Lars left Östermalm and drove to his bank on Södermalm, waved to the young clerk with the greasy skin, and asked to look at his safe-deposit box.
He opened the box and put in copies of the surveillance files of Sophie Brinkmann and the recording from the police station, photographs, printouts, summaries … everything. He left the bank and drove out toward Stocksund. Watch over her …
He checked that she wasn’t home, then parked two blocks from the house. A quarter of an hour later a car blew its horn briefly. Lars looked to his left as Hasse drove past, giving him the finger. Lars let the air out of his lungs and leaned his head back. Time passed, maybe five minutes, maybe ten, and Hasse came rolling toward him from Sophie’s house, slowed down, and lowered the window, leaning out toward Lars, his left hand hanging outside the door.
“As soon as you see her you call me, Anders, or Gunilla. You don’t do anything at all yourself.… Got that?”
Lars nodded.
Hasse drummed his hand on the outside of the car door, then stuck his finger up again. This time so clearly that Lars couldn’t miss a second of his protracted Fuuuck Yooou as he rolled away. The sound of tires on the grit covering the road. Then silence again.
Lars remained sitting in the car, staring out at nothing. Birds were singing but he didn’t hear them. Some children were playing somewhere, happy laughter and shouting, but he didn’t hear that, either. All he could hear was his own thoughts. He was working hard, but soon got tangled up. His cell rang in his pocket. He answered with a muttered “Hello?”
“Lars?”
“Yes?”
“This is Terese.”
Sara’s friend, she was sobbing down the line.
“Can we talk for a bit? I can’t bear going ’round with my own thoughts.…”
Lars wasn’t following.
“Thoughts about what?”
Terese was crying.
“What is it, Terese?”
Silence. “You don’t know?”
“What?”
Terese sobbed that Sara was dead, that she’d suffered heart failure the night before last.
The universe turned itself inside out, the sky split apart. He opened the car door and threw up on the street.
Mikhail had gotten the call in the middle of the night. Klaus sounded tired but in good humor.
“Can you come and get me?”
“How are you feeling?”
“How does anyone feel when they’ve had a bullet in their guts?” Klaus said.
“I don’t know. Only how it feels to get a bullet in the thigh, shoulder, chest … and grenade shrapnel in your ass.”
They laughed. Mikhail hung up, packed a bag, and headed off to the airport early the next morning. He took the first flight to Scandinavia. He ended up in Copenhagen, where he caught another flight to Stockholm.
The same routine once again. Renting a car in a false name at Arlanda, driving to the weapons nut in Enskede and picking up a new, untraceable pistol. Then he drove to the Karolinska Hospital.
Mikhail was tired of Volvos, blond people, and the façade of social welfare—he was tired of Sweden.
Hector was talking to Adalberto over a secure line. Adalberto told him that the money from the Ericsson job was secure. Hector did the calculations in his head, as did Adalberto.
“Hector, before we go on … Hanke tried to contact me. A Roland Gentz called, asking for my opinion on their proposal.”
“What proposal?”
“That was my question too.…”
“And?”
“They’re not backing down.”
“Where are we at the moment?”
Adalberto was silent. Hector could hear him drinking from a glass, heard him crunch an ice cube between his teeth.
“I’ve got lawyers suing them from all directions. I want to fight the battle on that front instead. This business with guns and cars is starting to feel a bit tiresome. But take care. They seem to be up to something.… That man, Gentz, made threats. He was very clear.”
“We have to deal with them sooner or later, Dad.”
“Later. Let’s see how my new move develops.”
Hector lit a cigarillo. Adalberto drank some more.
“I’ve spoken to Don Ignacio. He’s calmed down, told me that you and Alfonse got on well together.”
“We’re going to meet up before he goes home.… Go through the details.”
Adalberto muttered something that Hector couldn’t hear, then went on. “Leszek and I have been doing some work, the pipeline will soon be running again. The captain’s changed ships.”
Hector thought.
“What does that mean, the captain’s changed ships?”
“Nothing clever. Like I said, he’s changed ships. Sold the old one, bought a new one. The same deal applies. The goods are being driven from Ciudad del Este and he’ll pick them up in Paranaguá in a week. A new cargo will be arriving in Rotterdam at the end of the month. We’re up and running again.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“I don’t know. But we didn’t have any choice, did we?”
Hector didn’t answer that. “How’s Sonya?”
“She keeps to herself.”
“How are you, Dad?”
Adalberto didn’t answer at once, as if the question had unsettled him.
“No better than I deserve …,” he said quietly.
Hector smoked in Stockholm, Adalberto sipped his drink in Marbella. They just sat there for a while in each other’s company.
Hector hung up, and thought for a while on his own. He was interrupted when the doorbell rang out in the hall. Aron went past the office.
“Are we expecting anyone?” he asked.
Hector shook his head and took a revolver out of the desk drawer. Aron took his, fitted with a silencer, from the bookcase. They went toward the door.
Aron could see two men through the peephole. He didn’t recognize either of them and waved Hector over, who looked through and shook his head. Aron gestured to Hector to stand back.
He tucked his gun inside the waistband of his trousers, opened the door, and smiled amiably at Håkan Zivkovic and his sidekick, Leffe Rydbäck.
“Yes?” Aron said.
They both had cropped hair and were wearing sneakers and cheap clothes from a cheap men’s clothing chain, and stupid bulletproof vests that bulged beneath their jackets. The sidekick had a potato nose, was a head shorter than Zivkovic, and very nervous, which he was trying to hide beneath a constant scowl.
“We’re looking for Aron or Hector.” Zivkovic sounded cocky.
“On what business?” said Aron.
“A proposal.”
“If you wouldn’t mind putting your proposal in writing and sending it to us, we’ll get back to you. Thanks.”
He was about to close the door when Håkan Zivkovic shoved it open. Aron let the men push their way in; they were nervous and threatening.
They got into the hall, and Håkan shoved Aron with both hands. It was an odd shove, as if it was intended to make Aron scared, get him off balance. Hector stepped forward.
“Hello. How can I help you?”
Zivkovic and his sidekick lost their thread. The sidekick drew a pistol and held it nervously.
“Shut up and sit down. We do the talking,” Zivkovic said.
Aron and Hector allowed themselves to be threatened. They went into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Zivkovic and his sidekick remained standing.
“Now, listen to me,” Zivkovic said, taking a few steps around the room.
Aron and Hector looked at him, the poor bastard was really rather tragic.
“You’ve made threats against one of my clients.”
“Oh, who?” Aron asked.
Zivkovic’s gaze darted about.
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It must, surely?” Hector said.
Zivkovic hadn’t expected to be questioned.
“No, it doesn’t.”
/> “Who?” said Hector.
The sidekick waved his gun at them.
“You know perfectly well who I’m talking about.”
“No …”
Zivkovic fixed his eyes on Hector.
“Leffe will shoot if I tell him to, he’s killed people before.”
Hector looked at the sidekick in astonishment.
“Leffe? Have you killed people before?”
Leffe tried to look fierce, and nodded. Zivkovic resumed his commanding march around the room.
“Withdraw your threats, or you’ll be in serious trouble. You have my word on that. We know who you are, and where to find you.”
Zivkovic didn’t like the fact that the men were smiling. Hector raised his hand.
“OK, it’s time for you to leave,” he said calmly, standing up.
“Sit down, for fuck’s sake!”
Zivkovic was shouting like a soldier. Aron stood up beside Hector. They were smiling at his presumption, they were smiling at his total ignorance of who he was dealing with. Zivkovic was about to say something when Aron pulled out his revolver from behind his back. It happened fast. The silencer made a puffing sound as he fired two shots into Leffe Rydbäck’s bulletproof vest. Leffe fell backward, dropping his gun in the fall. Hector launched himself forward at the same moment, grabbed Zivkovic by the neck, and pulled him to the floor, then hit him hard in the face, twice. Hector pressed his knee into Zivkovic’s cheek and turned his head toward Leffe, who was lying on his back a short distance away, gasping for breath.
“Now watch what happens when people come into my home with guns in their hands,” he whispered.
Aron yanked open Leffe’s bulletproof vest and tugged it off him, pulled up Leffe’s head and tucked the vest down behind him. Leffe didn’t understand what was going on.
Aron pressed his pistol to Leffe Rydbäck’s heart and fired two shots. The bullets went through his body and got caught in the bulletproof vest. The floor escaped damage, Leffe died on the spot. Zivkovic screamed like a small child and started crying.
“Who are you?” Hector asked.
Håkan was staring at his dead friend with tearful eyes.
“My name’s Håkan Zivkovic.”
Hector removed his knee and rolled Zivkovic over.
“Are you scared now, Håkan?”
Zivkovic couldn’t get a word out.
“You weren’t a minute ago.… You were cocky and threatening.… Funny how things change, isn’t it?” Hector took a firm grip of his throat. “Talk.”
“He never said his name,” Zivkovic hissed.
“What did he look like?”
Zivkovic described what Svante Carlgren looked like.
“And what was the purpose of this visit?”
Hector squeezed his neck tighter.
“To frighten you. To let him go, leave him be.”
Hector looked at Zivkovic, the color was starting to drain from his face.
“And if we didn’t?”
“Then we were going to shoot you.”
“That didn’t work … did it?”
Zivkovic shook his head.
“Go back and tell him what happened here, in detail. Make him understand that we’re never going to leave him alone, nor you either.… Remember that, Håkan Zivkovic.”
Hector let go of Zivkovic, who stood up and left the apartment without looking at his dead friend.
Håkan Zivkovic came out the front door and went off along Själagårdsgatan at a half-run. He was pale, his nose was bleeding.… He was on his own and had been roughed up.
Anders called Gunilla and told her what he had just witnessed. There was silence on the line.
“On his own?” she said, as if the question would give her more time to think.
“Yes.”
“So maybe your plan worked?”
Anders didn’t answer.
“And the other one’s still up there?”
“I’d rather not think about what state he’s in.”
“OK … then it’s high time. Isn’t it, Anders?”
“I’d have to agree with that.”
22
The German had woken up half an hour ago, causing a great commotion on the ward.
The doctor’s name was Patrik Bergkvist. He had curly hair, was thirty-eight years old, and wore a helmet when he cycled to work. Dr. Bergkvist was sitting on the edge of the bed looking into Klaus’s eyes with a small flashlight he kept in the top pocket of his white coat. Klaus looked back as a nurse hovered in the background. Patrik was trying out his schoolboy German.
“Do you remember your name?”
Klaus looked irritated.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name, then?”
“None of your business.”
Patrik tried to keep his composure.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“None of your business.”
Patrik wasn’t prepared for that response. His patients usually treated him with respect, and he didn’t like losing face when there were nurses present. He switched off the flashlight.
“We’ve removed the bullet. You were lucky, it didn’t cause any permanent damage to your internal organs. You’ll have some discomfort for a while, though.”
“Danke,” Klaus said quietly.
Patrik nodded.
“The police want to talk to you. Do you feel up to that?”
“No.”
“I’m going to call them anyway, I think you’re up to it.”
Dr. Bergkvist left the room, went into the little office that was squeezed between two hospital rooms, and found the number that the police had left. He called it and someone named Gunilla Strandberg answered. She turned out to be a very pleasant woman.
“How bad is he?” she asked.
Patrik Bergkvist rambled on with his expert doctor’s talk. She interrupted him when she decided he was just showing off.
Klaus was sitting up in bed leafing through a Swedish gossip magazine. He looked at pictures of King Carl Gustaf, Queen Silvia, Carl Philip, and Madeleine, all standing on a lawn in front of a white palace somewhere, waving. Victoria and her husband weren’t there. Maybe they were away on some trip. He recognized all of them. Rudiger, his boyfriend, was crazy about the royal families of Europe.
The door opened. Anders nodded slightly as they walked into the room. Klaus looked him up and down. Then looked in disgust at the porcine Berglund following closely behind.
“Are you feeling OK?”
Anders’s German was good. He pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Who are you?” Klaus asked.
Hasse pulled out his police ID.
“You were shot?” Anders asked.
Klaus continued paging through the magazine. Kikki Danielsson was sitting at a pine kitchen table in her lovely home.
“What’s your name?”
Klaus looked up, showed no intention of answering.
“We can help you, that’s why we’re here.”
Anders was demonstrating great patience as Klaus turned another page. Someone named Christer, with a very big head, was holding his tiny little wife. Christer was evidently very fond of Elvis Presley and liked to spice up the usual dismal Swedish décor with shiny gold bathroom taps. Anders leaned forward and gently took the magazine from Klaus’s hands.
“I’ve got some other things for you to look at.”
Anders put the magazine aside and pulled a folded A4 envelope from inside his jacket. He opened it and looked through a number of photographs. Klaus waited, glancing quickly at Hasse, who was standing over by the window. Anders pulled out a picture of Hector and held it up in front of Klaus.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Anders looked at Klaus, who was looking at Hector. Klaus shook his head. “No …”
Anders held up a picture of Aron Geisler, Klaus shook his head. Anders held up a picture of Sophie Brinkmann, Klaus shook his head. Anders held up a picture of a random criminal from th
e police archive. A reaction from Klaus, as if he had spent a microsecond too long searching his memory. Klaus shook his head.
“He knows,” Anders said to Hasse in Swedish.
Anders reverted to German again.
“You’re lying there with a gunshot wound. We know you were driven here by someone. Who?”
Klaus shrugged his shoulders.
“Who shot you?”
Klaus didn’t answer.
Anders changed tack.
“Let’s start again. Who dropped you off here at the hospital?”
Klaus glared blankly at him.
“If you tell us how you got here, what you know about Hector Guzman, we’ll let you go, in return for possibly having to testify at some point.”
Klaus let out a big, relaxing yawn, reached for the gossip magazine beside Anders, and started to look through it again. Then he looked up and smiled at Anders.
“OK, as soon as the doctor says you’re well enough, we’ll lock you up in prison until you decide to talk.”
Klaus was still smiling when Anders and Hasse left him.
Anders and Hasse walked down the corridor. The door at the far end opened. A large man came walking toward them with a sort of rolling gait. The corridor looked like it was one size too small for him.
They met halfway. The big man didn’t so much as glance at them, just marched past purposefully.
Anders stopped after a few steps, and looked back at him.
“Anders?” Hasse asked.
He turned toward Hasse as if he was still stuck in a thought, a memory.
“What is it, Anders?”
Anders turned around again and looked at Mikhail, who was opening the door to Klaus’s room.
“It’s him.…”
“Who?”
“The big guy, that’s his partner, the one I saw going into Trasten.”
“Are you sure?”
“No …”
“But?”
“But what the hell …”
Anders drew his pistol and walked back toward Klaus’s room. Hasse drew his, and followed him with long strides.
Mikhail had opened the door of the cupboard, pulled out Klaus’s clothes, and tossed them on the bed. The door flew open behind him. He turned around, saw a man, saw an arm, saw a raised pistol. Mikhail reacted instinctively. He shot out his hand, grabbed Anders’s arm, and pulled it toward him. A shot went off. Klaus screamed. From the corner of his eye, another man with a drawn gun; Mikhail was still working on instinct. He twisted Anders around, still with his hand on the pistol, pulled it free, and aimed the barrel at Hasse, his finger squeezing the trigger.
The Andalucian Friend: A Novel Page 35