Beate smiled. 'Bet you a hundred we don't.'
Faces flickered by in the heat. Black, white, young, old, beautiful, ugly, stoned, abstemious, smiling, scowling faces. The bars and the surfboard hire stalls were gone. All they could see was sand and sea to the left, and dense jungle vegetation to the right. Here and there, people were sitting in groups with the unmistakable smell of joints wafting over.
'I've been thinking more about that intimate-space stuff and our insider theory,' Harry said. 'Do you think Lev and Stine Grette could have known each other as more than brother-and sister-in-law?'
'You mean she was involved in the planning, and then he shot her to cover his tracks?' Beate peered at the sun. 'Well, why not?'
Even though it was past four o'clock, the heat had not noticeably relented. They removed their shoes to cross some rocks, and on the other side Harry found a thick, dry branch the sea had washed up. He stuck the branch in the sand and took the wallet and passport out of his jacket before hanging it on the makeshift hatstand.
They could see Trancoso in the distance now and Beate said they had just passed a man she had seen in a video. At first Harry thought she meant some semi-famous actor until she said he was called Roger Person, and that in addition to various narcotics charges, he had done time for robbing the post office in Gamlebyen and Veitvet. He was suspected of robbing the post office in Ullevеl.
Fred had knocked back three caipirinhas at the beach restaurant in Trancoso, but still thought it had been a senseless idea to walk thirteen kilometres just-as Roger had put it-to 'air their skin before it started to go mouldy, too'.
'Your problem is you can't sit still because of those new pills,' Fred whined to his friend, who was lolloping ahead on tiptoes with his knees raised.
'So what? You need to burn off a few calories before going back to the smorgasbord in the North Sea. Tell me what Muhammed said on the phone about the two police officers.'
Roger sighed and reluctantly searched his short-term memory. 'He talked about a small woman who was so pale she was almost transparent. And a big German with a boozer's nose.'
'German?'
'Muhammed was guessing. Could have been Russian. Or an Inca Indian or…'
'Very funny. Was he sure they were cops?'
'What do you mean?' Roger stopped and Fred almost walked into him.
'I'm just saying I don't like it,' Roger said. 'As far as I know Lev didn't do bank jobs outside Norway. And Norwegian police don't come to Brazil to nab one stinking bank robber. Probably Russian. Fuck. We know who sent them. And it isn't Lev they're after.'
Fred groaned. 'Don't start all that gypsy shit again, please.'
'You think it's paranoia, but he's Satan himself. He doesn't think twice before plugging people who cheated him out of a krone. I never thought he would find out. I just took a couple of thousand for pocket money from one of the bags, didn't I. But it's the principle, you know. If you're the leader of the pack, you've got to have respect unless-'
'Roger! If I wanted to hear all this mafia crap, I could hire a video.'
Roger didn't answer.
'Hello? Roger?'
'Shut up,' Roger whispered. 'Don't turn round and keep going.'
'Hey?'
'If you weren't so pissed, you would have seen we just passed one transparent job and one boozer's conk.'
'Is that a fact?' Fred craned his head. 'Roger…'
'Yes?
'I think you're right.' They turned round.
Roger continued to walk without looking back. 'Fuckfuckfuck!'
'What do we do?'
When he didn't get an answer, Fred looked back and discovered Roger had gone. He examined the sand in amazement-the deep footprint Roger had left-and followed the prints leading abruptly to the left. Up ahead, he saw Roger's flailing heels. Then Fred began to run towards the dense, green vegetation, too.
Harry gave up almost at once.
'There's no point,' he shouted after Beate, who faltered, then stopped.
They were only a few metres from the beach, yet it was as if they were in another world. A steamy, stagnant heat hung between the tree trunks in the pitch black beneath the leafy ceiling. What might have been the sounds of the two fleeing men were drowned by the bird screams and the roar of the sea behind them.
'The one at the back didn't exactly look like a sprinter,' Beate said.
'They know the paths better than we do,' Harry said. 'We haven't got any weapons, but maybe they have.'
'If Lev hasn't already been warned, he will be now. So what do we do?'
Harry rubbed the soaked neck bandage. The mosquitoes had already managed to sneak in a few bites. 'We switch to plan B.'
'Oh? And that is?'
Harry looked at Beate and wondered how it could be that there wasn't a drop of sweat to be seen on her forehead while he was leaking like rotten guttering.
'We're going fishing.'
The sunset was brief but it was a pageant of all the spectrum's shades of red. Plus a few, Muhammed reckoned, pointing to the sun, which had just melted into the horizon like a knob of butter on a hot frying pan.
The German in front of the counter was not interested in the sunset, however. He had just said he would give a thousand dollars to anyone who could help him to find Lev Grette or Roger Person. Would Muhammed mind passing on the offer? Interested informants could apply to room 69 at Vitуria Hotel, said the German before leaving the ahwa with the pale woman.
The swallows ran amok when the insects came out for their brief evening dance. The sun had melted into a runny red mush on the surface of the sea and ten minutes later it was dark.
When Roger turned up an hour later, cursing, he was pale under his tan.
'Gyppo greaser,' he mumbled to Muhammed, and said he had already heard about the fat reward at Fredo's bar and had left instantly. On his way he had stuck his head into the supermarket, where Petra had told him the German and the blonde woman had been twice. The last time they had bought a fishing line; they hadn't asked any questions.
'What do they want that for?' he asked, casting cursory glances around him while Muhammed poured the coffee. 'Fishing perhaps?'
'There you are,' Muhammed said, motioning towards the cup. 'Good for paranoia.'
'Paranoia?' Roger shouted. 'This is good common sense. A thousand fucking dollars! People round here would happily sell their mothers for a tenth of that.'
'What are you going to do then?'
'What I have to do. Pre-empt the German.'
'Really? How?'
Roger tasted the coffee while pulling out a black pistol with a short red-brown butt from his waistband. 'Say hello to Taurus PT92C from Sгo Paulo.'
