The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  It wasn’t exactly the place he would choose for an armed confrontation. In that case, it would be wise to withdraw immediately. The odds were against him in an arena like this, hammer or not.

  “So I can’t speak to Brage-Schmidt now?” he asked.

  The African shook his head. “I think it best we make an appointment for tomorrow. How about ten A.M.? I know he’ll be able to receive you then.”

  René nodded. By ten o’clock tomorrow he’d be far, far away. So he would just have to make do with what he’d earned from selling off his shares in Karrebæk Bank. He’d get by, all the same.

  “OK, that’ll be fine. Tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  The African stood up. “And what may I tell him it’s about?”

  “It’s nothing special. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

  Then the man put out his hand, but René was wary and held back, turning instead toward the patio door with a brief word of thanks. He’d be back at ten in the morning.

  He reached for the doorknob, but the African lunged forward and delivered a swift, brutal karate chop to René’s throat.

  “You’re going nowhere. I don’t trust you,” he spat, as René sank to his knees, gasping for air.

  “Tell me why you’re here.”

  René tried but couldn’t. Every muscle in his throat was paralyzed, and his right arm as well.

  It was obvious that the African was about to strike him again, so René raised his left hand and waved it in submission.

  He felt a warmth spreading from his right shoulder as blood trickled down his arm. Which was when he produced the hammer and smashed it into the African’s knee.

  He’d expected a roar of pain, but not a sound passed the man’s lips, even though his leg buckled sideways and his eyes were wide with agony.

  “You devil,” he snarled, toppling forward and clamping René’s head in what felt like a potentially fatal grip. René raised his hammer again and struck, forcing the African to let go. When the man got to his feet, blood from his hand was dripping onto the floor, but still he bore the pain.

  Two pairs of eyes immediately sought the spears that were mounted on the wall, but the African had the advantage of already being upright and began limping toward them as René struggled to get to his feet and stop him.

  The man was alarmingly agile, despite his injuries. The resoluteness of his reactions and the lack of hesitation filled René with mortal dread. Now he knew who he was dealing with. It was one of the people Teis Snap had told him about. One of the boy soldiers.

  And he realized this was a fight he couldn’t win.

  It made him let go of the straw to which most people would cling when looking death in the face and instead watch the man’s movements as he pulled the spear from the wall.

  “Why did you come here and what is your business?” the African asked calmly, as he aimed the weapon directly at René from a distance of only two meters.

  “I’ve been to Karrebæksminde and seen what you did to Teis Snap and his wife. It was I who called the police and told they should come out here. But I had no way of knowing for sure if I was right, so I came to warn Brage-Schmidt ahead of time in case it turned out I was wrong.”

  The man’s lips curled in an oddly false smile. “What you’re telling me is not true, is it?”

  René shook his head. “No. I came here to kill him myself. Are you one of the boy soldiers Snap told me about?”

  “No. I am Boy.”

  “Then farewell, Boy.” René swung the hammer above his head and straight into the man’s body, leaping aside at the same moment.

  Nevertheless, Boy’s spear plunged through the palm of his left hand and came out the back.

  Strangely enough he felt no pain until he grasped the shaft and pulled.

  As his whole arm exploded in pain from the severed nerves and ruptured muscles, he staggered toward the glass showcase with its display of knives, gasping for air and keeping his eyes fixed on the African, who was already bending down to pick up the hammer.

  Slowly and deliberately he limped toward René with his eyes fixed on his throat and the hammer raised.

  He could throw it, but that wasn’t what he wanted. It was clear he wished to be as close to his victim as possible when he killed him.

  Facing Boy, René jerked his elbow backward and broke the glass of the showcase. He pulled out a knife, whose length and weight more than matched the hammer.

  Now he had the knife in his hand, yet he kept backing up toward the wall. At that precise moment he simply lacked the will to use it.

  He felt a door handle behind him, turning it at the same instant the African lunged with the hammer aimed at his throat.

  At that precise moment René felt as if he were not present. His body had separated from his brain, his limbs from his torso, his bleeding hand from his arm. Only the hand holding the knife retained a life of its own, protecting his.

  By the time the blow came, René had drawn the knife to his throat, and instead of the hammer striking him, the knife warded off the blow and sliced into the hand of his attacker, so deeply that blood spurted from the artery in the African’s wrist.

  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 hemorrha
ge 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.

  38

  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 he
ard 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.