by Jens Lapidus
When he had less than two months left of his service, he met Anna. She worked as a secretary at the consulate. They met at a cocktail party organized by the coordination unit. She was thirty-two years old, from Tyresö, and had worked previously as an executive secretary. They shared the same longing: children. Other than that, Hägerström wondered if they had ever shared anything at all.
And still, they began to see more and more of each other and actually became good friends. At the end of his service, she seduced him after they had been out for dinner. At the time he liked the idea: to try to start a relationship with someone who was a good friend and who also wanted to have children. Unfortunately, they had a harder time than expected getting pregnant, maybe partly because Hägerström so rarely wanted to try. After four years of agony, they adopted a boy. Thailand felt like the natural choice.
Pravat was about a year old when he came to them. Both Hägerström and Anna experienced the best days in their lives. They had done a lot of research, gone to informational meetings, partaken in discussion groups. He had felt prepared, and he knew he would be a good father. Anna was good too, she really was. The problem was that, other than the child, they didn’t work together for shit. Their shared goal in life—to have a child—had been attained, but there was neither love nor sexual attraction between them.
Back on the plane. Ten rows farther up, a group of inebriated guys were playing loud music on a computer with external speakers. Nine rows up, a Thai woman was trying to ignore those very same guys. Two rows up, a father, whose kid had finally passed out in his arms, was snoring. All the drunk guys were wearing white T-shirts with NIKE across the front. Personally, Hägerström traveled in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He heard his father’s voice in his head: One always flies in a collar.
If Göran had been on this flight, he would have forced his son to book Business Class in order to escape the hordes of white trash Swedes. But Father never would have used that expression, white trash. He might have called them trailer Svens.
Göran used to joke about airplanes.
“The black box is supposed to be able to handle anything. It’s made so it can survive plane crashes into the ocean, into the desert, or right into the top of a mountain. So why don’t they make the entire plane in the same material?”
That was pure Father humor.
Hägerström missed him.
He sat down. It was nine-thirty at night, Swedish time.
He tore the plastic wrapper off the blanket. It was purple with orange and yellow lines on it—like everything else on Thai Airways: the seats, the pillows, the carpeting on the floor, the uniforms the stewardesses wore, the logos on the wings of the airplane.
JW had called. He wondered if Hägerström was in the neighborhood, if he would give him a ride to the gym. Their relationship was built on each meeting the other halfway. Hägerström was a fine-familied fellow heading down on the class elevator. JW was a bad seed on his way up.
They cold talked for a while. Right before JW was about to get out, he said, “You know Thai, right?”
“Yes, I told you that, didn’t I? I used to live there.”
“Right, but there are, like, seven million guys who have Thai wives who don’t even speak English.”
“I’m not like that. I lived in Bangkok for over a year. I can speak Thai. Dammit, I know everything there is to know about Thailand. You want to know where the best chicks are, ask me. You want to know where you can buy a nine-millimeter for the best price, ask me. You want to know who you have to talk to in Klong Teuy in order not to end up in trouble, you ask Mr. Martin Hägerström.”
“Great, buddy. I get your point. In that case, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
“You help me out, drive me around, make sure I’m feeling good.”
“You know it.”
“Do you have any other job going on right now?”
“No, but I’ve applied for a guard job in Stockholm.”
“And when do you get that?”
“I don’t even know if I’ll get it, but if so, in four weeks.”
“Okay, in that case, I’d like you to go to Thailand for a few weeks. What do you say?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a buddy there who needs help with some business. He’s wound up in trouble and needs someone who knows Thailand. I’ll cover half the ticket. You understand?”
JW didn’t really have to wonder—this was definitely an order.
Maybe it would lead somewhere. Right now Operation Tide had sort of stalled anyway.
39
She involved outsiders, for the first time.
Goran and Thomas’d advised her. Or rather, Thomas was the one who’d come up with the name: Gabriel Hanna. On the surface, he was known as a dealer of bulletproof vests, army boots, and paintball guns. Had two stores in Västerås, one in Örebro, and one in Eskilstuna. On top of that: Sweden’s leading Web site for military gear. Bouncers, military fetishists, and cop wannabes loved him. But according to Thomas: in the underworld—Gabriel Hanna was more known as the real thing. Ammo king, dealer of warm metal, hot gear. The go-to source. To put it simply, Gabriel Hanna: the heaviest illegal arms dealer in central Sweden. Maybe in the entire country.
Natalie, Goran, and a young guy with a hoodie were walking down a hallway. A couple of Jack Vegas machines against the black-painted walls. A vending machine for soda. One for snacks and sandwiches. Then a narrow set of stairs leading up. When they reached the first flight up, the guy turned on the lights.
Natalie eyed the room. It was large. Stretched across the entire upstairs of the building. Beams in the ceiling. Linoleum on the floor. White textured wallpaper. There were four large gaming tables covered in green felt, one in each corner of the room. In the middle: a large, round roulette table in dark wood. Around the gaming tables were office chairs that gave off a 1980s feel: black poofy leather and armrests in some wood material. Posters for different online game companies and the magazine Poker were tacked up on the walls.
They’d stepped into Västerås Gaming Club. A half-shady gaming club for dudes who wanted to burn cash on poker, roulette, and dice. They should at least try to create a more glamorous feeling—that would benefit the gaming. On the other hand: these were the provinces. Maybe a roulette table was enough to make the country folk feel flashy.
Natalie and Goran sat down at one of the gaming tables. The leather of the chair seats made a whooshing sound like air was coming out of them. The dude spoke bad Swedish. “He come soon.”
“We don’t have all day,” Goran said. “Call him.”
The guy had a tattoo with an eagle with outstretched wings on his right forearm. Natalie knew: that was the standard Assyrian ink job.
The guy put his hands in his pockets. Repeated what he’d just said, “He come soon.”
Then he walked down the stairs.
Goran’d warned her ahead of time. It was a game—who waits for whom. Who bends for whom. Who fucks whom in the ass. And right now they were the ones who wanted information, so they’d have to be the bottom for a while.
Twenty minutes later Gabriel Hanna came up the stairs with the guy in tow. He didn’t look the way Natalie’d imagined. He was well dressed. Close shave. Neatly combed hair parted to the side. Pale blue shirt, dark blue jacket, and pressed chinos. Honestly: Hanna looked like a total lawyer, even reminded her of JW. The only thing that might separate him from the Stockholm style: fat stitching along the side of his shoes. Rubber soles. Above all: the shoes were super pointy. Natalie remembered something Louise liked to say: “You can buy a lot with money, but not taste.”
Hanna grinned. Offered his hand.
“Hi, there. Nice that you could make it all the way here.”
Västerås dialect. Pleasant style. Pleasant tone of voice, despite the dialect. Not exactly what Natalie’d expected from a dealer of something as illegal as weapons.
He sat down. Nodded at
his guy, who left the room.
“I’m glad you could meet me,” Natalie said.
She set the pile of papers from the investigation on the gaming table. According to Goran: if anyone in this country knew about illegal weapons, it was Hanna.
The little guy returned with three cans of Coke.
Hanna took them and turned to Natalie. “Would you like one?”
Goran’s can made a popping sound when he opened it.
Gabriel Hanna teased, punned, made Kurd jokes. “Do you know why all Kurds do their homework on the roof?”
Natalie wanted to get right down to business.
Hanna answered his own question: “Because they want to get high marks!” He laughed at his own joke.
Then he began reading Natalie’s paperwork. Silence in the Västerås Gaming Club for fifteen minutes.
The runner was playing with his cell phone. Goran was staring straight ahead. Natalie was thinking about Viktor. He also liked to laugh at his own jokes. They hadn’t seen each other in a week. The last time they were together, he talked about his financial crisis and his new business ideas. Mostly Natalie wanted to fuck him. It made her forget all the shit for a while. But then Viktor’d started babbling about how he thought there were people in Thailand who were connected to the murder. That he knew some criminal dudes who’d gone there shortly after the event. Dudes who hadn’t liked Dad.
Hanna flipped through the pages slowly. Held his body at the same angle, like a wax figurine. The weapons dealer was concentrating to the max.
Natalie thought: Gabriel Hanna is the real stuff, a serious guy. Professional style spiced with a sense of humor. Social competence, easy to like. She understood why he’d done so well. Maybe they could do business together sometime in the future. She thought about JW—she ought to see him again. He or Bladman had to give her the right information.
The minutes passed.
Hanna looked up. “I’ve been in this business long enough.”
Goran turned to him. Natalie was listening.
“You can never be a hundred percent certain of anything,” he said. “But I think I know where this ammunition, grenade, and putty come from.”
One day later: Natalie climbed out of her Golf in the Lill Jansskogen forest. As usual: Goran in tow. She felt alone without him these days.
A strange place. It seemed hostile to her now, even though she’d been there plenty of times with Dad.
In front of her was a ski-jumping tower. Dad used to just call it the Tower. He’d bought the place a couple of years ago through a front man. A dilapidated old tower with a ski-jumping ramp attached to it, leading out over a slope in a clearing in the woods below. The actual ramp hadn’t been used in thirty years. A mountain biking club used to hang out in the Tower. Dad had renovated the place. Torn down walls, built new stairs, fixed the floors. Installed a restaurant kitchen on the ground level. Brought in a chef and staff. It was perfect for conferences and corporate events.
And now Stefanovic’d turned it into his Batcave. The front man’d aligned himself with him—formally, there wasn’t much that Natalie could do.
She felt the heat rise inside her with every step she took. Stefanovic: a fucking clown. Stefanovic: an asshole. An izdajnik.
She had to calm down. Play her cards right. Take three deep breaths.
She had to handle the situation like a pro.
At the top of the Tower: a large room. Windows facing in all directions. A view over the Lill Jansskogen forest. Over toward Östermalm. In the distance, you could see the town hall, church spires, and the high-rises around Hötorget. Farthest in the distance: a glimpse of the Globe Arena. Stockholm spread out before her. Her city. Her territory. Not the traitor’s territory.
A sofa group, a table with six chairs around it, a minibar filled with bottles against the one windowless wall.
In the sofa group: Stefanovic.
Marko, Stefanovic’s muscleman, was sitting on one of the chairs.
Stefanovic stood up. Kiss-kiss-kissed. Made some polite small talk, no heart in it.
Natalie thought his eyes looked more watery than usual. He was still wearing a Bluetooth earpiece in one ear.
Natalie sat down at the table. Goran remained standing by the door.
“We don’t need an audience, do we?” Stefanovic asked.
He gestured toward his gorilla, Marko. The dude rose, walked out. Natalie nodded. Goran also left the room.
Her and Stefanovic.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” she said.
“It’s a good place,” he said.
“It’s Dad’s place.”
“No, we both know that Christer Lindberg owns it.”
She didn’t care. Cut right to the chase: “Stefanovic, you were my father’s right-hand man. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”
Stefanovic responded in Serbian, “I think you’re going to need to be more precise. I’ve never hidden anything from you, sweetie. I promise.”
He put his hand over his heart, as though he had one.
There was no reason to hide anything anymore.
“Okay, then I want you to explain to me who Melissa Cherkasova is.”
Stefanovic didn’t move a muscle. Total poker face.
“Natalie, honey, your father ran several businesses. Some lucrative, others less so, but you know that. Some were completely legal, some not. Some were geared toward everyone, some were just for men.”
“I know what you’re talking about.”
“Good. Sometimes girls are needed to lighten the mood, make things nice. Especially international clients want beautiful women to be present at night, when you have dinner or go out to clubs. So: Melissa Cherkasova was a so-called escort. There’s nothing strange about that. Why are you asking about her?”
“What else do you know about her?”
“Aren’t you going to answer my question first?”
Natalie wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around. “No,” she said. “I want to know what else you know about Cherkasova.”
“Okay, but then you’re going to have to answer my question. And I don’t know much, I can tell you that. I know that she stopped working for us several years ago. Your father might’ve had occasional contact with her after that. But now it’s your turn to start answering.”
Natalie didn’t say anything. She thought about JW—the guy radiated something. And he’d helped her father and now Stefanovic with something beyond customary tax evasion.
She reviewed what she knew. She’d seen a green Volvo in the parking garage where Dad’d been shot, and a green Volvo’d been driving around on her street in the days before the murder. It could be the same vehicle. A man wearing gloves’d been driving the fucking car. Thomas’d tried to get the parking garage under the Globe Arena to produce images from its surveillance cameras—unfortunately they’d been deleted long ago. Natalie thought of Cherkasova, the whore who’d met the politician Bengt Svelander, who in turn had met Stefanovic at a restaurant downtown, who in turn had met JW. The former whore, Martina Kjellson, who claimed that Dad’s people had been the ones who ordered Cherkasova to record her encounters with the politician. Thomas’d done more research on Svelander—the politician was serving on the Foreign Affairs Committee for Baltic Concessions.
Thomas’d explained, “They’re the ones who decide over Sweden’s economic zone in the Baltic Sea. And more important, who decide if the Russians are going to be allowed to build that enormous pipeline, Nordic Pipe, on the bottom of the ocean.”
And now Stefanovic was sitting here, lying straight to her freshly made-up face.
Natalie finally spoke. “Stefanovic, let me say this. I know that something is going on that involves Cherkasova. But since you don’t plan on telling me, I think we’re done here for today. But I expect that, from now on, you will report to me about anything concerning a business that was started by my father. I don’t mind if you do business of your own. But what’s mine is min
e.”
This was the end—this was the beginning. She’d taken the step. Made her position clear. Stefanovic would have to get into line or disappear. Now she was waiting for his answer. She could feel her heart beating like a small bird’s.
What would he respond?
She thought about Dad. His journey: rise and fall. How he’d beaten his way into Swedish society. Created a position for himself. Helped so many of his countrymen. Broken through the segregation: been accepted by the Swedes as a neighbor in the leafy suburb, as a power player in the city.
Stefanovic opened his mouth slowly. He smiled.
“Natalie, you have been like a daughter to me. And I considered Kum a real brother. You can be assured that I will honor him in everything that I do. But he would’ve had a good laugh today if he’d heard what you just said. You’re a pretty girl. You’re a sweet person. But not more than that. This business isn’t for women.”
Natalie waited for him to say more.
“Kum knew that,” Stefanovic said. “And I know it. So I’m asking you now for the last time: stop acting like you’re your father. Take Goran with you and leave—it’s enough now. I’ve already told you not to get involved with that investigation. So listen to what I’m saying: Never come back here. Let go of what happened to your father. Never demand anything from me again. I don’t want to be your enemy.”
Natalie rose. Shook her head.
Stefanovic followed her with his eyes.
She opened the door.
Goran was standing outside. Maybe he understood what’d happened.
They walked down the stairs.
In her head: How would she do this?
She had no idea. But there was one thing she knew—Dad wouldn’t have laughed at her today.