Part 13 (1/2)

7

The Opera was a music-venue-c.u.m-community-centre in an old brick-layered building at the top end of Pusher Street. The Cafe Oasis was on the ground floor. Above it was the information office.

I went inside and tried the girl at the till. 'She might have cut her hair. She might have dyed it.' I doubted Lilian would have spent her hard-saved cash on a visit to the stylist, but if she had fallen foul of a trafficking gang there was no telling what look they'd have opted for, and I needed to get people's brains in gear. I scanned the other customers while I was talking. You can concentrate so hard on looking for the next person to quiz or the next bar to go into that the target could walk straight past without you noticing.

The girl shook her head.

I stuck my head inside the music venue. A high ceiling supported by tall, decorated wooden pillars and a red and white dance floor in the shape of a starburst gave it a circus feel. Sofas and armchairs were arranged living-room style along the furthest wall, in stark contrast with the s.h.i.+t and rugs outside. The place was deserted.

I went upstairs to the information office. I drew a blank there too, but at least the guy suggested pinning up a photocopy. I hadn't brought any. I thanked him and said I'd come back later if I'd had no luck.

The Children's Theatre and the Jazz Club also shared the building. n.o.body was in either of them. Immediately across the road was a clothes and ethnic handicrafts store, and Marzbar, an Internet cafe. I visited them both, keeping my eyes skinned.

A long, three-storey grey-stone building that had once been the garrison's a.r.s.enal now housed the music venue, Loppen - the Flea - along with a restaurant, a gallery, some hobby workshops, a youth club, and, down by the entrance, the Infocafe and the Christiania post office. It took me more than an hour to cover every option with Lilian's picture.

Back out on Pusher Street, I went into the Suns.h.i.+ne Bakery, the laundry, and behind these, the community kitchen and a bar called the Monkey Grotto. Nothing. I just hoped that people would be starting to hear about the two d.i.c.kheads bouncing about trying to find a girl. Maybe it would get to the gangs before we started turning up the temperature tonight.

I dropped into another bar, Woodstock, a bit further on, and the tattooist opposite. I bought a grilled-vegetable sandwich in a small gallery and eating-place next door. I moved on to Nemoland, a cafe and outdoor music venue, with a bar inside and outside, bench tables and parasols, an outdoor stage, and a bistro serving Thai food. There were palm trees, Greek- and Chinese-style decorations, lots of blue bench tables, but not one sniff of recognition of Lilian from the locals.

I began to think it might be time to take another route. Plan B was double-edged. It might lead us straight to Lilian - or f.u.c.k us up so completely that we'd never get anywhere near her.

8

I headed for the RV just before last light. Noisy revellers, a lot of them already the worse for wear, were streaming into Christiania for a night of music, drink and drugs. Outside in the city, the street-lights would be burning. Here in the free town, bare bulbs hanging behind windows struggled to do the same job.

Moving as fast as I could without drawing attention to myself, I jinked down a series of lefts and rights, stopping only once to check the map. I ran into Anna on the way.

'Anything?'

'Nothing. But I did get a call from Moscow. He's found out the end user.'

'A company?'

She shook her head. 'A country. The radar is for the Pantsyr-S1E and heading for the Iranian military. You know what an S1E is?'

'Yeah - ground-to-air missile. Tarasov's making the boards for the missile systems.'

We carried on towards the RV arm in arm. Guys with radio comms and roll-ups the size of RPGs lingered in the shadows, their pit-bulls snarling at their heels.

We eventually got bored with pus.h.i.+ng our way through groups of dithering tourists and local teenagers toking their heads off and darted down a side street.

A figure stepped out from the shadows, a white guy in his early twenties in a black leather jacket and old army cargoes. His head was shaved. Even in this light I could see his eyes were bloodshot and out on stalks.

'You want cannabis?'

'No.'

'Cocaine? Heroin?'

It sounded like a threat rather than an invitation to sample tonight's special.

We didn't break step. 'No.'

Walking backwards just ahead of us, he gestured towards the rear of a nearby building. 'Come with me, come down here. I can get you anything. Ice? Ket?'

I shook my head. 'We don't want anything.'

'If you don't want to buy, what are you doing here? You cops?'

Anna was just as sharp with him. 'We don't have money.'

He flexed his fist. 'Yeah, right, and I don't have a d.i.c.k.'

We kept going.

He slid his right hand into his pocket. 'I'll cut you both. Buy some stuff or f.u.c.k off, cop.'

It wasn't a knife he tugged from his pocket, but a radio.

Anna pulled out the picture. 'Have you seen her?'

He didn't even bother looking. 'f.u.c.k you.'

We carried straight on past him. He wasn't going to follow us onto the main. Darkness was where he lived. 'f.u.c.k you, b.i.t.c.hes - got no money. Suck my d.i.c.k and I'll give you a freebie. Hey, everybody, look out - cops.'

We were opposite the entrance to the alley that led back to Prinsessegade. We were going against the flow. People were pouring past the sign that told us we were entering the EU, three or four abreast.

9

Gandalf was in the corner where we'd left him. It looked as though his gla.s.s had been refilled a good few more times. An ashtray was piled with roll-up ends. The one in his mouth had gone out and its ash had taken up residence in his beard.

He looked up blearily to see who had come into the not-so-busy bar and went straight back into waffle mode, as if he'd only finished his last sentence to us a few seconds ago. 'Gangs. Violence. It's the government's fault. We used to sell the best hash in Europe here, right here in Christiania. But then the politi bust the trade. Then the gangs ...'

Anna sat down at his table. 'Maybe you could tell us a little more about the gangs. Where are the Russians? Do you know where we can find them?'

I sat beside her as Gandalf continued his rant. His eyes wobbled and bounced like a one-armed-bandit display but never made contact with either of us.

'We are citizens of Denmark. We pay our taxes-'

I thought he was going to end his sentence but he started a new one instead.

'Our music halls and art galleries have contributed to Denmark's culture and commerce. We have a free health clinic. We shelter and look after addicts, alcoholics, even homeless ...' He raised a nicotine-stained index finger to make sure we understood the full weight of the next category. '... and madmen. The cops still do nothing but ha.s.sle us. But do they do anything to the gangs? No! We are used by them - what can we do?'