Stockholm Delete

by Jens Lapidus

  For every big acquisition, you need an army of consultants. Corporate firms to give advice to the investment trust, bankers to finance the acquisition, the offeree company’s own financial advisers. Not to mention all the law, audit, and IR firms involved. In other words, for every big deal, there’s a whole slew of consultants involved, and they have knowledge of what’s going to happen before it does. Hundreds of people sitting on information that could give you momentum in relationship to the market. My idea built on the idea that it had to be impossible for everyone to keep their mouths shut. I started listening carefully.

  But that didn’t solve the problem of my boss’s questions. I’m not finished telling you about that yet. The invoices I’d fabricated.

  My life was like a bomb. Everything could’ve blown up at any moment.

  We were sitting at the kitchen table at home. I wasn’t working for once. Lillan was asleep, and Benjamin was in his room, reading or playing computer games or something like that. I turned down the lights, lit a few candles, and took out some brie, goat cheese, and crackers. Cecilia was surprised but happy, I could see it on her face.

  “I’m in some trouble,” I said, trying to sound calm.

  The fine lines around her eyes made her look peaceful. Actually, she probably was pretty happy right then. The trip to London had been great. Our finances were slowly starting to get back on track, thanks to the money I was getting from Sebbe. I’d cash in the jackpot option, too, I thought—no limit. Plus, Cecilia was active in the church. She didn’t just sing in the choir anymore, she went to seminars and stuff like that. Her mother had always been religious. I guess that’s where it came from—and she found it calming.

  “I have a meeting with Niklas at work tomorrow. He’s worried about something.”

  “What could it be?”

  I’d known she would ask, but I still didn’t have a good answer.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it must be about a mistake I made a couple of years ago.”

  Cecilia’s engagement ring glittered faintly like a fading dream.

  “What does that mean? Is it serious?”

  “I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “You must know more than that? Sometimes it feels like you’re disappearing into your work, Mats. I’m never even awake when you come home at night. Is it really just your job?”

  It wasn’t a good topic of conversation, especially not since she’d seen that message from Michaela, but I still felt a little relieved that she wasn’t asking me any more about the conversation with Niklas.

  I said to her: “It’s work, I promise. But not just at KPMG. I’m doing some other stuff, too.”

  “Wait, what kind of stuff?”

  “I’ve got a business idea of my own.”

  “Okay, that sounds good, and I don’t want to accuse you of anything, but when are you and I going to have time to talk?”

  “Didn’t we have a good time in London?”

  “It was great, but I mean here, back home, an everyday thing. We need to be able to talk.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Cecilia. I think we do talk.”

  “Yeah, but only about who’s going to take the kids to school, stuff like that, not real talking. Not like the way we talk at St. Görans.”

  “You mean the seminars?”

  “They’re called existential conversations. We reflect on all kinds of things. You should come along sometime. I think it’d be good for you.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And I also think it’d do you good to take a proper vacation for once. Can you do that?”

  I should’ve made a decision right then. Listened to Cecilia. Stopped for a while. A few weeks’ vacation probably would’ve been enough. Away from KPMG. From Sebbe, Maxim, and Michaela. Maybe I could’ve even gone along to one of these existential conversations with my wife. But I didn’t. I chose another path. Christ….

  JS: Do you regret it?

  M: Things could’ve been different. It would’ve been better for everyone. My family, above all. But there’s something in me. I don’t know what it is, but it drives me forward, even though I normally end up where I don’t want to be.

  JS: I see. Keep going.

  M: We used to meet once a week. Sebbe would tell me what to do the rest of the time, or sometimes I’d tell him, we’d use encrypted emails. He always wanted to meet when he was at the gym. He’d be on the bench press at GymMax, you know the place on Regeringsgatan, it’s always open, and he’d be breathing heavily. “This is a real gym. Free weights, no faggot shit,” he said. He always had sunglasses on, even indoors.

  They had TV screens screwed to the walls, Eurosport on 24/7, and euro techno pumping from the speakers. Ancient posters of Arnold Schwarzenegger striking a pose and Ove Rytter flexing his muscles at the World Gym Championships. Sometimes it seemed like everyone there was just a variation of Sebbe.

  Maxim was standing behind him, ready to grab the bar if Sebbe couldn’t manage it.

  Sebbe’s tattoos moved in time with the weights, flexed.

  “I got the first one in Holland when I was sixteen. Shit, man, I love Amsterdam,” he said. The sweat was glistening on his forehead.

  “Then I got the second one in Goa when I was eighteen.” He pointed to a long tattoo that ran up, over his bicep. His veins snaked like worms on top of his pumped-up muscles.

  “Three and four are from Christiana in Copenhagen. They’ve got a sweet tattoo place there.”

  The common denominator for all the places he’d been to was obvious.

  “Have you ever thought about how gross they’ll look when your skin’s old and wrinkly?” I asked with a grin.

  Sebbe got up, quickly. “Come here,” he said. Maxim cracked his knuckles.

  Sebbe took hold of my wrist.

  I bent down toward his sweaty face.

  He hissed: “You work for me, you get paid by me. But one thing should be crystal clear: don’t ever fuck with me. Ever.”

  That’s just what he was like, Sebbe. He reacted quickly.

  JS: I know the type. But you still haven’t told me what happened with your boss.

  M: Right. We met in Niklas’s office. He was actually the only one with a room of his own in that place. I’d always liked him, and I think he liked me, even though I was just working part-time. But I still had a really bad feeling in my stomach when I sat down. It had to be about those invoices, it couldn’t be anything else.

  Niklas was waiting for me with his hands clasped. The company had done an internal audit, a random sample of—among others—the companies I worked with. That’s when they’d spotted those payments. They’d checked with three of the companies the invoices seemed to have come from, but they hadn’t known anything about them. I’d made the transactions, Niklas explained. But the weirdest thing was that all the invoices had the same account number, for an account they couldn’t trace.

  I’d known it would be about those invoices. I must’ve looked like an idiot that day, trying to hide how nervous I was.

  Niklas asked me whether I could explain it again, whether I remembered anything. I just shook my head and said I had no idea. My mind was blank. There must’ve been a mistake. I just didn’t remember, plain and simple.

  He held my gaze. He said: “I need more from you, Mats. You must remember something.”

  I had that feeling again: like I was an insect, balancing on the edge of hell, the verge of an inferno. Like I was just another inconsequential object about to be crushed under the weight of reality.

  I’d managed to duck so many questions in the months leading up to that point, I’d come up with so many explanations as to why I sneaked off for so long at lunch, told so many stories about how I felt and why I’d cut my hours. People had accepted most of it—my colleagues understood, they said; and my clients didn’t notice, because I still did what I had to.

  “If you can’t give me any straight answers, I’ve got no choice but to send this to internal affairs and maybe
even to the police. You know that, don’t you?” Niklas said.

  The house of cards I’d built up was about to come crashing down. The bomb I’d been riding was about to explode. I needed my sideline investments then more than ever.

  JS: You could’ve just told him everything, couldn’t you? If he was a good boss, he might’ve been able to help you get out of it?

  M: Yeah, maybe you’re right. He was a good boss. But that’s not what I did. It didn’t even cross my mind. I was terrified. I’d used the same account number for a lot more transactions after that.

  I didn’t even go home to Cecilia that night. I slept in the office at Clara’s—or “slept,” I should say; I shuffled papers, looked into our secret accounts, tried to work out what links there might be between that account and me. And like I said, I didn’t ask Niklas for help. I asked my other boss for help instead, Sebbe. I told him what had happened.

  JS: Tough situation.

  M: Can I tell you something, Joakim? It feels really good to be able talk about this.

  JS: Glad to hear it. So how did it all work out with Niklas?

  M: Sebbe dealt with it in his own way. He and Maxim paid a visit to the three customers who the fake invoices had been for. Told them in simple terms that if they didn’t explain those invoices as a result of internal errors, they’d break their kneecaps, burn down their houses, shove a pipe up their asses, put a rat in it, and tape over the end.

  Memo continued on separate sheet.

  27

  Lidingö. Not like Solna or Hässelby: middle-class vacation homes and comfortable Fords and Citroëns. Here, several rungs up the ladder. Not quite like Djursholm, and not like Östermalm either—but almost. Lidingö: one of the upper class’s favorite haunts. Somewhere they could play undisturbed, socialize with their peers, pair up. A place they could avoid coming into contact with anyone but variations of themselves.

  Clear pieces of the puzzle. Sebbe, who’d had dealings with Mats. Sebbe, who’d been one of Kum’s men, just like Teddy.

  Too many things pointing in the same direction. Toward Kum.

  There was just one direction: nowhere else would lead anywhere useful.

  It was ten o’clock. Teddy was banking on him coming home at some point that evening.

  Emilijan Mazer-Pavić, aka Father Em, aka Mazern. To those in the know: just Kum. There had been others who went by the same name in Stockholm. Jokso, Radovan, others too. Mazern wasn’t the only one—but he was the only one Teddy had looked up to as his godfather.

  Back then: the myth. Stockholm wasn’t like before, during the ’90s and early 2000s, when everyone knew who was in charge. But still: there weren’t many people respected in all areas like he was. The myth of Kum: the man who’d spent twenty years dodging the police force’s tireless attempts to send him down. The man said to have earned more from tobacco, coke, booze, and money laundering than anyone in Stockholm before him. The man you couldn’t find a single picture of on Google.

  Mazern: the Albanians had tried to fuck him up; the Hells Angels had tried to take him down; competing syndicates from Montenegro had sent two death patrols to clip him and rough up his wife. There was talk that the contract killers’ bodies were in the foundations of the Karolinska Hospital, but that their dicks were at the bottom of a lake. Kum: more lives than ten cats put together.

  The history: Srpska dobrovoljačka garda. Teddy had been twelve then. The discussions, his dad in front of the radio every single day: spring, 1992—Bijeljina and Zvornik. The snipers who’d cleared the way for the artillery. Who’d swapped their Yugoslav People’s Army emblems for the Serbian Volunteer Guard’s. Emilijan Mazer-Pavić: one of the leading elite soldiers in Arkan’s Tigers. Teddy hadn’t even met him all that many times back then, in his old life. He and Dejan had mostly done jobs for Ivan and the other bosses under Kum.

  Yesterday, he’d been waiting outside Anthony Ewing’s house. Today, he was here. Six hours so far. In the car, on the street, outside Kum’s villa.

  Teddy pissed into a plastic bottle with an extra-wide top. Vitamin-water orange. The standard joke: don’t forget—it’s not apple juice. Like in his work for Leijon.

  He’d done plenty of waiting in his time. The wait before the cell door opened at seven thirty every morning, the waiting in the visitor’s room while Sara, Linda, or one of the few friends who came to see him cleared security. The waiting to get into the workshop, where they made nesting boxes, three-legged stools, and park benches. The waiting for the two-hour window when the library was open every week. When he’d needed to shower. When he’d wanted to buy chocolate from the kiosk. When he’d wanted to talk to his sister, his dad. Waiting for hours, days. Everything he’d wanted to do had been controlled by someone else. Everything important was limited by other people’s time, their power.

  He was sick of waiting.

  At half past ten that night, an M-class BMW X5 pulled up in front of the gates. A floodlight came on. The gates swung open, and the car drove through.

  Five minutes later, the lights started coming on throughout the house.

  Teddy got out of the car, spoke as clearly as he could into the intercom by the gates.

  After a while, they swung open for him, too.

  The gravel driveway crunched, like he was eating nuts with his mouth closed. The sound echoed in his head.

  He rang the bell. The door opened. The godfather himself. Teddy was surprised he dared.

  Mazern looked just like he had nine years earlier. The acne scars, the ash-colored hair combed loosely to one side. The same small, dark eyes, piercing like nails.

  He was wearing a shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, a pale blue linen jacket, and thin suede loafers: a real summery outfit. Riviera feeling. Båstad feeling. Carefree dinner on a yacht somewhere. Or a balmy evening in Serbia.

  Teddy made an effort. Kissed Kum on the hand—acted like he was expected to. He saw the initials on the cuff of the sleeve: EMP. Heard the blood thud in his ears.

  They went into the living room.

  “Slivovitz or whiskey?” Kum asked.

  “Slivovitz,” said Teddy. “With ice. Thanks.”

  Kum sat down in an armchair—bloodred with golden armrests. He clicked his fingers. Teddy suddenly realized there was a guy behind them, standing by the bar in one corner of the room.

  Through the panoramic window: Värtan bay. Closer: the illuminated garden. The decoration inside: mishmash to the max. Old-fashioned furniture: classic style, or whatever they called it. Ornate golden table legs, leopard-print cushions on the armchairs, huge golden frames around the paintings. The place looked crazy.

  The gorilla behind the bar brought them their drinks.

  “Sit, please,” said Kum. “It’s been a while, Teddy, I hardly recognize you. You look like your dad, just without the red nose.”

  Teddy sat down on the sofa opposite Kum. He was itching to go: just wanted to launch himself at the man. Attack the asshole in front of him. Throw him through the enormous window. He wished he’d brought the pistol with him. But at the same time: that would’ve been suicide.

  “Dejan tells me you’re doing well,” Kum continued. “That you got yourself an apartment and a good job. Law branch, he said, but I told him: that can’t be true. Right, Teddy? You’re not working as a lawyer?”

  Teddy took a deep breath through his nose.

  “Yeah, I do a bit of work for a law firm every now and then.”

  “Everything’s gone mad. BMW makes environmentally friendly cars and Teddy Maksumic is a lawyer. How is that?”

  “I’m not a lawyer, but the job’s okay. Brings in the bacon, you know.”

  “A job shouldn’t just be okay. It should be fantastic.”

  “I’m happy. Now.”

  “Maybe you’d be interested in working for me again? Is that why you’re here?”

  “No. I wanted to ask you a question. About something completely different.”

  “Okay. Why didn’t you just call? Dejan’s got my
number.”

  “I wanted to look you in the eyes.”

  “Aha, and what’re you hoping to see?”

  Again: Teddy wanted to launch himself at the man. Break the motherfucker’s nose. Smash his head against the floor. Kick him in the kidneys. But he said: “I want to see your eyes, your soul, if you have one.”

  Kum breathed out. “Okay, okay, take it easy. Let’s be civilized here. What do you want to know?”

  “It’s about Mats Emanuelsson.”

  Mazern got to his feet. He went over to the little bar and refilled his glass. His back to Teddy, he looked out the window. Outside, the lake lay dark. Sweden lay dark, though it was a bright summer’s night.

  “I suspected as much. You took a real hit there.”

  “I want to know what the kidnapping was about. Because it wasn’t just money—they wanted a computer, maybe a hard drive, too.”

  “You might be right, my friend, and like I’ve said, I’m sorry how things worked out. But Ivan was in charge of all that. I wasn’t involved that way. And he’s dead now, you know that. Smoked too many filterless cigs—never managed to shake the homeland. Lung cancer’s hell. But I don’t even think he knew much about the details.”

  “But the order came from you.”

  “I have no idea. We helped loads of people back then.”

  “Sebbe Petrovic? What did he have to do with Mats?”

  “Enough, Teddy; you knew me nine years ago, but lots has happened since then. Lots of water under the bridge, like they say, Šveđani. I’m a peaceful man now. I live here on Lidingö, you know, I’ve got a family, kids. I focus on my properties these days. Spend time with the neighbors, coach the kids’ football team, that’s it. If the train runs over a lady on the Lidingö line, that’s the week’s big news here.” Kum turned to him.

  “Have you ever thought about that, Teddy? We didn’t have any Lidingö line where we grew up, no picturesque little tram taking us back and forth between the fancy houses. This is the only kind of place you get something like that, Lidingö, Saltsjöbaden, Djursholm, you know exactly what I’m talking about. You have your own tramline—you’re a particular kind of person. Stuff like that doesn’t exist to the south of Stockholm, or west of Bromma. True, they’ve got that train line there now, but it’s not a cute little tramway, they’ll never get that. A local tramline’s a sign of whether a place has it or not. It’s that simple. So listen to me now, Teddy, because you don’t seem to get it. Everything’s better out here, we’re calmer, we spend time with tranquil people; everyone out here has Swedish values. Do you get it now? We’re comfortable here. I’m not the same person I was. I’m not like you.”