by Jens Lapidus
He continued to talk about how his competitors sold shit at lower prices. That his landlord’d raised the rent. Natalie was only half-listening—deep down, she was interested in business, but Viktor’s stuff felt banal somehow.
And anyway, she was beginning to sense where he was going with this.
“I have to pay off the loans. It’s not exactly an ordinary bank that I owe the money to. And then I’ve got some other debt here and there. Taxes too. Things’re tight, actually. You know, at first I was thinking of just lighting the whole shit on fire and pulling an insurance scam.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“No, not me either, really. An insurance scam would’ve been dumb—the insurance companies are like hawks. So I don’t know what to do. Quit? If I can’t pay the rent, I could end up in bankruptcy and shit like that. Do you know what that means? If I can’t pay the taxes, I might end up in personal bankruptcy too. And if I can’t pay my debt, I might really end up in trouble. It’s not good, baby. Really, it isn’t.”
She looked at him. Obviously she knew what bankruptcy was. At least five of the companies Dad owned’d folded. And to not repay debt to the wrong people—she wasn’t stupid, of course she understood.
Viktor could look so sad. While she knew what he was getting at with this conversation, she regretted not having made her stance clear about ten minutes ago. She didn’t want to mix worlds—she wanted to keep Viktor out of Dad’s sphere. And above all: the other way around.
She got up. Made sure to end the conversation before it went any further.
“I have to deal with my college applications now.”
It was true.
Three hours with the online application to the law program. Really, you didn’t need high school transcripts or standardized tests—anyone who succeeded in filling out these forms correctly was obviously intelligent enough.
She thought about Louise again: she was already in her second year at the university. It seemed pretty chill: Louise updated her Facebook status, like, twenty times every morning. They were mostly about all her constant coffee breaks.
It was almost time for the heavyweight match. Dad said that it was the one everyone had come to see. And the thing was that a Serb was going up in the ring: Lazar Tomic from Belgrade, a real UFC fighter. He was facing off against a guy from Sweden: Reza Yunis.
When Serbia was competing, it was serious stuff.
The emcee introduced the fighters.
When the Swede’s name was called out, the arena really exploded. At least ten thousand male voices roared. Support. Strength. Supremacy.
The gong sounded, the first round began. Dad delivered a stream of commentary about what was happening into Natalie’s ear. Yunis was apparently pushing hard and rocking a high tempo against Tomic. Only a few seconds into the fight, he was flat on the ring floor after the Swede swept him down. Yunis jumped on top of him. Fed punches at the Serb’s face. Tomic tried to protect himself, block as much as he could. The seconds kept on ticking. He succeeded in wrapping his legs around the Swede. They rolled around. Made it back up on their feet. Danced around each other and kicked at hip height.
The round ended.
Extreme Affliction Heroes: MMA in its finest form. Everything was allowed except for head-butting, biting, poking in the eyes, or hitting the back of the head or groin.
Dad asked if she wanted something to drink. He sent Goran during the break. He returned with mineral water for her right before the second round was about to begin.
Dad kept talking. “Tomic has competed a lot in the U.S. He is good at feinting and uneven shifts in tempo. He likes to take it slow for a while before he comes back strong. We’ll see.”
Natalie was getting bored. They were fighting like crazy up there. Kicks to the shins, jabs to the body, different grips when they were down on the mat. Knees in ribs, jabs to the head, punch after punch to the face. The people around her were howling. The fighters up in the ring panted, wrestled, and circled around and around, like dudes in a bar who are about to launch a pick-up ambush on a girl.
She played with her iPhone. Played Bubble Ball. Checked the hours at the gym. Navigated Facebook—Louise’s status: “Home again after a sweet afternoon with the girls at Foam café.”
Well, compared to that, Extreme Affliction Heroes was damn exciting.
Something wet. Drops of sweat from Tomic landed on Natalie’s forehead.
Goran looked at her.
“Nice,” she said.
Third round. They continued their war. Tomic, Dad’s hero, was dominating more and more. Natalie was only half-watching. Now and then she glanced down at her phone.
Stefanovic, Goran, and one more of Dad’s cronies, Milorad, had stood up. Were so into the fight that, when Tomic took a hit, it almost looked like they were getting whipped too.
Natalie tried to concentrate during the last seconds of the fight.
Tomic used his knees well, but so did Yunis. Tomic jabbed and tried to sweep. Yunis got up close and threw punches at Tomic’s kidneys. Tomic tore free and attacked with hard jabs to the Swede’s head. But, unexpected: Tomic’s swings didn’t bite, Yunis shadowed him so that Tomic ended up on the mat instead. The Swede threw himself over him. Pressed Tomic’s arms down with his knees. Showered punches over his face. Tomic tried to twist out of his grasp. But he was stuck. Natalie saw how Yunis’s fists pounded into Tomic’s nose, landed on his chin, cheeks. Tomic almost seemed to give up.
But then he made a swift move. They rolled around and ended up next to each other. Suddenly the Serb was fast. He gripped Yunis’s head between his thighs. Pushed. Pressed. Yunis’s face grew redder and redder. Tomic continued to squeeze his thighs together. The Swede was being suffocated. The referee nudged Tomic. The Serb ignored him, continued to strangle the Swede.
The referee nudged him again. Yunis’s face was growing blue.
The referee pushed Tomic aside—he stood up.
Everyone waited.
Yunis didn’t move.
Joy rushed through Natalie. She stood up. She pumped her fist in the air. “Yes!”
The Swede remained where he was. The referee counted off.
“One.
“Two.
“Three.”
Emergency medical personnel rushed up into the ring. Natalie sat back down.
Dad was still standing up. Screaming, “Ostani. Stay where you are! Keep lying there. Don’t get up, pićko, you pussy!”
“Four.
“Five.
“Six.”
The arena was in uproar. Was the Swede even alive? The EMT guy bent down, yelled into Yunis’s ear.
“Seven.
“Eight.”
Yunis stirred where he was on the mat. Sucked after air.
The referee was holding nine fingers in the air.
“Nine.”
It was over.
When they left, Goran walked first. Divided the swaths of people the way Stefanovic’d done on the way in. Kind of like a president with bodyguards—all fans and photographers: step aside. Except now it wasn’t as easily done as when they’d arrived. The crowd pushed. Stefanovic walked behind Natalie and Dad at an angle and made sure the space around them widened. Milorad was walking behind her.
It felt good. High spirits. Lazar Tomic—a hero. Extreme Affliction Heroes, a success. They talked about the fight, laughed, recounted over and over again: Tomic’s thigh muscles, Yunis’s bluish-purple face.
It was a good day. They were going to go eat at Clara’s Kitchen & Bar, all of them together. Still, Natalie felt strange. An uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something unpleasant.
They reached the parking garage. People were streaming out of the elevators. The cars were queuing up, on their way out into the Stockholm night.
Stefanovic was going to drive Natalie. Dad was going to ride with Goran and Milorad. She saw his Lexus over there. He turned around to hug her, said, “See you soon.” Kissed her on the forehead like he alwa
ys did.
That’s when she heard something.
Sharp sounds. Bangs.
Like fireworks.
Natalie saw Dad in front of her. His movements were choppy. As if she were seeing what was happening image by image in a video-editing program. As if she were watching the frames in an animated movie. Small changes like jerky breaks in the flow. She saw everything: shifts in people’s gestures, expressions, ways of breathing.
Another bang echoed through the parking garage.
And again.
The movement around her stopped.
Dad screamed, “I’ve been shot!”
After that everything happened so quickly. Stefanovic threw himself over him. Pressed Dad down onto the ground. A second later she was lying with Goran on top of her. She saw Milorad waving a gun around. Yelling at people to stay back.
Everyone was screaming.
She could feel Goran pulling her. The parking garage looked so small.
She saw Dad underneath Stefanovic.
She saw a puddle of blood, spreading.
She saw his hand, still on the concrete floor.
No.
NO.
7
The first real recruit—Tom Lehtimäki said yes, of course. The dude was smart. Two, three million in cash, straight up. Or whatever his cut would be. RIP—right in pocket. Not even he could swing that much in such short time, no matter how many number-juggling tricks he had up his sleeve.
In the days that followed, Jorge spoke with Sergio, Robert Progat, and Javier—in that order.
They were all of the same opinion: Your Royal Highness Jorge Bernadotte, you’re Jesus, man. Obviously everyone wanted in.
OBVIOUSLY.
The team was taking shape. The group was growing. The pieces were falling into place.
Heat, Reservoir Dogs, Ocean’s Eleven—this time it was for real.
At the same time: Stockholm’d just been hit with the scoop of the decade.
The news of the century. The highlight of the fucking millennium—someone’d tried to pop Radovan. The Yugo boss, to Jorge: his hate was so deep, it dug a ditch inside him. He’d attacked Mr. R’s interests before: the hit to Smådalarö, the shots in the brothel in Hallonbergen. And in his dreams: over and over again. One sweet day J-boy would crush the Yugo king for good. In other words: the attempt on Radovan’s life was big. Not just for Jorge. For the entire underworld. Everyone was gossiping, ruminating, speculating. Offering their opinions. A transfer of power was in the works, a new king was on his way up the hill. An opening for more players to take over the territory.
But still: he couldn’t focus on that right now. The smartest CIT in history, that’s what counted now. Jorge imagined the newspaper headlines he wanted to read after the fact: No more cash in Stockholm’s ATMs—the robbers got their hands on a record sum. The coup that outdid all previous coups. The biggest CIT heist ever.
The latest recruits: two Svens.
That was the Finn’s original order: “You need a few real Swedes too. To get tools, vehicles, and things like that. People who have more connections in the construction business than you do.”
Jorge didn’t protest. Tom Lehtimäki suggested names. They discussed back and forth. Who you could trust. Who was 100 percent.
Jorge had individual meetings with the two guys Tom suggested.
One of the dudes was named Jimmy. Tiler who reported zero but hauled in cash through off-the-books gigs and flipped construction machinery online. The guy: overly positive, super into it, totally on board.
The other dude: more calm. Talked like he already knew all there was to know. Still, gave off a good vibe—the guy didn’t seem dumb. Ran his own business. Worked with cars and boats. Drove a BMW X6. His name was Viktor.
Tom said Viktor was desperate for cash. The guy’s business was apparently sinking, even if he claimed the opposite. And he was loaded with private debt all the way up to his plucked eyebrows. Jorge saw possibilities: a dude who oughta be prepared to take care of the dirty work.
Jorge thanked Tom for the tips—these guys would be assets.
Jorge and Mahmud met the Finn one more time.
This time: somewhere completely different. The dude: nasty smart—if they’d been snitches, they wouldn’t have been able to tell the five-oh where they were meeting.
Jorge and Mahmud made up different names for him. The Architect, the Planner, the Brain.
They drove the Södra länken highway, the tunnel, straight out toward Nacka.
The regular car, the pickup. But Mahmud’d hung up some green thing with a Muslim text on it in the rearview mirror. He pointed. “It means luck.”
Jorge grinned. “You people believe so much weird shit, amigo.”
“What’s weird about it?”
Jorge slapped his finger on the little piece of plastic with the text on it. It swung back and forth. “What’s this thing supposed to do for our luck? Can you even read it?”
“Quit it. You don’t know shit. That’s the creed. The most important thing we got in our religion. Honest man, it’s the most important thing in the world for everyone. Walla.”
“Okay yeah … sure …” Jorge rocked an ironic style. Mahmud talked a bunch of smack: the dude wasn’t more pious than a Sven.
Mahmud kept his eyes on the road.
“Answer me. Can you read it?”
Outside: heavy rain. The windshield wipers were moving steadily back and forth. The Arab didn’t say anything.
“So, can you or can’t you?”
Continued silence.
Finally, Mahmud: “None of your business.”
The parking lot above the beach was completely empty. Farther off: a shuttered snack stand. A deserted jungle gym. Behind the snack stand: a parked Ford Focus. Was it the Finn’s? What a lame car.
Mahmud parked next to the Ford even though there were tons of empty spots all around.
He switched off the engine. They didn’t say anything. A microsecond: the feeling of a little, little bit of stress. A little, little stomachache. Sort of like something was moving in there.
Jorge opened the passenger door. Winked at Mahmud. “Come on, amigo, let’s go for a swim.”
They walked down to the lake. Spring this year was ice cold. Jorge was too lightly dressed. Track pants and a hoodie. On top of that, a thin red jacket with Formula 1 logos on the back and arms. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up over his head and tightened it. Then he flipped the collar on the jacket up all the way so it formed a kind of tube around his neck. Only his eyes and nose were visible.
The sand was crusted over but still wet. It made squelching sounds.
Mahmud’d wrapped a scarf high up around his neck. Looked like he belonged in Tahrir Square. He pointed out over the lake. “Can you believe there are Svens who go swimming this time of year?”
Jorge shook his head. “Learn one thing, comrade, you’re never gonna understand los Suecos. They’re not from this planet.”
They glimpsed someone, three hundred feet in the distance.
Jorge understood: the meeting spot was perfect. Completely shielded from view. No one could see them from the lake because of the trees. And the dunes were high enough on the other side so that no one could see them from the road either.
The Finn came closer.
Today he was wearing sunglasses despite the weather. A hat and a scarf.
“Where did you park your car?” he asked.
“Next to a Ford Focus,” Jorge said. “Yours?”
The Finn didn’t respond, just said, “Did anyone else drive into the parking lot?”
“No. It was completely empty, except for the Ford.”
“Good. You have to understand that this is like a house of cards. You have to build it the right way, plan the job from the ground up, begin at the beginning. Every single piece has to be perfect. All it takes is one crooked card in the bottom row for the whole shit to come falling down. Do you understand what I’m saying? All it takes is that
you stop paying attention for just one second.”
Jorge and Mahmud mmm’ed. Kept their cool.
“Over the past few years,” the Finn went on, “all the hits’ve gotten more complex. You know that. Ten years ago, it was like stepping into a day-care center and juxing the kiddies for their shovels and buckets. You only needed to follow the CIT companies’ routines for a week, and then one more week. After that you knew exactly how they drove, where they drove, and the security they kept around the transports. It doesn’t work that way anymore. The helicopter robbery was incredibly well planned. And it still went to hell. The pigs woke up.”
They talked for a while. Went over Jorge’s recruits. What topped their to-do list. The Finn wouldn’t give up the whole recipe at once. Instead: piece by piece. They’d have to pick up information at spots designated by him. What a cunt.
He continued to preach. “The thing is, you gotta do the right things the right way. You gotta do the right things, and they’ve gotta be done in the right way.”
The dude talked routines. Never talk about the hit on the phone. Never even have a phone on when you’re talking about it. Switch phone plans as often as possible. Don’t talk with anyone on the outside, not even wives, bros, hos.
“Can we meet the insider?” Jorge asked.
“No, of course not,” the Finn said. “That’s not how things work in this business.”
Jorge thought: the Finn was a cocky fucker. Okay, the dude had an insider in his pocket. He had ideas. But who would be taking all the risks? Who would be doing the dirty work?
In J-boy’s head: a pitch-perfect idea. A thought was taking shape. A plan of his own. He was going to make sure he got paid extra for this gig. This CIT had to benefit him more than the Finn.
He was gonna pinch more for himself. Rip the Finn off.
Somehow.
8
Torsfjäll had sent Hägerström to pick up insider information from a former Serbian hit man. They had mentioned him before, Mrado Slovovic. Sentenced to fourteen years in prison for one of the biggest cocaine-smuggling heists during the 00s.