by Jens Lapidus
Seventeen bags.
A nasty tight nigga.
Eighteen.
A loaded Chilean with style.
They started the van.
Jorge heard sirens.
26
Hägerström was standing outside the door to the villa. At first he’d planned on breaking in through a window. But if Hansén saw a broken window, he’d realize there’d been an intruder. The door was better, if he could do it.
There was a sticker on the front door and on the windows: THIS HOUSE HAS AN ALARM SYSTEM. PAN WORLD SECURITY. But Torsfjäll had taken care of that part. The inspector had called Pan World Security and ordered that any alarms coming from the address during the next hour or so were to be ignored.
Hägerström took a chance. Hoped that his CO uniform would fool any possible neighbors or passersby. Prevent them from wondering why he was standing outside fiddling with the door lock. He had parked the car a ways off. Understood why JW had asked to be dropped off nearly half a mile from the house—he wanted to avoid some curious neighbor making the connection between Hansén and the prison car. This was Djursholm—a car from the Department of Corrections on these streets was more unusual than a Škoda.
Hägerström got out the electronic lock pick—the police’s standard tool that Torsfjäll had just had delivered to him in a cab.
It would probably be able to take care of the front door. He inserted the tip of the pick in the bottom lock. Assa Abloy: a normal model. The lock pick made a spinning sound.
His mind drifted off.
The operation was making strides. Already before the trip in the transport car, JW had been asking him some questions now and then.
“What do you think, do you like Juan-les-Pins better than Cannes?”
“I’m thinking of buying an apartment on Kommendörsgatan when I get out. Do you think that’s too far off the grid?”
“What do you think about the new Audi? Is it a little flashy, or is it just right?”
Isn’t it a bit lame to drive an Audi? Hägerström thought. If you’re going to drive a good car, why not drive a really good car? Otherwise you might as well just drive a regular old Volvo.
Then he felt ashamed: It was odd—the guy appeared endlessly confident and self-assured among his guys on the inside. But in relation to Hägerström, when they talked about this kind of thing, he was like an anxious seventeen-year-old. He almost got all maternal for the poor guy.
Hägerström snapped back into focus.
The lock made a clicking sound. The door opened. Behind it was a locked metal gate. He knew it would be considerably more secure. He got down on his knees in front of it. Pulled out another lock pick.
He tried to remember the course he’d taken in picking locks. He had read only one book, but he had practiced a lot. The secret to picking locks was three-part. Anyone could learn to pick a desk lock in a day. But picking real lock devices demanded the ability to concentrate, analytic intelligence, and above all, a mechanical sensitivity.
It was more difficult than he’d thought. But the teacher had said he was a natural.
The concentration part wasn’t a problem. He was a former coastal ranger, internal affairs police investigator, a thinker. Concentration was part of his everyday existence. Even though he was often juggling many thoughts at once, he could focus when it came to locks.
But most of all, picking locks was about mechanical sensitivity. About learning to handle pressure. The problem was that most people learned to hold their body or hands in a certain way early on in life, no matter how much pressure you applied with them. But when it came to picking locks, the opposite was needed. You had to maintain the pressure at a very exact level. When you extracted the pick, the pressure against the pins had to be even. The lock picker moved his hand but kept the pressure completely steady.
He inserted the pick into the metal gate’s lock.
Tried not to force the concentration, to ignore all the feelings that didn’t concern the lock. There was a faint breeze on his face. A door slammed shut somewhere far away. A bird was chirping on a roof.
He felt the gravitation, the friction. Pins that moved a hundredth of a millimeter. A bolt that resisted. The pick was an extension of his fingertips and nerves. He maintained the exact same level of pressure against the pins.
He turned, slowly.
He felt the act of turning, the pick, the pins.
He felt the bolt move.
The lock clicked.
He grabbed hold of the metal gate.
It opened.
That’s when the motion-sensor-triggered alarm went off. Blaring at a volume that was on the verge of unbearable.
Hägerström closed the door behind him. Walked up to the alarm system box that was mounted directly to the right of the door. Entered the code that Torsfjäll had given him, the one from Pan World Security.
The screaming alarm stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
He heard his own breathing. Remained standing in the hallway. Waited, in case a neighbor were to start yelling.
Nothing happened.
He looked around. A small rococo table and a sconce on the wall. No stool, but a set of stairs leading upstairs.
Hägerström walked farther into the house. A living room straight ahead. Genuine Persian carpets on the floor. More rococo furniture. Huge paintings on the walls: Bruno Liljefors, Anders Zorn, maybe a Strindberg. It looked like Mother’s apartment, but with less taste. This felt vulgar.
He walked through a kitchen that was decorated in a rustic style. Some kind of white panel cabinets, matte metal handles. No invisible mechanisms or strange materials. A kitchen island in the middle of the room with induction stove plates and a fan above it that was about as big as Hägerström’s Jaguar. A Moccamaster coffee machine, a dishwasher, fridge, freezer, and microwave from Miele. Four barstools around a tall table. Black and white stone slabs on the floor, they were warm—probably warm-water underfloor heating.
He moved on.
A hallway with four doors. A quick look into each of the rooms. A bedroom, a den. An office. Hägerström stepped inside.
This is where he might find interesting material. Inspector Torsfjäll ought to have gotten a search warrant right away. But he hadn’t wanted to.
“It’s better to have robust evidence before we even make the hit,” the inspector told him over the phone. “Anyway, I’ve talked to Taxi Stockholm and put a tail on JW and Mr. Hansén. So we’ll find out what they’re up to no matter what.”
The office looked ordinary. British oak furniture, a bookcase with three binders and some financial books in it, a desktop computer. Not much paperwork. Hägerström had hoped for more paperwork.
Not much of interest in the binders. A few old plane tickets, taxi receipts, hotel bills. It appeared as though Hansén traveled a lot: Liechtenstein, Zurich, Bahamas, Dubai.
Ding, ding.
The sound was coming from the computer. Hägerström checked it. It had switched on from standby mode. A reminder was flashing on the screen. To do today: lunch with JW, call Nippe, call Bladman, dinner with Börje.
JW and Bladman. There was obviously a theme to Hansén’s social circle.
He looked up from the computer.
There was someone in the house.
He listened again.
Silence.
He wished he had his P226 on him.
He took a step toward the wall in order not to be visible from the doorway.
No sounds.
He took a careful step.
Still no sounds.
He picked up a pen from the desk. Held it out in front of him.
He walked out into the hallway.
Carefully.
Silently.
Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe what he had heard were sounds from outside.
He passed the kitchen.
Walked into the living room.
Something hard hit him in the back of the neck.
The force of the blow made Häger
ström spin around. He dropped the pen, but before he fell, he saw a man dressed in black.
He heard a voice: “You fucking junkie—how the hell’d you shut off the alarm?”
Pain again. The man was kicking his back.
He tried to shield his head with his arms. Glimpsed a figure next to the one who was kicking. Speed-analyzed the situation. At least two attackers. Maybe they’d called the police, but if so, they shouldn’t be this aggressive. At least one of them was armed with some sort of hard object, maybe with something more. But most important: they hadn’t figured out what he was doing here. And they hadn’t figured out who he was.
Another kick struck his back. But this time Hägerström was prepared. He blocked the blow. At the same time, he crawled back in the kitchen.
Another kick. Hägerström twisted his body—the kick missed. He threw himself after the leg, tried to slam into the back of the knee. He had been trained for this sort of thing, but that was a few years ago. The coastal rangers were taught an extremely stripped-down form of Krav Maga. Close combat training was basically nonexistent within the police force.
“Let go, you nasty fuck!” the man yelled.
Hägerström jerked his entire upper body. The man lost his balance. Fell.
Hägerström got up. Grabbed the coffee machine. He swung it with full force at the man’s head.
The man roared.
The other one, who was also dressed in black, tried to make his way into the kitchen. They were standing in a narrow section of the room, just the way Hägerström wanted it. To face off against them one at a time.
The first man was holding his hand over his face. Still roaring. Blood was spraying from his forehead.
Guy number two came at Hägerström. He was large. Leather jacket. Black jeans. Crew cut.
He was holding a narrow object in his hand. Flipped out a blade.
A stiletto.
Hägerström noted that the man held the knife like someone who had been around the block a few times. His thumb against the flat side of the blade, windmilling his arm back and forth in front of his body.
“I’ll take care of this whore!” he screamed.
Hägerström remained still. The man with the knife had a slight Eastern European accent. He lunged.
Hägerström moved to the side, blocked the stab. Followed along with the movement, forced the man’s arm to the side. Tried to get his hand in a grip. Failed. The guy was really a pro, whipped forcefully as he pulled his arm back. Hägerström felt the pain in his hand but didn’t look at it. He couldn’t let himself get distracted now.
The first assailant tried to lunge at him again.
Simultaneously, another blow came slicing through the air.
Hägerström couldn’t block with his arms. He twisted his body. The blade of the knife missed his cheek by an inch.
The man whose face was bleeding tried to grab him. Arms around him. He couldn’t let it happen. Hägerström head-butted him with full force. Hopefully the blow landed where the coffee maker had already struck him. The man screamed like a coffee-scalded pig.
It was too late. Hägerström felt a pain in his side. Raw, stinging, worse than most of what he had ever experienced before.
The knife.
He couldn’t hold his stomach. Couldn’t lose control.
He hauled himself up onto the kitchen counter and kicked at the knife-man’s groin.
A flash of pain through his stomach. The kick missed.
Hägerström saw his own blood on the floor. Or was it the other guy’s?
The knife-man was fast. Another slice at his stomach.
A burning pain near his navel.
Hägerström wasn’t screaming. He heard himself hiss, the same sound as when you put a fresh piece of tuna on the grill.
He gathered strength. All the force he was able to muster.
Held his hand straight. Slammed it into the man’s eye while simultaneously kicking him in the groin again.
Classic combat technique in a panic situation: aim at weak spots.
The guy covered his face with his hands. Howled.
Hägerström took his chance. Shoved him aside. Pushed past.
Out of the kitchen. Out of the house.
Out onto the street.
His shirt was wet over the stomach.
It felt like there was a fire in there. As if he couldn’t take another step.
He had time to think: Maybe this is the end. Maybe I’ll never get to see Pravat again.
The Djursholm afternoon was completely calm.
He felt something dripping from him and onto the ground.
He ran toward his car.
27
Natalie positioned herself on the other side of Björngårdsgatan—kept her eyes glued to the entrance of the apartment building. She was waiting for the girl with the Louis Vuitton purse to walk out. She hoped that there wasn’t a basement exit or some back way out of the building. She should really’ve been on her way to the police station a long time ago, but fuck the cops—they’d have to ask their questions some other time.
She was in luck. The door opened after less than fifteen minutes. The Louis Vuitton girl walked out. The monogrammed bag dangled in the crook of her arm. Fast steps on four-inch platform heels and a gaze that didn’t even try to take in her surroundings—idiot.
Natalie followed her. She turned down onto Wollmar Yxkullsgatan toward the subway. The girl was clownishly made up. Dressed in a pink top, a short black jacket, tight blue jeans. She was difficult to place. On the one hand: the trashy top and platform shoes. On the other hand: the bag, which looked real.
They walked onto the subway platform. Just a guy with a stroller a ways off.
The girl stopped near the middle of the platform. Still with her gaze fixed straight ahead. She was staring at the ads on the other side of the tracks: H&M’s bikini and bathing suit chicks and ads for cell phone plans with forty million free texts. The display said the next train would arrive in five minutes.
Two guys in their thirties pushing baby strollers started walking down the platform.
Natalie took a few steps forward: about thirty yards from the Louis Vuitton girl.
Another guy with a stroller came walking down the platform. It seemed to be some kind of religion here on the south side of the city—every guy had to have a stroller with a baby in it. The neighborhood was like one giant sect.
That’s when the train pulled into the station. The girl got on. Natalie followed her.
The girl got off at T-Centralen and took the stairs down toward the blue subway line.
They walked the underground subway passageways. Got onto the moving walkways that transported people between the tunnels. It was different here than on Södermalm: no softy dads with mom complexes—an international feeling instead. The subway’s blue line connected downtown with the ghettos. Natalie couldn’t see a single person who looked typically Swedish. Still, she felt like she stood out here: none of these Somalis, Kurds, Arabs, Chileans, or Bosnians would question her Swedishness. Or rather, she could feel it, saw it in their eyes. They looked at her as though she were part of the system, part of this country: as though she were 100 percent Sven. Normally she was the blatte. Even if Louise, Tove, and the others never said it to her face.
A train pulled into the station. The girl got on. The car was packed. Natalie pushed her way in. The girl was standing fourteen feet off. Natalie examined her more closely. Her hair was bleached blond, and she had about an inch of dark roots peeking out. It was difficult to judge her natural hair color, but it was probably some variant of mousy. Her eyebrows were very plucked—you couldn’t judge her natural hair color from them either. She had that tanning-bed tan—just like the one Viktor usually had. Even if she was hardly older than Natalie, she looked busted in some way. Worn out. Or maybe she was just nervous. She concluded: this chick was scared.
Natalie fished out her iPhone. Held it lazily in her hand. Pretended to surf or text. What she wa
s actually doing was snapping photo upon photo. The Louis Vuitton girl got off in Solna. Natalie tailed her. Maintained a fifty-foot distance. Long escalators up to the surface—the blue subway line was at the bottom of the earth.
It was still nice out. The girl walked through the center of Solna, where all the shops were. Not so much as a glance over her shoulder. No suggestion of an increased stress level to her stride.
They left downtown Solna. The Råsunda soccer stadium towered on the other side like a UFO that’d parked in the wrong place. The girl walked down to an underpass under the road. Natalie didn’t want to get too close. Waited for a few seconds. Then she walked down into the underpass. Just in time to see the girl disappear toward the buildings on the other side. Natalie jogged in order not to lose her. Hoped, pleaded, prayed that the Louis Vuitton girl wouldn’t be paying too close attention.
She saw her, a hundred feet in the distance. Still walking. Apartment buildings. The girl slowed her steps. Walked into a building: Råsundavägen 31.
It was a four-story building. Key code pad beside the door. Natalie realized she’d reached the end of the road today. She wouldn’t be able to get inside.
But it wasn’t over. It was a start. She was already thinking about who the chick might be. She was going to dig into this thing until she found an answer.
28
They left Tomteboda exactly three minutes and twenty seconds after Babak’s Range Rover’d paved the road. Two minutes and four seconds over the Finn’s time frame.
The bomb bag they’d positioned by the gate was still standing there. The road was wide open.
They heard cop sirens.
They might be fucked now.
Still: no cruisers in sight yet. They must still be far away. Or else the pigs’d gotten stuck in the spike strip they’d planted out by the fork in the road.
They drove out toward Solna. First the Range Rover with Babak and Sergio in it. Followed by the van with Mahmud and Jorge in it.
Mahmud was working the wheel like a Formula 1 racer. Jorge was working the frequencies on the cop radio like a pig on The Wire. He was able to pick up all the police districts except for the surveillance frequencies—you needed special antennae for those. The Western region, frequency 79,000—they were first on the scene. The dispatchers were screaming like crazy. Calling ambulances, bomb experts, senior officers. Tried to figure out the escape route, modus operandi, if they could fly in helicopters from Gothenburg.