The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [163]
“Come in!”
Ottosson stepped inside, sat down, and told her that Berglund’s brain tumor had turned out to be benign and easy to remove. Berglund’s wife had called from the hospital.
“Thank God!” Lindell exclaimed. “Finally some good news.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” Ottosson said, who had grown teary by his own words.
Sixty-Six
Manuel and Patricio were awakened by a thud and they sat up at the same moment, as if synchronized.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know,” Manuel said.
Outside the narrow window just under the ceiling, they heard shouting and angry voices. Manuel got up.
“It’s the police,” Patricio cried.
“Keep quiet!”
Manuel fetched the only chair in the room and placed it under the window that was covered with a black piece of fabric. He climbed up and started to pick away at the tape at the edge of the cloth.
“No,” Patricio said, terrified, “they’ll shoot you.”
“I have to see what it is,” Manuel said, lifting a corner and trying to peer through the dusty glass.
“I see some legs,” he whispered.
“Are they in uniform?”
“Don’t think so.”
At that moment the window was struck by a projectile and the glass shattered. Manuel instinctively dived onto the floor. Tear gas was his first thought. The voices outside died down. A piece of glass that had caught on the fabric trembled before it fell to the floor with a clinking sound.
Patricio and Manuel stared bewitched at the window. The cloth fluttered in a sudden breeze.
What were they waiting for? Manuel wondered. No gas was spreading in the basement, the voices outside were quiet and no sounds were heard from the other side of the door.
Manuel pulled over his bag and took out the pistol he had taken from Armas’s lifeless hand. Patricio stared at the weapon.
“You’re armed?”
“Keep quiet,” Manuel barked.
Suddenly they heard a laugh and someone screamed in a high voice. Manuel climbed back up on the chair and moved the fabric aside.
“They will shoot you,” Patricio repeated.
A soccer ball was wedged in the window frame. Manuel quickly refastened the tape, slipped rather than climbed down from the chair, and collapsed on the mattress.
“A soccer ball,” Patricio said and burst into hysterical laughter.
“Quiet! We have to be quiet.”
Patricio stared at his brother who had stood up and was leaning over him.
“Where did you get the gun?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Manuel said, but then told him what had happened, how he had been forced to kill the tall one and afterward had taken his weapon.
Patricio stared sorrowfully at his brother. Manuel avoided his gaze.
“So the tall one is dead,” Patricio said flatly at the end.
Manuel nodded.
The silence and inactivity was complete until they heard a key turn in the lock and Ramon swiftly snuck in and closed the door behind him.
“Hello, my Chilean friends,” he said in greeting. “What has happened? You look a little somber.”
“A soccer ball hit the window so the glass shattered,” Manuel explained. “We thought it was the police.”
Ramon grinned.
“It scared you?”
“Guess,” Manuel said, surprised at how lightly the Spaniard was taking it.
“We’ll have to fix it later,” Ramon said and took two passports out of his coat pocket. “Right now we’re in a hurry. You are going on a flight.”
“Fly?”
Ramon told them what he had planned. Twenty minutes to ten this same evening there was a plane to London.
“The airport is a little south of Stockholm and you can buy the tickets there. If there are no seats you will have to wait until tomorrow morning. Then you can sleep in the forest.”
“But why London?” Patricio asked.
“You have to get out of the country as soon as possible. From London it will be easy for you to keep traveling.”
“Okay,” Manuel said.
For him the most important thing was to leave the basement.
“I have brought two small suitcases for you to pack your belongings. Wash up quickly. It’s important that you look tidy. I will drive you there. That will cost a little. Do you have money?”
“How much will it cost?”
“Three thousand dollars.”
Manuel nodded.
“Is it so far?” Patricio asked.
Ramon laughed.