by Jens Lapidus
The music was pounding, some Eurotechno that Hägerström didn’t know the name of.
The crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were gigantic.
The strobe lights on the dance floor caught people in photo-flashes.
He thought about Operation Tide.
The break-in into Gustaf Hansén’s house had ended abruptly. When Hägerström fled the scene, he regretted having parked the transport vehicle so far away—for a while, he didn’t think he was going to make it all the way. He might have lost as much as a quart of blood.
But afterward he was happy that the car had been parked where it was; otherwise the assailants would have seen that he fled in a car from the Department of Corrections. If JW had found that out, the whole operation would have been over.
Hägerström had driven away as well as he could. He had held one hand over his stomach. He had been able to make it only a couple hundred yards. Then he had stopped and called for an ambulance.
One day later the doctor came in to see him where he was lying in a bed in Danderyd’s hospital.
The knife-man’s first stab had given him a superficial flesh wound that needed only three stitches. The second stab had cut two inches deep, right below his navel. He had needed six stitches, she said, but he had also been incredibly lucky. A fraction of an inch to the side, and his liver could have been worthless for the rest of his life.
Hägerström was back at Salberga three days later. He told JW he had come down with an acute stomach bug and that was why he hadn’t been able to drive him back to the prison. JW maintained his poker face—maybe he didn’t even know that someone had been inside Hansén’s house.
Unfortunately, the break-in didn’t do much for Operation Tide—not as much as Hägerström and Torsfjäll had hoped. He hadn’t had time to look around long enough before he was attacked. But at least they had come to understand three things. First of all: Gustaf Hansén was somehow connected to JW’s business. Second of all: Gustaf Hansén was a shady person. He wasn’t registered at the house where he appeared to live when he was in Sweden, and he apparently had two sets of alarm systems, one that went to a normal security company, and one that seemed to go to a service that was much more violent by nature. Third of all: the reminder on Hansén’s computer: To do today: lunch with JW, call Nippe, call Bladman, dinner with Börje. Bladman was mentioned. But also two other people: someone named Nippe and someone named Börje. Sure, it was possible that they had nothing to do with anything. But they could also be important.
Every single one of Hägerström’s intuitive antennae were saying that there was more to be found in that house. But Torsfjäll wanted to wait to get an actual search warrant.
After Hägerström saw JW coming out of the house, Torsfjäll had been in touch with Taxi Stockholm and gotten the address where JW and Hansén had been dropped off: Restaurant Gondolen by Slussen. The inspector sent an undercover officer. The cop wasn’t able to get any good photos but could report that the party at the restaurant had consisted of one younger and two middle-aged men who spoke Swedish. The table had been booked by someone named Niklas Creutz. A less-than-educated guess was that Niklas was Nippe.
What’s more, Hägerström knew who he was. His sister, Tin-Tin, knew Nippe’s sister. According to all the conventions, Nippe should not find himself in the same context as a convicted upstart—Nippe belonged to one of Sweden’s wealthiest families. The Creutz clan owned the fifth largest bank, invoice, collection, and currency exchange empire in the country. It was strange.
JW approached Hägerström with open arms.
“Hey screwy, great to see ya.”
Hägerström returned the embrace.
“I’ve got an open tab at the bar. Order whatever you like. This used to be my territory, I was a regular here. I’ve got a lot to make up for.”
There was a table behind JW. On it were two large silver-colored buckets filled with ice. Two magnum bottles in each bucket. Drained champagne glasses. There were also small bottles of tonic water, Coke, and ginger ale, plus two half-empty bottles of vodka.
Eight men and four girls were sitting around the table. Hägerström recognized three of the guys. Crazy Tim and Charlie Nowak were there—both had gated out. They were beaming—as happy as JW was to be breathing free air again. And to even be sitting at a table at a place like this—it was a dream experience of a lifetime for boys like them. Hägerström hoped they would be able to handle having him show up here.
The third face he recognized did not really come as a surprise, not anymore anyway. It was Nippe.
Hägerström leaned over the table, greeted Crazy Tim and Charlie. They didn’t seem to care that a CO was tagging along for the party. Maybe they knew that JW had used Hägerström on the inside.
“Hey, boys, I’m done with Salberga too. Did you know?”
They looked questioningly at him.
“I quit,” Hägerström said.
They laughed. Raised their champagne glasses. Toasted freedom. Toasted their new ability to lock the bathroom door from the inside for the first time in years. Toasted the fact that they were going to take Stockholm by storm.
JW introduced Hägerström to the others. They all seemed to be pen pals, except for Nippe. Hägerström read their half-lazy gazes, their tattoos, their jeans and tight T-shirts. Their style was as out of place here as JW’s backslick had been on the inside. But maybe not, on closer examination. Hägerström scanned the place one more time. Not everyone in here was rocking a bratty style. Many of the men were signaling other affiliations, money that didn’t come from dull finance jobs.
Nippe leaned over and introduced himself to Hägerström.
“Hi, I’m Niklas Creutz.”
A different manner of speaking, clear, well-enunciated Swedish. Those distinct upper-class sound markers: the long a’s, the slightly nasal voice. It was as far from prison idiom as you could get.
JW leaned over toward Hägerström. “We call him Nippe. He’s an old friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you. My name is Martin Hägerström.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Nippe said. “Are you Tin-Tin’s big brother?”
“Yes,” Hägerström said. “Do you know her?”
“My older sister is a good friend of hers. Have you met my sister, Hermine?”
Hägerström nodded. Smiled.
They felt a connection. Kinship.
Hägerström identified his goal for the night: to find out how Nippe was involved with JW.
No one else came to JW’s gate-out bash. Hägerström almost felt bad for the guy—he obviously didn’t have a lot of friends. More than five years in prison, and only eight people came to celebrate him—plus Hägerström, of course. But he was fake. Then it struck him that there might be loads of people who wanted to celebrate JW but didn’t want to be seen with him in public.
Hägerström made his way over to the bar. Tried to push through the crowd. Bumpkins waved their Visa cards around. Flashy guys waved five-hundred-kronor bills. It took him fifteen minutes to get the attention of one of the bartenders. He ordered a bottle of Heineken. Said his name was Johan Westlund and that he needed his card. The bartender flipped through the credit cards that people had left in the bar. Returned. Put the card on the counter.
Hägerström picked it up. Looked it over. Four seconds. Memorized the card number. 3435 9433 2343 3497. MasterCard. Gold. Issued by a bank in the Bahamas: Arner Bank & Trust.
Hägerström gave the card back, then returned to his seat.
It was obvious that JW wanted to connect Hägerström with Nippe. He made conversation. Asked Hägerström questions just to accentuate his background. Martin Hägerström wasn’t some middle-class Sven, that much was certain. He came from the same planet as Nippe. But Nippe had registered as much already after two seconds.
Nippe drank as much as everyone else. Hägerström didn’t understand how he dared sit next to these thugs. If he was mixed up in JW’s business, he ought to want to s
tay as far away as possible. The table was a stage. Hundreds of spectators were eyeing the lineup of men who were burning tens of thousands of kronor tonight.
Hägerström had gotten Nippe to take four shots, on top of the at least six glasses of champagne and three drinks he had already had. They had made enough small talk. JW was busy, he was talking to two girls. Nippe was drunk enough. It was time.
Hägerström took his chance, leaned over to him. “So, how do you know JW?”
A lucky question. Nippe started bubbling, like the champagne glass in his hand.
“Maybe I shouldn’t be here. JW burned so many bridges. But he’s a damn nice guy, you know.”
“I agree.”
Nippe was slurring his words. “You know, I knew him before he lost control. We used to party around here and stuff. And we went to the Stockholm School of Economics together too. He’s a genius, did you know that? A mathematical and law genius. He was in the top three on every single exam. He studied law at the same time. He was one of those guys that the British investment banks come courting before they even finish their third semester.”
Hägerström nodded, encouraged Nippe to continue.
“JW wasn’t like the people who just studied in order to pass the exams with high enough grades. He learned stuff in order to use it right away, kind of like the entrepreneurial fucks from the countryside who’re in the process of taking over SSE. The difference is that JW was like one of us, almost.”
Nippe drained his glass. Hägerström sipped his.
He poured more. Thought: Drink, Nippe, drink.
Nippe gulped. “He wanted too much, JW. All that drug-dealing stuff was just rotten luck, if you ask me. JW was running a little too fast, you know? But he didn’t mean any harm. So I thought I’d give him a chance. He’s damn smart, and he’s got a good heart. He’s told me that he’s already started loaning money to people in the prison world, guys who need fast cash. I don’t think he should have to spend his time doing things like that.”
Hägerström played along. “No, he’s too good for that. I really like him. You know I worked at the prison, right?”
“Yeah, JW told me. How’d you end up there?”
Hägerström had been asked why he chose to become a cop thousands of times over the years. He’d stocked up on standard responses. One of them suited this situation perfectly.
“I’m kind of different, you know. I don’t always like to do what everyone else does. I think people should find their own way in life. Right?”
“Totally. Totally.”
Hägerström wanted to steer the conversation back to JW.
“But since I worked at the prison, I have to ask, wasn’t it dangerous for JW to be lending out money?”
“I don’t know. But he was pretty safe, protected by the walls, so to speak. Ha ha. You need to understand, I’ve never met anyone who’s as hungry as JW is. For the rest of us, it’s a question of appetite. For JW, it’s a question of survival. Have you ever talked business with him? If you do, check out his eyes. It’s like they’re on fire. He knows that in order to become someone in this world, you need to accrue a fortune. Become a wealthy man, so to speak. Things might be different for you, Martin. You’ve been able to do what you want—you might not have to fight in order to become someone, because you already know you’re someone. Everyone knows who your parents are. Everyone knows where your family comes from. That’s not the way things are for JW.”
“Maybe you’re right.”
Hägerström wondered where this was going. Nippe was being weirdly somber. Maybe he was trying to defend why he was collaborating with JW somehow. He tried a more direct tactic.
“I helped him a little bit while he was in prison. Maybe he told you that?”
“No. Helped how?”
“Some favors from time to time, you know. He has a business, as you yourself put it.”
“Okay, well, that’s great.”
All Hägerström’s feelers were on hyperalert. Did Nippe understand that he was an insider? Would he reveal anything?
“JW understands the system better than some criminal blatte ever will, you know? And he can be more straight and open than any lawyer or accountant could ever be. People need that. Even if we’ve switched government in this fucking Social Democratic country, we still have higher taxes than anywhere else in the world. All the sane people make sure to sign themselves up as residents of Malta or Andorra. Right?”
Nippe drained his glass again. He was slurring more and more. Hägerström had to come up with something soon, because this guy might be on the floor in a few minutes.
“I just have to say how damn nice it is that you want to help JW,” Hägerström said. “I’m going to do my best to get him some clients too.”
Nippe poured more champagne. Looked at Hägerström. His eyes were cloudy.
“Clients?”
“Yes, clients. Or whatever he’s calling it.”
Nippe looked nauseous. Still, Hägerström thought it seemed like he was registering what he was saying.
“Mmmm,” Nippe said. He didn’t say anything else.
This wouldn’t work. Nippe was too drunk. He mumbled something about being tired and having to get up early on Saturday because he had a time booked at the Royal Tennis Hall. It sounded like a bad excuse. Hägerström regretted that he had fed him so many drinks.
As soon as Nippe Creutz went home, Crazy Tim, Charlie, and the others caught a second wind. It was as if they had been holding back before. The talk got cruder. The babe-watching intensified. The boozing escalated. They ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon for thirty K.
They didn’t seem to care that Hägerström, a former CO, was sitting there listening. They talked about how much you could make slinging coke, smart methods of flipping stolen goods, sweet streets in Berlin to go whore-hunting. They talked about mutual friends who had been collared, friends who had gated out, acquaintances who had died. JW said he was thinking of going to Thailand where he knew people. They discussed the CIT robbery in Tomteboda—according to them, it was a pale copy of the helicopter robbery—and the murder of Radovan Kranjic, new formations in the Stockholm jungle.
Hägerström tried to keep up as much as possible. But he couldn’t pile it on too thick. The guys around the table knew he wasn’t a gangster to begin with.
Two guys over by the bar were glaring at them. That’s what Crazy Tim thought, anyway. They looked to be JW’s age, wearing jackets with silk handkerchiefs peeking out of their breast pockets, pressed pants.
It was two-thirty in the morning. Crazy Tim was so drunk he was slurring his words. “Those tools over there, they’ve been staring at us all night. I’m gonna ask what their fucking problem is.”
JW placed his hand on his arm. “Chill, Tim. I don’t want any trouble tonight.”
“Come on, man. I’m just gonna go ask them what they want.”
JW held him back.
JW rose a half hour later. “Boys, it’s time for me to go home.”
The guys were trashed. Still, Crazy Tim asked if JW needed company.
JW thanked him. “No, I’m fine. But maybe you can follow me to get a cab, just to make sure there’s no trouble?”
The question was directed at Hägerström.
“Absolutely.”
A small breakthrough.
JW embraced Crazy Tim, Charlie, and the other guys. He and Hägerström walked together down the steps toward the exit. The place was still thick with people. Hägerström walked first, shoving people to the side with both arms. Cleared a path for JW.
It had been a good night, trust-creating. Interesting about Nippe. One of Hägerström and Torsfjäll’s theories had been proven correct. Cards were issued by banks down there and used by people up here. And what was more, JW had pretty much asked Hägerström to be his bodyguard.
They didn’t have any jackets to pick up in the coat check. The August night was cool but comfortable.
JW walked up to one of the bouncers.
Said something into the guy’s ear. He smiled.
Hägerström walked out onto the sidewalk. Tried to hail a cab. Could already feel the hangover tomorrow.
Every single cab was taken.
They both tried for five minutes, but it was a lost cause. There seemed to be a taxi drought tonight.
Finally JW said, “I think I’ll walk. Feel like walking me home?”
It wasn’t a question. It was an order.
They walked up Humlegårdsgatan. JW was renting an apartment on Narvavägen. But as he had told the guys tonight, “I swear, I’ll buy something within three months. I’ve just got to find the right piece of property.”
Crazy Tim and Charlie Nowak had just laughed—they didn’t even play the same sport as JW, let alone in the same league.
When they reached Östermalmstorg, JW stopped. He pointed at two guys a ways off.
“There are those dudes that Crazy Tim wanted to jump.”
Hägerström saw the guys, around twenty yards behind them. They were looking in JW’s direction. Crazy Tim’s irritation might have been justified—the grins on those boys’ faces weren’t friendly.
“They recognize me from back then,” JW said. “Do you understand?”
Hägerström nodded. He thought about the double-cross JW used to play. Wondered if he actually felt more comfortable in his own skin now, when everyone already knew he had done time. When people no longer believed he was someone he wasn’t.
The guys over there laughed. The sound echoed across the open square.
JW and Hägerström kept walking.
They reached Storgatan. But the entire time Hägerström could hear the guys’ footsteps behind them—they were drawing closer, too quickly. He wondered what JW expected him to do about it.
After a few seconds, he turned around. “Is there something you want?”
The guys were only ten yards behind. They came walking toward them slowly. “What did you say? Did you say something?”
Hägerström and JW were standing very still.
“Don’t worry about it,” JW said. “My buddy’s just had a little too much to drink.”