by Jens Lapidus
Tor Jonasson: a two. The hair color was right but not the rest.
John Johansson and Kurt Sjögren: both were fours.
Both were possible.
She told Sascha to drive to see Thomas.
They met up at her house. Thomas was already there. He was sitting in the kitchen.
They went into the library—they had serious business to discuss.
She said, “So what’ve they found?”
“There are a lot of people in the police force who hate me. But others actually understand why I’ve done what I’ve done. They know that I’m still an honorable man. So I gave the fingerprint results to a buddy, along with an envelope with some extra gratitude in it. He entered the fingerprint results into an ongoing project he’s working on. Doing that enabled him to pass the stuff to the Nordic Cooperation Committee and Interpol. Then they could run searches through their databases based on the fingerprints from the Black & White Inn.”
Natalie felt her pulse pounding in her temples.
“They’ve come up with three hits. A murder in Berlin last year, an assassination attempt of a Russian politician. And another murder in Lyon seven years ago.”
Natalie wasn’t breathing.
Thomas said, “They suspect the same person.”
He picked up an envelope, opened it. Placed a document on the table.
A printout from Interpol’s Wanted database. First: a few lines of general information. Then a name: Semjon Averin. Then two photographs, front and profile shots.
There was more text, but she was only looking at the person in the photograph.
A clear face: it was the same person as John Johansson.
* * *
OIPC—ICPO INTERPOL
RED NOTICE
[image]
Legal Status
Current Surname: Averin (son of Michail)
Current Given Name: Semjon
Sex: Male
Date of birth: April 4, 1966
Place of birth: Kurgan, Uralskij
Nationality: Russia
Known aliases: Florencio Primo, Sergey Batista, Volk (“The Wolf”)
Physical Description
Height: 187 cm
Weight: 97 kg
Hair color: Dark
Eye color: Brown
Crimes
Murder, attempted murder, illegal weapons possession, conspiracy
Arrest warrant issued by:
Moskovskij gorodskoj sug, Moscow, Russia
Tribunal de Police, Paris, France
COMMENTS
Semjon Averin was born in the city of Kurgan in Siberia. His father, Michail Averin, served as a high-ranking officer in the Russian Air Force. His mother, Sonja, was a Communist activist. Semjon Averin’s parents divorced when he was young. His father is reported to have severely abused the boy on two occasions.
After finishing school, Averin applied to the Russian military. After completing two years of basic training, he was accepted to OMON (Otrjad Militsii Osobogo Naznatjenija). OMON is made up of a large number of special units within the national police in Russia. OMON was created in the former Soviet Union and is today under direct orders from the Ministry of Internal Affairs (MVD). Every Russian police department has an OMON force that is deployed in high-risk situations such as, for example, hostage dramas, kidnappings, riots, terror threats, and so on.
However, Averin was fired from the unit after only fourteen months of service, for unknown reasons. He returned to Kurgan and found work there as a gravedigger. In 1989 he married and had a daughter. Shortly thereafter, he was charged with rape and sentenced to eight years in the gulag. On the same day that he was to be transported to the gulag, he was allowed to pay a visit to his wife. Averin managed to escape from the third floor of a building where the visit was taking place. After a number of months on the run, he was found 120 kilometers north of Kurgan, was arrested and brought to the gulag. Even though Averin had the right to serve his time in a special unit reserved for former members of the military and/or police, he was placed in an ordinary unit, probably because of his high escape risk.
According to unverified rumor, the other inmates, when they learned of his background within the police, sentenced him to death. He survived a number of murder attempts in the prison camp and was forced to fight for his life on numerous occasions. He was given his nickname, Volk (“The Wolf”), by the other inmates because he had a reputation for biting his opponents in the throat when he was attacked. After some time, they left him alone because he was considered dangerous.
Averin escaped from the gulag in 1992. He returned to Kurgan, where he is suspected of having joined the local criminal organization. He is suspected of participating in the murder of the rival organization’s leader, Dima Romanovitj, in the city of Tjumen. In 1994 Averin is believed to have moved to Moscow.
From 1994 to 2002 Averin is suspected of having participated in various illegal activities in the service of different organizations and associations. The allegations include attempted murder, blackmail, assault, and illegal weapons possession. However, these allegations have not been proven. After this period of time, Averin is formally suspected of the following:
• Murder of the Algerian citizen Hassan Saber, Lyon, 2003. Fingerprints have been found on a weapon, a pistol of the model Stetjkin APS, which was discovered in a water tank on the roof of the apartment building where Hassan Saber lived. Hassan Saber was known to French police as one of the leading figures in the sex trade in Lyon. He had been shot in the eyes with three bullets from the pistol in question.
• Assassination attempt on the regional Russian politician Alexandr Glinka, 2007. In 2006 Glinka was elected mayor of Novgorod. His primary campaign promise was to fight corruption in the region. In June 2007 Glinka’s service car exploded outside his home. Glinka had not yet climbed into the car. His chauffeur sustained serious, but not life-threatening, injuries. Russian police estimate that the charge, which consisted of a grenade and plastic explosives, had somehow been set off prematurely and was also placed incorrectly. Semjon Averin was spotted by witnesses in a car near the scene of the crime.
• Murder of German citizen Özcan Cetin, 2012. Finally, Averin’s fingerprints were found on a soda can in an apartment in Berlin where the German citizen Özcan Cetin was found murdered and tortured.
To conclude, the police have not been able to make any personal or other connections between Averin and any of the victims Saber, Glinka, or Cetin. Because of this circumstance and the ways the crimes were executed, as well as the fact that they were committed in disparate parts of Europe, Averin is suspected of carrying out so-called contract killings.
Averin is not included in any DNA database.
NOTE
Despite what has been written above, the person in question should be considered innocent until proven guilty.
55
At Arlanda Airport again. Jorge thought about the chick with the dreadlocks that he’d met when he was returning to Svenland. Insane coincidence that they’d run into each other.
Now: already too long in Swedeville. J-boy’d done what he’d come here to do. The cash’d been dug up. Six hundred G’s for this G.
Now: time to go back. Figure out the café down there. Settle down. Let the years pass by. Chill with Mahmud.
His loss: Javier’d been collared—nothing Jorge could do about that. The blatte’d been an idiot for coming home. Still, he felt bad for Javier’s sake.
He’d given the dough to JW. His bro’d promised to Mr. Clean that shit. Instead of exchanging it or laundering it, he was gonna get it down to some account in Liechtenstein, then into an Asian bank. Shit, his buddy JW was cool—was only charging forty big ones for his trouble. Jorge was gonna get a credit card tied to the cash. Guapo.
After his escape over the rooftops in Vasastan—Jorge’s jumpiness’d reached new levels. He saw dark Saab 9-5s—UC cop-car giveaways—every minute. Texted the National Road Administration ten times a day.
He dreamed twisted nightmares every night. Every other time he saw Javier in a cell in jail—they were hosing him down with fire hoses. Screaming, “Where is Jorge? Talk!” Every other time he saw Babak calling the Finn from a cell phone he’d smuggled in behind the bars: “Jorge played you.”
Jorge’d stayed at a new homeless shelter every night. He’d bought a winter hat and pulled it down low over his ears. He bought a Palestine scarf and pulled it up high over his chin. Go ahead, let ’em think he was Taimour Abdulwahab with a political fixation—as long as no one recognized him.
All he’d been waiting for was today: the flight to Bangkok was taking off at four o’clock.
Jorge: Shawshank.
Still a king?
Still J. Bernadotte Bhumibol?
Hardly—all he wanted now was to get away. Screw everything. Babak could go ahead and rat him out—the prosecutor wouldn’t bother chasing him all the way to Phuket. Little Jorge and Paola would have to survive on their own for a few years. Javier would have to lie as well as he could to duck a charge.
Jorge was outa here.
He was sitting in the departure hall in terminal five. Nasty markup on croissants and orange juice. The plane was departing in one hour. Thailand—estoy esperando! Checked in and ready. Just carry-on, a passport with a proven success rate, a car magazine to read on the plane: nice. He hadn’t passed through security yet. The less time inside the terminal the better—he felt trapped in there.
He’d actually called his mom. Said adíos. Explained that he loved her, Paola, and Jorgito more than anything. She just cried. After they hung up, Jorge saw two words on the insides of his eyelids: Mama trató—Mom, you tried.
Crumbs from the croissant were getting everywhere. He was sitting so that he could see a screen with the flight info. Fifty-five minutes to go.
He thought of what Mahmud used to say: “Ride gangster, die gangster.”
And now: how would Jorge die? In a dank apartment in Phuket? As a café king in a fat bungalow on the beach? In a Swedish prison? He didn’t know, and right now he just didn’t give a shit. As long as he made it onto this plane.
Javier thoughts again. He was leaving his friend here. But the ground rules had been clear: everyone had to deal with their own shit on their own. He couldn’t be his boy’s mama, couldn’t wipe the Latino’s ass for him.
Then he remembered his most recent conversation with Mahmud.
“I’m coming back, the day after tomorrow.”
“Okay, good. And the dough?”
“Done. JW’s taking care of it.”
“Great.”
“Anything you want me to bring over from here? Some food, dick?”
“I’ve got a dick already, thanks. But can you buy some of that fish candy?”
Jorge smiled inside.
Now: fifty minutes till the plane took off. He missed Mahmud.
A vibration in his pocket. Someone was calling his phone. It was Paola’s number.
Her voice sounded stressed. She was almost whispering.
“Jorge.”
“Yes, what’s wrong?”
“They’re here.”
“Who?”
“They’re pounding on the door. They say they’re gonna break it down if you don’t come here and pay.”
“Who says that?”
Jorge heard his own voice: weak. Felt his head: growing hot.
Paola said, “They’re from someone called the Finn. They say you ripped them off. I told them you’re not in Sweden, but they don’t believe me.”
In Jorge’s head: bad images. Paola’s frightened eyes. Jorgito with bruises on his face. What the fuck was he gonna do?
He heard screaming in the background. He heard Paola yell, “Beat it! Jorge isn’t here!”
He heard pounding sounds.
“Jorge, what should I do?”
“Is Jorgito there too?”
“Yes, I locked him in his room. What should I say?”
Jorge looked at the screen farther off. Forty minutes until takeoff. Forty minutes until peace and quiet.
He was holding his passport and boarding pass in one hand. Cell phone in the other. The screams in the background. The pounding. He couldn’t even hear what Paola was trying to say.
Mahmud’s saying in his head: Ride gangster, die gangster—but what kind of a G leaves his sister in the lurch?
Jorge yelled into the phone, “Don’t open the door. I’m coming.”
The taxi was driving eighty-five miles an hour. Jorge’d flashed an extra five-hundred-kronor bill. The cabbie promised to drive as fast as he dared.
It would take at least thirty-five minutes to get to Hägersten. Jorge tried to visualize Paola’s door. How thick could it be? What could it be made of? Wouldn’t the neighbors react if someone tried to break it down? Should he call the police?
The final thought felt unreal: he’d never called the police in his entire life.
He called Paola again. She picked up: the noise in the background was even worse now. But her crying was the worst.
He screamed, “Paola, you have to call the police! You HAVE TO! I’m hanging up now, and then you call me back when you’ve talked to the cops.”
They hung up.
Jorge waited.
Not too much traffic on the highway. He stared down at his phone’s display.
Was there anyone he could call who could get there faster? Fuck, everyone he knew who might have had his back was abroad, in jail, or had become ruler-straight. Except for that Hägerström guy and JW—but no, they weren’t the right caliber for this.
His screen remained dark. Why didn’t she call him back?
Jorge entered the most recently dialed number.
Signals went through.
It went to her voicemail.
He called again. One, two, three signals.
She picked up this time. No noise in the background. Paola was crying. “They’re inside now, do you understand? I’ve locked myself in with Jorgito in his room.”
“I’m on my way. Did you call the police?”
The call was cut off.
Jorge tried to call again.
Only: “You’ve reached Paola. You know what to do after the beep.”
He was holding the phone tightly in his hand.
Then he did something he never thought he’d do.
He called the five-oh.
Twenty minutes to get to Paola’s door.
The taxi driver tore through more than three red lights. The worst minutes of his life.
He saw the cop car down on the street.
He ran up the stairs.
The crowbar marks on the door were clearly visible. The door was ajar.
He heard men’s voices from inside the apartment.
He peered in. Glimpsed two cops in there.
He hoped they’d made it on time. But he couldn’t go in if there were cops in there. He tried to listen. Paola’s voice? Jorgito’s voice?
He didn’t hear anything.
Jorge walked down the stairs.
He called Paola.
Signals went through.
A man picked up. “Who is it?”
Jorge hoped it was one of the cops.
“It’s Paola’s brother.”
The voice said, “We’ve got her and the kid.”
He clocked right away—he’d been too late.
He said, “You fucking cunts. Release her and the child. They haven’t done anything.”
The voice said, “The Finn wants his money. The Finn knows you ripped him off.”
The voice had a slight accent. Jorge couldn’t place it.
“What the fuck is he talking about? I haven’t ripped him off.”
“We know. Canaries’ve been singing from jail. You stashed away three bags. The Finn wants his money.”
Joder. Maricón.
Motherfuckingcocksucker.
No words were enough—the Babak-puta must’ve snitched. Jorge wondered how the info’d le
aked out. The Iranian was locked up, top security, all restrictions applied.
“Release my sis and the child.”
“We’ll make an exchange. You bring the cash you stole, eight hundred thousand. We bring what you want.”
“When?”
“As soon as you like.”
“Where?”
“We’ll call you about that. You got the dough?”
Jorge envisioned the two hundred he’d given to Babak and the bag with six hundred that he’d handed over to JW to launder in offshore accounts.
He responded, “Yes.”
56
Now they ought to have a watertight case.
Two days after the moose hunt at Avesjö, JW called Hägerström.
“Thanks for a good time. It was great, really great.”
Hägerström waited for something more. They discussed the hunt and the gentlemen’s dinner that followed for about five minutes. Then. There it was. JW’s order: “Come to Bladman’s accounting firm—you know where it is. You’ve dropped me off there tons of times. Bring a duffel bag, a backpack, or some other small bag.”
Hägerström drove there. Torsfjäll had ordered him, for the first time, to wear a wire.
JW was waiting for him down on the street.
“This isn’t where we’re going.”
He followed JW. They walked around the block and stopped in front of the entrance to a regular residential building. JW punched a code into the keypad. They walked up the stairs. An ordinary door, it said ANDERSSON on the mail slot. JW unlocked the door, and they stepped inside.
It was a small apartment. Two rooms. The walls were covered with bookshelves filled with binders. Hägerström tried not to stare. He felt elated.
Superbingo—this had to be the secret cache. The double set of books that Torsfjäll had been so convinced that they had.
Finally. Operation Tide would soon come to an end.
One of the rooms held a desk. They sat down on either side of it.
JW set a backpack on the table. Hägerström recognized it; it was the one he had seen Jorge lugging around.
JW opened the backpack. Inside was a white plastic bag containing something that looked like a carton of milk.