The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Sixty-Four

He called himself Ramon, but they did not think this was his real name. It didn’t matter. There was no question that he was Spanish, nor that he was a real professional.

During the night, Patricio and Manuel had made their way to the small town of Märsta, with the help of Manuel’s map. They had taken a small road that snaked through the darkened landscape, encountered at most ten cars, and once they reached Märsta, they parked outside the grocery store that Ramon had picked as their meeting place. They had waited for half an hour until the Spaniard turned up.

He had taken them to a basement room in an apartment building.

“If you get caught, we expect you not to say a single word about our meeting.”

He did not explain who the “we” referred to. Perhaps he meant José Franco.

“Of course,” Patricio said.

“I hear you can keep quiet,” Ramon said and smiled.

“How is José?”

“Very good,” Ramon said and his smile widened. “He sends his greetings.”

“Send our greetings back and thank him for all his help,” Patricio said.

Despite the early hour-it was not even six yet-Ramon appeared energetic and focused. He took out some photographic equipment, a couple of lamps, and a screen. He took a dozen photographs each of Manuel and Patricio. The whole thing was over in minutes.

Manuel held out the agree-upon sum without a word. Ramon licked one thumb, then quickly flipped through the pile of bills and stretched out his hand for a handshake.

“Who will we be?”

“Two Chileans. I have a lot of those passports.”

“When and how will we get them?”

“One of you drives to Rotebro and leaves the car there, that is not so far away. I can show you the road. Take the train back here. Someone waits here until I turn up. That will be tonight.”

“But taking the train seems dangerous,” Manuel said. “Someone might recognize-”

“We’ll take care of that,” Ramon said and left them for a moment.

They heard him looking around for something in the next room, and when he returned, he smilingly held up a wig.

“This is how you become a blond,” the Spaniard grinned. “This and the glasses will be good. Which one of you is going to Rotebro?”

“That would be me,” Manuel said.

Beside himself with fatigue and confused by Ramon’s precise instructions, Manuel tried to memorize everything. He felt a teary gratitude for the help they received. He had never imagined how quickly it would go.

“I don’t know how we can thank you,” he said.

Ramon slapped his hand across the pocket where he had tucked the money.

“Now let’s get moving,” he said. “On with the wig!”

The last thing Ramon did was to show them how they could make coffee, and where bread, butter, and soda was stored.

The last thing he said before he and Manuel left the basement was a warning not to call anyone, not to leave the basement, and not to drink any alcohol.

When Manuel returned to the basement, Patricio was sleeping on a mattress in the inner of the two rooms. He woke up but immediately fell asleep again. Manuel opened a bottle of soda and drank greedily. He had been thirsty ever since the night before.

What is Eva doing now, he wondered sadly but immediately chastized himself. Why should he think of her? The important thing was to leave Sweden. Wasting thought on anything else was idiotic. He looked at Patricio who was muttering something in his sleep.

Manuel lay down on the floor and stretched out his exhausted body. We should shave, was the last thing he thought before he fell asleep.