“You’re kidding me,” his brother muttered.
“Come here, Hugo,” Eva said and sat down at the table. He immediately appeared in the doorway, leaning up against the doorpost, prepared to do battle for computer time.
“I got the job,” Eva said.
Patrick gave her a quick look, before he cut another slice of bread.
“Then we get to eat at a restaurant every day,” Hugo burst out.
It took a long time before the boys went to bed. They wanted to know everything about Drakar and Eva felt that she wanted to promise them something, so they could get a more immediate advance on the lottery win she had scored. That was how she felt: an incredible and unexpected triumph. No one had expected her to get a real job, least of all Helen. The first thing Eva was going to do tomorrow morning was call her.
The clock in the living room sounded twelve times. She should have called her parents in Ekshärad, but it was too late now. Perhaps she should wait a couple of days until she had started at Dakar and grown into her work.
As she was pulling the bedspread from her bed, she decided she would shower and change the sheets, despite the late hour.
Afterward she carefully applied her citrus-scented lotion. She looked at her body in the bathroom mirror and the feeling of being chosen was mixed with the longing to have someone to share the happiness with. The boys were pleased, of course. Hugo had already had time to count up everything she should buy, while Patrik had mostly been silent. Eva sensed that his pleasure lay more in the knowledge that they now had a mother who had a real job.
But sharing this joy with her sons was a controlled joy, one where she constantly had to apply a realistic view: the job at Dakar did not mean she was embarking on a dizzying career track. It was just a job, and not an especially well-paid one at that. Not a lottery win or a ticket to the easy life.
She longed to share her sense of optimism with a man. It was that simple. The lotion was intoxicating with its scent and smoothness, but in its way it was a wasted effort, and she felt guilty that she was throwing money away for no reason.
She went to bed with an excitement in her body that reminded her of an infatuation.
Seven
Slobodan Andersson’s office was tucked behind Alhambra’s kitchen. Only he and Armas were allowed in there. The two of them had been in business together since they had met at a strip club in Copenhagen twenty years before. Armas had been sitting in the very front and with his formidable size had almost taken up two seats at the tiny table. Slobodan had joined him. Not because he wanted the company, but because he wanted to sit close to the stage.
The strippers were mediocre and apparently bored, because they moved with so little energy and creativity that many of the customers stopped watching. Slobodan sighed.
“It’s a disappointment every time,” he said, but Armas stared back at him without appearing to concur and simply shrugged.
Slobodan stretched out his hand and introduced himself. After a second’s hesitation, Armas grasped his hand and muttered a name that Slobodan did not catch.
That was the beginning of their many years of working together.
Now they were sitting on either side of the desk. Armas was silent, while Slobodan was talking a mile a minute. He unfolded a map and placed his chubby finger on a town by the northern border of Spain.
“This is where it will take place,” he said.
Armas already knew this. In fact, he already knew everything about the upcoming operation.
“You take the car down there. I will write out a list of restaurants that you will visit. Above all, this one north of Guernica. Drive around for at least a week, talk to chefs and collect ideas. But not some damn bacalao-I’m so damn tired of cod. But buy as much cheese as you want. You know what I like. If they check you out in customs, then go ahead and act a little nervous about the cheese. And wine, but only Basque varieties, so the customs officials feel proud. Make yourself out to be an idiot when it comes to food. Offer to pay taxes or whatever the hell else, tell them your boss will strangle you if you don’t come back with a good piece of Cabrales.”
Armas nodded and looked at his boss: the sweaty face, the wrinkled suit-one sleeve of which was soiled with a large grease stain-and the plump fingers that continuously fiddled with papers on the desk. Slobodan looked worn out. There were no wrinkles in the shiny round face, but the area around his eyes was growing darker, as if they were sinking more and more deeply into their sockets. The dark, combed-back hair was getting increasingly thin and new gray hairs appeared every day.
“Do you get it?”
“I get it.”
“Jorge e-mailed me the other day.”
Armas looked astonished.
“E-mailed? Has he lost his mind?”
“I deleted everything,” Slobodan said, irritated.
Armas snorted.
“You will meet Jorge outside the aquarium in San Sebastián. Not far from there, on the pier, there is a restaurant. You will see exactly which one it is. They had decked the place out with a lot of flags and knickknacks. Eat there. I know one of the waiters. He’s called ‘Mini.’”
“Is he involved?”
“No, not directly, but he stays informed. He knows exactly what happens in the city, if the police are up to anything.”
Armas didn’t like it. He didn’t like Jorge and definitely not a new Spanish idiot. It was typical of Slobodan to improvise like this at the last minute.
“I know what you think,” Slobodan said, “but a little local backup is always good.”
“Why can’t Jorge go up to Frankfurt, like last time?”
“I don’t trust him. You know what happened to the other one. Mexicans are so damn clumsy. They stink scofflaw to the high heavens. And the German cops are smarter than the Spaniards.”
“If they are so clumsy, why-”
“You know why!”
Armas snorted again. He knew how everything had started and it had gone well. Angel’s demise was something that couldn’t be helped. He only had himself to blame. There was nothing that could tie Angel to Sweden and definitely not to either Slobodan or Armas.
It had been worse with the next idiot, the one who was picked up by Swedish customs and was now sitting in jail. For half a year, during the questioning and the trial, they had lived in a state of terror, but had finally realized that Patricio had not said a single word about his employers. He had remained silent throughout the entire process and the sentence had surely been more severe because of it.
Slobodan tossed a folder onto the desk.
“Here is the list of restaurants,” he said.
He was intending to repeat all of his warnings and orders about what Armas should do in Spain and how he should treat the restaurant personnel, authorities, customs, police, or whoever he bumped into, but then realized this would only worsen the Armenian’s mood.
Armas eyed the list. He had nothing against the prospect of eating well for a week. Perhaps he could even pick something up that could be of use to them at Alhambra or Dakar.
What troubled him was the prospect of Mini. Armas did not like unknown cards. The fact that he had managed to survive, and without spending a single day in jail, was entirely due to his policy of never relying on unknown cards. Mini was just such an untested quantity, even if Slobodan had vouched for him.
Jorge he had met in Campeche, Mexico, and had judged him to be significantly more reliable than Angel. That damn Indian had only had one thing in his head, and that was women. That could only lead to one thing: Hell. Armas put great pride in never starting a relationship that lasted more than a couple of days, perhaps a week. The record was held by a French woman he had met in Venezuela. They had been together for three weeks before she disappeared without a trace.
For a while, he kept to whores. They were professionals, like himself, but he grew tired of them. According to Armas, women made you lose your focus, and he was completely convinced that this was the reason Angel had failed. There must have been a woman involved. He had never trusted the Mexican. He talked too much about broads.