Carlos walked beside Esteban in a near-shocked state, silent, his head bowed. He didn’t care when the occasional passerby brushed against his elbow. He didn’t even register the row of tall, wide-canopied palm trees they were passing. The clatter of bars and restaurants, the thick mixture of smells in the air—all of it slipped past him unnoticed. The scent of freshly grilled meat, overused frying oil, and aromatic tobacco hung over the neighborhood like a heavy fog.
In his mind’s eye, Ted kept flashing by, over and over—each time with a different hairstyle, beard, or mustache.
As soon as his feet stepped into the cool, stony water, he let out a long sigh. He had been born on this island. The ocean meant everything to him. It was his refuge—its color, its scent, its feel, its sound, its soft caress. He didn’t mind that the waves were soaking his trousers up to the knees.
“Esteban,” he said in a tired voice once he had calmed down enough to dare upsetting himself again.
“I’m listening, my friend,” Esteban replied, gently placing a hand on Carlos’s shoulder.
“I need to know if what you said about Ted is true. And if it is, why haven’t you told me until now?”
“I simply wasn’t sure,” Esteban said apologetically. “I thought it was just a resemblance. I only came across that old front-page story a few days ago,” he explained. “But in that photo—it’s clearly Ted. No doubt about it. Only…” His voice broke slightly. “At our last meeting, we didn’t exactly have the chance to talk about it.”
“I’m sorry, man. Those two jerks nearly got us killed. And all because of their carelessness.”
“How can you be so sure they’re behind all of it?”
“I saw that dickhead Noud,” he muttered. “That useless prick didn’t even have the brains to wait half a day before getting on a damn plane—after we’d already left the country.”
“I don’t understand how they keep slipping through our fingers. We haven’t been able to dig up anything meaningful on them—apart from the fact that they record everything and everyone. Even the Slovak couple. Somehow, I’ve got the feeling Ted is the connecting thread.”
“But what the hell does Ted have to do with us?” Carlos burst out.
“Oh, I don’t know… maybe the fact that you’re constantly breathing down his neck?”
“I just want to know who that guy really is—and why he moved into the same apartment complex as me.”
“I’ll tell you: he’s hiding. From someone, or something. And it’s pure chance he ended up where you live.”
“You think Noud and Berard are working for whoever that someone is?”
“I don’t think so. If they were, Ted would already be dead. Or he’d be getting physical therapy for a body full of freshly healed fractures.”
“That only makes it harder to figure out what their role is—where exactly they fit into this messy network.”
“They’re some kind of agents.”
“Oh, come on,” Carlos scoffed.
“You’re underestimating them. After what they pulled… A few days ago, you woke up in Bangkok.” The old Canarian man lowered his head and hummed thoughtfully. He watched how the water parted around his shins, fluttering the hair on his legs. How it frothed for a moment under the pressure, then smoothed out again.
“What do you think we should do?”
“Honestly?”
“Always.”
“We should concentrate more on proper investigative work—and a bit less on your neighbors’ behavior analysis.”