by Jens Lapidus
He set the bag down on the table.
“Here, take this and put it in your bag.”
Hägerström stared.
JW grinned. “Take it easy. I actually don’t know exactly what it is. But I know it’s not drugs or chemical weapons or anything.”
He placed an envelope on the table.
“This is your ticket. The flight leaves tomorrow at nine o’clock, going to Zurich. From there you’ll take an express train to Liechtenstein. That’s where you’ll leave the bag. Then you go back to Zurich and take a plane home, at five o’clock CET.”
Hägerström put the plastic bag into his bag. It weighed less than a carton of milk would. He was 99 percent sure that there was cash in the bag.
“You’ll get half now and the rest when you come home,” JW said. “The only thing you need to do is go through customs in Zurich and then take the train. At the train station, you’ll lock the plastic bag in a storage box. That’s all.”
Hägerström put the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket. “That sounds easier than shooting a moose, anyway.”
“It’s ten times easier. Believe me, there’s nothing to worry about.”
That afternoon he met Torsfjäll at one of the apartments where they used to meet up pre-Thailand. They opened the bag together, both of them wearing latex gloves.
“He’s asked me to be a mule—it’s on record,” Hägerström said. “And I know where they keep their material. Now we’ve finally got him.”
Torsfjäll put the stacks of bills on the table. “Let us listen, and let us see.”
They listened to the recording. Then they counted the bills carefully: six hundred thousand kronor. Most of the bills were dyed. Torsfjäll held up a couple of five-hundred-kronor bills, examined them with a magnifying glass that he fished out of his briefcase. He turned every bill over several times—inspected the numbers, the dye stains.
He said, “I’m not sure that what JW said will yield all that much. But this is money from the Tomteboda robbery. This is Jorge’s money, definitely.”
“Yes, and what’s even better, I’ll take the stuff down to Liechtenstein, and we’ll see who picks it up. We’ll arrest that person, while we arrest JW at the same time and hit up their secret location.”
“No. We have to wait. If we arrest JW now, Jorge will disappear.”
“But finding him may prove difficult.”
“Yes, he’s obviously managed to get this money to JW without you knowing about it. He’s going to leave any minute now, whether or not we arrest JW. But if we take JW, he’ll disappear immediately. We’ve kept the streets around Arlanda under top surveillance over the past few days, but that fucker’s smart.”
They talked for another few minutes. Then Torsfjäll wanted to end the meeting. The inspector took the bag with the bills. He was going to prepare them, as he put it.
The next morning they met up again in the same apartment. It wasn’t even five-thirty a.m. When Pravat was little, he used to wake up at this hour all the time. Hägerström would bring him into the living room, put him on the couch, and lie down on the edge so Pravat wouldn’t fall down. And then Pravat would sit there playing with balls and blocks while Hägerström half-snoozed for another half an hour.
Torsfjäll pulled the bag from his briefcase and handed it over to Hägerström.
“It’s the same bills, but they’ve all been sprayed with smart DNA. We can follow them to the end of the world. Whoever touches them will get this stuff on their fingers, and it’ll stick for at least three days.”
Hägerström agreed. It was clever. But he still didn’t understand why they weren’t going to arrest JW now. Jorge was probably on his way back to Thailand. If they arrested JW, it would stress him out even more, make him less cautious. And if they had people at Arlanda, there was nothing to worry about. What’s more, he ought to be able to get hold of Jorge on his own before then, if he used JW.
There was something off about Torsfjäll’s reasoning—but there wasn’t time to discuss it with the inspector right now. Hägerström had to go to Zurich.
He didn’t run into any trouble at Arlanda. He was dressed in a suit, no tie. He had put the bag with the money in an old suitcase that his father had given him twenty years ago. Perfect, because there was a metal thread inside each bill. All together they would set off the metal detector if he brought it along as a carry-on. He filled the rest of the bag with shirts, pants, and underwear.
He had a one-way ticket. Having a return flight on the same day would’ve seemed odd with all that luggage.
On the plane, his thoughts were spinning.
He thought of Thailand. Of his brother and his friends. In his mind’s eye, he saw JW’s impressed expression. He missed Pravat. He hated the fact that longing for the boy had become his normal state of being.
He thought of his father. In 1996 Hägerström had been an assistant police officer for a year. He’d met a guy, Christopher, a couple of times at a club on Sveavägen. They would dance, drink vodka drinks, and go home to Hägerström’s place and fuck. Hägerström brought Christopher to Avesjö one weekend in November. It was before Carl had taken the place over. The estate was more or less empty during the winters. Father usually asked the groundskeeper to stop by once a week, that was all.
Hägerström picked Christopher up outside his apartment on Tulegatan. He was thin with bleached-blond hair. A toned-down femmeness that Hägerström liked.
They drove out to Värmdö. Hägerström played Backstreet Boys in the car. Dug the music ironically. Winked at Christopher. “When we’re alone, girl, I wanna push up/Can I get it?”
Hägerström disarmed the alarm in the house. Turned on the lights.
Got settled. They cooked Asian food for dinner. Christopher said he wanted to drink ABC—anything but Chardonnay. Hägerström got a couple bottles of Sauvignon Blanc from Father’s wine cellar. They talked about how they dealt with their sexuality. About when they had had their first experiences with men. About which places in Stockholm were serious and which were just dirty.
At night, they lay down on the bed in Hägerström’s parents’ room. Made out. Rolled around on the king-sized bed and kissed. They closed their eyes and let their hands find their way.
Christopher produced a bottle of lube, as if by magic. They made love.
Suddenly, in the middle of it all, Hägerström heard a sound from the ground floor.
He tore out of bed.
Someone called from down there, “Hello?”
He called back, “Who is it?”
“Göran. Is it you, Martin?”
Hägerström threw his boxers on. Walked out of the room.
Called, “I’m coming down.” Whispered to Christopher to get out of the bedroom.
It was too late. Father was already walking up the stairs.
Hägerström met him in the upstairs hallway.
“What are you doing here?”
Hägerström said, “I’m here with a friend. I was asleep. Didn’t know you were coming out here tonight.”
Father looked at him. Shook his head. “You were asleep already? It’s only eight-thirty.”
Back on the plane. Hägerström missed his father. Even if they hadn’t had a close connection or been similar in any way, his father’s love had always been unconditional. It’s not like he ever said anything. His father didn’t talk about feelings like that. But you could still feel it—in his way of talking with his children, looking at them, hugging them when they hadn’t seen each other in a while.
Hägerström thought of Javier again. The tattoos on his back, his tanned arms and back. His laughter. He didn’t want to think about him, but he couldn’t stop.
It felt like he needed him now.
The plane landed according to schedule. Hägerström waited for his bag. It looked untouched—he had put a piece of tape over the opening as a control mechanism. He rolled it through customs without incident.
The express train pulled into the
station fifteen minutes later. The seats were incredibly comfortable.
When he arrived at the station, he walked straight to the storage boxes. He put the bag with the money in box number 432 and inserted four one-euro coins into the slot. He bought a Vanity Fair and took the train back to the Zurich airport. He had a seat at a café and waited for his return flight. JW was supposed to have booked it during the day.
The flight home departed according to schedule. Hägerström had delivered twelve hundred DNA-marked bills in less than twelve hours. Door to door.
When he got home, he was tired. Sat down in front of the TV. A dance competition was playing on one of the channels.
His cell phone rang.
A panting voice. At first he couldn’t hear who it was.
“Yo, Hägerström. I gotta see you. I got mad problems.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Jorge. We gotta meet up right now, man.”
He wondered what had happened. Jorge sounded like he was on the verge of tears.
Hägerström was only thinking one thing: Now the case must be completely finished.
Now they could arrest Jorge. Which meant that there was no reason to wait to arrest JW.
It was finally time to reel them in.
* * *
From: Lennart Torsfjäll [[email protected]]
To: Leif Hammarskiöld [leif.hammarskiold@polis.se]
Sent: October 15
Subject: Operation Tide, The Pillow Biter, etc.
DELETE THIS EMAIL AFTER READING
Leif,
Thank you for a pleasant conversation yesterday. The decision we discussed—waiting to arrest Johan “JW” Westlund—has proven to be very fortuitous.
We have strong evidence against JW thanks to the hand-off money that was given to the Pillow Biter. The prosecutor will, without a doubt, issue a search warrant both for JW’s house and for Bladman’s official and unofficial office spaces. The money was delivered by the Pillow Biter to a box at the train station in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. Before he left, however, I took care of the money and replaced it with fake bills. It will probably take a few days before this fact is discovered, as it involves Swedish currency. The real money is now available for you and I to split according to our agreement.
Previously, I believed that we could arrest JW and Jorge Salinas Barrio now. However, the latter contacted the Pillow Biter this morning to ask for his help in dealing with a recently arisen situation. The person who is suspected of planning and controlling the Tomteboda robbery—only known as “The Finn”—has kidnapped Salinas Barrio’s sister and nephew. There is obviously some form of aggressive discord between them. This leads me to conclude that we ought to wait yet another few days to arrest JW and Salinas Barrio. After all, the possibility has hereby arisen of actually arresting and bringing to justice the so-called brain behind the Tomteboda robbery. The Finn is probably also responsible for a large number of other cash-in-transit robberies over recent years (see the attached report). I foresee great triumphs for the police department, and not least for you. What do you think?
I would be grateful if you would get back to me about this as soon as possible.
Lennart
57
Goran’d booked a chamber separée at the casino. Honestly—Natalie wasn’t so sure anymore that Gabriel Hanna’s Gaming Club in Västerås was lame in comparison. Casino Cosmopol—it was big and state-run, claimed to be superlegal—but the Stockholm casino still felt shabby.
Maybe it’d been top-notch when it opened seven years ago. Now: the mirrors’d lost their shine, the buttons on the gambling machines were worn down, and the original color of the wall-to-wall carpeting was impossible to determine.
On the walls: ads for Christmas banquets and a New Year’s dinner. Seafood tower for two for 799 kronor. The jackpot at the casino right now: 32,900,000 kronor—at max bet: 37.50 kronor. At the same time: informational posters: DO YOU THINK YOU GAMBLE TOO MUCH?—WWW.CURBYOURPLAYING.COM. Standard Swedish hypocrisy in a shrimp shell—lure the poor devils here with seafood and fat jackpots so they gamble and make money for the state, but at the same time, pretend that it’d really be best if they didn’t come here at all.
The place was occupied by three different factions: one-third antiquated hags, one-third Asians, and one-third dudes in short-sleeved button-downs. Natalie heard Louise’s voice in her head: “Go ahead, joke and be happy—but never wear a short-sleeved shirt to a casino.” She was glad they had their own room.
They were sitting around a gaming table. A croupier dealt the cards. Natalie didn’t get any.
She, Goran, and Thomas plus two others around the table.
One: Dad’s old business colleague from Belgrade, Ivan Hasdic. The other: his bodyguard.
Both Adam and Sascha were sitting outside the room, and there was another guy stationed down in the foyer. Security was doubled today.
Ivan Hasdic put his cards facedown on the table. Folded up one corner—looked without moving his eyes.
Natalie checked him out. Hasdic: the cigarette king, the smuggling legend, the wandering Serb. Goran’d told her: Radovan started doing business with Hasdic already in the mid-1990s. They knew each other from the war down there. Dad’d brought in his first thirty thousand packs of cigarettes in a truck that carried aluminum rods. Earned a krona per cancer stick on average, after the truckers and the customs guys’d gotten their cut. Okay money. Their relationship’d developed. Dad began to receive trucks with cigarettes regularly. A few years later Hasdic ran into trouble with the authorities down there. Dad arranged so that he got a temporary residence permit in Sweden, could keep away from allegations of incitement to murder long enough for the police to drop the charges against him. Hasdic moved around, lived in Austria, England, Russia, Romania. He shipped clean goods to Dad—Dad shipped stolen flat-screen TVs to Hasdic. Hasdic sorted things out with one of the pimp kings in Romania—Dad helped Hasdic buy race horses that, over the years, made over two million euros in prize money. Hasdic sent reliable guys when Dad needed reinforcements—Dad arranged so that Nacka municipality hired Hasdic’s workers when they were going to build a new heating plant.
Back then: Ivan Hasdic’d loved Radovan Kranjic as his own brother.
Today: Ivan Hasdic was one of the most important men in the Serbian underworld.
Now: Ivan Hasdic’d promised to help Natalie as much as he could.
Natalie’s Serbian was broken. “Kum Ivan,” she said, “I want to thank you for coming. I want to welcome you to Sweden. The last time we saw each other was during even less pleasant times. We had no opportunity to speak.”
Ivan’d been present at Dad’s funeral, but had flown back that very same afternoon.
Natalie stood up. Walked over to him and handed over a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label.
Ivan kissed her cheeks: right, left, right.
He thanked her for the bottle. He pulled the usual your-eyes-are-so-beautiful flattery. He said how much she reminded him of her father. Asked about her mom. Natalie avoided the questions about Mom—their relationship was ice cold.
They sat back down.
Natalie went straight to the point. She began by explaining what she knew about Dad’s murder. What she’d found about Semjon Averin, alias John Johansson, alias Volk, the Wolf.
She went on for over an hour.
The entire time Ivan looked at his cards. Continued to play with Goran and Thomas. Continued to flip his chips. Played with the fabric bag, which was constantly being filled. But Natalie could tell by looking at him that he was listening. Sometimes he nodded faintly. Sometimes he scratched his chin as though to try to remember something.
Actually: What did she know that was of value today that she hadn’t known a month ago? Okay, she knew that the murderer was a hired assassin who had a certain name. Still: she hadn’t come any closer to the central question—who’d given Averin the job? Who had hired him? Who was really behind Dad’s murder?
<
br /> Maybe it was the Russians. Maybe it was some Swedish gang.
At the same time, her entire body screamed: Stefanovic. The connection with the Black & White Inn, the planned takeover of Dad’s empire, the encroachment on their finances that happened at the exact same time as the murder. And more: Stefanovic’s way of responding during the police interrogations, and the fact that no one but Stefanovic and possibly Mom could’ve known that Dad was going to be at Skeppargatan that night.
When Natalie’d finished talking, Ivan put his cards down. He looked up. Met her eyes, but his gaze was distant, as though he were staring far away through the door.
He was wearing a shirt that looked gray, but it was probably supposed to resemble white. His hands were rough, and the knuckles looked worn, like old leather gloves. His hair was gray. It was difficult to say how old he was—he had scars and wrinkles all over his face. And Hadic’s face was just like everything else: gray.
But his voice had a certain rhythm to it. A calm, safe, secure tone.
“It’s not good, what you’re telling me,” he said. “Not good at all.”
He picked up the deck of cards again. Dealt the cards onto the table. Goran and Thomas looked as if they didn’t know what to do. Ivan gestured with his hand—keep playing.
They played a round. The croupier dealt new cards.
“The Wolf could be here now, in Stockholm,” Ivan said.
Natalie put her hands in her lap. Tried to relax.
“Goran briefed me beforehand,” he went on. “I’ve talked to people at home and asked around. I can say that the Wolf Averin is very dangerous. Besides the crimes that Interpol has obviously connected him to, he has carried out at least ten similar attacks that I’ve found out about from other sources. And there are probably more that my sources are not aware of but that the current authorities in Russia know about. He is educated, he has gathered experience over the years, and he uses different identities. They say he works in the high-end segment. That is, he doesn’t take any jobs for less than fifty thousand euros. In Russia, they call him a superkiller. It’s been explained to me that only four other assassins have been given that title prior to the Wolf.”