by Jens Lapidus
Jorge jumped out of the van with Sergio. They walked toward the restaurant. Jimmy’d described the wheel loader: a yellow nineteen-ton Volvo Construction Equipment. Massive like a concrete mountain. The dude’d succeeded: talked to contacts of contacts in the construction biz who’d helped him take it off a guy selling construction equipment in Skogås for thirty large, cash. Still cheap for a monster.
The massive vehicle couldn’t be missed.
Sergio turned to Jorge. He looked pale.
“Hombre, if this goes to hell, what lawyer you want?”
Pessimist question. Still, important. The last time Jorge was convicted, he’d had some tired-ass public defender appointed by the court. That was a long time ago. Before he became a Gangsta with a capital G. Before he was crowned the Coke King of the concrete. Before he’d lived in Thailand.
Jorge answered Sergio, “I don’t know, man. Not the same suit as last time. Maybe Martin Thomasson, or that guy Jörn Burtig. I heard they’re supposed to be ill. Then there’s that new star child. That tall guy. I think his name is Lars Arstedt.”
Sergio was silent.
“But what the fuck, hermano. Calma te. We’re not gonna blow it.”
They walked behind the building. Large windows facing out toward the water. Brown-painted wood.
A small parking lot. Three cars: a Volvo, an Audi, another Volvo. Three empty spots.
No wheel loader.
“It was supposed to be here, right?” Sergio asked. His voice sounded high and pinched.
Jorge looked around. He didn’t see anything that so much as resembled a wheel loader.
He called Tom. “Check with Jimmy or Robert where the wheel loader is.”
How was it possible?
Jorge couldn’t believe it. Like his head’d been beaten in.
No wheel loader.
NO FUCKING WHEEL LOADER.
A thousand thoughts at once.
Like bombs going off inside his skull.
He screamed.
His stomach exploded.
One thought beat out all others: It’s all going to hell.
He threw up everywhere.
23
Hägerström would soon be back in the city. There was a particular reason he was on his way to Stockholm. JW was going on day parole—twenty-four hours—and Hägerström was the one transporting him into Stockholm. The paroles were more frequent these days since he needed to get adjusted to life outside the prison walls.
He and JW had ridden in the prison’s transport car. An interesting drive: they had spoken a great deal. Hägerström was on his way now. On his way into JW’s world. And Torsfjäll was cued in too—if something interesting were to happen today, he was available.
He lived undercover on two fronts. It was one too many.
The weeks inside the prison. The weeks of advances, of kissing ass and trying to win JW’s trust. Maybe he was close to a breakthrough.
But JW was still overly careful. More paranoid than an American ambassador post WikiLeaks. Thought the cops were tapping his phone conversations and his visits. And he was right about that. What’s more, Hägerström had done his best to encourage that line of thinking—the more cautious JW was, the more he would let Hägerström do.
It worked. JW had started asking Hägerström to do him favors more and more. Call in a message to X or Y. Send a text to this number with the following number combination. Print this letter and send it to the bank man there and there.
JW was constantly buying new calling cards for the pay phone—spoke on the phone for at least forty minutes a day. The other inmates started complaining. Some called him the Jew instead of the bookworm—the dude was occupying the phone booth like Israel occupies the Middle East. Mischa Bladman paid him a visit once a week. The fact was that all of his visiting hours were used up by that accounting guy. Torsfjäll bugged the visiting room, but it didn’t give jack shit: either JW and Bladman were whispering, or they were speaking in code.
JW could’ve asked Hägerström to smuggle in another cell phone or an Internet hookup for his computer. But Hägerström made sure the other COs became more watchful about those kinds of things. The unit increased the number of shakedowns and searches. They found other inmates’ porn stashes rolled inside clothes hangers, amphetamine on the drawings given to them by their three-year-old daughters, cell phones in crevices carved into the walls. JW became even more cautious. Refrained from unnecessary risks.
Needed Hägerström even more.
At night, he tried to analyze what was actually happening. The information he had smuggled out. The number combinations, the banks he had called, the e-mails he had sent. A pattern was beginning to crystallize. Some kind of move was in the works. Companies were being liquidated, relationships with banks were being ended, accounts were being closed, and funds were being transferred. Liechtenstein, the Virgin Islands, and the Cayman Islands. Meanwhile other companies were being created, new bank relationships were being made, accounts were being opened, and funds were being transferred to other jurisdictions: Dubai, Liberia, Lithuania, Bahamas, Panama. Credit cards were being ordered, bank guarantees were being proffered, account slips were being sent. Maybe it had to do with changing secrecy laws in certain countries.
But there were never any Swedish names. Always foreign companies and behind them: foreign lawyers, accountants, or other front men.
Torsfjäll raved about terrorist activities. Meanwhile he complained that nothing of significance had been revealed through the wiretapping. He went on and on about how they had to hack into JW’s computer somehow. But Hägerström had other ideas.
Torsfjäll said that he had let an economic crimes specialist go through all of it. That those fucking nigger countries had stronger secrecy regulations than the Swedish Security Service. That the specialist had concluded that it must be a matter of complex money laundering, but that they wouldn’t get any help from any of the nations where the bank accounts were based.
One problem was that they hardly saw any sums actually move from companies or accounts in Sweden. If they had discovered large cash flows, then perhaps they could have traced them from the source. That kind of thing was easier nowadays.
JW and his people must be bringing the money out of the country in cash. Couriers. Or else they had help from some money management service in Sweden: a bank, an exchange office, a credit institution, or something like that.
The question was how it could be proven that what was going on was illegal.
Back in the transport car. First they had talked about the usual stuff. The chow at the prison, other inmates, new routines. JW didn’t say much about what he was going to do on his parole.
Hägerström pushed the conversation in a different direction. Started name-dropping. Old high school friends and buddies of his brother. Financiers, lawyers, industry magnates, heirs, friends of the royal family. Men born into a world that they now owned. Men who lived with their families in townhouses in Östermalm. Men who had owned land in the Uppsala region for generations. Men who had been JW’s role models five years ago, before he was locked up.
Hägerström continued to name-drop from his sister’s friend group. Same story there. Tin-Tin’s friends had been the queens of Stureplan five years ago. When JW had been the number-one wannabe. He ought to recognize most of the names, maybe wonder what they were doing today, if they had boyfriends, where they lived.
Hägerström pronounced all the names correctly, once again proved who was in the know. Wachtmeister with a k and an e, Douglas with a short u-sound in the first syllable. And the most difficult of all: du Rietz, which ought to be pronounced Dyrrye. Noble names, aristocratic families with blue bloodlines.
Hägerström knew he’d hit a bull’s-eye. It clicked. JW’s penchant for the fancy life: the upper crust, the crème de la crème. The guy’s desire to be part of a world he didn’t belong to. But that was the world Hägerström was raised in.
Earlier, before Hägerström became JW’s m
essenger boy, he might not have really listened. But now JW was soaking it up. Hägerström told him about the invitation to his brother’s wedding. Each guest had been sent a large box, delivered by messenger. A bottle of Lanson pink, suntan lotions and skin care products from Lancôme, and a specially made DVD. One of Sweden’s most famous comics, Robert Gustafsson, guided through the Bérard family home—heckling, joking, poking fun at everyone and everything. A small card invited the guests to the actual wedding: UNDISCLOSED LOCATION. THREE DAYS. LEAVE YOUR KIDS AT HOME. LEAVE YOUR CREDIT CARD AT HOME. BRING YOUR PASSPORT.
But soon Hägerström wanted to get into hotter territory. And JW seemed to understand.
Only the two of them in the car. That was probably against the rules, but Torsfjäll had pulled some strings. A two-hour journey. Hägerström said that he was the one who had arranged so that they were alone in the car. JW seemed to be softening up. There was no reason not to cut right to the chase.
But JW beat him to it. “Do you know where I actually come from?” he asked.
Hägerström knew.
“No idea, but you don’t really seem the prison type, to be completely honest with you.”
“I’m from Västerbotten. Can’t you tell?”
“Not at all. You sound like a Östermalmer, born and bred, actually. No, more toward the Lindingö area maybe. You pronounce your I’s that way.”
JW chuckled. Obviously pleased with Hägerström’s response.
“You know, I’ve had quite a ride.”
Hägerström’s brain tingled. Now he was being invited onto private property, no trespassing. To have had the kind of class ride that JW was referring to wasn’t necessarily something to blazon out in the world Hägerström came from, where it was best to be born into your position. The fact that JW told him that meant he was opening up.
“I went to the Stockholm School of Economics,” JW continued. “But they didn’t let me finish my degree there because I was a convicted felon, so now I study at the university in Örebro instead. I’m basically done, I just need to have my thesis evaluated.”
Hägerström turned to him. Grinned. Winked. “Studying?”
JW smiled weakly.
“If you want,” Hägerström said. “I would be happy to introduce you to some business contacts when you’re out.”
“That sounds interesting. What kind of contacts?”
“You know, people who need help with their money. The tax policies in this country force people to think in new ways, even if we’ve had a better government lately—thank God.”
“Yeah, no one could agree more. You hunt people down who’ve been successful and made money, but you let the murderers and rapists go free. But you know that—you’ve been both a cop and a CO.”
This was deep water. Even if he felt safe with the fact that JW had started to trust him, there were rules for how you talked about crimes, even among criminals. The custom was to not open up any which way. You didn’t trust anyone. You had to avoid getting dragged into something. Hot information could become a burden.
Hägerström kept his eyes on the road. “Exactly. So people need help knowing what to do with the money later, to avoid the Swedish State’s sticky fingers and a lot of unnecessary chitchat.”
JW scratched his head mindlessly for a while. Almost looked uninterested. He was a good actor.
Then he said, “Okay, let’s talk …” He paused.
Hägerström had time to think: Jackpot.
Then JW went on, “… when I’ve gated out.”
Shit. This would take a while.
But maybe it was still a victory: JW had understood. And accepted.
They drove to Djursholm. JW asked to be dropped off on a street called Henrik Palmes Allé. Hägerström had him on missile lock. He saw JW walking down the street and turning onto Sveavägen. He stopped the car. Jumped out. Jogged to the intersection. He saw JW 160 yards farther up the street. He turned again, to the left.
Hägerström ran like hell. To the next intersection. He had to see where JW disappeared to.
Right on time. JW was standing outside the door of a large house a hundred yards away.
Someone opened the door for him. JW stepped into the house.
JW in a villa in Djursholm. This wasn’t just any old residential suburb. This is where the largest homes in Stockholm could be found. The heftiest properties in any of the major Swedish cities. This was top shelf for real—Greenwich, Connecticut, Sweden edition. And this was where JW had chosen to go on his parole.
Hägerström googled the address. No one was registered as living there. He called the tax authorities. Was informed that a British company owned the house: Housekeep Ltd. Shady as hell.
He called Torsfjäll and asked him to do some more research on who lived in the house.
Then he hid behind some hazel bushes. Eyes fixed on the house that JW had disappeared into. Didn’t drop it with his eyes.
The house had yellow stone walls. It was two stories, perhaps a total of 3,300 square feet. The garden looked well tended.
He saw someone moving around in there. He thought about calling Torsfjäll again and asking him to send an undercover cop who could get closer than he could himself. But he changed his mind, wanting to handle this on his own.
He remained where he was, waiting. JW couldn’t stay in that house all day, could he?
An hour later. A taxi pulled up to the house.
The door opened. JW was standing in the open doorway. Another man followed him out. Closed the door, locked it.
The man had light-colored hair, was portly with hangdog cheeks. He was wearing red chinos and a green jacket. Maybe fifty years old. Hägerström focused his eyes to try to see better. He tried to snap pictures with his cell phone. It was pointless. JW and the man were too far away.
They got into the cab. Taxi Stockholm, the city’s biggest taxi company. The car rolled off.
Hägerström called Torsfjäll again.
“JW is leaving now with a man in a cab with the registration number NOD four eight nine. Can you get Taxi Stockholm to save the film from the cab’s surveillance camera?”
“Of course. Brilliant idea. I love our Big Brother society. And I can inform you that I just received an e-mail with the name of the person who’s using the house. Someone named Gustaf Hansén used to be registered at that address. He was CEO and branch head of a bank office for Danske Bank before he was fired. According to the registries, he’s been a resident of Liechtenstein for four years. There’s so much white-collar stink around this that I have to cover my nose.”
Hägerström looked at the house. “What do you think I should do?” he asked. “I can’t exactly trail the cab in one of the Department of Corrections’s painted transport vehicles.”
“No, you can’t. But you can break into the house. You know no one’s there right now.”
Hägerström gasped.
“But what about the alarm system? I’m sure they have an alarm in that place?”
“Relax—I’ll take care of that.”
24
Later. She was standing outside the front door of an apartment building on Björngårdsgatan. No, she thought: the apartment building—definitive form.
Midday. She had to be at the police station for questioning in twenty minutes. But she was planning on doing some investigating of her own before then. They’d have to tolerate her being late.
The elevator went only to the fifth floor; she had to walk the last flight of stairs to the loft apartment. The walls in the stairwell looked freshly painted.
She pulled out the key chain. It jangled.
Or maybe it was her hand that was shaking.
The door in front of her: two locks. One deadbolt lock and a regular door lock.
On the key chain in her hand: a total of seven keys. Four deadbolt keys, of which two were for their house at home. She recognized them.
In other words: two possible keys.
She picked up the first one. Inserte
d it into the lock.
Tried to turn it.
It didn’t work.
She pulled it back out. Inserted it again. Tried to turn it.
No, she couldn’t move it in the lock.
She picked up the other key. Raised it to the lock.
Inserted it.
Tried to turn it.
No.
That one didn’t work either.
She tried again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It wasn’t the right key.
A sound: her cell phone—her cell phone was ringing.
She didn’t recognize the number—it was the cop fuckers. She ignored the call. Natalie would be going to the station for questioning as arranged, they didn’t have to worry.
She put the phone and the keys back into her bag.
She felt alone.
She remained standing there in front of the door to the apartment. She turned around. Started walking down the stairs.
Waited for the elevator. She heard the squeaking of the cables. It was on its way up.
The elevator door opened: a girl her own age stepped out of the elevator. They brushed by each other: the girl’s Louis Vuitton purse—Natalie’s Bottega Veneta bag.
The girl stared straight ahead. Didn’t glance at Natalie. Natalie stepped into the elevator. Closed the door. Didn’t press any button.
She peered out through the glass of the elevator door. The girl who’d just arrived started walking up the stairs. Up to the loft apartment. Natalie heard her unlock the door upstairs. She had the right keys, apparently.
Natalie took the elevator down. Opened the sliding door. Remained standing in the elevator for a few seconds. Listening.
Her head was pounding. With one pure, clear, determined thought: I need to find out who that is. I have to go back up for that girl.
25
No wheel loader.
No fucking wheel loader.
Jorge was screaming. Spraying saliva. Swearing salaciously.
Sergio was staring at him. Jorge kept on raging.
“Mierda! Joder! Hostias ya! Me cago en mi puta mala suerte! Le manda conjones! Me cago en su puta madre!”