by Jens Lapidus
Loke had promised to help Teddy by trying to hack into Swedish Premium Security’s mail and getting at the countermail.com address. Two days ago, he’d called back: “Sorry man, they’ve got really fucking tough security at that company, worse than my own. I just can’t get in. I’m sorry.”
“And the address they got the job from?”
“Countermail’s the most securely encrypted mailing system on earth. Hacking them is about as impossible as trying to assassinate Kim Jong-un with a water pistol.”
Teddy hated dead ends.
Kum himself probably hadn’t been behind the kidnapping. Someone else was interested in the computer—but either way, Mazern knew perfectly well who’d ordered it. He knew, but refused to talk. That was the point of their war. To make him talk, to guide Teddy onward. He had no other way forward right now: the predators themselves were too deep in the shadows. Cecilia and Swedish Premium Security could both have given him something, but they seemed more like dead ends.
Teddy was also starting to realize: there’d be a price to pay for his war. He might have to leave Sweden. At the very least, he’d need to send Bojan and Linda away.
That was when he’d gotten the idea: someone who might be able to help. Someone with plenty of dough.
—
It was taking a long time today. The brat didn’t come out all morning.
Teddy tried to listen to an audiobook with the volume down low: Wilful Disregard by Lena Andersson.
His car didn’t have a CD player, which annoyed him, but the guy at the rental place had given him a strange look when he asked. “What planet you been living on these past few years? CD players are from, like, the Bronze Age. With this car, you can stream straight from your phone.”
Teddy knew exactly which planet he’d been on for the past eight years, but he had no desire to explain that to a twenty-year-old car rental employee who never would’ve given him the car if it wasn’t for the fact that Leijon was footing the bill.
At one o’clock, he finally appeared. Fredric McLoud.
Better clothes this time: purple cotton pants, a white shirt, and a dark blue linen jacket. A small purple handkerchief flapping in his chest pocket. He set off toward Djurgårdsbron. After tailing him for weeks, Teddy knew the man’s routines all too well. This was an unusual direction for McLoud.
Teddy followed him. Past the Porsche Panamas and mothers with strollers, power walking toward Djurgården island in their Nikes and compression leggings.
Fifteen minutes later, he understood. Liljevalchs, the art gallery—Teddy had never been there before. McLoud kissed a woman on the cheek, and they went inside.
He’s been easy to follow again today: maybe he thought he had nothing to lose. Or maybe McLoud was just on honest business for once—spending some time with a friend.
Teddy climbed the stairs. Liljevalchs Konsthall, he read. Golden lettering against a red-painted wall. The building was huge: old-fashioned, but not too old. Different-colored stone, column feeling from the pillars. There was a banner across the entrance. Right now: Market Art Fair—Scandinavia’s leading contemporary art fair.
This was far from Teddy’s normal territory. But his tail was inside. His object.
He paid at the counter and moved inside.
High ceilings, light flooding in from the windows, huge rooms. Silent white people wandering around: peering at the artwork, staring at the paintings, drooling over the sculptures. Teddy took them all in: this wasn’t a room of your average Svenssons, no—this was the cream of the crop. This was society: he saw Rolexes on wrists, loafers on the men’s feet, the women’s unnaturally even and well-made-up faces.
And the stuff on the walls: he spotted a list of items for sale. One hundred and fifty grand for a tiny canvas, completely white apart from two black streaks. Three hundred grand for a blurry photograph of a chimney.
I’m not the only one who’s lost it, Teddy thought—the whole world’s gone batshit crazy.
In the next room, Fredric McLoud was talking to his friend.
He seemed to have a cold: sniffling like a two-year-old in February. Or like a serious coke fiend who couldn’t give it up, not even now that he’d been caught in the act.
The woman with him seemed to know everyone there. Kiss on the cheek, artificial laugh, hug. Kiss on the cheek, artificial laugh, hug. She didn’t exactly mix things up.
Her pants looked like some kind of dance leggings, and her sweatshirt had a weird print on it: a bulldog baring its front teeth. She didn’t really seem like Fredric’s type. Maybe she was some kind of art dealer. After a couple of minutes, she was deep in conversation with someone from the gallery.
Teddy hesitated. If he went over, there was a risk his work for Leijon would be over for good. But still, he had to do this. There was no other way.
He moved up behind Fredric. Whispered in his ear: “Me again.”
McLoud turned around and dropped the catalogue he’d been clutching. It hit the ground with a thud. The woman in the bulldog sweatshirt glanced over in their direction. Teddy smiled.
Fredric McLoud, wearing the expression of someone with a bad toothache and a powerful migraine.
“What the hell do you want?” he whispered.
Teddy answered in an ordinary, conversational tone. “I have a proposal for you.”
30
Midsummer’s eve. Pretty much the lightest night of the year. In that sense, Sweden was nice: the seasons actually meant something.
Nikola met Chamon outside his place. Someone had scrawled Down with the Turks in Arabic on the wall.
Everyone was partying today. Made no difference if you were some super-Swede, the grandkid of a Serb, or from Iraq and had only been in the country for ten years—midsummer was sweet. A hedonistic ritual: the ultra Swedish tradition everyone dug. Not that they all danced around the maypole singing stupid songs, the fox runs over the ice—no one really knew what that meant. Not that they all ate pickled fish—though Grandpa Bojan loved it—and drank cold schnapps from tiny glasses—Bojan loved that, too. And not that they all made flower crowns, got shit-faced and drove drunk, either. But everyone did something. And everyone needed to buy food.
Tonight, the safe in ICA Maxi would be bursting at the seams with dough. A record day. The fattest haul in recent history. It pretty much couldn’t go wrong.
“Hey, man,” Chamon said, pulling up his hood.
They were both dressed alike. Helmets under their arms.
“You ready?”
Nikola gave him a thumbs-up. “Hell yeah.”
They took the bus instead of the train. That way, they could avoid the cameras on the platforms. Chamon told him a sick story.
“You remember Ashur? He got sent down for that blackmail shit. Those warehouse guys, y’know? Anyway, his dad died when he was locked up in Hall. So he asked to go to the funeral, and they started acting like absolute cunts. Had to get a lawyer to write a shit ton of complaints to the prison people, but eventually they agreed. So these three guards took him to the church. He was really fucking sad his dad had died, but he was happy he could go honor him one last time. And you know what happened when they got there?”
“No idea. I’ve been away from the world for a year.”
“They said: ‘We’re not letting you out of the van unless you have hand and foot cuffs on.’ Ashur told them he wouldn’t go into the church, in front of all the mourners, in cuffs. But they wouldn’t give in. Those pigs, you know, what the fuck’d they think he was gonna do? Run off from the church?”
“What happened?”
“He refused to get out. They just had to drive him back to the slammer. It’s not cool, having to demean yourself like that in front of your mom, your grandpa and your brothers and sisters.”
“Jesus, those dickheads.”
“Exactly. And you know what happened then?”
“No.”
“They created a crazy-ass shurda. The guy hates this country with all his heart now.”
They’d parked the 125cc and the quad bike behind a nursery near the shop.
Freshly stolen: they took them yesterday. Nikola had opened the ignition lock with a fat screwdriver that had some kind of nut at the end of the shaft. He hit it with a hammer and then took a wrench and twisted. Pulled the bits of plastic out of the lock and followed the wires to the little plastic cube. A bit more work, then he just had to turn on the gas. They cut the wheel lock with a pair of bolt cutters.
They’d parked a moped behind the shop, too, in case they had any trouble with the other vehicles.
Now they were up among the trees above the parking lot, looking down at the huge superstore. Seven, eight cars: still parked down there. Maybe they’d be there all night.
Chamon had a police radio in his backpack and thin gardening gloves with grips.
The building in front of them: an enormous Lego brick between the highway and the steel and glass high-rises. The high entrance with its automatic revolving doors was closed. Almost all the lights were out. But the place still looked like it was glowing: a glittering golden treasure chest waiting for them inside.
Midnight now. The only time it got even slightly dark this time of year. They started pushing the quad bike and the 125cc motorbike over toward the building. Nikola felt his pulse pick up. Maybe. A chance in a million. His big break. His claim to fame. His only way out.
They’d scouted out the place three days in a row. Walked around, counting the ways out. There was just one road into the parking lot, but then there were the loading bays out back, plus a path to what was probably the staff entrance. By the side of the parking lot, there was a bike path that disappeared away, up the hill. The smartest thing would be not to use a car. Too big a risk that someone would block the exit. The 125cc and the quad bike meant they could move more easily, more flexibly. They could cover more terrain.
They’d gone in and out of the shop. Ambled about with a cart, bought a few bags of chips and lukewarm juice. Navigated. Tried to work out which door they should use to break in, which was the quickest route through the shop. Always with sunglasses on and hoods up. They tried to glance up at the ceiling, find the surveillance cameras, the alarms. Afterward, they burned the clothes they’d had on.
Nikola pulled down his visor and started the motor. It was a beauty, the motorbike, a cross.
They drove the last seven hundred feet to the back of the building. There might be cameras, and they didn’t want their faces on film. His backpack rustled. He’d shoved the tools, an Ikea bag, and the other stuff they needed into it.
The metal door was pretty weak, they knew that already. Less than two minutes with a crowbar, and it was wide open.
The alarm unit was to their immediate left: they entered the code they’d gotten from Saman. The bleeping sound reminded him of the coffee machine in Spillersboda.
Took a few steps back. Got back onto their bikes and drove up the hill again.
Police radio in Chamon’s lap. They counted the minutes. Listened for any sign that the rent-a-cops had been alerted to the shop in front of them. The real police radio was blocked these days—they couldn’t listen in on that. Nikola had a pair of binoculars around his neck. Every now and then, he lifted them up, stared down at the main road. Guard vehicle at the entrance? Maybe they’d set off a silent alarm, a siren no one could hear.
“Go?” Chamon asked after forty-five minutes had passed without incident.
Stomachache: Nikola immediately had a bad feeling about it.
“Shit, I dunno…”
“There’s no alarm. They would’ve been here ages ago.”
“Yeah, but still.”
Chamon got up.
“Wait,” said Nikola. He got onto the motorbike. Started the engine and drove over to the tunnel underneath Hågelbyvägen.
Chamon must’ve wondered what the hell he was doing—but Nikola needed to do this.
He took out his phone. It had been off—he turned it on. Called Teddy. He lived less than a mile away, but Nikola hadn’t had time to visit him yet.
He answered after a while, but he didn’t sound tired.
“Hey, Teddy, it’s me.”
“Hey, everything okay?”
“Yeah. Listen, can I come over in a bit? I might bring Chamon.”
“Sure, yeah. But listen…”
“What?”
“…I’m not home yet, I’ve had a stressful day.”
“Ah shit. Another time, then?”
“No, no, come over in a bit. Whenever you want. Just ring the bell and keep knocking.”
Chamon threw his chin in the air when Nikola came back.
“What was that about?”
“Had to make a call.”
“The phones are supposed to be off, man.”
“I know, but I remembered my uncle lives near. I asked if we could go over. Just so you know.”
Stockholm County Police Authority
Interview with informant “Marina,” 17 December 2010
Leader: Joakim Sundén
Location: Farsta Centrum
MEMORANDUM 4 (PART 3)
Transcript of dialogue (continuation)
M: In late spring 2006, Peder invited me to an event. He said: “A lot of people are interested in what you do, Mats,” and gave me a rough idea of what would happen.
To start with, I got to see Sweden from above. Sörmland from the air. Hunting grounds, pale green trees, glittering lakes. Yup, we went in a helicopter. It was Peder’s idea, he said we should make an “adventurous” entrance. “The boys are going to love it.” I had no idea who the other guests were, but that was probably the point.
Anyway, the helicopter landed on a big lawn next to a barn. We got out. I didn’t know what the place was called, or exactly where we were, but the house was huge, eighteenth-century style. It wasn’t a castle. It had more of a country estate feeling to it. Yellow wood, red roof tiles, three chimneys.
Two men came out to meet us, and they took us toward the house through the wind from the rotor blades. I’d rented a tuxedo. Peder had dropped hints it’d be best if I did. The helicopter took off again, and I remember thinking that the taxi home would be expensive whenever I left. For a second, I regretted even going along. I wasn’t exactly good at mingling. But there was something about Peder. Compared to Sebbe, Maxim, and the others I’d been working with lately, he felt like the only normal one.
And the evening was good to begin with. We had a drink in one of the big salons. I think there were about twenty others there. All men, but that didn’t even strike me as being a bit weird. Peder introduced me to some of them. He laughed and called me Mr. Money Man. Then I ran through everything. Peder had assured me the others were “aware of the complexities of it all,” as he put it. That I could trust them, in other words.
I think I talked for about thirty minutes. Explained everything in a way that didn’t seem suspicious at all. More in the light-gray zone. I talked about the differences between the various banking paradises, about how the third money laundering directive was affecting regulations in Sweden. I didn’t give them any concrete tips—that would’ve meant giving away Sebbe’s, Michaela’s, and my business ideas for free—but I think I implied enough for everyone to understand the basic premise: that there’s a solution for everything.
After that, we ate a three-course meal. There was a mix of nineteenth-century portraits and modern photographs on the walls. People seemed happy, I was happy, the food and the wine—the whole thing was fantastically well thought out. But the whole time I was there, I had my own agenda. I knew who roughly half the people in the room were. Some had introduced themselves; some I just recognized. They were men from Sweden’s industrial families, venture capitalists…some were partners in law firms. I listened, fished, tried to steer the conversation. They were all half-drunk, lowered their guards.
The man next to me was most promising. “There’s definitely something under way, I’m completely certain,” he said. “My m
an at Goldman Sachs said that Investor had turned to them for advice. And my friend at Bain and Company, he’s been on a case they presented to EQT. Then, my lawyer happened to mention that he’d been working on a few agreements ahead of a due diligence in that company. We’re talking about Gambro here. One hundred percent. It’s overcapitalized, and it’s got net cash of six point five billion. I just have no idea when. They’ll try to buy her up like a little Thai whore.”
The mood was good after dinner. There was some kind of show in one of the rooms, but I mostly talked to Peder, so I didn’t see what it was.
He said: “Now that you’re here, there’s something I need you to look into. I’ve been getting a lot of questions from the Inland Revenue in the UK, and they want answers this week. It’s about the companies in the Channel Islands.”
I had all the time in the world. These men were a treasure trove.
Peder showed me into a side room—it looked like an office. There was a huge desk with an old inkwell, and it was covered in papers. A stuffed wild boar’s head on the wall. The heavy green velvet curtains were closed.
They were asking about the payments to Estonia, said the invoices didn’t add up. “Can you compare them, see if you can get it to make sense somehow? I really need your help with this as quickly as possible.”
Peder sat down at the desk and took out a laptop; I hadn’t even realized he had it with him. I was watching over his shoulder. He entered a password to unlock it. The strange thing was, I couldn’t take my eyes from the keyboard. I’ve always had a head for numbers. I can just remember them better than most people.
He showed me some Excel spreadsheets. “Is it okay if I leave you with these for a while?” he asked me.
And so I started to check over the documents. Deposits and withdrawals. So-called walking accounts—strings of transfers between different accounts. All to make things more difficult for the authorities if they started sniffing about. But my eyes were drawn to something else. There was another laptop on the desk. I kept working on Peder’s transactions and cash flows for a while, but I couldn’t really concentrate. Something was bugging me.