by Jens Lapidus
“Yes, that’s true. And Bengt Svelander, is that someone she’s mentioned?”
“Svelander?”
“Yes, a client of hers.”
“A client, okay. She never mentions them by name.”
“He’s a politician.”
Martina looked as if she were thinking it over.
Natalie could tell by looking at her that she knew more.
“Politician? In Stockholm?”
“Yes.”
“She’s mentioned a politician. But you ought to know that.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause your people are the ones who asked her to record their sessions. I guess you’ve learned how much there is to gain by gathering information.”
Silence in the kitchen.
The baby cooed.
“Okay,” Natalie said. “This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell Melissa that we’ve been here. Tell her that, from now on, she can’t give any more recordings to anyone but me or Goran. Not to anyone. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Martina nodded.
* * *
AFTONBLADET, EVENING NEWSPAPER
TAX HAVENS ALMOST ALL GONE
Forget the time when wealthy Swedes could hide their fortunes in tax havens like Isle of Man.
The tax authorities have now signed agreements with a number of countries and thereby been given access to information about bank accounts and transactions, according to Channel One’s Daily News.
“There are not many places left where you can safely hide your money,” says Jan-Erik Bäckman, chief analyst at the Swedish Tax Agency, to Daily News.
Can view account information
The agreements give the Swedish Tax Agency the opportunity to keep track of the way Swedes handle money abroad by viewing account statements, transactions, and information about credit and debit cards, among other ways.
So far this year alone, the Swedish Tax Agency has collected 850 million kronor from Swedish accounts abroad, according to Daily News. 160 private persons have been forced to pay a total of 500 million kronor in evaded taxes, as well as 100 million in additional tax penalties. What’s more, 375 honest people have volunteered previously unreported gains, which has allowed the Swedish Tax Agency to collect an additional 250 million.
Liechtenstein is the latest in the group of countries that have signed agreements with the Swedish Tax Agency. The agreements also mean that a prosecutor’s support is no longer needed to demand information from the different countries.
“We no longer need to have an ongoing criminal investigation in order to be able to ask questions about money and income abroad. Soon, there will not be any places left where you can hide capital,” says Jan-Erik Bäckman to Daily News.
37
Samitivej Hospital Phuket. Jorge’d expected something totally different: simpler, dirtier, crappier. Instead: ill foyer, mad classy, soaring ceilings, phat flowers in fat vases on the floor. Chandeliers dangling from above and display cases with, like, Thai relics or some shit like that. Farther off: a piano. A dude in a black suit was playing pling-plong, pling-plong—mad ching-chong music. At a hospital—kind of loco, man.
The welcome desk was like at a deluxe hotel: a glass counter, dark wood paneling in the background, people standing in line, waiting politely. A receptionist in a white nurse’s hat clapped her hands and said “Kapun khap”—like everyone else here did. But when Jorge started talking, she spoke perfect English.
Shit, this place was mad fly. But it cost too.
They knew right away: Mahmud al-Askori. Yes, sir. Unit four. We’ll take you to the room.
Jorge was holding the flowers awkwardly in his hand.
The walls were painted a bright white, the place was deserted.
The nurse pressed a button.
The elevator doors were made of metal.
They boarded.
Jorge was staying in a budget hotel nearby. Phuket was more expensive than Pattaya. Mahmud’s hospital bed was pricey.
The cash wouldn’t last forever. The take’d been slim. And J-boy’d refrained from a large part to calm the guys down after the fiasco. Plus: life in Pattaya hadn’t exactly been free.
He was thinking about going back to Swedeland to dig up the bills he and Mahmud’d buried in the woods. The ones that’d been in the security bags he’d stowed away. Six hundred Gs. Babak’d gotten two hundred and been happy with that. That’s what he’d said anyway. But now?
Jorge hadn’t seen Mahmud since he’d been run over by the Russians.
When they found out what’d happened, the mood among the boys’d hit a new record low.
Tom wanted to go back to Bangkok to gamble. Thought the whole gang needed a break from each other. Jimmy wanted to go home to Sweden. Didn’t give a shit about anything, that was what he said. Especially after Jorge’d fucked it up even more royally. Jorge forbade him to leave—fuck, he was the one who’d fucked up the fucking wheel loader.
Javier whined, as usual.
And Babak totally went off his rocker. Completely flipped his shit. “You candy-ass motherfucker. You tricked Mahmud. Said we were gonna pay those assholes. Then you tried to make him bounce in the morning. How the fuck you think the Russian-Thai mafia were gonna react? Huh? Smile and help you find a fucking taxi?”
Babak could go chinga su madre. Jorge wasn’t taking more shit from the Iranian—forget it. He turned on his heel and left. Expected Babak to yell something after him about the stolen bags.
Instead, Babak sprinted after him. Screamed so his spit sprayed like a sprinkler. Jorge ignored him. There was no energy left to fight now. And nothing came out about Jorge’s rip-off.
He kept on walking away. The boys would have to choose. Him or Babak.
The day after: they split up. Tom and Jimmy left for Bangkok with the Iranian. Jorge and Javier left for Phuket.
That’s really how it should’ve been from the get-go—robbers never stayed friends. Classic. A rule of thumb. Almost a mandamiento.
The ambulance’d driven Mahmud to the local hospital in Pattaya. But when they’d realized he was a Swedish citizen, they’d brought him here, to Phuket. Jorge and Javier followed. Waited to visit the Arab. First the hospital cunts said no, Mahmud was unconscious. Then they said the flu was spreading like wildfire in Thailand—risk of infection, blah blah blah. Then they said only family members were permitted to visit. If Jorge’d been a blond Sven, there’d’ve been none of this bullshit. As it was, he’d had to wait for over a week.
Mahmud’s room: parquet floors, a hospital bed, a fridge, a leather armchair next to a window that looked out over the hospital park, dried flowers in a basket on a little table. Even paintings on the walls.
Could’ve been a hospital room anywhere in Sweden. But the difference: the parquet floor, the paintings, the fridge—they didn’t have pimped shit like that in the socialist paradise. Thailand–Sweden: an unexpected victory—Thailand, three-zero.
The nurse was standing behind Jorge.
Mahmud was lying in the bed. Eyes shut. Still scabs and bandages on his face, a white neck thing around his throat, one arm bandaged, and a tube inserted into his hand. A green blanket covered the rest of his body.
Didn’t look good.
Honest: brother was fucked.
Mahmud wasn’t moving.
“Habibi, how you doing?”
Nothing happened.
Jorge walked over to the bed. Leaned down. “Yo, bro?”
Mahmud moved his hand. Opened one eye. Looked groggy.
“How you doing? Can you talk?”
Mahmud opened his other eye. Tried out a smile. It mostly looked like one side of his mouth was twitching.
Jorge held out the flowers. “I brought these. But you’ve gotta tell me if there’s anything else you need.”
Mahmud moved his arm slightly. Jorge understood: his bro was too tired to hold the flowers. Jorge gave them to the nurse instead.
Mahmud was speaking slowly.
“Honest bro, I’m not feeling too hot.”
“Fuck, compadre. But are you done with surgery and stuff?”
“I don’t know. Ask her.”
Jorge turned to the nurse. She spoke okay English.
“You should probably speak to the doctor. But I can at least tell you that Mr. al-Askori was unconscious until yesterday. He has broken both of his collarbones, a couple of ribs, and one arm. He has had stitches in his face, on his arm, and on his back. His right shoulder was dislocated, and he had a serious concussion.”
“Concussion?”
“Yes, concussion. A serious one. He has had problems staying conscious, and he has headaches, is nauseous, has problems with his vision and balance.”
Mahmud moved his hand again. “Tell her to leave now.”
Jorge sent away the nurse. He pulled a chair up close to the bed. Sat down.
Mahmud was slurring his words. “I thank the Thai king and God for the morphine in this joint.”
Jorge looked down at him. A weak smile at least.
“Do you want me to get you other stuff?”
“No. My memory’ll apparently come back faster …”
Mahmud paused. Gathered strength.
“… if I don’t take a bunch of shit. But, bro, I can’t even remember the heist.”
They didn’t say anything, a few seconds passed.
Mahmud tried to say something. Word by word. Slowly.
“Jorge, thanks for comin’ up.”
“ ’Course, man, I’ll do anything for you. I was the one who guaranteed there was dough when they moved you. This hospital is private, you know. If we hadn’t made a little withdrawal from Tomteboda, we’d never be able to afford this luxury.”
Jorge’s turn to grin. Their eyes met. Mahmud looked insecure. Maybe sad. Maybe scared. The Arab was talking at half speed compared to normal. Maybe he was thinking the same thoughts that were rushing around in Jorge’s head. The big question: How the fuck was this gonna end?
Mahmud said, “Too bad we’re not nine-to-fivers.”
“Why?”
“Home and travel insurance.”
“Yeah, that’s true, they’ve got shit like that. But I’ve never met a real G from the hood who had home insurance.”
Jorge smoothed his hair back with one hand. Saw that look again in Mahmud’s eyes. Felt like someone was taking a knife to his heart. His buddy, his café brother, his best friend: obviously broken.
“Hey, by the way,” Jorge said. “Remember my buddy Eddie? He actually had home insurance. Then his place got broken into, someone wiped him clean. His new TV, over four hundred DVDs, the computer, his wife’s diamond earrings, his Cartier watch in eighteen carats with diamonds on every hour. Know what the insurance company said?”
“No.”
“Said that with his financial situation, no way he could’ve owned that shit. Said the whole thing was fraud. But I know that he owned that stuff ’cause I’ve seen it hundreds of times, and I know the shit wasn’t boosted. The gear was honest, straight through.”
Silence again. Jorge could hear Mahmud’s breathing: his bro was wheezing.
He said, “We’ve split up.”
Mahmud didn’t respond.
“It didn’t work anymore. Lots of fighting. Tom wanted to go to Bangkok again. Rollout. And your friend acted out one too many times.”
“Too bad.”
“That’s how it is now. Me and Javier, we’re here in Phuket. You check out in two days, that’s what I think.”
“Hope so.”
Jorge thought: Ten thousand baht per day, that’s alotta dosh.
Mahmud’d closed his eyes again. Leaned his head back.
Jorge was sitting still.
Thinking: Blackouts. Blurred vision. Nausea. Joder—his main man’d been transformed into a total goner. How was this gonna end?
Jorge tried to lighten the mood. “It’ll all work out. We’ll get a place here. Run it like the café at home. Settle down for a year or so.”
Mahmud still had his eyes shut. “That’d be nice, habibi.”
Jorge thought about the substitute teachers he’d had in middle school. They came, they smiled, they thought they could change things. They pretended they were there to teach critical shit.
“You’re important—you can be whatever you want to be.”
After a few days: the subs started to get the game: the kids at this school didn’t give a shit about their ideas, ’cause they’d already had forty other subs who’d talked the same smack. They looked more tired, they had outbursts, they yelled. When the week was over: you saw the panic in their eyes. Their body language revealed how broken they were. They started crying, ran out of the classroom, never came back.
The entire heist: like one of those substitute teacher weeks. Their plans’d been so tight, their ideas so rad, such ill planning. He’d thought he could change criminal history, become legendario, J-boy Royale, the king, the ghetto myth with the best cred in northern Europe. Then the hit happened, it didn’t go too well. They got away but left a Range Rover with more DNA leads than a used razor blade. The loot: not small like a mosquito’s cock, but smaller than expected. And then, then came the end of the story. Six guys in Thailand who could hardly keep it together. Started fighting with the Russian mafia. Wigged out. Split up.
Not just the familiar criminal anxiety.
Jorge felt the panic well up.
He wanted to cry, run away from here, never come back.
He took the elevator down. Had exchanged a few words with a nurse—Mahmud’d gotten some sort of infection, she said. He’d have to stay on for another two weeks, at least. But only if someone could pay.
Came as a shock—how long would this last? Still: Jorge promised he’d cover it. He had to write a guarantee, pay thirty thousand baht in advance.
He remembered that he’d promised Mahmud he’d call his sister, Jamila. Then he thought about his own sister, Paola. He’d called her from a pay phone, after Mahmud’s accident. Needed to hear her voice. Make sure little Jorge was doing good, that Mom was alive. Ten minutes of talking, seven minutes of crying.
The elevator doors opened.
Jorge walked through the entrance hall.
The heat struck him in the face as he walked outside. From AC chill to heat from hell.
He needed to get more cash—100 percent.
He needed something to live on: a bar or a café. Keep what he’d promised Mahmud. But maybe his bro was totally out of commission.
He needed to stay here for a few years, until things’d calmed down at home.
He needed to talk more with JW.
He needed someone’s help.
Someone who knew Thailand.
He had no idea who.
38
Hägerstrom leaned his head back. He felt a slight aching all through his back. There was nothing wrong with the airplane seat, but there was no legroom—cramped. He had been sitting like this for nine hours now. Read the airline magazine and a mystery by Roslund & Hellström, watched movies and a nature show on the little screen twelve inches from his face.
He was on his way into new territory for Operation Tide, literally and figuratively. An unexpected turn. He was on his way to Thailand, on an assignment for JW.
He rose and squeezed past the other passengers in his row. Stretched. Tried to straighten out his body.
It was a large plane with a set of stairs leading to the upper level, where the first-class people were seated. Hägerström wished he at least could have flown Economy Flex, but that would have aroused suspicion. A former CO simply didn’t pay twenty-five thousand kronor for a trip to Thailand.
He looked out over the rows of seats. Hägerström had flown this route several times in his life. The plane was full of the usual mix of people. Middle-class Swedish families with kids running around and snotting and coughing in the aisles. Guys in groups of three and four who had been a little tipsy ever since check-in. Single men flying in khaki shorts an
d T-shirts who personified the image of Western pedophilia but might just be businessmen. Finally, there were the Thai women, alone or with children, who were on their way home to visit their families.
He closed his eyes. Tried to sleep. Instead, he started thinking about things he really didn’t want to think about.
After the Police Academy, he had advanced quickly. Police officer, deputy police inspector. He had met guys now and then at gay haunts like Side Track Bar, Patricia, and Tip Top. He traveled to Amsterdam three times by himself and hung out at the Bent. But he never had any serious relationships. That wouldn’t work. And on a few occasions, he even had sex with girls.
He lived a double life, a secret life, a closet life.
When he turned thirty, he rented out a restaurant and invited fifty people, including his parents and siblings. Had a birthday party. Ninety percent of the speeches were about how he was any mother-in-law’s dream but never settled down. That he could get anyone he wanted but was never satisfied with anything. That he had not had a real relationship with a girl since high school.
He started thinking. His police colleagues moved in with their partners, had kids, got engaged, married. His old friends from childhood did all that but in reverse order: got engaged, married, had kids.
It had taken him a little over a year to understand that he too was longing for children. But he couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Hägerström: former coastal ranger, career-hungry deputy inspector on the cusp of promotion who longed for a kid. That just didn’t jibe. But the thoughts wouldn’t leave him—every single day he thought about how he could meet a girl who it might be okay to be with.
But most of all, he just wanted to get away.
Three months later an offer arrived like a gift from the police gods. He was given the opportunity to take a leave of absence from work in order to accept a job abroad with the Nordic Coordination Unit in Bangkok.
It was a good time in his life. The job wasn’t too intense, but it was interesting. Typical duties related to the extradition of Scandinavians on the run in Thailand and drug and child sex crimes. He learned tolerable Thai, and he learned about the Thai mentality. He hung out with the Scandinavian police officers in the unit and with some Swedes from the consulate. But his social life was, by and large, pretty meager. In his free time, he worked out or took walks around Bangkok. He spent a lot of time alone. Found gay bars and felt free.