The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [117]
“Come on!” José cried out to Patricio Alavez, who just stared bewildered at the events rapidly unfolding among the trees. He, like the other inmates, had removed his prison clothes during the trip and been able to choose pants, T-shirts, and shirts from a large bin. Patricio had selected a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt.
“Where are you going?”
“Jump in!”
The Audi had already left. Patricio gestured to the van and opened his mouth to say something when José Franco engaged first gear and the Volvo started rolling away. Patricio ran after it, José slowed down, leaned across the passenger seat, and opened the door.
After a minute or so they were driving on a gravel road. Patricio sat without saying anything. After several minutes, José chuckled.
“Freedom,” he said and looked at Patricio. “Put on your seat belt.”
They journeyed along small roads. José was quiet. Patricio had not yet recovered. One minute he was weeding behind high walls and had steeled himself for doing so for the next eight years, and then he was sitting in a nice car, passing farms and grazing cows, and feeling the wind through the open window.
He was amazed that so few words had been exchanged during the escape. Jussi Björnsson had said nothing during the quick trip in the van and while they changed clothes, while Stefan Brügger had said all of ten words. And now José was mum.
Patricio liked it. That they hadn’t screamed and mouthed off, hugged each other, grown overconfident and nonchalant in their movements—all this indicated that the escape had been serious and well-planned. The quick changes of vehicles also bore this out.
He realized there was no point in asking where the highjacker, who had dived into the underbrush, had gone or who he was. Perhaps there was a car waiting for him on the other side of the wooded area? Where Björnsson and Brügger were headed in their Audi, Patricio couldn’t even imagine. He did not know Sweden. So far he had only seen customs, the holding cell, and prison.
“Where are you going?” José asked unexpectedly.
“I don’t know,” Patricio answered. “I don’t know anything.”
“I’m driving north,” José said.
Patricio had heard that there were mountains in the northern part of the country. It was said to be beautiful there, or so the prison minister had said when he had described Sweden.
“Uppsala, where is that?”
“You’re going to Uppsala? I don’t think that’s a good idea,” José said. “It’s full of cops.”
“Where are you going?”
“North,” José said, and even though he tried to look impassive, Patricio could sense the faint smile of satisfaction in his thin face—a face that appeared almost emaciated, as he had also managed to shave his beard off during his brief trip in the van.
“I want to go to Uppsala,” Patricio said.
“Do you know anyone there?”
“Maybe.”
“I would like to help you, since we are countrymen. But I cannot go there, you understand that, don’t you? It’s crawling with pigs. But I can tell you what you should do. I have some money, check the glove compartment.”
Patricio was touched by his thoughtfulness. He had the impression that José was genuine when he said he wanted to help. He opened the glove compartment and saw a brown envelope.
“Open it,” José told him.
Patricio did as he was told and saw a wad of bills.
“There should be twenty thousand kronor,” José said. “Take five.”
Patricio protested but accepted in the end. He knew the money would come in handy.
José slowed and pulled into a church parking lot, took a map out of the door pocket, unfolded it, and showed Patricio where they were, and traced the way they were going to proceed through Uppland.
“I can let you off in Tierp. From there you can take the bus or train to Uppsala. You can speak a little Swedish, can’t you?”
José thought for a moment and then explained to Patricio what he could do: board the train