The Marco Effect

30

Marco was doing pretty well in the circumstances. He had spent most of the day sitting in his little hideout amid all the construction work, wearing a yellow hard hat he’d managed to liberate, just waiting.

He had finally passed on what he knew. Carl Mørck had got his wallet back and he would already have found Marco’s note, provided all had gone according to plan. He would know that it was Zola who had killed William Stark and he would know where the body had been buried.

If it hadn’t been for all the construction workers and the risk of being discovered, and if the entire city’s criminal lowlife hadn’t been hunting him, he would have kept sitting there, enjoying the view.

Behind him the air was filled with shrieks from the children in Tivoli Gardens. Despite the heavy clouds, people were happy and full of exuberance. He saw legs sticking out from the Star Flyer eighty meters aboveground and children in free fall from the Golden Tower. Kids like himself having a fantastic time, testing their limits and courage. It was something Marco didn’t need to do.

He had enough challenges as it was.

The clan was one thing. He knew them. But what about those he didn’t? The ones who might suddenly catch sight of him from a window and with a quick call could summon assistance to bring him in?

He knew now that if they caught him, they would kill him. Having so many people on the streets would be costing Zola a bundle. And the only reason he would accept that kind of expenditure was because he needed to make sure by any means necessary that Marco would no longer pose a threat. Now it was serious, and if the police had been to Kregme it was too late to call a ceasefire. He had thrown the dice. All he could do was hope and pray the police had picked them up.

For the umpteenth time that day, concrete elements and steel girders were hoisted in through the side of the site facing Rådhuspladsen. The two steel structures opening out on to H. C. Andersen’s Blvd and Tivoli were taking shape, and the next level was already being built on top of the naked stories that comprised the previous House of Industry. So Marco kept to the rear corner toward Vesterbrogade since it was the least busy area of the site at the moment.

When the majority of the workmen knocked off for the day he emerged like a badger from its lair, moving to the front of the building to keep a watchful eye on the square below. From here he had a perfect view of the spot where Zola’s van stopped to pick up the others.

He didn’t notice the foreman in the fluorescent yellow vest until he was almost upon him, the noise from the crane hoisting iron mesh into the building having drowned out his footsteps.

“Hey, you! How’d you get in here?” The man’s voice rang out through the concrete landscape. “That book and the other stuff stashed away over by the lift shaft, is it yours?”

Marco shook his head. “I’m sorry. I came with my dad. I know I’m not supposed to be up here. I’ll go down now. It was just so exciting to see, that’s all.”

The man eyed Marco’s hard hat, frowned, and then nodded. Maybe he couldn’t imagine a lad like him owning a book. “You tell your dad it’s grounds for dismissal if he brings you with him again, get it?”

“I will. I’m sorry, really,” Marco replied, feeling the man’s eyes on the back of his neck until he reached the stairway. He mustn’t see me here again, he told himself, nodding to the workmen who were watching him on his way down.

I won’t get past the guard, it occurred to him, so he cut diagonally across the ground floor toward the corner by the oddly named restaurant A Hereford Beefstouw. There he stashed his hard hat away as usual behind a stack of pallets before clambering over the fence like a squirrel.

Now he was out on the street in the rain and it was just past three in the afternoon. He wouldn’t see the van from above today, but luckily the foreman had discovered him early enough for him not to risk running into the clan members who in two hours would be waiting close by to be picked up.

But Marco was wrong. He hadn’t even made it across Jernbanegade before a cry pierced the air above the streams of cyclists in rainwear and sodden pedestrians on their way home.

“Murderer!” The word had been shouted unequivocally, and in English. He knew the voice immediately.

He stopped in his tracks halfway across the street and glanced around to see where Miryam was.

“Now we know why they’re all looking for you. Chris told us, you murderer!” she yelled at him.

Marco registered the reaction from passers-by. Half of them gave him caustic, disapproving looks while the other half looked the other way, eyes fixed on the ranks of bicycles parked in front of the Dagmar cinema.

He caught sight of her in the midst of the throng, huddled beneath a poster advertising the premiere of The Tree of Life. Her hair was plastered to her cheeks and her clothes black from the rain. Her eyes shone with disappointment, hateful and full of sorrow at the same time.

Marco stepped out onto the street and glanced around. Was she alone?

“Yeah, you can look for the others, you coward, but there’s only me. They’re going to get you anyway. Murderer!” Then she turned toward the oncoming pedestrians, folding her arms and pressing her elbows tight against her body. She was clearly exhausted, had been on the street for hours, and Marco knew the pain in her leg was almost unbearable.

“Someone grab him! He’s killed a man, come and help me!” she shouted, but no one seemed to think it was worth the trouble, once they saw where the cries were coming from.

Marco was in shock. He crossed the pavement in three strides, gripping her shoulders hard. “I’ve done nothing. You know me, Miryam. It was Zola who did it.”

But his words glanced off her. Still she refused to let herself believe him. “LISTEN TO ME!” he yelled, shaking her by the shoulders. “It was me who got the police to pay Zola a visit, don’t you understand? You’ve got to believe me.”

Miryam twisted free. The expression on her face told him he was hurting her. “Murderer,” she said again, almost in a whisper this time. “The police said you’re trying to give Zola the blame. You’re a defector and a rat of the worst kind, stabbing your own benefactor and all the rest of us in the back.”

Marco shook his head and felt tears beginning to appear. Was this really what she believed? Was this what Zola had got them all to believe? The bastard.

“Miryam, Zola’s to blame for what happened to your leg. The accident you had, it was something he set up. Don’t you realize-”

He didn’t see the hand she struck him with, but he instantly felt a deep sense of hopelessness and betrayal much stronger than the stinging physical pain.

He dried his eyes and reached out to stroke her cheek in a gesture of farewell, only to be distracted by the fleeting glance she made over his shoulder.

Instinctively, he turned to see Pico, his jaw bandaged, weaving through the crowd, forcefully shoving people aside as he went, his gaze locked on Marco.

Marco reacted promptly, leaping toward a girl who was parking her bicycle and sending her headlong to the pavement. He cried out an apology as he grabbed her bike.

He was up on the bike, cutting through the swarm of incensed pedestrians and out on to the street before the girl could react, but Pico had anticipated him, sprinting into the lane of traffic with arms waving.

Marco heard him panting behind him, but not his silent Adidas sneakers against the asphalt. He was fast, his strides long, as people stopped on the pavement to stare silently at the pursuit without the will to intervene.

Marco jerked the handlebars, wrenching the front wheel over the curb and hurtling on past the poster columns in front of the garish Palads cinema, where the hotdog stands and forest of café parasols on the open square provided a snarl of obstacles.

Now he could hear Pico calling out behind him: “Stop, Marco, we’re not going to hurt you. We just want to make a deal.”

Sure. A deal where he swapped the bike for a leg lock and a ten-minute wait before they threw him into the van. Fuck them!

Marco leaned forward and pedaled as hard as he could as Pico charged through the crowds in his wake. Behind him he heard a woman fall to the ground with a yelp of pain. This wasn’t good.

“Hey, are you crazy or something?” someone shouted at him as a man tried to jab the point of his umbrella into the spokes of his front wheel.

And then all of a sudden Romeo was there in front of him, a flaming red burn across his cheek. Standing on the edge of the open area between the bike stands with his arms spread out, ready to risk leaping straight into the bicycle and knock him flying.

Time becomes most essential in a person’s life when none is left. Only then are seconds registered one by one, and right now Marco could feel them running out.

The city traffic was flowing just behind Romeo’s back, and the rapidly approaching Pico was catching up to Marco from behind. What now? He could ride directly into Romeo and bring him down with him, or else let the bike crash straight into the parking stands, in which case he would be thrown over the handlebars and into the path of an oncoming bus. But why not? At least it would all be over, he thought in this measured fraction of time, his face contorted with anguish and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Help me!” he screamed, his voice resonating from the surrounding buildings. Rain-drenched faces turned toward him as his ankles grated agonizingly against the pedals and chains of parked bicycles before the full impact sent him somersaulting out into the street.

He heard horrified screams behind him and the squeal of brakes in front. Then he felt something hit him hard and blacked out.

–

“Can you hear me?” asked a voice he didn’t know. He nodded cautiously, but hadn’t the strength to completely open his eyes. Only when a hand stroked his cheek and the voice asked his name did he surface into reality.

“My name’s Marco,” he heard himself say from a distance. “Marco Jameson.”

“You understand Danish, then?”

He felt himself smile as he nodded. Then he opened his eyes fully and found himself looking into a face that was mild yet concerned. Had he just said his name?

“Can you feel your toes, Marco?”

He nodded. Yes, he had said his name. He shouldn’t have.

“Can you tell me where it hurts?”

He couldn’t give an answer. Over the shoulder of the paramedic, Romeo was staring straight at him.

“He’s my brother,” Romeo said. “We’ll take care of him. Our father’s a doctor. He’ll be here soon to pick him up.”

Marco looked pleadingly at the paramedic, shaking his head. “It’s not true,” he whispered.

The man nodded. “I think we need to get him checked properly at the hospital. He needs to be X-rayed, just to be sure.”

“Thank you,” Marco whispered again. “It was his fault it happened. His name’s Romeo. You have to phone the police right away, he wants to kill me.”

“The police will be here in no time, Marco. Just relax. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Witnesses are saying it was an accident. You weren’t looking where you were going,” the paramedic said as the circle of onlookers nodded their agreement.

And then Romeo was gone.

“I think I’m OK,” Marco said after a minute or two, drawing himself up onto his elbows. He need to see if Pico was still there lurking in the crowd, but he seemed to have disappeared, too, no doubt disinclined to be at the scene when the police got there. Marco felt the same way. He was an illegal immigrant, and the last thing he needed was to be nailed for stealing a bike, or anything else for that matter.

He saw now that they had laid his stretcher by the entrance to the Palads cinema.

“Did the bus hit me?” he asked the paramedic.

The peering faces smiled. Clearly it hadn’t.

“You can thank the bus driver for his quick reactions. Otherwise it would have been a different story,” said one of the onlookers.

Marco nodded. “I’m all right now. I’d like to sit up if I may.”

The paramedic hesitated, then nodded, extending him a hand as someone in the crowd applauded.

“I want to go to the toilet, is that OK? I can use the ones in the cinema here.”

Again his request was met with hesitation, but when Marco managed a broad smile and the paramedic checked to make sure the size of his pupils were normal, he received a nod and was allowed to get up.

“I’ll give you a hand,” said a second paramedic. “There’s a chance you might have concussion, or something even worse.”

Marco smiled again, as broadly as he possibly could.

“No, I’m completely OK. I’ll be only a minute, it’s just in there,” he said, pointing.

“All right, but listen,” said the paramedic in a serious voice. “We’ll be waiting for you here, so you come back out as soon as you’re done, OK, Marco?”

Marco nodded and gingerly got to his feet. Apart from his right knee, shoulder, and lower leg aching, there seemed to be nothing else the matter.

“Two minutes,” he said, proceeding slowly up the steps into the foyer with all eyes following him.

He scanned the area. To his left was a café and what looked like the entrance to the smaller cinemas. Diagonally to the left was the kiosk and the toilets, in the middle stood the ticket booth, and to the right lay the way to the larger cinemas. The question was, which way to go in order to get through to the far side of the building? Going through one of the cinemas would involve having to sneak past a ticket collector, then through the darkened theatre to an emergency exit. But could he be sure of coming out on the opposite side of the building?

He had no idea. He looked around the foyer again, sensing all too clearly that time was running out.

And then he noticed a faint shaft of light at the rear of the section beyond the toilets. He hobbled toward it. It was a glass door.

No doubt a fire door, he thought, in which case it would be permanently secured, its electronic lock releasing only if the fire alarm activated.

Still he drew the handle down and pulled hard. And suddenly there he was, outside the far end of the building, with Vesterport station straight in front of him. How lucky could he be? Without hesitation he limped on, across the street and down to the S-train platforms, waiting only a moment before the next train arrived, then riding the minute or two it took to the city’s central station, Hovedbanegården. He left by the exit to Tietgensgade, continuing on in the direction of Copenhagen police headquarters, trying to get a handle on what had happened and why.

Something must have gone wrong when the police had been to Kregme, for he knew now that they had been there. Zola must have turned the accusations away from himself and against Marco. Of course he had. So now, on top of everything else, Marco was also wanted for murder.

He felt himself tremble at the thought. Moreover, his knee, side, arm, and lower leg were aching badly. He was in a dilemma: he had to speak to the police, yet he didn’t dare.

Standing before police HQ, he was overwhelmed. The building was at once monumental and compact, with Roman colonnades that reminded him of some ancient fortress. No way was he going inside. The building would swallow him up.

He would have to wait until someone he dared approach came out.

–

After an hour of seeing no one but men in light blue uniform shirts with guns and a gait like militiamen, he was on the verge of giving up.

What now? he wondered, turning to leave the parking lot where he had been standing, when a woman emerged from the middle arch together with a tall, thin man who looked anything but dangerous.

Marco thought he looked like an office worker, watching them as they walked toward the place where he stood.

“You have to go the other way, Gordon,” the woman said to the skinny guy, pointing in the opposite direction. “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is down by Asiatisk Plads, remember?”

Now Marco recognized her. It was the woman Carl Mørck and the Arab worked with.

Marco withdrew behind a parked car.

“Listen, Rose, I just wanted to-”

“I haven’t got time, Gordon. A boy named Marco’s been located at the Palads cinema. The police arrived just after he’d gone inside, so they’re searching the place now. I’m heading over there and you’ve got an appointment, so you’d better hurry up.”

Marco held his breath. They were all out looking for him.

He allowed the woman to pass, plucked a parking ticket from the wipers of one of the cars and wrote along its edge.

Then he ran after her, slowing down when he was ten meters behind and then keeping his distance.

When she got to the side entrance of Tivoli Gardens, opposite the station, he saw his chance.

Pedestrians from the station and the adjacent bus terminal mingled with a queue outside Tivoli’s ticket booth and people leaving the amusement park. Inevitably she was forced to slow down by the throng, clutching her bag tight to her hip, and in the meantime Marco’s hand darted out and delivered his note.

If they read it, they would know where the lockers were that Samuel and the others used as a temporary stash for their stolen goods. And they would know that every afternoon at five o’clock, all the clan members and their booty were picked up by a van just outside the big construction site opposite the town hall. They would know who Zola and his troops were, and what kind of activities they were involved in.

But what if she doesn’t find the note? he wondered, feeling like the child he no longer wished to be. He wanted to be an adult and leave behind a period of his life he wanted only to forget. He didn’t want to be vulnerable and defenseless any more, he wanted to avenge himself, to stand on his own two feet and break free.

But right now he was vulnerable, no doubt about it. Everyone was after him, and he had no one, absolutely no one, to turn to.

If he took a circuitous route along the city lakes, away from the center, the risk of running into Zola’s bloodhounds was probably small and at some point he would reach the marina at Nordhavn, a place he knew like the back of his hand. There he might be able to find a boat where he could lick his wounds and try to figure out who might help him.

–

On the path running along the lakes the rain felt mild and soothing. There were unusually few people about. Only a young couple and a woman walking her dog had ventured out into the drizzle.

Marco heard something rustle in the reeds by the edge of Sankt Jørgens Sø. He stopped as a flock of cygnets glided into open water in the wake of their mother. Seven of them, he counted with a smile, then looked out across the lake and the planetarium on Sankt Jørgens Sø’s southern shore. He found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind living in this midtown paradise one day.

He chuckled at the sight of the newly hatched, chirping creatures, then turned as a woman and her dachshund approached. Suddenly the dog darted between her legs and leaped into the water to attack a little straggler that had yet to emerge from the reeds.

Marco let out a cry. The woman did as well, and the mother swan turned in the water but was unable to comprehend what was about to happen, so Marco jumped in.

The water was cold, but it came up to only his thighs as he smacked his hand on the surface and the pen rose up hissing, wings outspread. The next smack struck the dog’s hindquarters before its jaws reached its prey, and the little cygnet glided away like quicksilver.

Despite the woman’s vociferous anger at his brutality, Marco was rather pleased with himself until he caught sight of the two police officers in black jackets galloping along the path toward him from the direction of the planetarium. They must have seen what had happened and had recognized him.

“Out of the way,” he exclaimed, pushing the woman aside as she continued to harangue him.

Two minutes later he was running along streets he didn’t know, his shoes squelching. The neighborhood was more closed than Østerbro. The apartment buildings all had entry phones and there were few shops. Where could he hide?

Before long, patrol cars would be out looking for him. The main thoroughfares in this part of the Frederiksberg district would doubtless be under observation, so he cut through the small side streets until he felt sure it was OK to stop and catch his breath.

He leaned up against a tree, chest heaving, and looked up at the street sign. Steenstrups Allé. At the other end he recognized the former radio broadcasting house, so the big building that loomed up on the right had to be the Forum, and behind it he knew there was a metro station. If he could get that far without being seen he could quickly slip away. But where to?

The only person he could think of that might help him was Tilde. If he could get in touch with her, she might believe him and pass everything on to the police.

Turning the corner by the Forum, he met the rush of traffic along Rosenørns Allé. The bus stops on either side of the road were teeming. Another working day had come to an end and everyone was determined to get home. Marco saw no immediate cause for alarm.

He looked ahead at the pyramids of glass that sent daylight down into the metro system and saw the gray granite stairway leading down to the station. No faces he knew, and none he didn’t know that looked suspicious so he walked directly toward the entrance.

That was when he sensed a shadow move out from behind the luminous information post and realized too late that the man was about to pounce.

What to do now?

The way down to the trains was a jumble of plateaus. First there were the stairs, down which he was now bounding, then an intermediate level built around the glass column encasing the elevator. After that, some more steps down to the level where the ticket machines were located along with a set of escalators that descended in two stages to the metro trains.

Perhaps he could fool his pursuer, wait at the level where the ticket machines were, then leg it back up the stairs as the guy came down. If he could get back up to the street again, he’d have a good chance of shaking him off.

But the man was waiting on the first level. He had pulled his mobile from his pocket and was trying to anticipate Marco’s next move.

He’s calling for backup, Marco realized. His only option now was to carry on down to the trains.

Apart from the two of them, the place was strangely deserted. In front of him was only the sterile gray shaft that ended deep down at the platforms with automatic glass doors that screened off the tracks.

“Stop, Marco!” the man shouted, his Slavic accent echoing through the concrete silo as Marco veered toward the right-hand escalator that led down to the next level.

Maybe he could make it all the way down to the platform and up again at the other end before he has a chance to react. But no sooner had the plan materialized in his mind than his pursuer almost hurled himself down the escalator to his left. Marco picked up speed, vaulting his way down the moving staircase to the intermediate landing and on down the second escalator that led to the platforms. Here the escalators ran closely side by side, only a low glass partition separating them. Again he heard rapid footsteps behind him and turned just as his pursuer caught up and lunged over the partition to grab him.

Marco lashed out at the man’s arm with his fist. He was close enough now for Marco to smell his bad breath. Then his hand locked Marco’s neck in a viselike grip.

He knew the waiting passengers would barely notice what was happening, and if they did, they wouldn’t intervene. They would look the other way and focus on the driverless train that was now gliding toward the platform behind the glass screens. In a few seconds, the glass screens and the train doors would open simultaneously, and then the commuters would be gone. Therefore Marco’s repeated cries for help were in vain as the man dragged him over the partition on to his own escalator. Marco flailed his arms and legs to no avail. But then his foot found leverage on the moving handrail, allowing him to push off so forcefully that both he and his assailant were sent flying over the side of the escalator and out into the void.

Marco let out a scream as they tumbled through the air for the remaining three meters.

There was an audible crack as they hit the floor, like the sound of ribs breaking. In any case, the man now lay groaning beneath him, the air slammed out of his lungs.

Marco leaped to his feet and plunged through the open train doors as his assailant clutched at his chest and tried to raise himself up onto his elbows. The last thing Marco saw was the look of rage and agony on his face as he put his mobile to his ear.

The people in the train carriage stared at him without comment. No one tried to console him, even though tears ran from his eyes, but no one abused him either.

He sat down on one of the fold-down seats, angling himself so he could see forward through the illuminated tunnel. He had no idea which direction he was traveling in or where he would end up. All he knew was that the longer he stayed on the train, the more time they would have to rally the troops.

The troops? Who were they at this point anyway? Where had his assailant come from? Had he been standing there all day behind the information post, waiting in case Marco should appear? And who was he phoning right now?

Marco wrung his hands in despair as everything around him seemed to merge. The sound of the train’s electric motors propelling him toward the unknown; the ding-dong from the PA system and the voice announcing the next station, Frederiksberg; the passengers sitting impassively in the cold light as the reflected glare of Frederiksberg station’s glass screens warned him he better make a decision as to what to do next.

Should he get off or try continuing on to Vanløse, then leg it to Strindbergsvej, where Tilde lived? What were his chances?

He fixed his eyes on the platform as the train glided to a halt. All seemed peaceful enough. Patient eyes focused on the glass screens, waiting for them to open. Students on their way home. Posters advertising eyeglasses, information posts, ticket machines, and otherwise nothing.

Marco positioned himself at the doors and glanced over his shoulder. Still nothing.

He got off the train. He’d made his decision. He needed to get out of the open, back to his hideout. The workmen would be packing their gear away now, and soon the site would be quiet. All he had to do was get up to street level and head along Falkoner Allé and Frederiksberg Allé, then calmly make his way back to the center from the safest side of the city. This would probably work, as long as no one was up there waiting for him.

He looked in both directions before opting to take the stairway farthest from the Frederiksberg Centre shopping mall. If they were already at the station they would expect him to take the route where there was the best chance of the crowds being biggest.

Forty steps up and he would be out.

He got less than halfway before two faces with watchful eyes appeared at the top of the stairs. Instinctively Marco turned back and ran.

Now there was a train waiting at the opposite platform. The doors were open. Unfortunately it was heading back to the Forum, but what else could he do? The last passenger had stepped inside. Marco vaulted over the final five steps, hearing the sound of running behind him as he squeezed through the closing glass screens. For a moment the train remained standing as its own doors slid shut, leaving two men with Slavic features and frustrated expressions hammering their fists against the glass outside.

A month ago the men had almost certainly been walking the streets of towns like Liepaja and Palanga, dreaming of striking it rich in the West, and now it was plain to see they’d just missed out. That’s when Marco realized the price on his head was a big one, and Copenhagen’s entire assortment of lowlife was now hunting him.

He stretched out low across a pair of fold-down seats as they passed Forum station, raising his head cautiously to see if his former pursuer was still there.

He was, but sitting on the floor against a wall, his hands pressed to his chest. He was on his guard, but injured and in pain. Still holding the mobile in his hand.

At Nørreport station, Marco took the escalator at the far end, knowing that if they were waiting for him at street level he needed to be ready to make a dash for the botanical gardens and the Østre Anlæg park to find a place to hide.

He picked out a woman and stood so close to her as they neared the top that it annoyed her. As well it might, because if they spotted him and got too close, he would shove her into them.

Up on the street all seemed peaceful and normal. The rain had stopped and people were spilling out of the side streets on their way home.

Here in the crowd I’m as good as invisible, he told himself, as he made his way along Frederiksborggade toward Nørre Farimagsgade. From there he would catch a bus the last stretch of the way just to be on the safe side.

Now that he knew what he was up against.