The Demon of Dakar aka The Demon from Dakar

Seven

Slobodan Andersson’s office was tucked behind Alhambra’s kitchen. Only he and Armas were allowed in there. The two of them had been in business together since they had met at a strip club in Copenhagen twenty years before. Armas had been sitting in the very front and with his formidable size had almost taken up two seats at the tiny table. Slobodan had joined him. Not because he wanted the company, but because he wanted to sit close to the stage.

The strippers were mediocre and apparently bored, because they moved with so little energy and creativity that many of the customers stopped watching. Slobodan sighed.

“It’s a disappointment every time,” he said, but Armas stared back at him without appearing to concur and simply shrugged.

Slobodan stretched out his hand and introduced himself. After a second’s hesitation, Armas grasped his hand and muttered a name that Slobodan did not catch.

That was the beginning of their many years of working together.

Now they were sitting on either side of the desk. Armas was silent, while Slobodan was talking a mile a minute. He unfolded a map and placed his chubby finger on a town by the northern border of Spain.

“This is where it will take place,” he said.

Armas already knew this. In fact, he already knew everything about the upcoming operation.

“You take the car down there. I will write out a list of restaurants that you will visit. Above all, this one north of Guernica. Drive around for at least a week, talk to chefs and collect ideas. But not some damn bacalao-I’m so damn tired of cod. But buy as much cheese as you want. You know what I like. If they check you out in customs, then go ahead and act a little nervous about the cheese. And wine, but only Basque varieties, so the customs officials feel proud. Make yourself out to be an idiot when it comes to food. Offer to pay taxes or whatever the hell else, tell them your boss will strangle you if you don’t come back with a good piece of Cabrales.”

Armas nodded and looked at his boss: the sweaty face, the wrinkled suit-one sleeve of which was soiled with a large grease stain-and the plump fingers that continuously fiddled with papers on the desk. Slobodan looked worn out. There were no wrinkles in the shiny round face, but the area around his eyes was growing darker, as if they were sinking more and more deeply into their sockets. The dark, combed-back hair was getting increasingly thin and new gray hairs appeared every day.

“Do you get it?”

“I get it.”

“Jorge e-mailed me the other day.”

Armas looked astonished.

“E-mailed? Has he lost his mind?”

“I deleted everything,” Slobodan said, irritated.

Armas snorted.

“You will meet Jorge outside the aquarium in San Sebastián. Not far from there, on the pier, there is a restaurant. You will see exactly which one it is. They had decked the place out with a lot of flags and knickknacks. Eat there. I know one of the waiters. He’s called ‘Mini.’”

“Is he involved?”

“No, not directly, but he stays informed. He knows exactly what happens in the city, if the police are up to anything.”

Armas didn’t like it. He didn’t like Jorge and definitely not a new Spanish idiot. It was typical of Slobodan to improvise like this at the last minute.

“I know what you think,” Slobodan said, “but a little local backup is always good.”

“Why can’t Jorge go up to Frankfurt, like last time?”

“I don’t trust him. You know what happened to the other one. Mexicans are so damn clumsy. They stink scofflaw to the high heavens. And the German cops are smarter than the Spaniards.”

“If they are so clumsy, why-”

“You know why!”

Armas snorted again. He knew how everything had started and it had gone well. Angel’s demise was something that couldn’t be helped. He only had himself to blame. There was nothing that could tie Angel to Sweden and definitely not to either Slobodan or Armas.

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 Armas felt as if Slobodan was rejecting his assessment that Gonzo had to go?

That had always been Armas’s weak point. He could take much, but the few times that Slobodan criticized him, he became hurt, grew silent and withdrawn. It was an almost frightening reaction, coming from him. Slobodan liked it much better when he got angry.

“He probably wants to talk nonsense like always,” Slobodan said.

They took Gonzo out to the kitchen. Armas sat down in a chair. Gonzo did not look as confident as usual. In fact, he seemed to have shrunk.

“Well, what do you want, Mr. Gonzo?”

“It’s not fair,” the waiter said, glancing quickly at Armas.

“That is finished,” Slobodan said. “It is not anything to talk about.”

“He’s firing me only because he…”

“Shut up!” Armas yelled.

Gonzo momentarily lost his balance, as if the gust of air from Armas had hit him square in the chest.

“One more fucking word out of you and you know what happens!”

Armas had stood up and looked even taller than usual.

“You’d better be going,” Slobodan said and put his hand on Gonzo’s shoulder, pushing the door open and leading him out of the kitchen.

When the swinging doors had come to a complete standstill, Slobodan turned.

“What was all that about?”

“He is a little shit,” Armas said.

“Can that be a problem?”

“Yes, but only for himself,” Armas said and Slobodan heard him try to adopt a slightly lighter tone.

What had Gonzo done to upset Armas so much? Good waiters did not grow on trees, and the Dakar was understaffed. Now they had to take on an untrained waitress. All they needed was for Tessie to get sick for a day or two and service would collapse. Armas knew all this and had fired Gonzo anyway.

The reason must be personal. If it had been anything to do with the job, if Gonzo had cheated with the tips or swiped a bottle of hard liquor, Slobodan would have heard about it.

Slobodan had the question on the tip of his tongue but held it back, afraid of hurting his partner.