Read Online Chasing the Storm by Martin Molsted - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Molsted
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shoelace and glance casually backwards, looking for repetitions, for the same pair of shoes, the same car. He spent a minute in front of a shop, looking into the glass, watching the reflected cars, the passing shoes. Always watch the shoes, he’d once learned from a book on intelligence tactics. They can put on a jacket, switch bags, put on wigs, spectacles, but the shoes will remain the same . But nothing stood out.
As he was walking down Nagelsweg, he suddenly crossed the street and hailed one of the white, boxy Hamburg taxis. “Balduinstrasse,” he told the driver. He stayed low in the seat for a minute, watching the cars in the rear-view mirror. Four silver BMWs swept past the taxi. Four? And here was another one. He shook his head. You’re in Germany, he told himself. They’re all silver BMWs.
The driver stopped in front of the glassed windows of a bank and said, “Balduinstrasse.” Rygg handed over some cash and got out. He strode immediately into the bank and stood looking out the window. Shoes passed, cars passed. He saw three more silver BMWs, and shrugged. He’d just ignore those. He checked his watch. Working backward, he and Marin had figured out that he had twelve minutes. But when he checked the watch again, twenty-two seconds had gone by. The second hand seemed to be creeping suspiciously slowly, and he turned into the bank, checking his watch against the clock on the wall: enormous spokes pinned directly into the polished granite. No, it was right. Must be his nerves slowing the time.
He turned to the window again, and leaped backward, clutching the briefcase to his chest. A woman was standing on the other side of the glass, not a foot away, staring straight at him. She was pretty, in a charcoal-gray business suit, a handbag under her arm. Had he met her in the Hamburg office? Or in the hotel, perhaps? He didn’t recognize her face at all, and was beginning to shake his head, when she leaned closer and pulled down one of her lower eyelids. She plucked something invisible from the eye, then blinked a couple times and walked off. His heart was pounding. “Relax,” he muttered. When, at least an hour later, his watch finally indicated twelve minutes had passed, he walked out of the bank, and around the corner.
He walked for fifteen minutes, first heading west along Friedrichestrasse, then north to the Reeperbahn. Prostitutes leaned against posts advertising Cats and a George Michael concert, their hips angled this way and that. The sündige Meile , the Germans called it: the sinful mile. But somehow the German propriety and cleanliness divested the street of tainted ugliness, and made it all good fun. Backpacker couples strolled together along the pavement, and three crisply dressed businesswomen emerged from a café, laughing together.
Rygg passed the façade of the Condomerie, a hundred-euro bill pinned to the outsized condom in its window. If it fit you, the sign said, the money was yours. The condom was yellowing and dust had gathered on the scrolled rim. He passed the magazine racks, their banks of glossy covers displaying twisted bodies, in every possible permutation. For a while he stood with a small crowd, watching an oiled Thai girl wriggle in a window. Backtracking, he returned to one of the magazine racks and perused a series of photographs of an aristocratic brunette having her crotch shaved by her butler, peeking up over the edge of the rack every once in a while, looking for shoes.
The second hand crept up to the mark. When he had fifteen seconds to go, he sauntered back out and entered the door across the street. The sign above the door read “Pleasure Hole” in plump pink letters, the o a heart. Inside, carpeted steps led downward, two stripes of pink neon along the ceiling lighting the way. At the bottom, he pushed open a heavy dark-wood door armored in brass knobs. The interior was musty, shadowed, and seemed entirely empty.
The door shut behind him with a loud clack. Four of
As he was walking down Nagelsweg, he suddenly crossed the street and hailed one of the white, boxy Hamburg taxis. “Balduinstrasse,” he told the driver. He stayed low in the seat for a minute, watching the cars in the rear-view mirror. Four silver BMWs swept past the taxi. Four? And here was another one. He shook his head. You’re in Germany, he told himself. They’re all silver BMWs.
The driver stopped in front of the glassed windows of a bank and said, “Balduinstrasse.” Rygg handed over some cash and got out. He strode immediately into the bank and stood looking out the window. Shoes passed, cars passed. He saw three more silver BMWs, and shrugged. He’d just ignore those. He checked his watch. Working backward, he and Marin had figured out that he had twelve minutes. But when he checked the watch again, twenty-two seconds had gone by. The second hand seemed to be creeping suspiciously slowly, and he turned into the bank, checking his watch against the clock on the wall: enormous spokes pinned directly into the polished granite. No, it was right. Must be his nerves slowing the time.
He turned to the window again, and leaped backward, clutching the briefcase to his chest. A woman was standing on the other side of the glass, not a foot away, staring straight at him. She was pretty, in a charcoal-gray business suit, a handbag under her arm. Had he met her in the Hamburg office? Or in the hotel, perhaps? He didn’t recognize her face at all, and was beginning to shake his head, when she leaned closer and pulled down one of her lower eyelids. She plucked something invisible from the eye, then blinked a couple times and walked off. His heart was pounding. “Relax,” he muttered. When, at least an hour later, his watch finally indicated twelve minutes had passed, he walked out of the bank, and around the corner.
He walked for fifteen minutes, first heading west along Friedrichestrasse, then north to the Reeperbahn. Prostitutes leaned against posts advertising Cats and a George Michael concert, their hips angled this way and that. The sündige Meile , the Germans called it: the sinful mile. But somehow the German propriety and cleanliness divested the street of tainted ugliness, and made it all good fun. Backpacker couples strolled together along the pavement, and three crisply dressed businesswomen emerged from a café, laughing together.
Rygg passed the façade of the Condomerie, a hundred-euro bill pinned to the outsized condom in its window. If it fit you, the sign said, the money was yours. The condom was yellowing and dust had gathered on the scrolled rim. He passed the magazine racks, their banks of glossy covers displaying twisted bodies, in every possible permutation. For a while he stood with a small crowd, watching an oiled Thai girl wriggle in a window. Backtracking, he returned to one of the magazine racks and perused a series of photographs of an aristocratic brunette having her crotch shaved by her butler, peeking up over the edge of the rack every once in a while, looking for shoes.
The second hand crept up to the mark. When he had fifteen seconds to go, he sauntered back out and entered the door across the street. The sign above the door read “Pleasure Hole” in plump pink letters, the o a heart. Inside, carpeted steps led downward, two stripes of pink neon along the ceiling lighting the way. At the bottom, he pushed open a heavy dark-wood door armored in brass knobs. The interior was musty, shadowed, and seemed entirely empty.
The door shut behind him with a loud clack. Four of
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