by Jens Lapidus
He walked in. A hallway. There was a real Persian carpet on the floor. Yards and yards of sconces, paintings, and tapestries along the walls. The room was bigger than the entire downstairs of his and Åsa’s house in Tallkrogen. At the other end of the entrance hall: a number of men—they must’ve come in limousines. They were all dressed in tuxes. Loud, hungry for a ho-down. In front of them—it looked like a cloakroom. Coats were hanging in rows. A girl was in the process of taking them. Thomas should’ve been able to guess what this would all be like, but he was still surprised. Mini-mini-miniskirt, the lower part of her ass cheeks visible. Thigh-high stockings that ended in an edge of lace a ways up on her leg, a provocative show of skin, taut corset, black high-heeled shoes. Her top didn’t look cheap, but it was low cut enough for her breasts to be a perfect target for the men’s eyes. Like the strippers at the club, but even more spruced up somehow.
He needed to act quickly. He picked up his cell phone, fired off a text to Hägerström: Inside. Then he looked around again. There were three doors in front of him. The men who’d checked their coats disappeared through one. Thomas heard noise coming from in there. Not the right choice for him. He turned back around to the guard. “Hey, actually, where did you say Ratko was?”
The beefcake laughed, nodded toward one of the doors. “Where he always is during these events, in the kitchen of course.” Thomas was a fucking genius. Process of elimination must be as old as the job these chicks were working. He walked over to the last door. Opened it. Didn’t worry about whether or not the beefy Yugo wondered what he was doing.
It was almost completely dark in there. A table: probably thirty feet long. Rococo chairs in pale wood, a crystal chandelier, candelabras on the table, parquet floor. A dining room. Two doors. Both were half open. From one, he saw lights and heard the sound of men talking. That must be the kitchen. He walked through the other door.
Another type of room. Sparsely furnished: a narrow sofa against one wall. On the walls: paintings, paintings, and more paintings. Spotlights placed everywhere, like little islands of light. He didn’t know anything about art—what he saw looked mostly like pastel-colored lines on fuzzy backgrounds. On the other hand: difficult apparently equaled expensive.
He walked into the next room. The sound of music and laughter increased. If what he was looking for was in there or in the kitchen, he could forget about it. He looked around. The room was small. Again, paintings on the walls. Garish wallpaper. And one more thing: a railing wrapped in leather, a staircase. Leading down. It was too good to be true. Where do you store archive material? Not where you entertain. Not in your private quarters. In the basement. He hoped.
Walked down.
The staircase ended in a door. He tried the handle—locked. Bolinder wasn’t that stupid after all. But neither was Thomas Andrén. He fished out the electronic skeleton key. For a real cop like him, it was the most important tool, after his baton. He inserted it into the lock. Thought about the basement door at Gösta Ekman Road. How he’d found Rantzell in pieces. He was nearing the end of the story.
Down on the basement level: a spa section, a sauna, a swimming pool. A laundry room, a room filled with paintings that apparently weren’t suitable enough to hang on the walls upstairs, a smaller room with a stationary bike, a treadmill, and a weight machine. Narrow windows high up near the ceiling. Farthest in: the archive. Metal storage shelves. What looked like a hundred binders of material. Bingo.
He checked the time on his phone: eleven o’clock. He didn’t have any service down here. It was time to start searching.
Almost midnight: he hadn’t found jack shit. Still, he was familiar with the material. Recognized the company names, the names of the board members, the banks that provided accounts, the businesses. He only looked through the binders that had to do with Dolphin Leasing AB, Intelligal AB, and Roaming GI AB.
He couldn’t stay here forever. Sooner or later the guard or one of the others would wonder where he’d gone. If he was supposed to work tonight—then why wasn’t he working? He looked at his cell phone again. Three minutes to midnight. He had the feeling he was going to find something soon. He stopped briefly. Considered: Had he done the right thing? Ditched Åsa, gotten himself into this situation. He refused to think the thought: Maybe he wouldn’t come out of here alive tonight.
The sounds from upstairs seemed to be dying down.
And then: the explosions. The men cheered. Thomas climbed up on a stool and looked out through a small window. The sky was illuminated by the crackle of fireworks. The moon was like a pale disk beside the play of colors in the sky. It was beautiful.
The partygoers were making even more noise. Thomas didn’t see anyone outside. Maybe they’d walked outside but were standing somewhere where he couldn’t see them. Maybe they were still inside.
Then he heard another explosion. It was definitely closer. Harder. Sounded like something crashing. He was certain: that wasn’t the sound of fireworks.
64
It was the biggest bang Mahmud’d ever heard. Niklas’d pulled the ski mask down over his face—reminded Mahmud of the images of militiamen in his dad’s Iraqi newspapers. He’d moved forward crouching in the dark. Planted the grenade by the back door. Crawled back ten yards. It exploded. Incredible sound. The blast wave was like a kick to the chest. A screaming inside him. A beeping in his ears. Niklas hollered, “Game time!” The night was lit up by fireworks. Crackling sounds across the sky. It felt like a dream. Maybe it was just the effect of the roofies.
Niklas rushed forward. Like in slow motion.
Mahmud gasped for air. Ran after him, toward the house. The Glock in his right hand. Shit, it was cold. He could hardly feel his feet: cold, wet, stiff.
A hole gaped where the back door’d been. Gunpowder was splashed along the wall. Wood, bricks, plaster—in pieces. The light from the kitchen glowed out into the backyard. The night in color—painted green, red, and blue.
Niklas was approaching the hole. Then him. Last, Babak.
Agitated voices. Rapid gunfire in the background. It had to be Rob and Javier letting the Swedish Army’s AK4s loose on the house. Ha-ha-ha—the blattes were fighting back. Jorge the Latino’s plan was gonna kick some fat ass.
They stepped in through the hole.
The kitchen was gigantic. Felt old-fashioned. Fancy cabinets, marble countertops, clinker floor. Spotlights in the ceiling. Two sinks, two ovens, two tables, two microwaves. Two of fucking everything. Even two shocked-looking dudes. They rose. Tall. Broad. Steaming Yugos.
One of them was Ratko. Who’d humiliated Mahmud. What’s more: one of the guys Jorge’d talked about as being Radovan’s man. Who was part of the mission. Whom he needed to pop.
Mahmud stopped. Looked at Niklas. The soldier dude knew where he was going, was already about to disappear through a door. Yelled, in English, “Take that motherfucker out!”
Mahmud was tripped up by the English for a second. Double emotions: confused, at the same time, riled up. The dudes in front of him started screaming in Serbian. That’s when he reacted. He was holding the Glock out in front of him. Now he aimed it at Ratko. The Yugo was wearing jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Testosterone-squared jaw, his thin blond hair parted to the side, surprise in his eyes. Mahmud saw Wisam Jibril in front of him. Images in his head: how they’d picked up the Lebanese outside the grill joint in Tumba. How Stefanovic’d taken him to dinner at Gondolen and explained the situation: we snuff out anyone who messes with us. How Ratko’d laughed in his the face when he’d wanted to quit dealing. He felt the effects of the roofies pumping through his blood. The Yugos were gonna eat shit tonight.
Mahmud raised the gat toward Ratko’s head. Ratko stopped. Fell silent. Babak behind him. “Come on.” He didn’t see Niklas. The Yugo dude’s face: contorted. Panicked. Mortal terror.
Mahmud walked closer. Slowly squeezed the trigger with his finger. Ratko saw what was about to happen.
Images in his head. Like the din of
the fireworks outside. In the forest clearing with Gürhan’s piece in his mouth. In the Bentley store with the scared sales kid before him. Finally: Beshar. Dad. His voice in serene Arabic: “Do you know what the prophet—peace be upon him—says about killing the innocent?”
The handle of the Glock felt sweaty. The white of the kitchen was hurting his eyes. Fucking pigs.
Ratko was not an innocent.
He fired.
Bam-bam-bam.
For Dad.
65
First POC—point of contact—with the enemy. They were inside the house. Niklas scanned the room: white, white, white. Two whore guards. Ordered Mahmud to SBF—support by fire. Pop that fucker. Woman user, abuser, enemy combatant.
Niklas felt at home with the situation at hand. The adrenaline was pumping like in the good old days. He took a deep breath in through the nose, breathed out through the mouth. He was mentally prepared. At war again. Not just man to man—but with soldiers, a battalion, a battle.
Continued through the door toward where the men must be. FEBA—forward edge of battle area. A dining room. Wrong. He walked up to another door. Opened, looked in. A hallway. Turned around. Saw Babak taping up the remaining guard in the kitchen. Nice. Ordered him and Mahmud to follow him.
Outside: Javier and Robert’d stopped shooting at the house. But everyone inside must’ve gotten the message: area controlled. If anyone were to walk outside the house, they’d have to start firing again like madmen. Pepper everything that moved.
Through the hall. The Beretta safe in his hand. A large man who seemed to understand that something was happening. Probably the guy who let people in the front door.
“What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”
Niklas landed a bullet in the guy’s knee. He crumpled like a dead man but he howled like a wild dog.
Niklas gave Mahmud an order: “Put some tape on that asshole.”
They taped the bouncer’s wrists and mouth. Niklas kept advancing. Alone.
Got in touch with Robert over the radio. A few rapid comments: “We’ve neutralized three combatants in here, and that’s most of the ones we believe may be dangerous. But maintain eyes on the big room that I pointed out. I’m making contact now.”
A gigantic room. Red wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers and spotlights in the ceiling. Large windows along one long end of the room. A fifteen-foot bar in the other end. Probably fifty people in there: half girls, half old guys. But they weren’t just any old guys. The ones Niklas’d spied on at the pizzeria’d been middle-class Svens, Eastern Bloc pimps, and dudes from the kind of countries where he’d been at war. These johns: thriving Swedish men in black tie. They were here to party and to get something more. Mahmud’d told him earlier what he’d been told by their employer: these weren’t your everyday horndogs—these were the leaders of the Swedish business world. Industry men, finance moguls, majority shareholders. Sweden’s head honchos. Here to taste fresh young pussy.
The old guys and the girls were gathered at the windows. Impressed by the New Year’s Eve fireworks. Champagne glasses in hand. The last fanfare of gunpowder and color blasted across the sky. They still hadn’t realized that they were under attack. Hadn’t heard the explosion from the IED, or at least not distinguished it from the noise of the fireworks. Everything’d gone according to plan: they would never be able to close or lock the hole out back. Always an open retreat route: assault tactics.
Two seconds was enough. He read the mood in the room: as if they were at a regular New Year’s Eve party where some younger single girls just happened to be. As if there was nothing wrong. Nothing dirty. Nothing humiliating about the whole situation. But Niklas knew: buying women equaled abuse. And his calling was to exterminate abusers.
Most of them were still turned away from him. Looking out at the sky or at one another. Except for two younger guys who were manning the bar. One of them reacted to Niklas in the doorway: a man with a ski mask pulled down over his face attracts attention. Niklas walked farther into the room. Mahmud followed behind him. Niklas’d ordered Babak to wait outside, guard the entrance, cover their backs.
The bar guy starting yelling something. Niklas raised the Beretta in both hands. A firm grip. He knew: this is the decisive moment—everything could go to hell. A turning point. A bottleneck in the exercise. Ready. Get set. Run.
The gun in one hand. One step. Two steps. Flew. Reminded him of his escape from the District Court.
He breathed in once. Twice. Twenty feet. Reached the guy. Raised the gun. Heard him say, “What the hell?”
Bam. Rapped the guy’s forehead with the Beretta, hard. The kid collapsed. Niklas turned around. Met the faces of the men and the girls—they’d turned around as well.
It was like time stood.
Still.
Everyone’d seen the attack.
Niklas and Mahmud: in control. Niklas’d informed Robert, “We’ve made contact, we’re gonna get this show on the road. Shoot everything that moves outside the house.”
The guys were lined up against the wall. The girls were standing next to them. Mahmud with his Glock pointed at the cluster of people the whole time. The bar guy and his friend were taped up on the floor. There could be more pimps, whore guards, in the house. Or, rather, there should be more: someone must’ve been responsible for the outdoor fireworks display. The advantage that Niklas and his troops had: because of what the men were up to, they weren’t exactly overly inclined to call the cops. The men knew it too. Still, he had to be smooth. He wanted to get ahold of those in charge.
Niklas took a step forward. In English: “I want Bolinder!”
No movement among the men.
“Who is Bolinder?”
A voice in the crowd, in English with a heavy Swedish accent: “There is no Bolinder here.”
Niklas responded in his own way. Fired off a shot at one of the chandeliers. Heard the bullet bounce around up there. Pulled the ski mask up halfway, bared his mouth.
“Don’t fuck with me ’cause then I’ll take you out, one by one. For the last time, who is Bolinder?”
The silence in the room was louder than the shot itself.
A man stepped forward. Said in a thin voice, “I am Bolinder. What do you want?”
He was slightly overweight, had carefully combed gray hair, and wore his tuxedo shirt unbuttoned to reveal a tuft of gray chest hair. He met Niklas’s gaze. The man’s eyes were gray.
Niklas stared back. Didn’t bother saying anything. This was the guy who arranged everything.
Bolinder was made to stand in the middle of the parquet floor. The light from a couple of spotlights in the ceiling hit him in the face. Niklas could see it clearly: the old john was scared as hell.
Mahmud pulled out the tape. Had Bolinder put his hands behind his back. The Arab wrapped them carefully. Laid the old guy down on the floor. The duct tape gleamed serenely.
Mahmud went closer. Gun pointed at the herd of men. He waved the Glock slowly from right to left and back again. If anyone tried anything, he’d hopefully be able to take down five or six people before he was overpowered. Instinctively, the men knew it too. No one wanted to take the chance.
Niklas yelled in English, “Down on the ground, every fucking one of you. Now. Put your hands on your head. Anyone who moves . . .” He made two shooting motions with the gun. They understood.
Niklas rummaged around in his backpack. The moment he’d been waiting for. He pulled out the plastic bag he’d prepared months ago. His own little project, parallel to surveillance of the wife beaters. It was pretty heavy, probably thirteen pounds. From the outside, it looked innocent enough: a gray bag with black electrical tape wound around it and a compact mass within. On the inside, it was highly lethal.
Everything’d gone so fast. Just a little while ago, he’d been sitting in a courtroom, about to be detained. And now: the final battle. He thought about his mom. She didn’t understand anything. Thought repression was intrinsic to life, built in. He remembered. He
was maybe eight years old, but he still understood more than they thought. The bags that Claes brought home, the mood when he and Marie’d started gulping from their glasses, which they refilled quickly with whatever was in the bottles. They told him to go down to the basement for an hour or so. He had his own life down there. He didn’t remember exactly, but something scared him. Maybe it was a sound, or maybe he saw something. He was a child then. Thought the fear down there was the worst thing in the world. When he came upstairs, he saw Mom being beaten more than he’d ever seen before. She had to go to the hospital. Stayed there for two weeks.
Afterward, he’d asked Mom if it was right. Should Claes really be allowed to come over to their house? Should it really be like this? Her answer was simple but firm: “I’ve forgiven him. He’s my man, and he can’t help that he gets angry sometimes.”
It was Niklas’s duty to restore balance.
He placed the bomb on Bolinder’s chest. The old guy was fluttering like a flag in the evening breeze outside Falluja. In contrast: Niklas’s hands were steady.
66
Thomas came up the stairs. Something was wrong. First the explosion at the same time as the fireworks. He could’ve misheard. But not what followed: the peppering that sounded parallel to the rest of the New Year’s spectacle—even a simple cop like him, who was used to his little 9-millimeter SIG Sauer, knew what that was: assault weapons. He was a gun freak, after all. Completely clear: something was really fucking wrong.
As soon as his phone had service again, he called Hägerström. It rang once. More rings went through. Was he not going to pick up? Thomas looked around. The room with the hypercolorful wallpaper was empty. He peeked through the opening in the doorway to the room with the paintings. Empty. He tried to call Hägerström again. Five rings. Then there was Hägerström’s panting breath on the other end of the line: “Good, you’re alive.”