to talk.
“What do you want, Muhar?” asked Atris. “What should I do?”
“You stole a car,” said El Keitar.
“No, I haven’t stolen any car. The boys stole it. The other Maserati was full of shit.”
“Good, I understand,” said El Keitar, although he didn’t understand at all. “You have to pay for the car. It belongs to a friend.”
“I’ll pay.”
“And you’ll pay compensation for my costs.”
“Of course.”
“Where’s your money?”
“In a locker in the main station.” Atris had learned in the meantime that there was no sense in telling long stories.
“Where’s the key?” asked Muhar El Keitar.
“In my wallet.”
“You’re morons,” Muhar El Keitar said to the two men. “Why didn’t you check it? I have to do everything myself.” El Keitar went over to Atris’s orange garbage company coveralls.“Why do you have garbage company overalls?” said Muhar El Keitar.
“It’s a long story.”
Muhar El Keitar found the wallet and inside it the key.
“I’m going to the station myself. You guys keep an eye on him,” he said to his men, and then to Atris: “If the money’s there, you can go.”
He went back up the stairs. Then he came down again backwards. He had a pistol in his mouth. El Keitar’s two men reached for the baseball bats.
“Put them down,” said the woman with the pistol.
Muhar El Keitar nodded vigorously.
“If we all stay calm, nothing’s going to happen to anyone,” said the woman. “We’re going to solve our problems together.”
Half an hour later Muhar El Keitar and the older of his two men were sitting on the floor of the cellar, bound to each other with zip ties. Their mouths were sealed with parcel tape. The older one still had his undershorts on; Atris was now wearing his clothes. The younger one was sitting in a huge pool of blood. He’d made a mistake and pulled a blackjack out of his pocket. The woman’s pistol had still been in El Keitar’s mouth. With her left hand she’d pulled a switchblade out of the front pocket of her hoodie, opened it, and plunged it deep into the inner part of his right thigh. It was over quickly: he registered almost nothing. He had dropped to the floor at once.
“I severed your femoral artery,” she said. “You’re goingto bleed out, it’ll take six minutes. Your heart will keep pumping the blood out of your body. Your brain will be the first to go; you’ll lose consciousness.”
“Help me,” he said.
“Now for the good news. You can survive. It’s simple. You have to reach into the wound and find the end of the artery. Then you have to squeeze it shut between your thumb and your forefinger.”
The man looked at her in disbelief. The pool of blood was getting bigger.
“If I were you, I’d get a move on,” she said.
He’d groped around in his wound. “I can’t find it, dammit, I can’t find it.” Then the bleeding suddenly stopped. “I got it.”
“Now you can’t let go. If you want to live, you have to stay sitting down. At some point a doctor will get here. He’ll close off the artery again with a little steel clip. So keep still.”
And to Atris she said, “Let’s go.”
Atris and the woman drove to the main station in the stolen Maserati. Atris went to the locker and opened it. He set down two bags in front of the woman and opened them.
“How much money is that?” she asked.
“Two hundred and twenty thousand euros,” said Atris.
“And what’s in the other one?”
“One point one kilos of cocaine,” said Atris.
“Good. I’ll take both. The thing is all settled. I’m leaving now, you’ll never see me again, and you’ve never seen me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Repeat it.”
“I’ve never seen you,” said Atris.
The woman turned, picked up both bags, and headed for the escalator. Atris waited for a moment or two, then ran to the nearest phone booth. He picked up the receiver and dialed the police emergency number.
“A woman in a black hoodie,
“What do you want, Muhar?” asked Atris. “What should I do?”
“You stole a car,” said El Keitar.
“No, I haven’t stolen any car. The boys stole it. The other Maserati was full of shit.”
“Good, I understand,” said El Keitar, although he didn’t understand at all. “You have to pay for the car. It belongs to a friend.”
“I’ll pay.”
“And you’ll pay compensation for my costs.”
“Of course.”
“Where’s your money?”
“In a locker in the main station.” Atris had learned in the meantime that there was no sense in telling long stories.
“Where’s the key?” asked Muhar El Keitar.
“In my wallet.”
“You’re morons,” Muhar El Keitar said to the two men. “Why didn’t you check it? I have to do everything myself.” El Keitar went over to Atris’s orange garbage company coveralls.“Why do you have garbage company overalls?” said Muhar El Keitar.
“It’s a long story.”
Muhar El Keitar found the wallet and inside it the key.
“I’m going to the station myself. You guys keep an eye on him,” he said to his men, and then to Atris: “If the money’s there, you can go.”
He went back up the stairs. Then he came down again backwards. He had a pistol in his mouth. El Keitar’s two men reached for the baseball bats.
“Put them down,” said the woman with the pistol.
Muhar El Keitar nodded vigorously.
“If we all stay calm, nothing’s going to happen to anyone,” said the woman. “We’re going to solve our problems together.”
Half an hour later Muhar El Keitar and the older of his two men were sitting on the floor of the cellar, bound to each other with zip ties. Their mouths were sealed with parcel tape. The older one still had his undershorts on; Atris was now wearing his clothes. The younger one was sitting in a huge pool of blood. He’d made a mistake and pulled a blackjack out of his pocket. The woman’s pistol had still been in El Keitar’s mouth. With her left hand she’d pulled a switchblade out of the front pocket of her hoodie, opened it, and plunged it deep into the inner part of his right thigh. It was over quickly: he registered almost nothing. He had dropped to the floor at once.
“I severed your femoral artery,” she said. “You’re goingto bleed out, it’ll take six minutes. Your heart will keep pumping the blood out of your body. Your brain will be the first to go; you’ll lose consciousness.”
“Help me,” he said.
“Now for the good news. You can survive. It’s simple. You have to reach into the wound and find the end of the artery. Then you have to squeeze it shut between your thumb and your forefinger.”
The man looked at her in disbelief. The pool of blood was getting bigger.
“If I were you, I’d get a move on,” she said.
He’d groped around in his wound. “I can’t find it, dammit, I can’t find it.” Then the bleeding suddenly stopped. “I got it.”
“Now you can’t let go. If you want to live, you have to stay sitting down. At some point a doctor will get here. He’ll close off the artery again with a little steel clip. So keep still.”
And to Atris she said, “Let’s go.”
Atris and the woman drove to the main station in the stolen Maserati. Atris went to the locker and opened it. He set down two bags in front of the woman and opened them.
“How much money is that?” she asked.
“Two hundred and twenty thousand euros,” said Atris.
“And what’s in the other one?”
“One point one kilos of cocaine,” said Atris.
“Good. I’ll take both. The thing is all settled. I’m leaving now, you’ll never see me again, and you’ve never seen me,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Repeat it.”
“I’ve never seen you,” said Atris.
The woman turned, picked up both bags, and headed for the escalator. Atris waited for a moment or two, then ran to the nearest phone booth. He picked up the receiver and dialed the police emergency number.
“A woman in a black hoodie,
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