by Jens Lapidus
“Religious organizations, but that doesn’t affect you, kafir. There’s no need to worry.”
Dejan’s nostrils flared. The hissing sound of his breathing was like someone frying meat. Abdel Kadir glared. Things were close to getting out of hand now.
Teddy moved forward, closer. The gorilla followed him with his gaze. Took a step forward himself. Teddy tensed. His fingers reached for the spring coil baton Dejan had handed him in the car.
This was exactly the kind of job Isa didn’t want him to take.
Every movement now: he saw everything.
The gorilla’s hand on something inside his hoodie.
Dejan moving jerkily.
Abdel Kadir positioning his feet farther apart.
Damn it.
“Abdel, I liked you better when you drank, gambled, and did drugs. I’m not going to ask what kind of organizations you’ve been financing, but let me say this: I’m not interested in doing business with bearded cunts.”
Dejan turned on his heel and left. Teddy followed him.
He didn’t breathe out until they were back on the street.
* * *
—
“You need to chill out,” Teddy said to Dejan once they were back in the car.
“Why should I chill out?”
“Because that could’ve ended really badly.”
“Listen, Teddy. I’ve been a thief all my life. I’ve burnt down restaurants and set cars on fire. I’ve imported everything you could imagine. I’ve kidnapped people and beaten people to a pulp. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have honor. Not like those bearded guys: they don’t know what right and wrong are. Because God knows one thing: everyone I’ve ever fucked up has deserved it.”
“Even Mats Emanuelsson? Who you and I kidnapped?”
Dejan’s hands were relaxed on the wheel. “That was over ten years ago, and Emanuelsson was a money launderer and criminal. If you’re in the game, you know the rules. But I’m still sorry you had to do eight years for it.”
They drove by enormous advertising boards for newly built residential areas. Dalénum, Unum, Lyceum—modern design, high ceilings and bespoke kitchens. A unique place to live. But if all these luxury apartments were unique, why did they all have roughly the same name? Teddy himself lived in Alby, which was where he was heading now. Home.
His phone started to ring. He glanced down at the display: Emelie.
He hesitated, wondering whether he should answer. She didn’t give in—the display kept flashing: Emelie cell. It tore at his eyes, ears, and fingers.
Dejan turned toward him. “You gonna answer that?”
He really wanted to.
And yet he rejected the call. “Nah, it’s nothing important.”
6
Weekend hang: Nikola and Chamon were having lunch at Steakhouse Bar. Nikola went for a burger. Chamon cut his New York strip into three equal chunks.
“You going to the gym later?”
Nikola swallowed his food before he replied in Chamon’s own language. “Bro, you won’t be up to it. What you do doesn’t count as eating. You just make the meat disappear from the plate by opening your mouth three times. You can’t work out for at least five hours after that.”
Chamon laughed. “In that case we can just chill, Biblosh.”
Biblosh—that was his nickname among the boys. It sounded weird, like he was some kind of religious nut, but he knew where it came from. He knew their language, and they thought he spoke Syriac like someone from the old books. Biblosh, the Bible Man: that was him—a Swede with Serbian roots who had grown up in a neighborhood where everyone spoke Arabic and Syriac. Their language was his.
* * *
—
They climbed out of Chamon’s car outside the gym.
Nikola felt something he didn’t want to feel. The tiny Spider-Man tingles came first: the headache. He grabbed his forehead.
Chamon recognized the gesture. “Painful?”
It was cool of Chamon to ask. The headaches were one of the aftereffects of what happened: the explosion. That shit was still attacking him. The doctors said that everything had healed—everything but this, which came back at regular intervals. Which sometimes thundered away like a death metal band had taken up residence in his skull and decided to split open his head from the inside.
The police had shut down the bomb investigation after just a few months. No leads have been made. Illegal activity cannot be ruled out, they wrote in the letter they sent to Nikola, as though nothing criminal had even happened. Chamon had snorted when he found out. “Unexpected, man. The pigs have never made an effort when it comes to you. Except when they wanted to put you behind bars.” Maybe his friend was right. But somewhere, deep down, Nikola hoped that they would have looked at him differently if it happened today.
As they walked toward the entrance to the gym, it was as though the tingling feeling in his forehead turned into small lightning bolts. Like a tiny voice was trying to tell him something, but he couldn’t understand what.
He opened the heavy door. Heard the familiar sound of groans, shouts, and feet on mats.
* * *
—
All Training MMA. Basement gym. Temple of violence. Fighting Mecca with a capital “M.” The floor was soft, the concrete walls painted white. Punch bags and balls hanging from the ceiling. Mitts, fight gloves, and jump ropes by the entrance. Mixed martial arts was almost as big as football here: the real sport of the people.
There were teenage boys grappling on the floor. A coach in sweatpants and a hoodie who looked like Snoop Dogg was hovering around them, giving instruction. The principle was simple: use the laws of physics and the build of your body to do as much damage to your opponent as possible. Sweat, adrenaline, and blood. A sociologist with enough interest and a keen sense of smell could have written an entire thesis on the scents and the guys in these parts—forced to fight their way through life.
Chamon and Nikola sat down against the wall at the very back of the gym. There was a mini version of the octagon set up, with bars, ads for various fighting brands and everything. But it was empty—the kids were panting on the floor outside of it today.
“I think Yusuf’s coming,” said Chamon.
“Sweet, haven’t seen him in months.”
“Yep, and you know, he’s practically a bodyguard for the boss these days. And Isak’s nephew trains here, so maybe Mr. One’ll come down, too.”
Nikola tried to play cool. He occasionally saw Yusuf, who often gave Chamon jobs. But Isak.
The myth. The legend. The icon. Isak: the role model for everyone who knew that Tony Montana was living and thriving in Sweden. He just went by a different name: ISAK.
Then the lightning came back. The piercing, blinding pain in Nikola’s head. And the little voice started shouting again. What the hell was this? This ringing. The white glow. Like he was scared. It sounded like it was longing for fresh air, to get away from here.
* * *
—
They turned up after an hour and a half, probably crazy late. Chamon didn’t complain.
Yusuf greeted them like usual, a hugged thump on the back and a laugh. Isak nodded almost imperceptibly and winked. He was wearing Adidas pants and a North Face coat—looked like any other dude. Still, the fighters stared at Mr. One like God himself had come down into the temple of sweat.
“Nicko, Biblosh.” Yusuf spoke with his usual drawling, unclear voice. “You’re an electrician now, right?”
Nikola glanced at Mr. One. Maybe he thought Nikola had betrayed them by no longer working for Yusuf and, indirectly, him. That he had abandoned the family.
“No, not yet. Almost, though, maybe next week, and I’ve got my grades up, too.”
Isak took a step closer. His voice was hoarse. “Grades? You’re gonna get a real job afterw
ard, right?”
“I don’t know. Being an electrician’s cool.”
Isak raised his voice slightly. “Nah, like hell it is. I want to see you becoming a lawyer or a professor or a doctor or something. Believe me, man, leave this shit behind if you can. You might as well.”
“But being an electrician’s a good job, and it’s not easy…”
“Nothing’s easy. But you’ve always liked reading, haven’t you? Your uncle did, anyway. How is Björne these days, by the way?”
Isak and Teddy: friends from waaaaay back. Nikola didn’t know anyone else who called him Björne—Bear. He didn’t know whether they had seen one another during the past ten years, either while Teddy was inside or afterward. But still.
“He’s doing good, I guess,” said Nikola. “But I think he needs a woman.”
Isak opened his mouth and exploded into a fit of laughter. He was bent double, spitting saliva, laughing so hard that he was about to suffocate. “Tell him I said hi, in that case,” the boss panted between guffaws. “And if he wants a woman, he’ll have to come to Vegas next time. The hookers over there are out of this world.”
After a while, Isak, Yusuf, and Chamon went into some kind of office.
Nikola stayed where he was, watching the others. Some of them were pretty good. The bad vibes were still bothering him—his blinding headache was still lingering. He didn’t know why Mr. One and his boys were taking so long in there.
* * *
—
Not long later, three men came down the steps. Chamon was still in the office with Yusuf and Isak. Nikola wondered what they were doing in there. The guys had no bags or backpacks with them, so they probably weren’t here to train. Their hoods were up, and they had a kind of stiff way of walking.
One of them opened his mouth: “Ey, whores, where are they?”
The guys on the floor stopped; they were fighters—not exactly used to being talked to like that. Then Nikola saw it: the three guys’ arms were relaxed. Each of them had a weapon in his hand.
D A C H R I.
The kids on the mats didn’t understand a thing. “Who d’you mean?”
But the new arrivals weren’t interested in any more talk. They headed straight for the door of the little office—the room where Chamon, Isak, and Yusuf were having their meeting.
Nikola shouted as loudly as he could, “What are you doing?”
The door opened, and Chamon stuck out his head—his eyes widened. He saw the three men. Fifteen feet away.
It was too late.
Chamon took a step forward. The men stopped.
Chamon, completely unafraid: “Who’re you, fatty? And what do you think you’re doing?”
Nikola could see now, his friend also had something in his hand. It was a Glock.
The guys on the mat had gotten up; they were all staring. The sweat glistened on their faces. A few backed away. They might be tough in the ring, but right now they didn’t have the balls to do nada. Just like Nikola.
Chamon aimed the Glock. Nikola hadn’t realized that his friend carried a gun.
The guy at the front pulled a face. His pistol was still hanging by his leg. Probably surprised that Chamon had pulled out his own piece so quickly.
Chamon was glaring. There was zero chance this would end well. The guy at the very front didn’t back down: his eyes were as dark as a fucking elevator shaft in a power outage.
Chamon took another step forward. Nikola saw one of the other guys twitch.
Bad move by Chamon.
Nikola shouted: “Watch out!”
But it was Chamon who fired. The shot sounded like an atomic bomb in the gym.
The guy who had been trying to raise his weapon threw himself to one side.
Nikola leaped forward, tried to punch the guy at the front in the stomach. It was like hitting a tree—he must have been wearing a flak vest under his hoodie. The fighters on the mats had started running now. Where was Yusuf? Where was Isak? Were they just hiding out in the office?
The noise was insane—Chamon fired his Glock again.
But the guy at the front had also had time to pull out his weapon.
BAM.
Chamon didn’t shout. He didn’t make a sound. He just fell, back into the office.
As though in slow motion. Like some C-rated action film. The others just stared like wild monkeys.
Yusuf and Isak came rushing out now. Yusuf was waving a pistol. Yelling at the intruders to clear off, that they were going to die, that he would fuck their mothers.
The guys backed away, up the stairs.
Nikola leaned forward, saw it clearly now: Chamon was on the floor.
His jaw. It wasn’t there anymore.
The bottom section of his friend’s face was gone.
Nikola squatted down.
In the background, everyone was shouting.
He didn’t dare lift Chamon up. He just took his hand.
Tried to hold his gaze.
Come on, man, don’t leave me now.
I want to do something else sometime.
Chamon’s own words.
I want to do something else sometime.
Brother.
Don’t die on me.
Please.
7
Emelie couldn’t understand why he wasn’t answering. She had called Teddy at least fifteen times over the past few hours, and he had rejected her every single time. She needed to talk to him—it was about the meeting she had just had with Katja, the young woman who had called the office.
It had all happened so quickly. She thought about how the intercom had buzzed and a soft voice had asked if she could come up. It struck Emelie that she hadn’t asked Katja her surname. She should have taken it down, if for no other reason than to check for conflicts of interest. Katja could be the partner of an existing client, for example, or feature in some other case.
Marcus had been there, working over the weekend—a good lawyer; he was sitting with a fraud charge in which the prosecutor had, among other things, cited what he called general evidence to show that their client had previously engaged in identity theft. “It should be possible to get that evidence thrown out,” Emelie had told him. “It’s got nothing to do with the current charge, and that’s not okay, in my eyes. Dig up everything you can find, all precedence and doctrine relating to Chapter 35 of the Penal Code. Then I want your own views and recommendations, too.”
Emelie had heard the door open out in reception, followed by Marcus greeting someone. Almost immediately, Emelie’s phone had rung: “They’re here now.”
“ ‘They’?”
“Yeah, she’s here with someone. They don’t even want to take off their coats and sit down to wait. Real gems, if you ask me.”
* * *
—
The young woman was wearing a short leather jacket that looked like it belonged in another decade. There was a man in the seat next to her. His worn denim jacket looked like it had once had a number of patches sewn onto it—there were darker areas of material on the arms and the back. He kept glancing around as though he was expecting an ambush of some kind. Emelie had wondered if he was the girl’s father; he looked like he must be in his midforties. The girl’s eyes were mostly fixed on the floor; she was clearly uncertain.
Emelie had held out a hand to her. “Hi, you must be Katja.”
The young girl had looked up. Her skin was so pale and thin that Emelie thought she could make out the blood vessels beneath it.
The man had stepped between them and held out a hand. “Yes, this is Katja. And I’m Adam. Boyfriend, cohabitee, fiancé. Many names to many people, if you like. Thanks for seeing us so quickly.”
Emelie had noticed that he had incredibly small teeth. Adam, like a little rodent—a rat.
They crowd
ed into Emelie’s office. She was on one side of the desk, with Katja and Adam opposite her, and Marcus at the very end. “This is my assistant lawyer, Marcus Engvall. I thought he might join us.”
Katja had glanced at Adam, and when she opened her mouth to speak, Emelie had realized that they were the first words she had uttered since they arrived. “It’s all so sensitive. I would rather not have any outsiders involved.”
Emelie had cleared her throat. “Marcus is absolutely not an outsider. He works for me and is subject to the same rules of confidentiality as I am. But, if you feel uncomfortable, it isn’t a problem.”
Adam had placed a hand on Katja’s arm. “Nah, we don’t want to cause any trouble. He can stay.”
Emelie had turned to Katja. “You’re the one who decides.”
The young woman’s voice was almost inaudible. “It’s fine by me.”
“Okay, then. What did you want to tell me?”
The same silence as when they had spoken on the phone. Katja had glanced at Adam. Neither of them said anything, but Emelie had studied her body language: her shoulders were hunched, practically up to her ears; her fingers were drumming the table, her breathing irregular.
“Or would you rather I asked you some questions?”
Katja had closed her eyes for a few seconds. “No, it’s fine. I want to do this myself.” She moved her hands into her lap. “The police want to interview me. But I don’t want to be interviewed.”
She fell silent again. Adam had taken her hand and held it in his own, wrapping his fingers around her little fist. “You need to start from the beginning, you know that.”
It almost seemed like she was gasping for air. “It’s not easy, it’s really not. I’m not used to talking about it.”
“It’s okay. Go at your own speed,” Emelie had told her. “And start however you like.”
It looked like Katja wanted curl up in the fetal position on the floor. But, instead, she started to talk.