Oh, God, he managed to think, as falling chunks of rubble began pummeling his body. He’s going to get me. How’d he ever fit into this chute?
He caught a glimpse of light from the mouth of the chute below before landing in a corner of the Dumpster among discarded fiberglass and piles of plastic packaging materials.
He stared up at the rumbling chute as his skin began to itch from the fiberglass.
Thinking quickly, he lunged to the side of the Dumpster and grabbed a short plank with sharp nails protruding from the end. The moment the African emerged he would aim a blow at his head.
But his pursuer never made it through. Somewhere higher up he must have realized the chute was too narrow and a string of curses sounded through the duct like false notes from some arcane wind instrument.
Marco brushed the glassy slivers from his clothes and could hear someone running on the level above.
He vaulted out of the Dumpster, clambered over the fence and legged it across Rådhuspladsen, half blinded by the dust of fiberglass that stuck to his eyelashes, his throat and skin tormented by the stinging, itchy fiber.
Only when he reached the mouth of the pedestrianized Strøget did he dare glance back over his shoulder. And there on the pavement in front of the huge construction site stood a woman as wide as a door and as black as the night, following him with her eyes.
He forgot all about his bad leg and ran like hell.
By the time he reached Frederiksholm’s Canal and the Marble Bridge leading over to the equestrian grounds of the Danish parliament he was almost out of his mind from all the itching. His clothes felt fleecy from the insulation material, and the more he scratched the worse it got. He peered into the dark water of the canal and wondered if it might wash the glass splinters out of his clothes. Then he jumped down the steps to the jetty where small motorboats lay anchored and plunged in.
He took a couple of strokes with one arm, brushing at his clothes with the other. The water was cold but had a soothing effect.
A woman stopped on the bridge and asked if he was OK. He nodded and dived under the surface, removing a layer of millions of fibers. When he came up for air, a couple of young guys in suits stood laughing at him by the edge of the canal as one of them jabbed an index finger at his temple to indicate how totally mental they thought he was.
At the same moment Marco registered the man a couple of hundred meters away who was running in his direction.
Disappear, you two, Marco commanded silently, as his mirthful audience began pointing. But it was too late.
By now he could see the man running toward him was the one in the green basketball jersey. He had picked up Marco’s scent and was clearly considering his next move.
Now Marco was trapped, but as they climbed into their car the chuckleheads in the suits were oblivious of the fact that they had just hammered a nail into his coffin.
What could he do now? Nothing.
No matter which way he swam, the African would have no difficulty following him alongside the canal, and the moment he tried to get out of the water, this cheetah would sink its teeth into him. The way Marco saw it, his only chance was to conceal himself behind one of the moored boats and hope that darkness soon would fall.
He dived again, underneath the boats this time, drawing himself through the water to where the guy had just been standing. Most likely he would take the same stairs down to the boats as Marco had used, so he had to get out of sight quickly, swimming under as many boats and as far away as possible.
And if, against all odds, the guy took to the water himself, he would swim silently and cautiously under one boat at a time until he reached the bridge called Stormbroen, where he would try to clamber back onto dry land without being seen.
If he could emerge at a spot where there were a lot of people, he might still have a chance.
But the African did not take to the water. Instead, he jumped down on to the jetty, where he calmly proceeded from one mooring post to the next.
Marco heard how he took his time, pausing at every vessel, making sure Marco hadn’t climbed into one of them or was clinging to its side, or sending up bubbles of air from below the surface.
Slowly he approached, as the canal and its surroundings descended into darkness.
Finally he was but one boat away and once more Marco dove down, only to hear a splash behind him.
He swam a few frenzied strokes before surfacing to see the almost invisible face of a black man so close in the water that he turned immediately and swam as fast as he could.
For a moment, the distance between them increased, but then his strength ebbed away while his pursuer’s strokes remained strong and steady.
They heard the sightseeing boat at the same time as it returned to base from the open waters of the harbor. They both stopped swimming for a moment to assess the situation and see what they were up against.
The vessel was moving quickly, and its pointed bow was coming straight toward them. Summoning all his energy, Marco swam toward the bridge. Of its three stone arches, the one on the left was blocked by a speedboat, the two others were free.
If I try the right-hand arch, he’ll just follow me, Marco reasoned. He was exhausted now, his sodden clothes weighing him down. And if I go for the middle one, the sightseeing boat will run me down.
Instinctively he opted for the arch on the right, thinking he just might get through to the other side ahead of the boat and then alert the crew that he was in danger.
Even now, he knew intuitively that he was unlikely to get that far. Behind him he heard a forceful lunge that brought his pursuer close enough to pull Marco down under the surface before he had a chance to take in air. In spite of the darkness and the murky water, he could clearly see the whites of the man’s eyes. The man who was now drowning him in a violent embrace. He gasped, then his mouth closed and his legs started thrashing to bring him back to the surface as the sound of the boat’s motor and propeller churned louder and louder in his ears.
Then he managed to get an arm free. He twisted and turned, extricating himself from the African’s grasp just enough to thrust two rigid fingers into his eyes.
The man opened his mouth in a scream, releasing a mist of bubbles to the surface as Marco’s fingers gouged into his irises.
The combatants rose to the surface simultaneously like a pair of corks, the darker one momentarily blinded, Marco swimming with desperate strokes toward the middle arch of the bridge.
The boat was so close now that he could hear what its boozed-filled party of passengers were singing.
And then he heard a roar behind him and saw his pursuer thrashing through the water toward him, blood streaming from one of his eyes.
So Marco submerged again.
Underneath the surface he felt the blue hull of the boat plowing over him, and with a burst of strength propelled himself out to the boat’s other side, where his fingers grabbed hold of a thick braided rope that ran along the length of the vessel at the waterline.
He was jerked violently to the surface and heard himself scream involuntarily, though no one on board noticed.
Maybe it was for the best. Maybe the predator in the water on the other side of the boat thought he had been hit. Marco could only hope.
He allowed himself to be pulled through the water in the knowledge that he had got away.
For a brief moment he smiled as he saw the dark head bobbing far behind in the wake of the boat.
The question was, had he seen Marco as well?
32
Carl joined up with Gordon in Eriksen’s receptionist’s office. Desert boots, gray scarf, corduroys. Was he really expecting to be taken seriously in a getup like that?
“Well, you made it on time,” the beanpole said, with the kind of arrogance best rectified by some boxing about the ears.
Some interview this was going to be.