'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 Vitória 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 Săo Paulo.'
'No, thank you,' Muhammed hissed. 'Take that away this minute. You're insane. Do you think you can take the German on alone?'
Roger shrugged and put the pistol back in his waistband.
'Fred is at home shaking. He said he'll never sober up again.'
'This man is a pro, Roger.'
Roger sniffed. 'And me? I've robbed a few banks, I have. And do you know what the most important thing is, Muhammed? The element of surprise. It means everything.' Roger drained his cup of coffee. 'And I doubt he's much of a fucking pro if he goes around telling every Tom, Dick and Harry which room he's in.'
Muhammed rolled his eyes and crossed himself.
'Allah can see you, Muhammed,' Roger muttered drily and got up.
Roger saw the blonde woman as soon as he entered the reception area. She was sitting with a group of men watching a football match on the TV above the counter. That was right, it was flaflu tonight, the traditional local derby between Flamengo and Fluminese in Rio. That was why Fredo's had been so full.