The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [16]
She longed to share her sense of optimism with a man. It was that simple. The lotion was intoxicating with its scent and smoothness, but in its way it was a wasted effort, and she felt guilty that she was throwing money away for no reason.
She went to bed with an excitement in her body that reminded her of an infatuation.
Seven
Slobodan Andersson’s office was tucked behind Alhambra’s kitchen. Only he and Armas were allowed in there. The two of them had been in business together since they had met at a strip club in Copenhagen twenty years before. Armas had been sitting in the very front and with his formidable size had almost taken up two seats at the tiny table. Slobodan had joined him. Not because he wanted the company, but because he wanted to sit close to the stage.
The strippers were mediocre and apparently bored, because they moved with so little energy and creativity that many of the customers stopped watching. Slobodan sighed.
“It’s a disappointment every time,” he said, but Armas stared back at him without appearing to concur and simply shrugged.
Slobodan stretched out his hand and introduced himself. After a second’s hesitation, Armas grasped his hand and muttered a name that Slobodan did not catch.
That was the beginning of their many years of working together.
Now they were sitting on either side of the desk. Armas was silent, while Slobodan was talking a mile a minute. He unfolded a map and placed his chubby finger on a town by the northern border of Spain.
“This is where it will take place,” he said.
Armas already knew this. In fact, he already knew everything about the upcoming operation.
“You take the car down there. I will write out a list of restaurants that you will visit. Above all, this one north of Guernica. Drive around for at least a week, talk to chefs and collect ideas. But not some damn bacalao—I’m so damn tired of cod. But buy as much cheese as you want. You know what I like. If they check you out in customs, then go ahead and act a little nervous about the cheese. And wine, but only Basque varieties, so the customs officials feel proud. Make yourself out to be an idiot when it comes to food. Offer to pay taxes or whatever the hell else, tell them your boss will strangle you if you don’t come back with a good piece of Cabrales.”
Armas nodded and looked at his boss: the sweaty face, the wrinkled suit—one sleeve of which was soiled with a large grease stain—and the plump fingers that continuously fiddled with papers on the desk. Slobodan looked worn out. There were no wrinkles in the shiny round face, but the area around his eyes was growing darker, as if they were sinking more and more deeply into their sockets. The dark, combed-back hair was getting increasingly thin and new gray hairs appeared every day.
“Do you get it?”
“I get it.”
“Jorge e-mailed me the other day.”
Armas looked astonished.
“E-mailed? Has he lost his mind?”
“I deleted everything,” Slobodan said, irritated.
Armas snorted.
“You will meet Jorge outside the aquarium in San Sebastián. Not far from there, on the pier, there is a restaurant. You will see exactly which one it is. They had decked the place out with a lot of flags and knickknacks. Eat there. I know one of the waiters. He’s called ‘Mini.’”
“Is he involved?”
“No, not directly, but he stays informed. He knows exactly what happens in the city, if the police are up to anything.”
Armas didn’t like it. He didn’t like Jorge and definitely not a new Spanish idiot. It was typical of Slobodan to improvise like this at the last minute.
“I know what you think,” Slobodan said, “but a little local backup is always good.”
“Why can’t Jorge go up to Frankfurt, like last time?”
“I don’t trust him. You know what happened to the other one. Mexicans are so damn clumsy. They stink scofflaw to the high heavens. And the German cops are smarter than the Spaniards.”
“If they are so clumsy, why—”
“You know why!”
Armas snorted again. He knew how everything had started and it had gone well. Angel’s demise was something that couldn’t be helped. He