16I headed north on Østerbrogade as if I were going home. Hot air flavored with exhaust fumes blew in my open window. I didn’t hear the bass notes of a Harley engine and when I scanned my mirrors, no bike appeared behind me. I cut east on Jagtvej, the thick foliage of Klosterhaven a green blur on my left. A six-way intersection loomed at the corner of the garden and I negotiated my way via Lyngbyvej to the motorway, northbound.
I left the divided highway near Virum and maneuvered through a series of turns on secondary roads, the back-and-forth I hoped would keep my destination secret. At eight o’clock that evening I parked my car in a commuter lot and hiked along the tracks to the local train station, where I paused long enough to eat a ham roll and reassure myself that I hadn’t picked up
