The African lay gasping on top of him, teeth snapping at René’s throat. Then his movements became slower and slower, until eventually there were none.
René tried to catch his breath. He was no longer a young man, and right now it felt like the shock and the adrenaline threatened to make his heart stop. Then suddenly, in a single deep intake of breath, the reaction came, and with it the sense of disgust. He pushed the dead man away and lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time before being able to turn over on the floor and actually see where he’d landed.
He found himself looking directly at a pair of feet. Two pole-like legs and the sort of sturdy lace-up shoes that usually only a backpacker might wear. Slowly his eyes moved up the legs, well aware that it was Brage-Schmidt standing above him. He also realized that right now the man had the advantage, and that all he had managed to survive until now had been in vain.
Then he closed his eyes and gave himself up to his fate.
Our Father, who art in heaven…, he prayed silently. It had been so many years since the last time he had recited the words. And now they returned to him on this final day.
With a strange feeling of calm he raised his eyes toward his executioner, only to discover that the man sat in a wheelchair and that his eyes were completely empty.
René got to his feet so abruptly that he almost slipped in the blood on the floor.
The man in front of him was totally paralyzed. The shelves that surrounded him were filled with pill bottles. In the windowsill were unopened packets of incontinence pads. On the table were bottles of spirits, cotton swabs, disposable bedpans, and foam-rubber wipes like the kind used in hospitals.
René bent forward toward the man and looked directly into his eyes. There was no reaction. None whatsoever.
He stepped over the African’s body, picked up one of the wipes and wrapped it around his hand, from which two of his fingers hung by tendons. He could do no more about it until he was far away from there.
Then his eyes fell upon a green cardboard folder on which Brage-Schmidt’s full name and civil registration number were printed.
He opened it, and his eyes grew wide as he scanned the first page.
Brage-Schmidt’s hospital records described in objective detail the circumstances of his brain hemorrhage and the date it occurred: July 4, 2006. Way before their fraud began. So that was why he never showed up in person at board meetings. And why the African who called himself Boy had been impersonating him.
René shook his head. “I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t ended up like this,” he said out loud, and patted the man’s cheek.
What a miserable life he’d had. He would be better off dead than go on living like the vegetable he’d become.
He went through the house until he found Boy’s room with a suitcase packed and ready to go. And there were the shares. Neatly gathered in a bundle bound with yarn.
He picked them up and held them to his chest for a moment. Then he realized he had left a trail of bloody footprints all over the house, not to mention his own blood that had been spilled.
So he returned to Brage-Schmidt’s room, finding a box of matches on his way. He paused briefly and regarded the motionless figure in the wheelchair before placing his good hand around the man’s mouth and nose and pressing hard until the breathing ceased. It was peaceful and quite without drama.
Oh, Lord, you poor man, he thought. No need for you to suffer what’s to come.
Then he picked up a bottle of surgical spirits from the table and emptied it over the two bodies.
As he stepped back to light the match, he noticed the dead African lay with his head tipped back enough to reveal an upper set of dentures. He stood for a moment and considered this baroque coincidence. Then he made an impulsive decision. He removed the false teeth from the corpse and put them in his pocket, after which he replaced them with his own.
Then he picked up another bottle of spirits and doused the African once more before backing up and striking the match.
There was a deep, muffled sound as the fumes ignited, and a blue flash of light illuminated the musty room like a sudden burst of sparkling midday sunshine.
38
Zola snapped his mobile shut and sat back heavily in his chair.
His contact had just uttered the cathartic yet definitive ultimatum: “Do your job, or else get the fuck out!”
It was on the basis of this unambiguous message that he was now attempting to work out a couple of plausible scenarios.
Clearly something had to happen now. The risk of Marco evading their pincer movement was growing. Because even at a distance Marco could be dangerous, especially now that he’d witnessed Zola sending his father to his death. On that point, however, Zola was quite satisfied. If he couldn’t count on a person one hundred percent, then he would have to go. On top of which there was no longer anyone he had to share with when the spoils were counted up.
Do your job, or else get the fuck out. That meant either they found out where Marco was hiding so Zola’s hyenas could tear him apart, or else Zola would have to pull out. Thus nothing had really changed. The same question remained.
Where was Marco?
The boy had headed off north in a taxi, but what could they conclude from that? Nothing. The next minute he could have asked the driver to go east, west, south, or anywhere at all. The network of streets was unending, but the Africans needed something to go on. The fucking Africans.
He nodded to Chris, who sat at his side. “Get hold of Pico. I have an order for him.”
Chris dialed a number, waited half a minute, then handed Zola the mobile.
“Give me Pico,” was all he said.
A moment passed before the man on the other end answered stutteringly. Zola was sick and tired of how bad Eastern Europeans spoke English.
“I don’t know where,” Pico stammered. “Before on the corner, now gone. Talked to man from you. It was Hector, man here tells me. Otherwise, nothing.”
Zola hung up, handed the phone back to Chris and sat staring down Bredgade with veiled eyes.
His years in the business had taught him at all times to stick to the simple guiding principle that the harder it was for the authorities to trace the crimes of his people back to him, the longer and safer his career would be. It was why he had developed this system of phoning, why the years had been so lucrative, and why to this day he had a clean record.
The system was simple: no one in the clan besides himself and Chris owned a mobile phone. That way people could get in touch with him, but if they were apprehended there was not a single communication from them to Zola for the police to find and use against him.
In addition, over the past few years he had established the network of Eastern European auxiliary troops who had now joined the hunt and who could pass on messages to his own clan members in their various territories. Usually this setup worked well, but there was nothing usual about the present situation.
As things stood now, the phoning system was too problematic and the weakest link in his empire, a ball and chain around his feet.
“Let’s wait a while. He’ll call back,” said Chris.
But Zola didn’t feel he could wait. For every minute that passed, there was the risk that Marco would strike. The police had already been at their door in Kregme, and it had been Marco’s doing. Nothing was sacred anymore and nothing was safe as long as that boy was at large. So how long could he wait?
Then the phone rang. Chris handed him the mobile.
“It’s Pico,” said the voice at the other end. “I have Hector right here.”
“Where are you people now? I couldn’t get hold of you. And why are you calling?”