Free Chasing the Storm by Martin Molsted Page B

craved.
    Gold flickered across the ducks’ wakes, slipping into the furrows and brushing the tops of the waves again. He looked up to see where it was coming from. A hundred yards to his left, the rump of a car stuck out from an alley, and he recognized the blue-and-silver coloring of the Hamburg police vehicles. A strobe beat from the roof of the car, gilding the railings along the canal. Above the car, on a sign supported by scrolled ironwork, he read “Café Mendelssohn”. Beneath the words was the painted portrait of a pale, dark-haired man with immense sideburns.
    Walk , he thought. Walk away. Slowly. Easy, easy. Swing your briefcase. That’s right. He walked along the canal for a few feet, then turned north along a side street. Backing into a doorway, he looked down the street, left, right, checking for passing shoes. There seemed to be no one else around. He waited until his heartbeat subsided a little. It’s real , he kept thinking. It’s real. Up to now it had seemed a little game, with artificial dangers, like hide-and-seek. Okay, what’s the plan now?
    He knew he had to come up with something smart to fit the situation. He needed the information from Yuri and weighed the danger against the reward: he could walk away, but then he would have to do it immediately and not look back. No – the information was too important to walk away from. He’d come this far and if the police were there, the danger was over. Or at any rate, it was less than it had been. “All right,” he muttered aloud. “This is your chance. This is why I’m here. This is action.”
    He turned right, passed two streets, and then turned right again, heading around the block to come at the café from the west. He walked along the canal. Two policemen were standing on the steps below the sign. Their heads were down and they looked as though they were conferring about something. Jaunty, he told himself. A little bit hurried. You’re just a goofy tourist, you have no idea what’s going on. Head slightly down, he moved toward the policemen and started up the steps. “ Halt !” one of the policemen said, but he kept plowing ahead until he felt a hand on his shoulder swing him around. “ Wo mochten Sie hin? Dies ist ein Tatort .”
    “What?” he looked up, glancing from one policeman to the other. They were both large and blond. The one who had grabbed his shoulder wore a gold stud in his left ear.
    “ Hat es eine Schießerei wurden. Sie konnen nicht hinein gehen .”
    “What’s up?” he said in his cleanest English accent. “I just forgot something.”
    “There has been a crimen.”
    “What?”
    “A crimen. A gun shooting.”
    “Shit! When did that happen? I was just here.”
    “Five minutes ago it happened.”
    “Oh my God! Oh my God! Who was it?” Don’t overplay it, he told himself.
    The policeman shrugged. “He was Russian. Probably drugs.”
    “Is he okay?”
    “He is dead.”
    “Well, look, I just forgot my cigarettes. They’re on the bar. Marlboro’s.”
    “I am sorry.”
    “Look, they’re right there, I can just …” He took the next step.
    “You must another buy.”
    “With your German taxes? It was a brand new package. Four fucking euros right out the window and I didn’t even get to finish one smoke. I’m on my way back to England. Don’t have the time to buy another package now. You know what cigarettes cost in England?”
    Rygg did his best to look upset.
    The policeman laughed and said something to his companion. Then he shrugged and pushed open the door to the café. “ Walther … Werf mir mal die Zigaretten zu . ”
    Yuri’s body lay slumped against the bar. His head was propped on the brass foot-railing, and one arm was tucked beneath him. A barstool had fallen beside him, and an empty glass lay at his foot. His forehead was gone. In its place was red pulp. Blood filled his eye sockets and slicked his hair to his neck, but his mustache was unsullied, still combed down across his mended