At six o’clock he switched on the television to catch the early evening news. Only Tania was back home by then, in the kitchen preparing dinner.
The broadcast opened with the story Konovalenko was waiting for. To his astonishment, he found that the pistol shot intended to do no more than shatter the windshield had proven to be a master shot. The bullet hit one of the cops in the squad car right where his nose met his forehead, right between the eyes. He died instantly.
Then came a picture of the cop Konovalenko had killed: Klas Tengblad, twenty-six years old, married with two small kids.
The police had no clues beyond the fact that the killer had been alone, and was the same man who had robbed the Akalla branch of the Commercial Bank just a few minutes previously.
Konovalenko made a face and moved to switch off the television. Just then he noticed Tania in the doorway, watching him.
“The only good cop’s a dead one,” he said, punching the off button. “What’s for dinner? I’m hungry.”
Vladimir came home and sat down at the table just as Tania and Konovalenko were finishing their meal.
“A bank robbery,” said Vladimir. “And a dead cop. A solitary killer speaking broken Swedish. The town won’t exactly be clear of cops tonight.”
“These things happen,” said Konovalenko. “Have you finished spreading the word about the contract?”
“There’s not a single hood in the underworld who won’t know before midnight that there’s a hundred thousand kronor to be earned,” said Rykoff.
Tania gave him a plate with some food.
“Was it really necessary to shoot a cop, today of all days?” he asked.
“What makes you think it was me who shot him?” wondered Konovalenko.
Vladimir shrugged his shoulders.
“A masterly shot,” he said. “A bank raid to raise the money for the Victor Mabasha contract. Foreign accent. It sounds pretty much like you.”
“You’re wrong if you think the shot was a direct hit,” said Konovalenko. “It was pure luck. Or bad luck. Depends how you look at it. But to be on the safe side I think you’d better go in to town on your own tonight. Or take Tania with you.”
“There are a few clubs in the south of the city where Africans generally hang out,” said Vladimir. “I thought I’d start there.”
At eight-thirty Tania and Vladimir drove back to town. Konovalenko showered, then settled down to watch television. Every news broadcast had long items on the dead cop. But there were no hard clues to follow up.
Of course not, thought Konovalenko. I don’t leave a trail.
He had fallen asleep in his chair when the telephone rang. Just one signal. Then another ring, seven signals this time. When it rang for the third time Konovalenko lifted the receiver. He knew it was Vladimir, using the code they had agreed on. The noise in the background suggested he was at a disco.
“Can you hear me?” Vladimir yelled.
“I can hear you,” replied Konovalenko.
“I can hardly hear myself speak,” he went on. “But I’ve got news.”
“Has somebody seen Victor Mabasha here in Stockholm?” Konovalenko knew that must be why he was calling.
“Even better,” said Vladimir. “He’s in here right now.”
Konovalenko took a deep breath.
“Has he seen you?”
“No. But he’s on his guard.”
“Is anybody with him?”
“He’s on his own.”
Konovalenko thought for a moment. It was twenty past eleven. What was the best thing to do?
“Give me your address,” he said. “I’m on my way. Wait for me outside with a layout of the club. Especially where the emergency exits are.”
“Will do,” said Vladimir.
Konovalenko checked his pistol and slipped an extra magazine into his pocket. Then he went to his room and opened a plastic chest standing along one wall. He took out three tear gas canisters and two gas masks, which he put into the plastic carrier bag he had used earlier that afternoon for the money from the bank raid.
Finally he combed his hair carefully in front of the bathroom mirror. This was part of the ritual he always went through before setting out on an important assignment.
At a quarter to twelve he left the apartment in Hallunda and took a cab in to town. He asked to be taken to Ostermalmstorg. He got out there, hailed another cab, and headed for Soder to the south.
The disco was at number 45. Konovalenko directed the driver to number 60. He got out and started walking back slowly the way he had come.
Suddenly Vladimir stepped out of the shadows.
“He’s still there,” he said. “Tania has gone home.”
Konovalenko nodded slowly.
“Let’s go get him, then,” he said.
He asked Vladimir to describe the layout.
“Exactly where is he?” asked Konovalenko when he could picture it.
“At the bar,” said Vladimir.
Konovalenko nodded.
A few minutes later, they donned the gas masks and cocked their guns.
Vladimir flung open the entrance and hurled the two astonished doormen to one side.
Then Konovalenko tossed in the tear gas.
Chapter Twelve
Give me the night, songoma. How shall I survive these nights full of light that prevents me from finding a hiding place? Why have you sent me to this strange land where people have been robbed of their darkness? I give you my severed finger, songoma. I sacrifice a part of my body so you can give me back my darkness in return. But you have forsaken me. I am all alone. As lonely as the antelope no longer capable of avoiding the cheetah hunting him down.
Victor Mabasha experienced his flight as a journey made in a dreamlike, weightless state. His soul seemed to be traveling on its own, invisible, somewhere close by. He thought he could feel his own breath on his neck. In the Mercedes, whose leather seats reminded him of the distant smell of hides from skinned antelope, there was nothing but his body, and above all his aching hand. His finger was gone, but was there even so, like a homeless pain in a strange land.
From the very beginning of his wild flight he had tried to make himself control his thoughts, act sensibly. I am a zulu, he kept repeating to himself, like a mantra. I belong to the undefeated warrior race, I am one of the Sons of Heaven. My forefathers were always in the front line when the impis attacked. We defeated the whites long before they hounded the bush-men into the endless wildernesses where they soon succumbed. We defeated them before they claimed our land was theirs. We defeated them at the foot of Isandlwana and cut off their jawbones to adorn the kraaler of our kings. I am a zulu, one of my fingers is severed. But I can endure the pain and I have nine fingers left, as many as the jackal has lives.
When he could bear it no longer he turned off into the forest on the first little dirt track he saw, and came to a halt by a glistening lake. The water was so black, he at first thought it was oil. He sat there on a stone by the shore, unwound the bloodstained towel and forced himself to examine his hand. It was still bleeding. It seemed unfamiliar. The pain was more in his mind than where the severed finger had been.
How was it possible for Konovalenko to be faster than he was? His momentary hesitation had defeated him. He also realized his flight had been thoughtless. He had behaved like a bewildered child. His actions were unworthy, of himself and of Jan Kleyn. He should have stayed put, and searched through Konovalenko’s baggage, looking for air tickets and money. But all he did was to grab a few clothes and the pistol. He couldn’t even remember the route he had taken. There was no possibility of returning. He would never find his way back.
Weakness, he thought. I have never managed to overcome it, even though I have renounced all my loyalties, all the principles that possessed me as I grew up. I have been burdened with weakness as a punishment by my songoma. She has listened to the spirits and let the hounds sing my song, a song of the weakness I shall never be able to overcome.