by Jens Lapidus
29
Dejan looked like one of those guys with an unhealthy interest in the military. He was wearing camo pants, a camo top, and a camo-colored cap with the words Savage Arms on the front and The Definition of Accuracy on the back. “Bought it at the shooting range when I was in Vegas last autumn,” he claimed.
“I thought you hated the Americans after what they did to us in Serbia.”
Dejan lowered the pistol. The pungent smell of gunpowder was thick in the air. “Eh, it’s a complicated world. Your enemy’s enemy is also your friend. The U.S. has constantly been at war, sometimes they made mistakes, they attacked us, Vietnam was insane, what do I know. In the majority of cases, though, they’ve been on the right side. What d’you think would’ve happened if they hadn’t joined in the First or Second World Wars? The Ustaše would’ve slaughtered us like they slaughtered the Jews.”
Dejan’s outburst was surprisingly audible through the ear protectors: they contained some kind of electronic amplifiers that filtered out the gunshots but increased the volume of human voices. Dejan’s dog, the Mauler, was locked in the back of the Tesla outside—there were no headphones that could help him.
Teddy wondered how Dejan could have become a member here: there had to be more entries in his criminal record than there were bullet casings on the floor outside the booth. Maybe this club had a special book for people like his friend, who probably sponsored them in cash.
Dejan heckled himself. “I’ll admit it, I’m a serious gun nut. I’ve got seven pistols and two rifles in the cabinet back home. You want to try my Colt 1911? It’s got a great kick on it, you know. Or do you want to keep using that cop piece?”
The shooting range was blasted into the rock face in Sollentuna, and it went by the nickname Bunker Mountain. From the outside, incognito: just a metal door in the rock, but to Teddy, the walk from the damp entrance was like a crescendo. The modest, rusty door led to a narrow entrance with old pipes on the ceiling, which then led to an antechamber with slightly higher ceilings, carpets, and soundproof glass dividing it from the shooting range, and ultimately to the shooting range itself—the climax. The ceilings inside had to be at least twenty feet high, surrounded by granite, blasted right in the heart of the ancient Swedish rock.
Dejan was over the moon that Teddy had agreed to go with him. He talked nonstop about pistol types, calibers, recoil management—whatever that was—body position, and focus.
“I sometimes whisper calming words to myself. Things like cunt, fag, whore, you know,” said Dejan. “Makes me harmonious inside, so my hands stop shaking.”
He really was sick in the head. When they were just fourteen, he used to creep around in the woods behind Ronna, shooting crows with an air rifle. But today, Teddy was here with one thought in his mind.
“Did you end up doing a deal with those guys with the beards?”
BAM-BAM-BAM.
“Not so good. I jump when I fire.”
Teddy repeated his question. “Did you buy that ID card business?”
BAM-BAM-BAM.
The casings were flying. The gunpowder stung his nose.
Dejan put down the pistol on the green felt-clad table.
“Nah, nah. Not from those terrorists.”
“Couldn’t they lower the price?”
“You know that wasn’t the problem. You want to try the Colt now?”
Teddy had to get Dejan’s attention. He picked up the pistol.
The Colt was heavy, but somehow it felt comfortable and natural when his fingers curled around the butt. He took off the safety catch and raised his arm in front of him. The front sight was supposed to be perfectly aligned with the rear one. He breathed in. Lowered his arm again; it was too heavy. Took three deep breaths. In his mind, he could see only one thing. Emelie’s stomach. He hadn’t seen what it looked like now, whether it had started to grow, but he imagined it bulging all the same. Then he thought about the child inside it—not that he pictured a face or a body, he just felt a presence, as though there was a child standing in front of him, waiting to hold his hand. As though Nikola was two again. Then a new thought: someone was pulling at the baby. Someone wanted to hurt his child. A shadow was trying to take Teddy’s child away from him.
He raised his arm. Took aim at the shadow.
BAM-BAM-BAM.
The three shots had virtually fired themselves. Dejan went over to collect the target.
“Shit, man. Bull’s-eye.” He held it up—each of the three holes was within the black area. “Maybe I should call you Pia Hansen?”
Teddy put down the gun. “Call me whatever you want. If you’ll help me with something.”
“What?”
“There are some old men I want to talk to me. And I want them to understand the gravity of the conversation.”
Dejan’s face lit up.
* * *
—
The old men were still trying to pretend that he didn’t exist, but Teddy had played his trump cards, his two jokers: Dejan and Magnus Hassel. Back when he worked for the hotshot lawyer, Teddy had used methods that wouldn’t stand up to even the slightest scrutiny. Magnus had understood that immediately. He’d had no other choice but to help.
Hassel had called the numbers that Loke had helped Teddy get ahold of. When they realized who they were talking to, the men’s tone changed. No problem, good to talk to you. When would you like to meet?
Magnus had been instructed to follow the same script with all five men: he told them that he wanted to meet to talk about a confidential matter. Ideally at their homes, if possible—not at his office, where people might talk if they were seen together.
All five had said yes.
The first person they visited was Fredrik O. Johansson. He was fifty-seven, lived in Djursholm, and was the majority owner of an investment company called Pecuniarapid AB. He also sat on the board of a number of other companies. Fredrik—or Fred O. as Loke had seen he was called by his friends on Facebook—came from humble origins in the north of Sweden, but had said in the only interview he had ever given that “with a little luck, you can damn well get anywhere. Just look at Jesus.”
Fredrik O. opened the door for Teddy, Dejan, and the Mauler. His hair was dyed black, probably naturally gray, and he had a triple chin. The house wasn’t just the size of a smaller Arab Emirate, it also faced out onto the water. Dejan whispered something about being able to buy half of Södertälje for the price of the plot alone.
“Which of you is Magnus Hassel?” the man asked the minute he closed the door behind them.
The Mauler’s tongue was lolling from his mouth.
“We haven’t been entirely honest with you,” said Teddy. “I’m the one who wants to talk to you, and neither of us is Hassel.”
“Aha,” Fredrik sighed. “Then I shall have to ask you to leave. You’ve come here under false pretenses. We may as well meet in my office, or with my lawyer.”
Teddy didn’t move.
“No, we’ll be staying for a while,” he said, with what had to be the coolest voice in northern Europe. “We just need a few minutes.”
Fredrik O. Johansson glanced at Dejan. His chins trembled. “Okay, let’s talk. But you should know that I have alarm systems and surveillance cameras installed. My cleaner will also be arriving any minute now. So don’t think you can get up to any funny business with me. They have keys and are aware of our security routines.”
Teddy resisted the urge to glance at Dejan. This guy could easily have been one of their kidnapping victims back when they did that kind of thing.
They sat down in a long, cool room the size of a tennis court. It was full of art and huge potted plants. On a small table by one of the windows, there was a silver candlestick with three arms that snaked around one another to form what looked like a knot. The walls were covered in classical depictions of Swedish winte
r landscapes that Teddy did actually recognize. He seemed to think that one of the artists was called Anders Zorn.
“Do you know a Peder Hult?” he asked.
“No, I don’t recognize that name. And, before we talk, I would like to know exactly what this is about.”
“You’ll understand soon enough,” said Teddy. “Do you know a Mats Emanuelsson?”
Fred O.’s eyes darted back and forth.
“I, err, do actually recognize that name, yes,” he said. “But I can’t place it. Give me something else.”
“Roughly ten, eleven years ago?”
“I’m trying to remember.”
“At a country estate, with some others, perhaps?”
“Where? Which people?”
“Among them Peder Hult. Mats gave a short speech, gave you tax advice and so on.”
Fredrik’s face was tense. “Ahh, of course. I know who he was, he went on to commit suicide?”
Teddy didn’t answer that question. “Do you remember when you met Mats?”
“Not particularly well. But I do vaguely remember his talk. I never actually moved any money with him. Something I’m damned glad about today, given that not even the best legal firms seem to have staff who can keep quiet.”
“Where was the estate?”
“I think it was in Södermanland, but I got a taxi there. Damned lavish if you ask me.”
“What was the name?”
“I wouldn’t know it if someone said it to me. At least, I don’t remember a name. This was ten years ago, as you said.”
“What did the house look like?”
“Big, grand, nineteenth century, I would guess. Wood panels, yellowish. I don’t remember any more than that. It was rather dark when I arrived. Why do you want to know all this? I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Maybe not. But some of the others who were there have,” said Teddy. “Who organized the event?”
“I don’t want to say.”
Fredrik O. Johansson twisted his wedding band on his finger.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not an idiot. That advice, and there were plenty who did listen to it, was about tax optimization. Nothing wrong with that if you ask me, but if anyone starts digging into it, they’ll decide that people have done plenty wrong, just like you said. And why should I contribute to entirely honorable people being drawn into that? Why should I be responsible for people being accused of all kinds of old crap for which the statute of limitations should have long since passed?”
Never rat. Teddy couldn’t blame him—clearly that was a golden rule at every level of society. But there were limits—for everyone. He pulled out a chair. Now his face was inches away from Fred O.’s sweaty mug.
“Look, Fredrik. I don’t care about your money laundering or your tax evasion. This is about rape, human trafficking. And murder.”
Fredrik O. Johansson looked like someone had just told him that he had lost all his money. When he next spoke, his chins were so still that they looked like porcelain.
“Murder? That sounds worrying, to say the least. But if that’s the case, why aren’t the police looking into it?”
“You don’t get to ask questions.”
“But you have to understand that I’m surprised. It was so long ago, but what I remember is that the person who arranged the advice meeting, who invited us there, was called Gabriel Sveréus. That much I can say.”
Teddy made sure his face remained as still as the chins in front of him. But he had studied Fred’s eye movements. Gabriel Sveréus was one of the names Mats had given them in Oslo—he was also the man who had died of cancer.
* * *
—
That afternoon, he and Dejan met the man living on Narvavägen, Gunnar Svensson. His apartment was big and heavily furnished. Above the open fireplace, Teddy noticed the same candlestick that he had seen at Fredrik O. Johansson’s house: silver, three arms, a knot. He tried the same tactics as with Fred O., but they didn’t work half as well. This guy remembered nothing, he said. No Peder Hult. No Mats Emanuelsson. No Gabriel Sveréus. The man couldn’t even remember being at an estate in Södermanland. Eventually, Teddy asked whether the idiot could remember what he had eaten for breakfast that morning.
“Sandwich,” he replied. Then: “No, actually, it might have been a fried egg.”
Sly bastard.
Men three, four, and five gave the same empty results. They managed to get in without any problems, since Magnus had booked the meetings, but that was as far as they got. The men didn’t want to remember a thing.
The Magnus Hassel opening hadn’t yielded what Teddy had been hoping for. He wondered if Hassel had forewarned them somehow.
* * *
—
Outside, nature was starting to come to life. Blue and white anemones were brightening the edge of the road in the colors of Finland, even though dusk had started to fall.
“What do you think?” Teddy and Dejan were in the Tesla, heading home.
“It’s over ten years ago. Understandable if they don’t remember. What’s this even about, anyway?”
“Think you already know.”
“I heard you mentioning Mats Emanuelsson. Teddy, I’ve told you to drop all that.”
Teddy tried to look straight ahead. A tunnel of headlights. The world was becoming blurry along the edges of the road now. “I’ll drop it, but not until it’s ready to be dropped.”
“Okay. I’m not going to dick you about. You know which of the guys we met today was lying, right?”
Teddy turned to Dejan. “Do you?”
Dejan was holding the wheel loosely. “You were trying to look in their eyes, I could see it. Everyone thinks you can tell who’s lying from their eyes. Especially the cops. Whenever they were interviewing me, I would always find a spot on the wall and stare at it—they thought I was telling the truth then. Idiots.”
Teddy wondered whether Dejan could see that he had blushed in the dim light.
Dejan said: “Judges think they can tell who’s lying, too. ‘His story does not bear the stamp of credibility,’ they say, those clowns. They’ve got no clue. But you know what the research says, right?”
“The research? What do you know about that?”
“More than you think, anyway. All the research that’s been done into who can detect a lie points to the same group of people.”
“Who?”
“The group you used to belong to. That I still belong to. We see. Because we know.”
The edges of Dejan’s mouth had curled upward. He looked unashamedly pleased with himself.
“So who was lying?”
Dejan continued to smile; he drew out his answer. “The first loser, he was lying. Fredrik O. Johansson. He wasn’t telling the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“I can’t say exactly what it was that screamed liar, but it was like his hands and his voice weren’t on the same page. He started speaking more gently when you pressed him, did you notice that? And he moved his hands less. With a lot of people, their voice goes up when they lie. And almost everyone moves their hands less. But, like I said, you can never know with that stuff. I’m just going with my gut. It takes one to know one, and I am who I am.”
Teddy raised his hand to the touch screen and pressed “Controls.” Then he pointed to the Ludicrous button.
“Dejan, drive back to Djursholm as fast as you can,” he said. “I want another chat with Fredrik O. Johansson. Old style.”
The car leaped forward.
Dejan was practically screaming. “Teddy, I love it when you talk like that. You’re back.”
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION 50
To: Louise Pederson (wife)
From: Hugo Pederson
Date: 22 February 2006
Time: 22:43
HUGO: Mousey, I’m going to be late, have to work tonight I’m afraid.
LOUISE: But you said this morning that you were pretty much done with that project?
HUGO: I know, but some new stuff came up. Sorry.
LOUISE: How are you doing, really?
HUGO: What do you mean?
LOUISE: I was thinking about it yesterday. You’ve aged so quickly. Hugo, have you even noticed the hair on your temples, it’s like salt and pepper? You look ten years older than you actually are, did you know that? I don’t think it’s good for you to work the way you do.
HUGO: You don’t complain when it means we can renovate.
LOUISE: Maybe not. But I think you should think about it. And come home now. I don’t have anything against doing some kinky stuff with you tonight, then you can go back to the office afterward if you need to.
HUGO: Baby, I don’t have time.
LOUISE: You always say that. Do you know when we last had sex?
HUGO: Stop now.
LOUISE: Do you, though?
HUGO: Some time in autumn?
LOUISE: No, it was in August. Six months ago. I’m thirty-one and my husband doesn’t want to sleep with me, how do you think that feels?
HUGO: Enough now, Louise, you know how busy I’ve been at work, and you know things’ve been going well precisely because I work hard. So if you’re going to moan about us not fucking enough, it’s because you don’t want to.
LOUISE: When you come home wasted at four in the morning wanting anal, yeah. I tend to be asleep then, in case you were too drunk to realize.
HUGO: Are you really going to bring that up again now? It was a mistake, like I told you, I was drunk.
LOUISE: Mmm.
HUGO: Anyway, listen, I found out a few hours ago that the photograph has arrived. They can send it by courier from their depot tomorrow, or you can go and pick it up yourself. They’ll help you get it into the car.
LOUISE: Will it fit? It’s pretty big.