The Demon of Dakar (39 page)

The Alavez brothers had been
holed up in the shed for three days. They had not seen a single person. Sometimes they heard the muted roar of traffic and the cracking sound that they believed came from a weapon, a series of rhythmic salvos, and which they later realized must come from military training exercises.

In the evening of the first day, Manuel had walked back to the arts and crafts village. He had watched the parking lot for several hours before he had dared venture out. Now the car was parked in a tumbledown garage on the property.

On the morning of the second day, Manuel had raised a ladder against the side of the main house, climbed up and managed to open a window. In the kitchen they had found crackers, a box of canned food, and a packet of raisins. They brought up water from the well, and in an earth cellar they found some dusty jars of jam with the year 1998 written on the label.

They were used to meager diets and did not really want for anything. The lack of anything to do was worse. Patricio became anxious and irritable. Manuel had joked with him that he should be used to lying around on a cot, but Patricio had just muttered in reply.

Manuel had wondered if he should tell him about Armas’s death. It was only on the second day, when they were talking about the fat one and
the tall one, that Manuel was struck by the fact that his brother knew nothing. In an unconscious way Manuel had simply assumed that Patricio knew what had happened by the river. He decided to say nothing.

Manuel had sawed the apple tree and piled the wood against the wall of the shed. Patricio had helped gather up the sticks that were left over.

The rest of the time was filled with passive waiting.

Now it was one day
before Manuel’s flight to Mexico was due to leave. They talked about how they should proceed and decided to go together to Arlanda. Patricio would use Manuel’s passport and ticket in order to leave the country. Patricio had increasingly started to doubt the plan and raised objections.

“How are you going to get home?”

“We’ve already talked about that,” Manuel said grumpily. “I’m not wanted for anything. They can’t charge me with anything. I’ll go to the Mexican embassy and get a new passport. I can say that I was drunk and lost both the passport and the ticket and that I missed going to the airport. They can’t punish me for that.”

“But if—”

“Stop it! Don’t you want to go home?”

Manuel had grown tired of Patricio’s nagging pessimism and got up from the bench outside the shed.

“I’m going into town tonight,” he said abruptly.

Patricio looked up.

“Is that why you are so worried?”

“I’m not worried,” Manuel snapped.

“What are you going to do there? We have everything.”

“I have to …”

Manuel left his brother without listening to the rest and walked up toward the edge of the woods, then he stopped halfway, returned to the shed and walked in. Patricio heard him bustle about inside.

A little while later Manuel emerged with a bag and a towel over his shoulder, walked over to the clothesline where his change of clothes were hanging, and pulled down a pair of pants and a T-shirt.

When Manuel started pumping up water and filling the washbasin, Patricio laughed.

“You want to look clean and nice,” he observed.

Manuel looked up angrily, but when he saw Patricio’s expression he couldn’t help let out a chuckle.

May this go well, he thought. I want to see him happy in Mexico. He took off his clothes and soaped up his whole body. The sun sank behind the trees and he shivered. Patricio came over, filled a bucket of water, and poured it over Manuel.

“Now you will do,” he said.

While the Alavez brothers were
hiding in the forest outside Uppsala, the police continued their efforts to locate them as well as the other fugitive from Norrtälje, José Franco, who was still at large.

The questioning of the two failed bank robbers, Brügger and Björnsson, had not yielded anything. They claimed they had no idea where the other two had gone. Björnsson had maintained that the Mexican, whose name he could not even remember, or so he said, had not been involved in planning the escape.

The police in Norrtälje, and the National Crime Division, who had immediately become involved, were working with the theory that Franco and Alavez had joined forces and were perhaps still together. They had systematically worked through the Spaniard’s network of contacts and most recent known addresses and haunts, without results. José Franco appeared to have been swallowed up by the earth.

A tip from a Tierp resident who claimed to have seen Patricio Alavez get on the train to Uppsala was deemed to be not very credible. In part because the witness was clearly intoxicated, not only when he called the police, but he had also, as he himself put it, been somewhat “in his cups” at the time he claimed to have noticed the Mexican on the platform in Tierp.

This tip never reached the Uppsala police.

The sessions with Slobodan Andersson
stalled. He kept stubbornly to the story that he had received the bag from a stranger who had asked him to look after it for a day. The stranger was then going to pick it up from the restaurant.

More difficult for the restauranteur was the fact that the police had found Konrad Rosenberg’s fingerprints on the plastic surrounding the cocaine packets. When Slobodan Andersson was asked to explain how this happened, he stopped talking for good.

Even his haughty lawyer looked stricken. Sammy Nilsson noted with satisfaction how impossible the situation was for Slobodan Andersson and how the lawyer gradually abandoned her somewhat intimate attitude toward him. When he subsequently held his tongue throughout the next attempted round of questioning she openly showed her irritation.

Information on the brothers Alavez
came back from Mexico with unexpected speed. Neither of them was known to the narcotics division. The elder of the two, Manuel, had been arrested for “disturbance of the peace” charges but had been freed after five days. What this actually meant was not spelled out in the e-mail from Comisario Adolfo Sanchez at the Policía Criminal in Oaxaca.

A group with representatives from both the Norrtälje and Uppsala authorities had been formed. The Uppsala team included Inge Werner from the criminal information service, Sammy Nilsson from violent crimes, and Jan-Erik Rundgren from narcotics.

They were trying to connect the murder of Armas, the cocaine seized at Alhambra, and the escape from the Norrtälje prison. They had met twice in Uppsala but had not experienced much progress. Now the updates were conducted by telephone and mail.

Ann Lindell had conferred with
her colleague Lindman from Västerås and discussed the arguments in favor of bringing in Lorenzo Wader for questioning. There were reasons for this. He had been observed at Dakar together with Konrad Rosenberg and together with
Olaf González at Pub 19. The waitstaff at both Dakar and Alhambra had also seen how Slobodan Andersson had conversed on several occasions with someone whom they knew as “Lorenzo.”

But Lindman was hesitant and resisted. Maybe a meeting would make Wader clam up. Lindman’s view was that Wader was not to be disturbed and that the investigation that he and the tax authorities in Stockholm had been pursuing for six months could be jeopardized.

Ann Lindell discussed the matter with Ottosson, who said that Lorenzo Wader should definitely be brought in. However, when Lindell and Ola Haver sought him out at Hotel Linné, they learned that he had checked out the day before.

When Lindell relayed this information to Lindman, he chuckled into the phone.

“He’s as slippery as an eel,” Lindman said with evident satisfaction, a reaction that so irritated Lindell that she immediately flagged Lorenzo Wader in the register as significant to a current narcotics and murder investigation.

Together with Sammy Nilsson and
Beatrice Andersson, Lindell tried to evaluate the situation in the three intertwined cases—Armas, Konrad, and Slobodan—and thereafter decide how to proceed.

Armas’s murder was still unsolved, but in all likelihood they knew who the perpetrator was: Manuel Alavez. Whether he had acted in self-defense or not could not yet be determined.

Nothing had emerged that contradicted the idea that Konrad Rosenberg had overdosed. His connection to the cocaine cache and Zero’s claim that Konrad Rosenberg was a drug distributor clearly made him interesting, but they could get no further.

Sidström, who had now been discharged from the Akademiska Hospital, had acknowledged the connection to Rosenberg and admitted that he himself had “bought some” cocaine, though mainly for his own consumption but also that he had “sold some that was left over.”

Slobodan Andersson was caught. He was awaiting sentencing on charges of drug possession and would presumably disappear from the
restaurant world for many years to come—of this all three detectives were certain. There was the bag with two sets of fingerprints, Konrad’s and Slobodan’s. The only thing that could be considered unusual was the fact that they had found a number of dried leaves in the bag, which Allan Fredriksson had identified as hawthorne.

Slobodan’s silence and unwillingness to cooperate, however, had meant that the case opened and closed with him. Konrad was dead and could not add anything.

There was nothing to indicate that the staff at either Dakar or Alhambra were involved or knew about their boss’s hobby. The only uncertain card was González. He had moved out of his apartment, a rented studio in Luthagen, and disappeared without a trace. This did not have to mean anything untoward. He had been fired and perhaps decided the best course of action was to leave town. One of the chefs at Dakar had said something about González talking about going back to Norway. Lindell put Fryklund on it.

“We only have one hope,” Lindell said, “and that is that Manuel Alavez tries to leave the country on his booked flight tomorrow.”

“How likely is that?” Ola Haver asked. “Then he must be incredibly stupid.”

“Let’s hope so,” Lindell said with a shrug.

“How the hell can two Mexicans lie so low?” Sammy Nilsson asked. “Someone must be helping them.”

“They’re hanging in Månkarbo,” Lindell said with a tired grin.

The inner yard was even
darker than Manuel remembered. He looked around. Two windows in the level above Dakar were lit. Apart from this the entire courtyard was dark and he realized that the light on the wall, that earlier had blinked on and off, had now gone out for good.

The wind had picked up and paper and other garbage was lifted up in tight whirls by the strong breeze.

He moved with the utmost caution, staying away from the rectangles of light that the illuminated windows created in the yard, crept over to the bike rack, and then to the garbage containers outside Dakar’s staff entrance. The stench was overpowering. A mixture of rotten fish and sour milk that made him hold his nose as he crouched down behind one of the containers.

After a while he grew used to the smell and was able to relax. He leaned against the wall in a pose reminiscent of all the hours he had sat waiting for work.

Suddenly one of the rectangles of light in the yard went out, and the lamp in the front hall of the entrance next to Dakar went on. Through the windows of the stairwell Manuel could see a man walk down the stairs and step out into the yard. Whistling, he unlocked a bike and left.

The stairwell went dark and Manuel’s heart rate slowly went back to normal.

He tried not to think about the fat one even if it bothered him that he had not been able to trip him up completely. Maybe he could get in touch with the police anonymously? During the days in the shed he had thought out various alternatives but dismissed them all. He could not risk Patricio’s flight out of the country with unnecessary maneuvers and contacts.

The fat one was perhaps on the other side of the door, several meters away, within reach, and yet not. It didn’t matter, because Manuel had decided never again to use force. It was a ridiculous decision, he realized this, for if he ever returned to Mexico the violence would be there as a reality. If he in the future participated in a demonstration or a protest in the main square, then it would be under threat from batons and firearms. If he was attacked, would he then not defend himself, strike back? He did not know. Maybe the time of demonstrations was over now.

He had to wait for an hour until the door to Dakar opened. It was Feo. Manuel heard this from the curses that the Portuguese used when he lifted the lid of the garbage container. The lid shut with a bang and Feo closed the door behind him. Everything became quiet again.

Perhaps another thirty minutes went by. The door opened again. Manuel was struck with fear when he heard Eva’s voice. She yelled something into the kitchen, and he thought he heard Feo reply.

The door banged shut and Manuel heard Eva’s steps in the gravel. He looked out from behind the container. She was alone. He stood up slowly.

“Eva,” he whispered softly.

She froze in the middle of unlocking her bike.

“It’s me, Manuel.”

She turned slowly. He could tell she had trouble seeing him and so he stepped out further, while tilting his head up toward the illuminated window.

“You?”

Manuel nodded.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

She shook her head but didn’t say anything. He took this as encouragement.

“I’ll be going home soon and I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Why …” she started energetically, then fell silent as if her voice had been carried off by the wind, or as if she could not find the right words in English.

“You think I’m lying, but I’m not,” Manuel assured her and took another couple of steps forward.

“Stay where you are! Where is your brother?”

Manuel shook his head.

“This is not about him. This is about us. I don’t want to leave Sweden without saying it.”

“What is it you want to say?”

Eva’s voice was hoarse. He could hardly hear what she said.

“That I wish, that I want … for you to visit my country.”

He took some quick steps up to her, grabbed something from his pocket, and held it out.

“What is it?”

“A present.”

She accepted the rolled-up sock.

“I have nothing else,” Manuel said, “but it’s clean.”

Without a word she pushed the sock into her pocket and bent down to unlock the bike. Manuel wanted to say so much but he did not know how to proceed. He was afraid she would run away, curse him, or start to scream at the top of her lungs.

“He tricked my brothers, you know that. So I set up a trap for him. I wanted to see him in prison, but now I can’t do it anymore. I have to make sure that my brother gets home.”

“He is in jail,” Eva said.

“No, he ran away,” Manuel said, confused. “But now I should go. Tessie or someone else might come.”

Eva stared down into the ground.

“But how will you get home?”

“My brother will fly home on my passport and my ticket,” Manuel explained. “Then I will see what I do.”

Eva stared at him.

“Don’t you get it? The police are looking for you, too.”

“Have you spoken with the police?”

“I haven’t said anything, but they know you are in Sweden. The papers have claimed that you belong to a Mexican drug cartel and that you came to Sweden to … Arlanda will be full of police.”

“Full of police?” he repeated.

Eva nodded.

“I have to go,” he said.

“Armas. Did you …?”

“He tried to shoot me,” Manuel said. “I defended myself. Believe me! I am not an evil person.”

The whites of her eyes glowed in the dark as she studied him. Manuel felt that she was trying to decide what she should believe.

“You do have to go now,” she said finally.

“In the sock there is a note with my address. The phone number of a neighbor. He is nice and speaks a little English.”

Eva laughed unexpectedly.

“The neighbor is nice,” she repeated.

Manuel reached out his hand and nudged her cheek. She flinched but did not pull away. Manuel leaned over and briefly kissed her on the mouth before he left. She thought he resembled a cat as he slunk out of the yard.

Manuel had parked the car behind a Dumpster in the alley. He was trembling with emotion and had trouble getting the key in the ignition. He hastily drew in air through his nose in order to experience her scent one last time.

He nonetheless drove calmly onto the street, past Dakar and out of the city. He found his way easily. He had studied the map all afternoon and memorized the route. Traffic was sparse and after several minutes he was out on highway 272, heading north.

Despite what Eva had said about the police, he was relieved. He had managed to make his way to Dakar and back. He had been lucky that Eva was working and above all he was overjoyed that she had spoken with him.

It was almost midnight when he got back to the house in the forest. He drove the car into the garage. A thin sliver of light could be seen under the door to the shed.

Patricio was sitting in bed. A candle was perched on a stool. He looked ghostlike in the flickering light.

“Did it go well?”

Manuel nodded and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Are you hungry?”

“No,” Manuel said, although in reality his belly was screaming for food.

He sat down on a chair in the middle of the room. It was only now, that he was looking at his brother, that he fully took in the significance of what Eva had said. Up to this point he had been preoccupied with his thoughts of her.

“We have to find another way to leave Sweden,” he said. “You can’t use my ticket. The police will take you right away if you try.”

Patricio stared quizzically at him.

“Who told you this?”

“Eva,” Manuel said curtly and then sighed deeply.

As the sound of her name, his despair welled out. He suddenly saw their predicament in a different light. It was as if someone from above was looking down at their primitive dwelling, surrounded by the darkness of the night, and the deep forest, the flickering light on the stool, and Patricio and himself as two figures who were trying in vain to escape a nightmare. He saw two strangers, two Zapotecs, in enemy territory, who, like soldiers cut off from their command, found themselves in an impossible situation. Now nothing remained but capitulation or a desperate breakout attempt.

Manuel’s energy and creativity were at an end.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed.

Patricio stood up and pulled a slip of paper from his pocket, much like an illusionist setting up for a magic trick.

“Here is a telephone number,” Patricio said and held out the slip of paper.

“What do you mean?”

“José gave it to me, the Spaniard who was part of the escape. If I ran into big problems I should call this number. The one who answers is also a Spaniard. But it should only be in case of big problems. He said the number was secure. I should just call. Don’t we have big problems now?”

Manuel stared at Patricio and then at the wrinkled note.

“We should call a another crook?” he asked.

“You have another fifty?”

Manuel got up and turned his back on his brother. The painstakingly stacked firewood on the opposite wall reminded him of the open hearth at home in the village and how his mother would insert the sticks and get the fire going. How she silently kneaded and baked a stack of tortillas that she wrapped in a cloth, took out the chili, and boiled water for coffee. It was almost as if he could hear the crackling in the wood and how Gerardo’s cock impatiently crowed again and again. Manuel used to joke with his neighbor that the cock had taken after its master both in temperament and productiveness. Never did their poverty appear as extreme as these early mornings when their night-stiff bodies shook with cold. Never was the warmth as welcome, and the togetherness as strong,
as when they approached the fire, mumbling to each other as they drank their coffee and greeted a new day.

“We’ll call,” Manuel said abruptly. “There is a telephone in the house.”