“No, I don’t know where your people are, that’s your job, not mine,” the voice continued. “That’s the way it is, Zola. Do your job, or else get the fuck out.”
It was clear to René now that this was a one-way conversation. The man was probably on the phone.
He listened closer and followed the sound to a patio door that stood ajar a few meters away. Here was a way into the house. What luck.
A few more steps and he was there. What a brilliant surprise it would be. Finally the two of them would meet. Finally they could settle the account that had been years in the making.
He gripped the hammer, stepped up to the door, and found himself staring into the eyes of a black man with a mobile phone to his ear. He was quite young and possessed a voice that was one hundred percent Brage-Schmidt’s.
A second passed before the man hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He seemed calm, far less surprised than René.
“Come inside,” he said in a completely other voice. “You must be René Eriksen. Welcome.”
René frowned and accepted the invitation, his grip tightening around the shaft of the hammer in his pocket.
“Yes, and you? Who are you? And why were you impersonating Brage-Schmidt?”
The man smiled and sat down. Perhaps he was trying to instill in him the same kind of confidence as an executive offering a cup of coffee to an underling before giving him the sack. It wasn’t reassuring.
“It’s a long story. Won’t you sit down?”
“I prefer to stand. Where is Brage-Schmidt?”
“In the drawing room next door. He’s taking a nap at the moment, so you’ll have to wait a bit until I wake him.”
“And while he’s asleep, you look after the business, I suppose.”
The man spread out his hands. That’s how it appeared.
“So you’re who we’ve been holding conference calls with on the phone the past couple of years?”
Again, the extended black hands with their white palms.
“Every time?”
“Conceivably. Mr. Brage-Schmidt has had a lot of business to attend to lately.”
René looked around the room. Behind the African, double-barreled shotguns and slender rifles hung from the wall, and above them, hunting bows and quivers of arrows. Mounted vertically next to them were two needle-sharp spears with broad, double-edged heads. On the floor beside a low elephant-foot table stood a crock made from the hollowed-out foot of a rhinoceros, full of what looked like an assortment of cudgels. To the other side was a vitrine containing knives for almost every conceivable purpose.
It wasn’t exactly the place he would choose for an armed confrontation. In that case, it would be wise to withdraw immediately. The odds were against him in an arena like this, hammer or not.
“So I can’t speak to Brage-Schmidt now?” he asked.
The African shook his head. “I think it best we make an appointment for tomorrow. How about ten A.M.? I know he’ll be able to receive you then.”
René nodded. By ten o’clock tomorrow he’d be far, far away. So he would just have to make do with what he’d earned from selling off his shares in Karrebæk Bank. He’d get by, all the same.
“OK, that’ll be fine. Tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
The African stood up. “And what may I tell him it’s about?”
“It’s nothing special. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”
Then the man put out his hand, but René was wary and held back, turning instead toward the patio door with a brief word of thanks. He’d be back at ten in the morning.
He reached for the doorknob, but the African lunged forward and delivered a swift, brutal karate chop to René’s throat.
“You’re going nowhere. I don’t trust you,” he spat, as René sank to his knees, gasping for air.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
René tried but couldn’t. Every muscle in his throat was paralyzed, and his right arm as well.
It was obvious that the African was about to strike him again, so René raised his left hand and waved it in submission.
He felt a warmth spreading from his right shoulder as blood trickled down his arm. Which was when he produced the hammer and smashed it into the African’s knee.
He’d expected a roar of pain, but not a sound passed the man’s lips, even though his leg buckled sideways and his eyes were wide with agony.
“You devil,” he snarled, toppling forward and clamping René’s head in what felt like a potentially fatal grip. René raised his hammer again and struck, forcing the African to let go. When the man got to his feet, blood from his hand was dripping onto the floor, but still he bore the pain.
Two pairs of eyes immediately sought the spears that were mounted on the wall, but the African had the advantage of already being upright and began limping toward them as René struggled to get to his feet and stop him.
The man was alarmingly agile, despite his injuries. The resoluteness of his reactions and the lack of hesitation filled René with mortal dread. Now he knew who he was dealing with. It was one of the people Teis Snap had told him about. One of the boy soldiers.
And he realized this was a fight he couldn’t win.
It made him let go of the straw to which most people would cling when looking death in the face and instead watch the man’s movements as he pulled the spear from the wall.
“Why did you come here and what is your business?” the African asked calmly, as he aimed the weapon directly at René from a distance of only two meters.
“I’ve been to Karrebæksminde and seen what you did to Teis Snap and his wife. It was I who called the police and told they should come out here. But I had no way of knowing for sure if I was right, so I came to warn Brage-Schmidt ahead of time in case it turned out I was wrong.”
The man’s lips curled in an oddly false smile. “What you’re telling me is not true, is it?”
René shook his head. “No. I came here to kill him myself. Are you one of the boy soldiers Snap told me about?”
“No. I am Boy.”
“Then farewell, Boy.” René swung the hammer above his head and straight into the man’s body, leaping aside at the same moment.
Nevertheless, Boy’s spear plunged through the palm of his left hand and came out the back.
Strangely enough he felt no pain until he grasped the shaft and pulled.
As his whole arm exploded in pain from the severed nerves and ruptured muscles, he staggered toward the glass showcase with its display of knives, gasping for air and keeping his eyes fixed on the African, who was already bending down to pick up the hammer.
Slowly and deliberately he limped toward René with his eyes fixed on his throat and the hammer raised.
He could throw it, but that wasn’t what he wanted. It was clear he wished to be as close to his victim as possible when he killed him.
Facing Boy, René jerked his elbow backward and broke the glass of the showcase. He pulled out a knife, whose length and weight more than matched the hammer.
Now he had the knife in his hand, yet he kept backing up toward the wall. At that precise moment he simply lacked the will to use it.
He felt a door handle behind him, turning it at the same instant the African lunged with the hammer aimed at his throat.
At that precise moment René felt as if he were not present. His body had separated from his brain, his limbs from his torso, his bleeding hand from his arm. Only the hand holding the knife retained a life of its own, protecting his.
By the time the blow came, René had drawn the knife to his throat, and instead of the hammer striking him, the knife warded off the blow and sliced into the hand of his attacker, so deeply that blood spurted from the artery in the African’s wrist.
Boy was stunned and tried to draw back, but somehow René held on to him, blood soaking his skin, and the hammer fell to the floor.
Only now did he see the unfettered rage boiling in the African’s eyes. Boy tried to head-butt him as the blood drained from his body. As René jerked his head back, his body pushed open the door behind him, causing both men to tumble into the adjoining room.