The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [17]
It had been worse with the next idiot, the one who was picked up by Swedish customs and was now sitting in jail. For half a year, during the questioning and the trial, they had lived in a state of terror, but had finally realized that Patricio had not said a single word about his employers. He had remained silent throughout the entire process and the sentence had surely been more severe because of it.
Slobodan tossed a folder onto the desk.
“Here is the list of restaurants,” he said.
He was intending to repeat all of his warnings and orders about what Armas should do in Spain and how he should treat the restaurant personnel, authorities, customs, police, or whoever he bumped into, but then realized this would only worsen the Armenian’s mood.
Armas eyed the list. He had nothing against the prospect of eating well for a week. Perhaps he could even pick something up that could be of use to them at Alhambra or Dakar.
What troubled him was the prospect of Mini. Armas did not like unknown cards. The fact that he had managed to survive, and without spending a single day in jail, was entirely due to his policy of never relying on unknown cards. Mini was just such an untested quantity, even if Slobodan had vouched for him.
Jorge he had met in Campeche, Mexico, and had judged him to be significantly more reliable than Angel. That damn Indian had only had one thing in his head, and that was women. That could only lead to one thing: Hell. Armas put great pride in never starting a relationship that lasted more than a couple of days, perhaps a week. The record was held by a French woman he had met in Venezuela. They had been together for three weeks before she disappeared without a trace.
For a while, he kept to whores. They were professionals, like himself, but he grew tired of them. According to Armas, women made you lose your focus, and he was completely convinced that this was the reason Angel had failed. There must have been a woman involved. He had never trusted the Mexican. He talked too much about broads.
There was only one thing that spoke in his favor. He didn’t squeal. They did not have any details beyond the sparse information in the German papers. The only thing they really knew was that he had thrown himself in front of a train at the Frankfurt Central Station when he had realized that he was surrounded by German police and would soon be apprehended.
That was well done. Both Slobodan and Armas thought so. Slobodan had even anonymously sent a thousand dollars to his family. A negligible amount in the context, but a fortune for Angel’s family.
He closed the folder.
“You,” he said. “Do me a favor and stay away from e-mail. Even if you delete everything, there is always something left.”
“There is?”
Armas shook his head. Sometimes Slobodan seemed like a complete idiot and amateur.
“Sure, the cops can dig out old messages. It takes them five minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll get rid of it,” Slobodan said and gestured to the computer. “Buy a new one before you leave, since you understand these things.”
Armas gave one of his rare smiles. Slobodan chuckled. Suddenly Armas realized why he had been able to stand this fat slob for so many years.
The telephone rang. Slobodan answered.
“No, not in here. We’ll do it in the kitchen,” he said and hung up.
“It is Gonzo,” Slobodan explained. “He’s in the bar. He wants to talk.”
Armas shook his head.
“We are done talking,” he said.
It was Armas who had fired him, and when Slobodan had asked why, Armas had not provided a real answer. He didn’t like it, but he trusted Armas’s judgment.
“We can at least hear what he wants,” Slobodan said and heaved himself up out of the chair.
Armas gave him a look, and this look was something Slobodan would later recall. What had it meant? It was not the usual trace of arrogance and irritation in the habitually so expressionless face, but something else. Was it fear? Slobodan did not think so, neither then nor later. Perhaps