Hour of the Wolf

26

Tuesday’s post comprised a few bills and a couple of letters.

One was from the Spaarkasse, informing him that his loan had been granted. The sum of 220,000 had already been credited to his account.

The other letter was from his opponent.

A different kind of envelope this time. Simpler, cheaper. The letter paper itself was a folded page, apparently torn out of a spiral pad. Before he began reading he wondered if this in itself was a sign of something, if it had some sort of significance, this reduction in quality.

He failed to find a satisfactory answer; and the instructions were just as simple and clear as before.

Your last chance. My patience is soon at an end. The same procedure as last time.

Place: the rubbish bin behind the grill bar at the junction of Armastenstraat and Bremers Steeg.

Time: the early hours of Friday, 03.00.

Stand by your telephone in your home at 04.00. Don’t try transferring calls to your mobile — I have taken measures to protect myself from that. If I don’t have my money by Friday morning, you are a goner.

A friend

This business concerning his mobile phone had already occurred to him. He’d rung and investigated the possibility of doing that, but it gradually became clear to him that the caller could always establish whether the call had been diverted from one number to another. Otherwise, of course, he would have been very tempted to hide himself some twenty metres into Bremers Steeg, which he knew was a dark, narrow alley… To stand there and wait for his opponent, with the pipe hidden inside his overcoat. Very tempted.

Another thing that struck him when he read the instructions again was the sheer damned self-confidence of the blackmailer. How could he be certain, for instance, that his victim wouldn’t use an assistant, just as he had done out at Dikken? How could he be so sure of that? It was even possible that he could arrange for the assistance of a good friend without needing to reveal what it was all about. He could get somebody else to answer the telephone, for instance. Or did his opponent know his voice so well that he would recognize such a move immediately? Was he so well acquainted with him?

Or had he refined his tactics this time? Polished them in some way? It looked like it. Perhaps the telephone call would involve further instructions to guarantee that the money could be collected behind the grill bar in peace and quiet.

But how, in that case? What instructions might they be, for Christ’s sake? Would he be armed?

That last point cropped up without his having thought about it, but it soon became clear that it was the most significant of them all. Would his opponent have a weapon, and — in the worst-case scenario — would he be prepared to use it in order to collect his money?

A pistol in his jacket pocket in a dark corner in Bremers Steeg?

He put the letter back into its envelope and checked the clock.

Eleven thirty-five. Less than sixteen hours left.

Time was short. Very short, and this was the last round now. No further delays were conceivable.

Time to run away? he thought.