Nemesis

PART IV
26

D'Ajuda

Fred Baugestad had a hangover. He was thirty-one years old, divorced and worked on Statfjord B oil rig as a roughneck. It was hard work and there was not a sniff of beer while he was on the job, but the money was great, there was a TV in your room, gourmet food and best of all: three weeks on, four weeks off. Some travelled home to their wives and gawped at the walls, some drove taxis or built houses so as not to go mad with boredom and some did what Fred did: went to a hot country and tried to drink themselves to death. Now and again, he wrote a postcard to Karmшy, his daughter, or 'the baby' as he still called her even though she was ten. Or was it eleven? Anyway, that was the only contact he still had with the Continental mainland, and that was enough. The last time he had spoken with his father, he had complained about Fred's mother being arrested for pinching biscuits from Rimi supermarket again. 'I pray for her,' his father had said and wondered if Fred had a Norwegian Bible with him where he was. 'The Book is as indispensable as breakfast, Dad,' Fred had answered. Which was true, as Fred never ate before lunch when he was in d'Ajuda. Unless you consider caipirinhas food. Which was a question of definition since he poured at least four spoonfuls of sugar in every cocktail. Fred Baugestad drank caipirinhas because they were genuinely bad. In Europe the drink had an undeservedly good reputation as it was made with rum or vodka instead of cachaзa- the raw bitter Brazilian aguardente distilled from sugar cane, which made the drinking of caipirinhas the penitent act Fred claimed it was meant to be. Both Fred's grandfathers had been alcoholics, and with that kind of genetic make-up he thought it was best to err on the safe side and drink something which was so bad he could never become dependent on it.

Today he had dragged himself to Muhammed's at twelve and taken an espresso and brandy before slowly walking back in the quivering heat along the narrow pitted gravel track between the small, low, relatively white houses. The house he and Roger rented was one of the less white houses. The plaster was chipped, and inside, the grey untreated walls were so permeated by the damp wind blowing in off the Atlantic that you could taste the pungent wall smell by sticking out your tongue. But then, why would you do that, Fred mused. The house was good enough. Three bedrooms, two mattresses, one refrigerator and one stove. Plus a sofa and a tabletop on two Leca blocks in the room they defined as the sitting room since it had an almost square hole in the wall which they called a window. True enough, they should have cleaned up a bit more often-the kitchen was infested with yellow fire ants capable of a terrifying bite-but Fred didn't often go there after the refrigerator was moved to the sitting room. He was lying on the sofa planning his next move of the day when Roger came in.

'Where have you been?' Fred asked.

'At the chemist in Porto,' Roger said with a smile which went right the way round his broad, blotchy head. 'You won't fucking believe what they sell over the counter there. You can get things you can't even get a prescription for in Norway.' He emptied the contents of a plastic bag and began to read the labels aloud.

'Three milligrams of Benzodiazepine. Two milligrams of Flunitrazepam. Shit, we're practically talking Rohypnol!'

Fred didn't answer.

'Bad?' Roger effervesced. 'Haven't you had anything to eat yet?'

'Nгo. Just a coffee at Muhammed's. By the way, there was some mysterious guy in there asking Muhammed about Lev.'

Roger's head shot up from the pharmaceutical items. 'About Lev? What did he look like?'

'Tall. Blond. Blue eyes. Sounded Norwegian.'

'Fuck me, don't frighten me like that, Fred.' Roger resumed his reading.

'What do you mean?'

'Let me put it this way. If he'd been tall, dark and thin, it would have been time to leave d'Ajuda. And the western hemisphere for that matter. Did he look like a cop?'

'What do cops look like?'

'They…forget it, oil man.'

'He looked like a boozer. I know what they look like.'

'OK. May be a pal of Lev's. Shall we help him?'

Fred shook his head. 'Lev said he lives here totally in…incog…something Latin meaning secret. Muhammed pretended he'd never heard of Lev. The guy will find Lev if Lev wants him to.'

'I was kidding. Where is Lev, incidentally? I haven't seen him for several weeks.'

'Last I heard, he was going to Norway,' Fred said, slowly raising his head.

'Maybe he robbed a bank and got caught,' Roger said and smiled at the thought. Not because he wanted Lev to be caught, but because the thought of robbing banks always made him smile. He himself had done it three times, and it had given him a big kick every time. Fair enough, they were caught the first two times, but the third time they did everything right. When he described the coup, he usually omitted to mention the lucky circumstance that the surveillance cameras had been temporarily out of service, but nevertheless the rewards had allowed him to enjoy his otium-and from time to time his opium-here in d'Ajuda.

The beautiful little village lay to the south of Porto Seguro and until recently had housed the Continent's largest collection of wanted individuals south of Bogotб. It had begun in the seventies when d'Ajuda became a rallying point for hippies and travellers who lived off gambling and selling home-made jewellery and body decorations in Europe during the summer months. They meant welcome extra income for d'Ajuda and, by and large, didn't bother anyone, so the two Brazilian families who in principle owned all the trade and industry in the village came to an understanding with the local Chief of Police, as a result of which a blind eye was turned to the smoking of marijuana on the beach, in cafйs, in the growing number of bars and, as time went on, in the streets and anywhere at all.

There was one problem, however: the fines given to tourists for smoking marijuana and breaking other rather unknown laws were, as in other places, an important source of income for the police, who were paid a pittance by the state. So that the lucrative tourist business and the police could coexist in harmony, the two families had to provide the police with alternative secure earnings. This started with an American sociologist and his Argentinian boyfriend, who were responsible for the local production and sale of marijuana, being forced to pay a commission to the Chief of Police for protection and a guaranteed monopoly-in other words potential competitors were promptly arrested and delivered to the federal police with all due pomp and ceremony. Money trickled into the pockets of the few local police officers and everything was hunky-dory until three Mexicans offered to pay a higher commission, and one Sunday morning the American and the Argentinian were delivered to the federal police with all due pomp and ceremony in the market square in front of the post office. Nevertheless, the efficient market-regulated system for the buying and selling of protection continued to flourish, and soon d'Ajuda was full of wanted criminals from all corners of the world who could be sure of a relatively safe existence for a price way below what they would have to pay in Pattaya or many other places. However, in the eighties this beautiful and hitherto almost untouched jewel of nature with long beaches, red sunsets and excellent marijuana was discovered by the tourist vultures-the backpackers. They streamed to d'Ajuda in large numbers, with a determination to consume, which meant that the two families in the town had to reassess the economic viability of d'Ajuda as a camp for fugitives from the law. As the snug, dark bars were converted into diving equipment hire shops, and the cafй where the locals had danced their lambada in the old way began to arrange 'Wild-Wild-Moon party' nights, the police had to undertake lightning raids on the small white houses with increasing frequency and drive the wildly protesting captives off to the square. But it was still safer for a lawbreaker to be in d'Ajuda than in many other places in the world, even though paranoia had crept under everyone's skin, not just Roger's.

That was why there was also room for a man like Muhammed Ali in d'Ajuda's food chain. The main justification for his existence was that he had a strategic observation post in the square where the bus from Porto Seguro had its terminus. From behind the counter in his open ahwa Muhammed had a full view of everything that happened in d'Ajuda's sole, sun-baked, cobblestoned plaza. When new buses arrived he stopped serving coffee and putting Brazilian tobacco-a poor replacement for his home-grown m'aasil-in the hookah, in order to check over the new arrivals and spot possible police officers or bounty hunters. If his unerring nose placed anyone in the former category, he immediately sounded the alarm. The alarm was a kind of subscription arrangement whereby those who paid the monthly charge were phoned or had a message pinned to their door by the small, fleet-footed Paulinho. Muhammed also had a personal reason for keeping an eye on incoming buses. When he and Rosalita fled from her husband and Rio, he hadn't a moment's doubt what awaited them if the spurned party found out where they were. You could have simple murders carried out for a couple of hundred dollars if you went to the favelas of Rio or Sгo Paulo, but even an experienced professional hit man didn't take more than two to three thousand dollars plus expenses for a search-and-destroy job, and it had been a buyers' market for the last ten years. On top of that, there was a bulk discount for couples.

Sometimes people Muhammed had marked out as bounty hunters walked straight into his ahwa. For appearance's sake, they ordered a coffee, and at a suitable point down the coffee cup, they asked the inevitable question: Do-you-know-where-my-friend-such-and-such-lives? or Do-you-know-the-man-in-this-picture? I-owe-him-some-money. In such cases, Muhammed received a supplementary fee if his stock answer ('I saw him take the bus to Porto Seguro with a big suitcase two days ago, senhor') resulted in the bounty hunter leaving again on the first bus.

When the tall, blond man in the creased linen suit, with the white bandage around his neck, put a bag and a Playstation carrier bag on the counter, wiped the sweat off his brow and ordered a coffee in English, Muhammed could smell a few extra reais on top of the fixed fee. It wasn't the man who aroused his instincts, though; it was the woman with him. She might just as well have written POLICE across her forehead.

Harry scanned the bar. Apart from him, Beate and the Arab behind the counter, there were three people in the cafй. Two backpackers and a tourist of the more down-at-heel variety, apparently nursing a serious hangover. Harry's neck was killing him. He looked at his watch. It was twenty hours since they had left Oslo. Oleg had rung, the Tetris record was beaten and Harry had managed to buy a Namco G-Con 45 at the computer-game shop in Heathrow before flying on to Recife. They had taken a propeller plane to Porto Seguro. Outside the airport he had negotiated what was probably a crazy price with a taxi driver, who drove them to a ferry to take them to the d'Ajuda side where a bus jolted them the last few kilometres.

It was twenty-four hours since he had been sitting in the visitors' room explaining to Raskol that he needed another 40,000 kroner for the Egyptians. Raskol had explained to him that Muhammed Ali's ahwa wasn't in Porto Seguro but a village nearby.

'D'Ajuda,' Raskol had said with a big smile. 'I know a couple of boys living there.'

The Arab looked at Beate, who shook her head, before putting the cup of coffee in front of Harry. It was strong and bitter.

'Muhammed,' Harry said and saw the man behind the counter stiffen. 'You are Muhammed, right?'

The Arab swallowed. 'Who's asking?'

'A friend.' Harry put his right hand inside his jacket and saw the panic on the dark-skinned face. 'Lev's little brother is trying to get hold of him.' Harry pulled out one of the photographs Beate had found at Trond's and put it on the counter.

Muhammed closed his eyes for a second. His lips seemed to be mumbling a silent prayer of gratitude.

The photograph showed two boys. The taller of the two was wearing a red quilted jacket. He was laughing and had put a friendly arm around the other one, who smiled shyly at the camera.

'I don't know whether Lev has mentioned his little brother,' Harry said. 'His name's Trond.'

Muhammed picked up the photograph and studied it.

'Hm,' he said, scratching his beard. 'I've never seen either of them. And I've never heard of anyone called Lev, either. I know most people around here.'

He gave the photograph to Harry, who returned it to his inside pocket and drained the coffee cup. 'We have to find a place to stay, Muhammed. Then we'll be back. Have a little think in the meantime.'

Muhammed shook his head, tugged at the twenty-dollar bill Harry had put under the coffee cup and passed it back. 'I don't take big notes,' he said.

Harry shrugged. 'We'll be back, anyway, Muhammed.'

At the little hotel called Vitуria, as it was the down season they each got a large room. Harry was given key number 69, even though the hotel only had two floors and twenty-odd rooms. On pulling out the drawer of the bedside table beside the red heart-shaped bed and finding two condoms with the hotel's compliments, he assumed he had the bridal suite. The whole of the bathroom door was covered with a mirror you could see yourself in from the bed. In a disproportionately large, deep wardrobe, the only furniture in the room except for the bed, hung two somewhat worn thigh-length bathrobes with oriental symbols on the back.

The receptionist smiled and shook her head when she was shown the photographs of Lev Grette. The same happened in the adjacent restaurant and at the Internet cafй further up the strangely quiet main street. It led, in the traditional manner, from church to cemetery, but had been given a new name: Broadway. In the tiny grocer's shop, where they sold water and Christmas tree decorations, with SUPERMARKET written above the door, they eventually found a woman behind the till. She answered 'yes' to everything they asked about, and watched them through vacant eyes until they gave up and left. On the way back they saw one solitary person, a young policeman leaning against a jeep, arms crossed and a bulging holster slung low on his hips, following their movements with a yawn.

In Muhammed's ahwa the thin boy behind the counter explained that the boss had suddenly decided to take the day off and go for a walk. Beate asked when he would be back, but the boy, at a loss, shook his head, pointed to the sun and said, 'Trancoso.'

The female receptionist at the hotel said the thirteen-kilometre walk along the unbroken stretch of white sand to Trancoso was d'Ajuda's greatest landmark. Apart from the Catholic church in the square, it was also the only one.

'Mm. Why are there so few people around, senhora?' Harry asked.

She smiled and pointed to the sea.

That was where they were. On the scorching hot sand stretching in both directions as far as the eye could see in the heat haze. There were sunbathers lying in state, beach pedlars trudging through the loose sand, bowed beneath the weight of cooler bags and sacks of fruit, bartenders grinning from makeshift bars where loudspeakers blasted out samba music under straw roofs, and surfers in the yellow national strip, their lips painted white with zinc oxide. And two people walking south with their shoes in their hands. One in shorts, a skimpy top and a straw hat which she had changed into at the hotel, the other still bare-headed in his creased linen suit.

'Did she say thirteen kilometres?' Harry said, blowing away the bead of sweat hanging off the tip of his nose.

'It'll be dark before we get back,' Beate said, pointing. 'Look, everyone else is coming back.'

There was a black stripe along the beach, an apparently endless caravan of people on their way home with the afternoon sun at their backs.

'Just what we ordered,' Harry said, straightening his sunglasses. 'A line-up of the whole of d'Ajuda. We'll have to keep our eyes peeled. If we don't see Muhammed, perhaps we'll be lucky and bump into Lev in person.'

Beate smiled. 'Bet you a hundred we don't.'

Faces flickered by in the heat. Black, white, young, old, beautiful, ugly, stoned, abstemious, smiling, scowling faces. The bars and the surfboard hire stalls were gone. All they could see was sand and sea to the left, and dense jungle vegetation to the right. Here and there, people were sitting in groups with the unmistakable smell of joints wafting over.

'I've been thinking more about that intimate-space stuff and our insider theory,' Harry said. 'Do you think Lev and Stine Grette could have known each other as more than brother-and sister-in-law?'

'You mean she was involved in the planning, and then he shot her to cover his tracks?' Beate peered at the sun. 'Well, why not?'

Even though it was past four o'clock, the heat had not noticeably relented. They removed their shoes to cross some rocks, and on the other side Harry found a thick, dry branch the sea had washed up. He stuck the branch in the sand and took the wallet and passport out of his jacket before hanging it on the makeshift hatstand.

They could see Trancoso in the distance now and Beate said they had just passed a man she had seen in a video. At first Harry thought she meant some semi-famous actor until she said he was called Roger Person, and that in addition to various narcotics charges, he had done time for robbing the post office in Gamlebyen and Veitvet. He was suspected of robbing the post office in Ullevеl.

Fred had knocked back three caipirinhas at the beach restaurant in Trancoso, but still thought it had been a senseless idea to walk thirteen kilometres just-as Roger had put it-to 'air their skin before it started to go mouldy, too'.

'Your problem is you can't sit still because of those new pills,' Fred whined to his friend, who was lolloping ahead on tiptoes with his knees raised.

'So what? You need to burn off a few calories before going back to the smorgasbord in the North Sea. Tell me what Muhammed said on the phone about the two police officers.'

Roger sighed and reluctantly searched his short-term memory. 'He talked about a small woman who was so pale she was almost transparent. And a big German with a boozer's nose.'

'German?'

'Muhammed was guessing. Could have been Russian. Or an Inca Indian or…'

'Very funny. Was he sure they were cops?'

'What do you mean?' Roger stopped and Fred almost walked into him.

'I'm just saying I don't like it,' Roger said. 'As far as I know Lev didn't do bank jobs outside Norway. And Norwegian police don't come to Brazil to nab one stinking bank robber. Probably Russian. Fuck. We know who sent them. And it isn't Lev they're after.'

Fred groaned. 'Don't start all that gypsy shit again, please.'

'You think it's paranoia, but he's Satan himself. He doesn't think twice before plugging people who cheated him out of a krone. I never thought he would find out. I just took a couple of thousand for pocket money from one of the bags, didn't I. But it's the principle, you know. If you're the leader of the pack, you've got to have respect unless-'

'Roger! If I wanted to hear all this mafia crap, I could hire a video.'

Roger didn't answer.

'Hello? Roger?'

'Shut up,' Roger whispered. 'Don't turn round and keep going.'

'Hey?'

'If you weren't so pissed, you would have seen we just passed one transparent job and one boozer's conk.'

'Is that a fact?' Fred craned his head. 'Roger…'

'Yes?

'I think you're right.' They turned round.

Roger continued to walk without looking back. 'Fuckfuckfuck!'

'What do we do?'

When he didn't get an answer, Fred looked back and discovered Roger had gone. He examined the sand in amazement-the deep footprint Roger had left-and followed the prints leading abruptly to the left. Up ahead, he saw Roger's flailing heels. Then Fred began to run towards the dense, green vegetation, too.

Harry gave up almost at once.

'There's no point,' he shouted after Beate, who faltered, then stopped.

They were only a few metres from the beach, yet it was as if they were in another world. A steamy, stagnant heat hung between the tree trunks in the pitch black beneath the leafy ceiling. What might have been the sounds of the two fleeing men were drowned by the bird screams and the roar of the sea behind them.

'The one at the back didn't exactly look like a sprinter,' Beate said.

'They know the paths better than we do,' Harry said. 'We haven't got any weapons, but maybe they have.'

'If Lev hasn't already been warned, he will be now. So what do we do?'

Harry rubbed the soaked neck bandage. The mosquitoes had already managed to sneak in a few bites. 'We switch to plan B.'

'Oh? And that is?'

Harry looked at Beate and wondered how it could be that there wasn't a drop of sweat to be seen on her forehead while he was leaking like rotten guttering.

'We're going fishing.'

The sunset was brief but it was a pageant of all the spectrum's shades of red. Plus a few, Muhammed reckoned, pointing to the sun, which had just melted into the horizon like a knob of butter on a hot frying pan.

The German in front of the counter was not interested in the sunset, however. He had just said he would give a thousand dollars to anyone who could help him to find Lev Grette or Roger Person. Would Muhammed mind passing on the offer? Interested informants could apply to room 69 at Vitуria Hotel, said the German before leaving the ahwa with the pale woman.

The swallows ran amok when the insects came out for their brief evening dance. The sun had melted into a runny red mush on the surface of the sea and ten minutes later it was dark.

When Roger turned up an hour later, cursing, he was pale under his tan.

'Gyppo greaser,' he mumbled to Muhammed, and said he had already heard about the fat reward at Fredo's bar and had left instantly. On his way he had stuck his head into the supermarket, where Petra had told him the German and the blonde woman had been twice. The last time they had bought a fishing line; they hadn't asked any questions.

'What do they want that for?' he asked, casting cursory glances around him while Muhammed poured the coffee. 'Fishing perhaps?'

'There you are,' Muhammed said, motioning towards the cup. 'Good for paranoia.'

'Paranoia?' Roger shouted. 'This is good common sense. A thousand fucking dollars! People round here would happily sell their mothers for a tenth of that.'

'What are you going to do then?'

'What I have to do. Pre-empt the German.'

'Really? How?'

Roger tasted the coffee while pulling out a black pistol with a short red-brown butt from his waistband. 'Say hello to Taurus PT92C from Sгo Paulo.'

'No, thank you,' Muhammed hissed. 'Take that away this minute. You're insane. Do you think you can take the German on alone?'

Roger shrugged and put the pistol back in his waistband.

'Fred is at home shaking. He said he'll never sober up again.'

'This man is a pro, Roger.'

Roger sniffed. 'And me? I've robbed a few banks, I have. And do you know what the most important thing is, Muhammed? The element of surprise. It means everything.' Roger drained his cup of coffee. 'And I doubt he's much of a fucking pro if he goes around telling every Tom, Dick and Harry which room he's in.'

Muhammed rolled his eyes and crossed himself.

'Allah can see you, Muhammed,' Roger muttered drily and got up.

Roger saw the blonde woman as soon as he entered the reception area. She was sitting with a group of men watching a football match on the TV above the counter. That was right, it was flaflu tonight, the traditional local derby between Flamengo and Fluminese in Rio. That was why Fredo's had been so full.

He quickly walked past them, hoping he hadn't been seen. Ran up the carpeted stairs and continued along the corridor. He knew all too well which room it was. When Petra's husband was due to be out of town on business, Roger reserved room 69.

Roger placed his ear against the door, but heard nothing. He peered through the keyhole, but it was dark inside. Either the German had gone out or he was asleep. Roger swallowed. His heart was pounding, but the broken half of the upper he had taken kept him calm. He checked the pistol was loaded and the catch was off before gently pressing down the handle. The door was open! Roger slipped into the room and quietly closed the door behind him. He stood in the dark holding his breath. Neither sight nor sound of anyone. No movements, no breathing. Just the gentle revolutions of the ceiling fan. Fortunately Roger knew the room intimately. He pointed the pistol where he knew the heart-shaped bed to be, as his eyes became used to the dark. A narrow strip of moonlight cast a pale sheen on the bed where the duvet had been thrown aside. Empty. He thought quickly. Could the German have gone out and forgotten to lock up? If so, Roger could just settle down and wait until the German returned to be a target in the doorway. It all seemed too good to be true, like a bank which had forgotten to activate the time lock. It just doesn't happen. The ceiling fan.

Enlightenment came that very second.

Roger jumped when he heard the sudden sound of flushing water from the bathroom. The guy had been sitting on the toilet! Roger grabbed the pistol with both hands and with outstretched arms pointed it at where he knew the bathroom door was. Five seconds passed. Eight. Roger couldn't hold his breath any longer. What the fuck was the guy waiting for? He had flushed. Twelve seconds. Perhaps he had heard something. Perhaps he was trying to escape. Roger remembered there was a little window in one wall. Shit! This was his chance; he couldn't let the guy get away. Roger crept past the wardrobe containing the dressing gown which looked so good on Petra, stood in front of the bathroom door and rested his hand on the handle. Took a deep breath. He was about to press when he felt a tiny draught. Not from a fan or an open window. It was something else.

'Freeze,' said a voice directly behind him. And after raising his head and looking in the mirror on the bathroom door, Roger did just that. He froze so much his teeth were chattering. The door of the wardrobe had come open and inside, between the white dressing gowns, he could make out a powerfully built figure. But this wasn't what caused the sudden bout of freezing. The psychological effect of discovering someone has a much bigger weapon trained on you than the one you are holding is not diminished by having some understanding of weaponry. On the contrary. You know how much more efficiently large-bore bullets destroy a human body. Roger's Taurus PT92C was a peashooter compared with the large, black monster he glimpsed in the moonlight behind him. A squeaking noise made Roger look up. What seemed to be a fishing line glistened. It went from the crack over the bathroom door to the wardrobe.

'Guten Abend,' Roger whispered.

Six years later, when Roger happened to be waved over to a bar in Pattaya, only to discover Fred behind all the whiskers, he was at first so surprised that he stood there without reacting until Fred pulled over a chair.

Fred ordered drinks and told him he no longer worked in the North Sea. Disability allowance. Roger sat down hesitantly and explained, without going into detail, that for the last six years he had been running a courier business from Chang Rai. After a couple of drinks Fred cleared his throat and asked what had actually taken place the evening Roger suddenly upped sticks from d'Ajuda.

Roger peered into his glass, took a deep breath and said he hadn't had a choice. The German, who incidentally wasn't German, had tricked him and been on the point of dispatching him into the beyond there and then. However, at the last moment Roger had struck a deal with him. Roger would have thirty minutes to clear out of d'Ajuda, if he told him where Lev Grette lived.

'What kind of gun did you say the guy had?' Fred asked.

'Too dark to see. It wasn't a well-known make, anyway. I can promise you, though, it would have blown my head all the way down to Fredo's.' Roger threw a quick glance in the direction of the door.

'I've found a pad here,' Fred said. 'Have you got somewhere to stay?'

Roger looked at Fred as if he hadn't given the idea a moment's thought. He rubbed his stubble for a long time before replying.

'Actually, I haven't.'