by Jens Lapidus
She was sitting in bed with her iPhone. Checking out some news app.
She’d propped up her back with a couple of small pillows that usually belonged in the armchair. She was wearing her pink velour Juicy Couture tracksuit. She didn’t bother with Facebook today. Didn’t want to be forced into some chat with so-called friends she’d never even wanted to have on there. Didn’t want to see other people’s status updates—small deceitful brag blogs with one sole purpose: to show off a happy, pleasant, nasty little life. She didn’t want to have to see any more party photos from Louise and Tove’s latest dinner or night out. She wanted to avoid all the pathetic wall threads.
But her worry was beginning to transform into something else, thoughts that burned in her mind. Whoever it was who’d shot Dad, they had to find him. Whoever it was, he had to be punished. When she thought about the shots in the parking garage, Natalie could think of only one word: revenge.
Mom appeared to be in a trance. She was stressed out, said there was so much that had to be taken care of. Natalie wondered whether Mom was feeling what she was feeling.
Stefanovic’d been there. During the day, he ordered workers around who were installing new alarm systems, switched out the regular glass panes in the windows for more durable materials, built new barred gates inside the front doors, and set up new surveillance cameras outside the gravel driveway, in the garage, under the roof along each long end of the house, and above the front and kitchen entrances. They’d even set up cameras on small poles out on the front lawn. Afterward Stefanovic’d walked around and inspected the work that’d been done over the past few days. He personally set up a portable alarm box in every room—like little remote controls for safety. He checked the motion sensors on the windows, the outdoor and indoor alarms that were connected directly to different security companies. And to him. The police couldn’t be trusted in this racist Sweden Democrat country.
To put it simply: Stefanovic was everywhere, all at once. Always with some important thing to do.
He even slept at the office, which was to say in Dad’s study. A foldout cot and a bag with clothes and stuff was the only thing he’d brought. For all eventualities, as he said.
The aim was to make them feel safe. But after a few days, new workers showed up and started building a room. The rec room was sectioned off with a wall, put up in a metal frame—and they installed large beams both in the ceiling and along the walls. They put in new water pipes, did the electrical wiring, dealt with safety features, and installed metal panels on the walls and floor.
“This is a safe room,” Stefanovic explained to Natalie and Mom. “We’ve reinforced the windows and the doors in the whole house so that help will have time to make it here. But if someone really wants to hurt us, if the windows don’t hold, then you need to go into this new room. It can handle a lot. It’s better than a tank.”
The fact that they were building a safe room in their house was crazy in and of itself. But there was something else: he’d said “us”—as if he were part of the family. As if he’d stepped in as the new dad.
After a few days, Stefanovic moved out and a new guy named Patrik moved in. Natalie’d met him a few times before. Patrik wasn’t a Serb—he was an ultra Sven, looked liked an oversized soccer hooligan: faded tattoos with Viking motifs and runic writing that wound its way up along his throat and neck. Patrik wore T-shirts that said HACKETT and FRED PERRY on them, Adidas sneakers, chinos, and a side part.
Normally: Natalie wouldn’t have trusted a racist pig like that for a second. But Patrik’d worked in Dad’s company and had done time in prison for him. She’d even been with Dad at the guy’s gate-out party three years ago.
Stefanovic said Patrik would live with them on a more permanent basis than he’d been doing himself. He moved into the guest room instead of the study. They set up a weapons locker and a proper wardrobe where Patrik hung up his polo shirts. He put a little flag in the window: the soccer team AIK’s emblem on one side and an image of a rat on the other, dressed in an AIK jersey.
“Patrik will be good for you,” Stefanovic said. “Until things’ve calmed down. He’s a pretty fun guy. I think you’re going to like him.”
A few days later. The builders, fitters, installers, security consultants’d stopped swarming their house. Now they were surrounded by electronics and reinforced glass. They’d had a home alarm system for as long as Natalie could remember, so that wasn’t new. But all the new codes, voice recognition readers, and cameras irritated her. It was like Stefanovic’d built them into a bunker.
But she was back online for real, on Facebook. Couldn’t avoid the place forever.
In a way, it was nice to be back: everything was the same. Louise with as many pics of herself with a champagne glass in hand as usual. Tove with as many idiotic status updates as usual.
Louise wrote to her in the chat, Natalie! Haven’t seen you here in ages!
Natalie responded in a more tempered way, You know how it is.
Yes :-( but how are you doing?
Better.
Louise wrote, You’re invited to a party at Jet Set Carl’s ;-) Did you know?
Natalie couldn’t really take it all in. Sometimes Louise seemed to think everything was just like normal.
Later that night Patrik strode into the kitchen and positioned himself in the doorway. Natalie’d had a smoothie that she’d made herself—her appetite was better now.
Patrik waited for her to look up. “Viktor’s coming. He’s parking his car on the street.”
Natalie nodded. Thought: Stefanovic’s cameras were obviously working as they should. Except Natalie already knew that Viktor was on his way. He’d texted her and asked if he could come.
She got up, walked out into the hall. A framed map of Europe was hanging on the wall. It looked old. The borders were different than today, from, like, before the First World War.
The front door was new, made of metal. Before, they’d had one with a square window in it. Now there was a flat monitor beside the door. On it, she could see Viktor opening the gate farther off. She’d texted him the code for the gate. He walked up the path. Dressed in his Italian sweater and patched jeans. He stopped for a few seconds. Straightened up. Stared straight ahead. Rang the doorbell.
The new locks were difficult. She opened the door.
They hugged. Viktor kissed her on the mouth. He asked how she was doing. Then he stopped. Natalie looked at him. His gaze floated past her, in toward the house.
Natalie turned around.
Patrik was standing farther back in the hall. Watching. Controlling. Guarding.
“Don’t mind him,” Natalie said. “He lives here now. You know, after what happened.”
Later. They’d watched The Blind Side, which Viktor had on his iPad. Basic gist: Sandra Bullock was nice and helped build up an American football hero. A cute movie, of course—that’s what real life was like. Not.
They were lying in Natalie’s full-size bed. Was cramped compared to Viktor’s king-size one. It felt weird, sleeping together at her house.
Usually they hung out at his place, in his rented one-bedroom on Östermalm. He’d paid a lot of money for an off-the-books rental contract, but couldn’t afford to buy anything of his own.
Viktor, bare-chested. It was nice. When the movie was over, he stood in front of the mirror and inspected his own tattoos. He had some tribal motif over his right biceps and shoulder—long, pointy black flames that wound into one another and up onto his neck. On his left forearm in curlicue lettering: 850524-0371—his own personal identification number—and two all-black five-pointed stars. And on the other side, written along his entire forearm in Gothic gangsta lettering: BORN TO BE KING—like on a Latino gangster from South L.A. That’s what Viktor thought, anyway.
She looked at him. Viktor’s tattoos were so silly compared to the ones that decorated the forearms of Dad’s business contacts and friends. Goran’s half-faded tattoo: the double eagle and the four Cyrillic letters CCCC—
the Serbian Republic of Krajina’s national coat of arms. Milorad’s Indian feathers: ugly, 1980s-looking, monochrome. Or Stefanovic, walking past her bare-chested once at a pool when she was a little girl. She’d never forget the tattoo that covered his chest over his heart: a crucifix with a snake wrapped around it. She liked Viktor. But was he right for her?
The velvet reading chair that’d belonged to Grandma in Belgrade was standing in one corner of her room. Dad’d had it delivered when Natalie was born. Hanging from the ceiling was a white lamp with tulle around it. Along one wall was a bookshelf with some books in it: Camilla Läckberg mysteries, Marian Keyes paperbacks, Zadie Smith’s novels, and two books by that lawyer writer. The bookshelf also held framed photos from language trips to France and England: Louise’s gleaming smile, platinum-blond hair, and abnormal tits. Tove’s sunburned arms holding up a bottle of Moët & Chandon. Several pictures of Natalie herself at different places in Paris: the bar at La Société, the dance floor at Batofar. Two photos of Richie, Natalie’s Chihuahua that’d died three years ago.
She’d brought out some favorite pairs of shoes from her walk-in closet and put them in the bottom of the bookshelf—it was almost like an installation. Black pumps from Jimmy Choo made completely in leather netting, a pair of red patent-leather Guccis, a pair of crazy Blahniks with feathers at the ankle strap. Shoes for thousands of euros. Daddy’s money was good to have.
She liked her room. Still: she could feel it clearly—it was time to move away from home, soon.
They turned the lights off. Almost pitch black. Viktor was playing with his watch. Held it up to their faces. It glowed in the dark.
“I bought a new one. What do you think?”
Natalie squinted. “I can’t actually see that much.”
“No, but you can see how crazy glow-in-the-dark it is—check out the twelve and the six. They’re the strongest. It’s a Panerai Luminor Regatta. Really sick, if I say so myself. Almost an inch thick. The Italian air force used to wear these.”
He put his arm around her.
“I think I’m going to be admitted to law school after the summer,” she said.
“Cool. And what’re you gonna do until then?”
“It’s summer soon, so I’m just gonna chill. You know the situation right now.”
“Yeah, I understand. But do you like my new watch?”
Natalie wondered how he could afford to buy that new watch. But maybe he was going to get money soon—that’s what he said anyway. Viktor’d seemed distant lately, only cared about himself and his job. Talked about how he was going to make some massive deal happen any day now, that he was going to hit the big time.
Maybe it wasn’t time just to move away from home. Maybe it was time to dump this guy too.
Natalie realized she was awake. She turned over on her side. The pillow was cool. She squeezed her toes together. Threw her arm out. Searched for Viktor.
She couldn’t reach him. No Viktor. She opened her eyes.
He wasn’t in bed.
Natalie raised her head. He was not in the room.
Her cell phone read: eight forty-five. She wondered where he’d gone.
She set her feet down on the carpet: a green-grass-colored shag. Like a lawn in her room, a sense of summer year round.
Natalie put on the white silk robe that Mom’d given her before she left for Paris. She tied the belt around her waist.
Past the guest room. Patrik wasn’t there. Then through the hallway. There he was, Patrik. Waiting, watching. She walked past the TV room. She peered down the stars into the rec and safe rooms. Goran was standing at a window, looking out.
She walked toward the kitchen. Wanted to talk to Mom. Wanted to drink a cup of tea. Wanted to find out where Viktor’d disappeared to.
She opened the door. Stefanovic was sitting in there, talking to a man she’d seen before. Big build, mouse-colored hair, Swedish. According to Dad, he was a former cop. The man got up, offered her his hand.
“Good morning, Natalie. Do you recognize me? My name is Thomas Andrén. I’m sorry that we had to drive your boyfriend home.”
His grip was firm—but not in that exaggerated way that many of Dad’s employees used.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “I thought there’d been enough people in this house lately.” The comment was directed at Stefanovic.
Thomas Andrén smiled. Said, “Your dad is coming home in an hour.”
*
Those who are best in my domain are the ones who are able to discern patterns the quickest. I thought I was one of them.
Humans are creatures of habit. A creature that functions in accordance with structures. Every person’s way of moving and living their life becomes a pattern, a structure that must be dissected and analyzed.
It was a failure. I acted like an amateur, a rookie, a B-player who tried to go through with the attack without proper insight. I didn’t even get in touch with my employer. I was ashamed, like a child who gets his knuckles rapped.
I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events in the days that followed. Why did things end up the way they did? I went through my notes. Looked at my surveillance photos, cleaned and checked my weapons. Reached the same conclusion over and over again. First of all: I know that he almost always wears a protective vest. Still, I chose a distance that demanded shots to the body. Second of all: I know he usually has a bodyguard. Still, I chose a location where it was easy to protect him.
What’s more, when he’d exited the elevator and was about to step into the line of fire, Radovan’d veered to the right instead of to the left, where his car was parked. He’d arrived in one car but decided to leave in another. I should have aborted the mission at that point.
I thought about the hit that I executed against Puljev in 2004, at that discothèque in St. Petersburg. I made my way past four bodyguards and shot him at a distance of sixteen feet. I knew he wore a bulletproof vest. One shot to the forehead was all it took, I could handle it at that distance.
But Radovan wasn’t stupid.
I admit to myself that I underestimated him. I thought that little Serb would be more naïve and less vigilant than his peers out in Europe just because he was the king of peaceful Sweden. But I was the one who was naïve. I was the one who was unvigilant.
My client obviously knew that I’d failed. The Swedish newspapers apparently loved to hate Radovan Kranjic. I saw pictures on news bills, understood fragments of headlines, flipped through page-long special features.
But I knew an opening would arise somewhere.
All I had to do was wait. In the end, my client would get what he wanted.
10
Jorge was sitting at one of the surf computers at a 7-Eleven.
7-Eleven: colorful signs about special deals. Coffee and a bun for only fifteen kronor—these were the kinds of places that seriously tripped up real café owners. J-boy drank a Red Bull instead.
His duffel bag was at his feet. In the duffel: a gat. Walther PPK. The police’s old model. Plus four full magazines. The thought that was burning in his head: What if something happened? At the same time: nothing could happen. He was just sitting here, surfing—chill, nothing suspicious. Drop the paranoia, huevon.
He needed to concentrate. Repeated one of the Finn’s rules to himself: no surfing on your own computer. Always left a trail. IP addresses, stuff on the computer’s hard drive. Jorge was no hacker, but he understood this much: the five-oh always managed to dig shit up, even if you deleted it. So 7-Eleven was perfect—he could do his surfing on public waves.
The research for the day: places on the Web that sold jammers.
The Finn’d given him a few addresses he thought would work. Jorge was even prepared to head to Poland and pick up a jammer on the spot.
He gulped some Red Bull. A sweet artificial taste. Still good.
He needed the energy. The past couple of days: he’d worked 110 percent with the CIT plan. Never dropped the hit. Endless planning and shit to take care
of. Constantly on his mind. The café had to run itself for a while—they gave Beatrice more responsibility.
He glanced away from the computer. The evening papers were screaming out the latest global headline: YOUR COUGH COULD BE A FATAL ILLNESS. That was standard news in those shit papers. Some headlines Jorge’d seen over the past few years: HEADACHES: A LETHAL AFFLICTION. STOMACHACHES ARE EXTREMELY SERIOUS. STUBBLE CAN BE AN INDICATION OF DEATH. According to those rags: Jorge should’ve been deader than Michael Jackson and 2Pac combined ten years ago at least.
Still: today was the first day they weren’t going on about the attempted murder of Radovan the Cock Kranjic. Too bad—Jorge liked the fact that someone’d tried to pop that fucker.
Back to the plan. The keys to a successful hit, according to the Finn: advance planning, serious preparation, tight players. Jorge called it his mandamientos. Every part: a commandment. A foundation. A pillar. Every mandamiento: a law that CIT kings followed.
Detailed breakdown: advance planning, necessary for any pro. The Finn never let up about that: it was truer than all Scorsese films combined. Didn’t matter how ill your plans were—if you started scheming too short before the hit, you were gonna run into trouble. Without good lead time, the pigs’d be able to trace your tracks back in time. They were like fighting dogs: once their jaws clamped down, they didn’t release their grip. Cracked your excuses like an egg against a frying pan.
Jorge knew even more. Buddies who’d been busted told stories you couldn’t trust. They were always soo smart. But J-boy was smarter. He read up on things on his own. Got help from Tom Lehtimäki to order a bunch of court records. Courts all over Sweden sent fat stacks of paper to a P.O. box he’d rigged under a false name. The heli-robbery, the Akalla robbery, the Hallunda robbery. Jorge studied hard, sat with paper and pen in hand. Learned the mistakes others’d made. The clowns who’d fucked up—hadn’t had tight alibis, babbled like bitches in the police interrogations, hadn’t clocked that the cops might’ve had wiretaps, lived it up like billionaires in the days immediately following their hits. He understood how the police traced the steps you’d taken. How they questioned you on the spot when you were picked up. Pressured you in interrogations at the police station. Pulled fast ones on you in the courtrooms.