members and their booty were picked up by a van just outside the big construction site opposite the town hall. They would know who Zola and his troops were, and what kind of activities they were involved in.
But what if she doesn’t find the note? he wondered, feeling like the child he no longer wished to be. He wanted to be an adult and leave behind a period of his life he wanted only to forget. He didn’t want to be vulnerable and defenseless any more, he wanted to avenge himself, to stand on his own two feet and break free.
But right now he was vulnerable, no doubt about it. Everyone was after him, and he had no one, absolutely no one, to turn to.
If he took a circuitous route along the city lakes, away from the center, the risk of running into Zola’s bloodhounds was probably small and at some point he would reach the marina at Nordhavn, a place he knew like the back of his hand. There he might be able to find a boat where he could lick his wounds and try to figure out who might help him.
–
On the path running along the lakes the rain felt mild and soothing. There were unusually few people about. Only a young couple and a woman walking her dog had ventured out into the drizzle.
Marco heard something rustle in the reeds by the edge of Sankt Jørgens Sø. He stopped as a flock of cygnets glided into open water in the wake of their mother. Seven of them, he counted with a smile, then looked out across the lake and the planetarium on Sankt Jørgens Sø’s southern shore. He found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind living in this midtown paradise one day.
He chuckled at the sight of the newly hatched, chirping creatures, then turned as a woman and her dachshund approached. Suddenly the dog darted between her legs and leaped into the water to attack a little straggler that had yet to emerge from the reeds.
Marco let out a cry. The woman did as well, and the mother swan turned in the water but was unable to comprehend what was about to happen, so Marco jumped in.
The water was cold, but it came up to only his thighs as he smacked his hand on the surface and the pen rose up hissing, wings outspread. The next smack struck the dog’s hindquarters before its jaws reached its prey, and the little cygnet glided away like quicksilver.
Despite the woman’s vociferous anger at his brutality, Marco was rather pleased with himself until he caught sight of the two police officers in black jackets galloping along the path toward him from the direction of the planetarium. They must have seen what had happened and had recognized him.
“Out of the way,” he exclaimed, pushing the woman aside as she continued to harangue him.
Two minutes later he was running along streets he didn’t know, his shoes squelching. The neighborhood was more closed than Østerbro. The apartment buildings all had entry phones and there were few shops. Where could he hide?
Before long, patrol cars would be out looking for him. The main thoroughfares in this part of the Frederiksberg district would doubtless be under observation, so he cut through the small side streets until he felt sure it was OK to stop and catch his breath.
He leaned up against a tree, chest heaving, and looked up at the street sign. Steenstrups Allé. At the other end he recognized the former radio broadcasting house, so the big building that loomed up on the right had to be the Forum, and behind it he knew there was a metro station. If he could get that far without being seen he could quickly slip away. But where to?
The only person he could think of that might help him was Tilde. If he could get in touch with her, she might believe him and pass everything on to the police.
Turning the corner by the Forum, he met the rush of traffic along Rosenørns Allé. The bus stops on either side of the road were teeming. Another working day had come to an end and everyone was determined to get home. Marco saw no immediate cause for alarm.
He looked ahead at the pyramids of glass that sent daylight down into the metro system and saw the gray granite stairway leading down to the station. No faces he knew, and none he didn’t know that looked suspicious so he walked directly toward the entrance.
That was when he sensed a shadow move out from behind the luminous information post and realized too late that the man was about to pounce.
What to do now?
The way down to the trains was a jumble of plateaus. First there were the stairs, down which he was now bounding, then an intermediate level built around the glass column encasing the elevator. After that, some more steps down to the level where the ticket machines were located along with a set of escalators that descended in two stages to the metro trains.
Perhaps he could fool his pursuer, wait at the level where the ticket machines were, then leg it back up the stairs as the guy came down. If he could get back up to the street again, he’d have a good chance of shaking him off.
But the man was waiting on the first level. He had pulled his mobile from his pocket and was trying to anticipate Marco’s next move.
He’s calling for backup, Marco realized. His only option now was to carry on down to the trains.
Apart from the two of them, the place was strangely deserted. In front of him was only the sterile gray shaft that ended deep down at the platforms with automatic glass doors that screened off the tracks.
“Stop, Marco!” the man shouted, his Slavic accent echoing through the concrete silo as Marco veered toward the right-hand escalator that led down to the next level.
Maybe he could make it all the way down to the platform and up again at the other end before he has a chance to react. But no sooner had the plan materialized in his mind than his pursuer almost hurled himself down the escalator to his left. Marco picked up speed, vaulting his way down the moving staircase to the intermediate landing and on down the second escalator that led to the platforms. Here the escalators ran closely side by side, only a low glass partition separating them. Again he heard rapid footsteps behind him and turned just as his pursuer caught up and lunged over the partition to grab him.
Marco lashed out at the man’s arm with his fist. He was close enough now for Marco to smell his bad breath. Then his hand locked Marco’s neck in a viselike grip.
He knew the waiting passengers would barely notice what was happening, and if they did, they wouldn’t intervene. They would look the other way and focus on the driverless train that was now gliding toward the platform behind the glass screens. In a few seconds, the glass screens and the train doors would open simultaneously, and then the commuters would be gone. Therefore Marco’s repeated cries for help were in vain as the man dragged him over the partition on to his own escalator. Marco flailed his arms and legs to no avail. But then his foot found leverage on the moving handrail, allowing him to push off so forcefully that both he and his assailant were sent flying over the side of the escalator and out into the void.
Marco let out a scream as they tumbled through the air for the remaining three meters.