The Demon Of Dakar Part 41

The man pulled his hand over his brow, made a face that was supposed to indicate pain, and then put a hand on his back.

Patricio regarded the whole pantomime with amazement.

"What does he want?" Patricio asked.

"He thinks we work with strawberries."

The man entertained the brothers for several more minutes with charades about how poor the fis.h.i.+ng was and how good the sun felt.

Then he took his leave and went downstream. Manuel thought he looked happy as he walked.

"He's fis.h.i.+ng," Patricio said and watched the slow-moving water flowing by.

He got up and went to the water's edge. Manuel watched him as he sat in a crouch and wet his hand in the water, before he turned his head and met his brother's gaze.

"Do you remember when we stood by the Rio Grande?"

Manuel nodded. How could he forget?

"We were foreigners there, too. We had to be on guard even with the friendly people. What if that fisherman was simply pretending?"

"I don't think so," Manuel said.

"Like Hamilton, the broccoli farmer who bought beer and gave us food," Patricio said. "We thought he wished us well, but then he called the cops and withheld our wages."

"I remember," Manuel said, "but there is no sense in worrying about this now."

He understood his brother, but was also irritated at his doubts.

"You are free!" Manuel said, and threw his arms wide, as if he could scrub away all the doubt with a single stroke.

"Am I?"

Patricio turned back to the river and stared into the water.

"We have to stay here a few days until the police calm down," Manuel said, "but you have to believe it will work out."

Patricio said nothing. Manuel came to think of Eva. What was she thinking about him? That he was a liar, of course, but she probably also thought he was a drug dealer. He would so have liked to have her as a friend, and it hurt him that she did not think well of him. It felt both unfair and unnecessary. He should have trusted her and talked about why he traveled to Sweden. Then they might perhaps still have been friends.

He had understood that she had been attracted by the thought of traveling to Mexico. It had not simply been an innocent joke between them. In her eyes he had seen a longing and a spark that was lit. She had considered the possibility, but now all that was gone.

Manuel cursed himself for having disappointed her and he wondered if the wound could be healed.

Patricio interrupted his thoughts by standing up and helping himself to a sandwich and soda. He ate and drank in silence.

"Is it edible?" Manuel asked.

"I've had worse," Patricio replied, smiling.

Manuel laughed with relief when he realized that his brother was making an effort to bridge the discord and the tense atmosphere.

"I'm also going to have some," he said, taking out the wrapped sandwich and sitting down next to his brother.

"This afternoon I'll get us some fried chicken," he continued.

At that moment a helicopter approached at a low alt.i.tude. It swept in from the north and flew over the river a hundred or so meters from the place where the brothers were sitting.

Taken by compete surprise as they were, they did not even manage to react until the helicopter had vanished from view.

"The police," Patricio whispered.

Manuel did not know what to believe.

"Maybe it's the military," he said, and told him that he believed there was an air force base on the other side of the river.

"They're looking for me," Patricio said, and stood up.

"I can swim across and check," Manuel offered. "Maybe it was something routine and nothing to do with us."

He checked the bushes where he had hidden the money. Patricio noticed his gaze.

"If you cross the river, I'll put the tent away. Even if they are not looking for us we are clearly visible from the air."

Patricio was right. Their tent must stand out like a torch from up above. He undressed, swam across the river, climbed up on the other side, and in the distance he could just make out the helicopter that had landed. He was unable to determine if it was a police helicopter, but he could not spot any activity on the airstrip.

Twenty minutes later they were on their way. They followed the Fyris river to the southwest. Manuel had seen a forest in the area. There they should be able to find a more secluded spot. The car could remain parked near the arts and crafts village for now.

After a trek of a couple of kilometers, the river turned directly south toward Uppsala. The brothers crawled up the bank and discussed what they should do. Before them lay a field and beyond that the woods rose up thickly.

They took a chance and crossed the field, arrived at a highway that they crossed, avoided a couple of houses, finally reached the s.h.i.+elding curtain of trees and followed an almost invisible path into the woods. Wine-red mushrooms peeked out between the heavy branches on either side of the path.

"It is like a cathedral," Patricio said and stopped, stroking the sticky fir with his hands. "How beautiful it would be if-"

"Let's push on."

Manuel was irritated. He was in a way, however, grateful for the short break-his brother had not shown any fatigue despite their quick march, while he himself was panting.

"They're hunting us," Patricio said.

"As if I didn't know that," Manuel said.

"If we were free I would-"

"What?"

"I don't know," Patricio said hesitantly. "Do you go to ma.s.s?"

"Why wouldn't I do that?" Manuel asked, perplexed.

He continued on deeper into the woods. Patricio lumbered on behind him. After a short while they reached a house.

"It looks abandoned," Patricio said.

There was no movement either outside or in the windows, and no smoke rose from the chimney. An old tree, still green and covered in apples, was lying straight across the gravel path that led from the gate up to the house. The sight of the giant that had been struck down in the midst of its fruitful phase depressed Manuel. The top of the tree was partly torn to pieces. Manuel walked up and studied the jagged wounds where the branches had been torn from the trunk. The wood was light but with a core of murky brown rot that Manuel was easily able to crumble between his fingers.

"Who lives here in the woods?" he asked and looked around.

There was a small field behind a low stone wall. It was not in use and small trees were growing in a tangled sea of high herbs and gra.s.s. The red-painted wooden wall glowed with a warm and welcoming light in the afternoon sun and some yellow flowers that Manuel recognized from his homeland waved by the high stone foundation.

He walked up to the door and tried the door handle. It was locked.

"Manuel, come!"

Patricio was standing in the doorway of a smaller building, waving for his brother.

"We can sleep in here," Patricio said when Manuel had caught up.

The shed consisted of one small room. Firewood was piled up to the ceiling along one wall. On the other side there was an old metal frame bed. A mattress was rolled up against one end of the bed. Patricio undid the string holding the mattress together and it unrolled over the bed frame. He chuckled.

"The bed is made," he said and threw himself down.

They carried in their few belongings and installed themselves. Manuel hid the bag of money behind the stack of firewood. It felt unpleasant to force oneself into a stranger's house, but on the other hand it had been open and they were not causing any damage. The most important thing was that they were no longer visible from the air if any more helicopters appeared.

Patricio stretched out on the bed with his hands under his head. Manuel sat down on a rickety wooden chair.

"What if we were to tell our whole story," Patricio said after a long period of silence.

Manuel looked quizzically at him. He was too exhausted to think. This fatigue was of a different order from at home. In the mountains he could wander for hours, even carrying a load, without tiring.

"I don't think Swedes know what it is like in Mexico," Patricio said.

"That is not so strange. How many people in our village know what it is like here? And how would you make this happen? Are you going to be on TV?"

Patricio shut his eyes. A spider walked across his closely cropped hair. Manuel studied his face. I have to get him home again, he thought, bending forward and brus.h.i.+ng the spider away. Patricio smiled, but he did not open his eyes. After a minute or so he slept heavily.

If we could tell our whole story, Manuel thought, where would we begin? How many would listen? Maybe Eva, but how many others?

He got up from his seat and walked as quietly as possible back out into the yard. He walked up to the main house, forcing his way through some bushes to a window, and peered inside. It was a kitchen. There was a wood-burning fireplace with a white-washed hood. A table and four chairs was the only furniture. On the table was a yellowed newspaper and a pair of gla.s.ses.

When he left the window and walked back over the flower bed he felt a familiar scent. He sniffed the air, looked down, and received a shock when he realized what it was that was giving off the aromatic smells.

He had stepped on a Ruta, or rue. He recognized the mild yellow-green leaves so well.

Will I die here? he wondered, swiftly making the sign of the cross and backing slowly away from the house. When he lifted his gaze from the flower bed he thought he could see Miguel's children in the windows. He wanted to leave the house and run away but controlled himself.

It struck him that maybe the poor people in this country also planted Ruta outside their houses. The rich men took pills when they had an ache, while the poor prepared an infusion of herbs or a poultice of healing leaves. It was a poor man's house they had broken into. That immediately felt better. A rich man would be beside himself. A poor man would understand. That was how it was in the village. The poor were the most generous, but on the other hand they did not have much to give.

Manuel had the idea that they should help clear up a little in the yard. He thought he had seen a saw leaning up against the wall in the shed. They could saw the fallen tree into firewood. That could be done in the wink of an eye.

He went inside where Patricio was still sleeping. He had curled up and turned to the wall. Manuel pulled the blanket out of the bag, crawled in beside his brother, and pulled it tightly around them both.

Fifty-Nine.

Very rarely or perhaps never before had Ann Lindell experienced such a veritable storm of information. It started with new leads from the Norrtalje prison, which was s.h.i.+fting the focus of the Armas investigation. Patricio Alavez, who was serving a sentence for attempted drug smuggling, had received a visit from his brother, Manuel Alavez, several days earlier. Lindell immediately tried to flesh out the details on this new player in the game. Faxes were coming in and e-mails were popping up with information that was making her more and more convinced: this brother was of great interest. before had Ann Lindell experienced such a veritable storm of information. It started with new leads from the Norrtalje prison, which was s.h.i.+fting the focus of the Armas investigation. Patricio Alavez, who was serving a sentence for attempted drug smuggling, had received a visit from his brother, Manuel Alavez, several days earlier. Lindell immediately tried to flesh out the details on this new player in the game. Faxes were coming in and e-mails were popping up with information that was making her more and more convinced: this brother was of great interest.

She asked Fryklund, the new recruit who had turned out to be a pearl, to look into how and when Manuel Alavez had arrived in Sweden. After half an hour, Fryklund called her back.

He had arrived on a flight directly from Mexico City to Arlanda, and from there he had rented a car, an almost new Opel Zafir. The Mexican had paid the whole rental fee in cash. The car was due to be returned in four days, the same day that his return flight to Mexico had been booked.

Before she finished the call, she gave Fryklund an additional task: to request all available information on the Alavez brothers from the Mexicn authorities. Some of this had probably been done in connection with the investigation of Patricio Alavez, but now there was also his brother. Had he been accused of any crimes in Mexico?

Then Lindell called Morgansson at forensics, gave him the number to the company that had rented out the Opel and asked him to see if the tire marks collected from the scene at Lugnet could have come from the rental car.

"It'll be a matter of what brand of tires they use," Morgansson said.

A superfluous comment, Lindell thought, who was increasingly irritated when her colleagues pointed out something obvious.

"Is there DNA from Lugnet?" she went on.

"Sure," Morgansson said.

"Run it against Patricio Alavez, the one who escaped from Norrtalje."

"Aye aye, Captain," he said.

Lindell did not feel like a general commanding her troups from a field telephone, but she did not take Morgansson's comment as an implied criticism. She knew he liked it when there was action.

"This thing is starting to crack," she said, in an attempt to adopt a more relaxed att.i.tude, and perhaps it was also an unconscious attempt to show her appreciation of her colleague's work.

"It looks good," Morgansson agreed. "If the Alavez brothers are hanging out together, we'll get them."

"Anything more on Rosenberg?"

"No, not really. The apartment was completely free of narcotics, apart from the cocaine on the table. He kept his place surprisingly clean. We have secured three sets of prints apart from his own."

"Slobodan's?"

"No, he wasn't one of them."

They hung up, and Lindell felt relieved. It was the first time they had been able to speak naturally with each other without their failed relations.h.i.+p looming in the background.

"We'll get them," she repeated the technician's words out loud to herself.