The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [58]
What was it Lorenzo had said of Armas? “Multifaceted.” They knew each other from their youth. “Youth,” what kind of nonsense was that? It was a foreign word when it came to Armas. He had never talked about his youth or childhood. Slobodan’s impression was that Armas had never been young. And was this Lorenzo likely to know things about Armas that he himself didn’t know? Multifaceted? What the hell did that mean?
Slobodan paced around the apartment. Circles of sweat appeared under his arms. The pain in his chest, that had come and gone over the past year, grew into a pressure that made him draw deeply for a breath.
Suddenly the phone rang. It is Armas, he thought for a second. Not many people called Slobodan at home: Armas, Oskar Hammer, occasionally Donald at Dakar, and then a couple of others.
He let it ring. Against his will he had a grappa. He forced himself to down the stinging liquid in an attempt to regain his focus.
“This is not fair,” he muttered, and it was not Armas’s fate that he was thinking of, but the failed delivery in San Sebastián. It was lost, he realized, there was no plan B. And it would be completely insane to think of an alternative at this point.
He turned on the laptop, eyed the e-mails that remained, and decided to erase all of them. A great deal of information would be lost—he did not know how he would be able to save the innocuous files—but his anxiety about what might be concealed in the inner regions of the computer made it into a threat.
After finishing his grappa he called a cab and left the apartment with his computer bag.
Once he was out in the fresh air he felt better. The knot in his stomach died away and he watched with satisfaction as a taxi pulled up, almost somewhat astonished that everything worked as before.
He ordered the driver to take him to the dump in Libro. He had been out there with Armas before and thrown away old papers and garbage from the restaurants. He asked the taxi to wait, made sure no one was watching, banged the laptop into the side of the container a few times before he wedged it in between an old filing cabinet and a mess of metal scraps.
He exhaled and stood stock still. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an attendant approaching. If you complain about something I’ll kill you, he thought, but the man only looked indifferently at him with weary eyes.
Slobodan returned to the cab with the empty computer bag and asked to be dropped off at Alhambra. While he sank back into the seat, exhausted, he wondered if he should call Rosenberg but decided to hold off. That’s what Armas would have done, he thought, and realized suddenly with great sadness how much he was going to miss him.
Twenty-Three
Eva and Patrik were waiting in the reception area at the police station. Patrik sat down while Eva looked around. On the wall opposite the reception desk there was a piece of art that depicted a man’s gigantic head. Eva thought it was grotesque and she wondered what they had been thinking when they hung such a frightening piece to welcome their visitors.
She looked at her watch. Barbro Liljendahl had said eleven and it was now ten past. She walked over to Patrik who had slouched on the chair.
“I bet she’ll be coming out soon,” Eva said.
Patrik did not look at her and didn’t say anything. He stared dully straight ahead. How can one be so calm? she wondered.
Barbro Liljendahl turned up at a quarter past eleven. She excused herself, but Eva was struck by the suspicion that she had deliberately let them wait.
She had always disliked women police officers. Women and uniforms did not go together. She had recently seen a report on TV about American soldiers in Iraq and there had been two women in the group. One of them was called Stacey. She spoke with utter confidence about their “mission” to clean up a little village outside Tikrit. She described the assignment as if it were like killing mice or other vermin, as if they were dispatched by a pest-control