The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel (42 page)

Boy was stunned and tried to draw back, but somehow René held on to him, blood soaking his skin, and the hammer fell to the floor.

Only now did he see the unfettered rage boiling in the African’s eyes. Boy tried to head-butt him as the blood drained from his body. As René jerked his head back, his body pushed open the door behind him, causing both men to tumble into the adjoining room.

The African lay gasping on top of him, teeth snapping at René’s throat. Then his movements became slower and slower, until eventually there were none.

René tried to catch his breath. He was no longer a young man, and right now it felt like the shock and the adrenaline threatened to make his heart stop. Then suddenly, in a single deep intake of breath, the reaction came, and with it the sense of disgust. He pushed the dead man away and lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time before being able to turn over on the floor and actually see where he’d landed.

He found himself looking directly at a pair of feet. Two pole-like legs and the sort of sturdy lace-up shoes that usually only a backpacker might wear. Slowly his eyes moved up the legs, well aware that it was Brage-Schmidt standing above him. He also realized that right now the man had the advantage, and that all he had managed to survive until now had been in vain.

Then he closed his eyes and gave himself up to his fate.

Our Father, who art in heaven . . . , he prayed silently. It had been so many years since the last time he had recited the words. And now they returned to him on this final day.

With a strange feeling of calm he raised his eyes toward his executioner, only to discover that the man sat in a wheelchair and that his eyes were completely empty.

René got to his feet so abruptly that he almost slipped in the blood on the floor.

The man in front of him was totally paralyzed. The shelves that surrounded him were filled with pill bottles. In the windowsill were unopened packets of incontinence pads. On the table were bottles of spirits, cotton swabs, disposable bedpans, and foam-rubber wipes like the kind used in hospitals.

René bent forward toward the man and looked directly into his eyes. There was no reaction. None whatsoever.

He stepped over the African’s body, picked up one of the wipes and wrapped it around his hand, from which two of his fingers hung by tendons. He could do no more about it until he was far away from there.

Then his eyes fell upon a green cardboard folder on which Brage-Schmidt’s full name and civil registration number were printed.

He opened it, and his eyes grew wide as he scanned the first page.

Brage-Schmidt’s hospital records described in objective detail the circumstances of his brain hemorrhage and the date it occurred: July 4, 2006. Way before their fraud began. So that was why he never showed up in person at board meetings. And why the African who called himself Boy had been impersonating him.

René shook his head. “I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t ended up like this,” he said out loud, and patted the man’s cheek.

What a miserable life he’d had. He would be better off dead than go on living like the vegetable he’d become.

He went through the house until he found Boy’s room with a suitcase packed and ready to go. And there were the shares. Neatly gathered in a bundle bound with yarn.

He picked them up and held them to his chest for a moment. Then he realized he had left a trail of bloody footprints all over the house, not to mention his own blood that had been spilled.

So he returned to Brage-Schmidt’s room, finding a box of matches on his way. He paused briefly and regarded the motionless figure in the wheelchair before placing his good hand around the man’s mouth and nose and pressing hard until the breathing ceased. It was peaceful and quite without drama.

Oh, Lord, you poor man, he thought. No need for you to suffer what’s to come.

Then he picked up a bottle of surgical spirits from the table and emptied it over the two bodies.

As he stepped back to light the match, he noticed the dead African lay with his head tipped back enough to reveal an upper set of dentures. He stood for a moment and considered this baroque coincidence. Then he made an impulsive decision. He removed the false teeth from the corpse and put them in his pocket, after which he replaced them with his own.

Then he picked up another bottle of spirits and doused the African once more before backing up and striking the match.

There was a deep, muffled sound as the fumes ignited, and a blue flash of light illuminated the musty room like a sudden burst of sparkling midday sunshine.

Zola snapped his mobile
shut and sat back heavily in his chair.

His contact had just uttered the cathartic yet definitive ultimatum: “Do your job, or else get the fuck out!”

It was on the basis of this unambiguous message that he was now attempting to work out a couple of plausible scenarios.

Clearly something had to happen now. The risk of Marco evading their pincer movement was growing. Because even at a distance Marco could be dangerous, especially now that he’d witnessed Zola sending his father to his death. On that point, however, Zola was quite satisfied. If he couldn’t count on a person one hundred percent, then he would have to go. On top of which there was no longer anyone he had to share with when the spoils were counted up.

Do your job, or else get the fuck out. That meant either they found out where Marco was hiding so Zola’s hyenas could tear him apart, or else Zola would have to pull out. Thus nothing had really changed. The same question remained.

Where was Marco?

The boy had headed off north in a taxi, but what could they conclude from that? Nothing. The next minute he could have asked the driver to go east, west, south, or anywhere at all. The network of streets was unending, but the Africans needed something to go on. The fucking Africans.

He nodded to Chris, who sat at his side. “Get hold of Pico. I have an order for him.”

Chris dialed a number, waited half a minute, then handed Zola the mobile.

“Give me Pico,” was all he said.

A moment passed before the man on the other end answered stutteringly. Zola was sick and tired of how bad Eastern Europeans spoke English.

“I don’t know where,” Pico stammered. “Before on the corner, now gone. Talked to man from you. It was Hector, man here tells me. Otherwise, nothing.”

Zola hung up, handed the phone back to Chris and sat staring down Bredgade with veiled eyes.

His years in the business had taught him at all times to stick to the simple guiding principle that the harder it was for the authorities to trace the crimes of his people back to him, the longer and safer his career would be. It was why he had developed this system of phoning, why the years had been so lucrative, and why to this day he had a clean record.

The system was simple: no one in the clan besides himself and Chris owned a mobile phone. That way people could get in touch with him, but if they were apprehended there was not a single communication from them to Zola for the police to find and use against him.

In addition, over the past few years he had established the network of Eastern European auxiliary troops who had now joined the hunt and who could pass on messages to his own clan members in their various territories. Usually this setup worked well, but there was nothing usual about the present situation.

As things stood now, the phoning system was too problematic and the weakest link in his empire, a ball and chain around his feet.

“Let’s wait a while. He’ll call back,” said Chris.

But Zola didn’t feel he could wait. For every minute that passed, there was the risk that Marco would strike. The police had already been at their door in Kregme, and it had been Marco’s doing. Nothing was sacred anymore and nothing was safe as long as that boy was at large. So how long could he wait?

Then the phone rang. Chris handed him the mobile.

“It’s Pico,” said the voice at the other end. “I have Hector right here.”

“Where are you people now? I couldn’t get hold of you. And why are you calling?”

“I’m in the street they call Pisserenden,” Pico answered. “Hector just come and tell me Romeo and Samuel both gone. They not been at Nyhavn for long time. First, Samuel does not come back, then same with Romeo. This not so good, Zola.”

“What do you mean? Explain!”

“Police were in Black Diamond. We know now they grab them at the lockers.”

Zola leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Fuck! Was it now that everything was finally going to happen?

“How?”

“They were just there, waiting.”

He nodded, as one whole side of his face grew cold.

“OK. Keep away from there! And Pico, get everyone together before we pick you up. We need to know where everyone is and what’s going on. If any of you know where the Africans are, make sure they know Marco headed north. Give them Stark’s address.”

“Why? He could be gone anywhere.”

“Just do it, Pico. Or maybe you have a better idea?”

He hung up, took a deep breath, then typed in the number of the house in Kregme. It was Thursday, and Lajla would be making ready for his return. The house would smell of fresh-baked rolls and tempting willingness, but today he had other things for her to do. She would gather together everything of value. Everything of precious metal, and of course the jewelry. Just to be on the safe side.

“I was just about to call you, Zola,” Lajla said when he got through. “There’s a car parked at the end of the road, and it’s been there for quite some time. I took the dog for a walk and went past it on my way out to the main road. I wanted to see who it was, and if there were other cars just parked for no apparent reason. And there were. Up on the hill were two vans and men in white clothes. I think it was the police.”

“Which hill?”

“You know the one. The place where Marco disappeared. What do you think they’ve found?”

“How should I know? What about the car parked at the end of the road?”

“It’s still there. They’re just sitting there.”

Zola gripped the armrest of his chair. The police, with his people in custody. Police, watching his house. Police, snooping around where William Stark’s body had been buried. Dammit!

“Just stay calm, Lajla, it’s got nothing to do with us. But you better collect all our valuables and hide them good, in case anyone comes to search the house.”

She hesitated but seemed composed. That would change once she heard the clan was breaking up and that he had shoved his brother, her off-and-on boyfriend, to his death.

He handed the mobile to Chris and rolled down the side window so the warm air could chase the chill out of his body.

For more than twenty years he had been a part of this flock, the people he called his clan. He had seen them bow in the dust at his behest and seen them perform countless acts from which only he had benefited. They had been faithful to him. The question now was whether their time, and that of the clan, had come to an end.

He looked momentarily at Chris, his right-hand man, his ultimate shield against anything bad that might befall him. Chris was the one he would miss the most.

“Give me a cigarillo,” he demanded. Chris did as he was told, along with a lighter.

Then and there he decided that moments where tobacco smoke floated lazily over his head in the dry air and mingled with the scent of the tropics would soon be a central feature of his new life. He could no longer trust Samuel, that meathead, to keep his mouth shut, and once Lajla found out what he had done to her lover, he would no longer be able to trust her not to thrust a knife into his heart.

Objectively, it was quite simple. He would have to abandon the valuables he had amassed in Kregme. It would give the police something to chew on in kroner and øre. It didn’t bother him that much.

The rest of his fortune was waiting for him in Zurich. A bulging bank account, nourished over many years by the incomes of companies that appeared to be legal, although they were anything but. Once he had collected all his assets, he had to decide in which of two ways to use them.
Either he took the money and lived peacefully for the rest of his life with an abundance of women in Venezuela or Paraguay, or else he would put together a new clan. There were markets enough to exploit, but harsh winters and months of darkness like those in Denmark were definitively a thing of the past. He had time enough to decide, and the world was a big place.

Looking at it like that, his situation was perhaps not so bad that something positive couldn’t come of it anyway. He only hoped that Marco, who had forced him into this situation, got what he deserved. That the Africans would succeed in tracking him down, and the sooner the better.

Zola looked at his watch.

Another half hour to wait and he would drive in to Rådhuspladsen and harvest the spoils of the day. He would need some cash to tide him over on the journey. Credit cards could be traced just like mobile phones, so if he was going to make a safe and orderly exit he would have to exhibit the greatest of caution.

As Chris gazed absently out of his side window, he opened the glove compartment and took out his false passport and the couple of thousand kroner that always lay there, ready and waiting, and slipped it all surreptitiously into his pocket. He didn’t need questions from Chris. Who could tell what he might do if he caught wind of what was going on?

“Let me do the driving, Chris,” he said, indicating that they swap places.

His helper looked at him with surprise, but he had learned not to question the validity of his master’s commands.

Zola slapped him on the back.

“Listen to me now, Chris. There’s something we have to do.” And then he explained to him what it was.

As soon as they reached Rådhuspladsen, Chris was to tell the waiting clan members to take the train home from Vesterport station instead. That he and Chris had important business to attend to so they could get Romeo and Samuel out of custody fast. And as an extra safety measure, they would ask the group to turn over the day’s haul to Chris in case the police were waiting for them at home. Afterward Chris was to tell them
that he and Chris were going to pay a visit to the best solicitor in the entire kingdom of Denmark. Zola happened to know precisely which one. He was never unprepared, not even in a rotten situation such as this.

It was plain that Chris was moved by this display of concern for the members of the clan. Had it not been for the black bag on the seat between them, he would have grabbed Zola’s hand and kissed it.

—

They reached the square two minutes before five, and nothing turned out as Zola had planned.

Chris managed to get out of the van and begin collecting their haul as the clan members stood about uneasily, listening to him tell about what had happened during the day.

But as he was about to lift the satchel of booty onto the driver’s seat, a cry went up and at once Zola’s people scattered. Only Miryam and another girl remained when the police charged in from all sides.

Zola didn’t have time to think before he floored the accelerator, causing the entire square to reverberate with the screech of the van’s spinning wheels.

He did, however, have time to assure himself that the money he’d taken from the glove compartment was enough for a plane ticket, and that it was odd the police hadn’t stationed patrol cars to thwart an escape attempt such as this.

And he even managed a brief laugh before the windshield suddenly shattered in a thousand pieces and something heavy struck his knee.

What he didn’t manage, however, was to see the truck heading straight at him from the opposite direction.

—

Marco’s taxi driver turned out to be more than worth his two hundred kroner. He swerved into the cycle lane and deposited Marco right outside the Hereford Beefstouw where he could jump out unobserved and scale the construction site fence in seconds, ending up at the rear of the site as the building workers were leaving by the main entrance.

He knew he had to be doubly on his guard this time, and he knew that if the Africans or someone like them came back, he would not be unarmed.

He found a claw hammer on the first floor and weighed it in his hand. One side of the head was heavy and blunt, the other, used to extract nails, curved down into two prongs as sharp as awls. Not quite as good as a gun, but at least as good as a knife.

Marco was no longer afraid. Rational emotions such as fear and anxiety occur primarily in those who love life, who believe in the future and the people they hold dear, and don’t want to lose any of these things. But when hatred takes over, love is forced aside, and with it, fear.

The way he felt at the moment, only the hate remained.

Zola had murdered his father before his very eyes, and if Marco hadn’t been there it would never have happened, he knew that. Indirectly it was his fault his father had been killed, because his actions and presence had prompted his father to abandon his loyalty to Zola and warn his son instead.

Marco stared vacantly into the distance. “His father”! If only he could caress those words, he would. They gave rise to such deep emotion, and now, like the word “son,” they were no longer a part of his world. A cold-blooded push from the man Marco hated most in all the world had deleted these words from his vocabulary, and this was something he was ready to avenge at any price—along with the murder of William Stark, Tilde’s stepfather. Not until he had had his revenge would he again be able to look forward.

He crept on all fours across the concrete floor to check the rubble chute through which he had escaped the day before.

It was empty now, of course, so the African must have extricated himself. Marco couldn’t help smile at the thought of how he had managed it.

Only when he reached the fourth floor did he begin to feel safe. All was quiet except for one or two workmen lingering around the huts below.

If he laid low until darkness came he could spend another night here in his den. There was always the risk that someone, against all common
sense, might figure out he’d come back here, but in that case he felt ready for them. And if no one came, he would try to get close as possible to the house in Kregme and do away with Zola for good.

He frowned at the thought. It would not be easy, and he wasn’t sure he could do it. He wasn’t sure at all.

He found a slab of concrete, dragged it across the floor to the very edge of building’s low wall facing Rådhuspladsen, and used it for a chair. Resting his forearms on the wall, he gazed out over his entire kingdom.

It was almost five o’clock. Soon Chris would arrive in the yellow van to pick them all up.