by Jens Lapidus
Jorge almost spat on Hägerström when he spoke.
“Will you help me? I’ll pay you as soon as I get back to Thailand.”
Hägerström’s heart was doing flips in his chest. Free Javier: he envisioned Javier and himself at home at his apartment. They were laughing, kissing, holding each other.
On the other hand, it was a completely insane idea. Rescue missions were always dangerous. Meant threats, weapons, violence. He had to talk to Torsfjäll.
But he already knew what his answer was going to be.
He promised to think it over and called Torsfjäll immediately.
The inspector had blown off Jorge’s arrest when he understood that the Finn was within reach. But this proposed rescue mission came as a surprise even to him. He wondered if Hägerström was sure that it would lead them to the Finn.
Hägerström couldn’t be 100 percent, but still. Jorge’s sister and nephew were being held captive by this Finn guy. And Jorge had said he needed Javier’s help. That must lead them to the Finn.
And the fact was, Hägerström didn’t care whether it led them to the Finn. He wanted to see Javier again so badly.
Now he and Jorge were sitting in the waiting room of another law firm, Skogwall & Partners. Bert T. Skogwall, who was Javier’s lawyer, would see them shortly.
Oak paneling covered the walls. Heavy British leather armchairs on authentic Persian carpets. Spotlights in the ceiling illuminated antique paintings.
It reminded Hägerström of his dad’s waiting room.
Three minutes later they were sitting in the corner room of a magnificent apartment, alias the law office. Kommendörsgatan and Grevgatan stretched out below them. An address of which Lottie would have approved.
The room was perfectly decorated. Either Bert T. Skogwall was a color genius, or he was good at hiring the right decorator. The walls were olive green. The bookcases were filled with legal books whose spines all seemed to be different shades of brown. There were frosted-glass doors on some of the shelves: probably more books behind them. On the floor: an old Isfahan. The fact that it was well worn made it appear even more expensive. Two paintings hung behind the desk, both consisting of large circles of color in different shades. They might be Damien Hirsts.
Hägerström sat down. His cell phone was switched on in his pocket.
He thought of his brother. Bert T. Skogwall looked different. Carl always wore a dark suit and muted ties. The attorney sitting across from Hägerström and Jorge obviously didn’t believe in less is more.
Instead, Skogwall was wearing a pink shirt, yellow slacks, and a green tie. His cufflinks were enormous, and the diamond on his tie clip looked like it had been taken from Tin-Tin’s engagement ring. In other words, at least two carats.
Hägerström thought: This attorney looks like Pravat’s box of paints.
Jorge said, “Do you know who I am?”
Bert T. Skogwall spoke with an indeterminate dialect. “Naturally. You are Jorge Salinas Barrio. Known for your latest escape over Stockholm’s rooftops. You are arrested in absentia. You are coaccused with my client, Javier.”
Jorge nodded in time with the attorney’s words.
“And now I’m wondering what it is you want.”
“I just want you to convey one thing to Javier. Just two sentences.”
“You know that he has communication restrictions.”
“Yes, I know. Is that a problem?”
The attorney was twirling a pen. It looked like it was made of gold.
“That depends. Bringing information in and out is very risky. I would risk losing my license to practice.”
“I know. But I’m not the kind of guy who creates problems. If you help me, I will help your client.”
“That sounds good. But I need to know that it will benefit me too.”
Jorge slid an envelope across the table. The lawyer picked it up.
Opened it carefully, looked inside. Counted the bills that Jorge had slipped inside.
He put the envelope into the inner pocket of his blazer.
“Okay, what do you want me to pass on?”
“He has to get himself transferred to Huddinge’s closed psychiatric ward. And you have to inform me exactly when it’s going to happen.”
Hägerström’s ears were larger than a lop-eared rabbit’s. The wire he was wearing felt warm.
The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “That last bit, about me informing you, was not part of our agreement.”
“Maybe not,” Jorge said. “But we’ve recorded this conversation on a cell phone. So now it is part of our agreement.”
60
Ivan Hasdic’d gone back home. His final words: “I want you to know that you are always welcome to come down to us if things don’t work out the way you want them to up here. We’ll take care of you, until things’ve calmed down.”
Natalie kissed him on the cheeks. In her head: another image. A glimmer of hope. Everything would calm down quickly, after she’d done what had to be done. Stefanovic’s honchos would lay down their arms. Her finances would return to their normal state, or better. Her men could focus on their regular jobs again—smuggling, amphetamine sales, run-of-the-mill racketeering.
Today JW was supposed to have pushed his buttons, made his phone calls, sent his e-mails. Faxed the monkeys—that’s what he called the men managing the assets down there. Hopefully, he would’ve succeeded in hauling over all eight million euros to accounts that were connected to other accounts that were connected to accounts. Ones and zeros that were transferred far beyond what could be controlled. The money would’ve been moved through so many banks, exchange offices, trusts, and jurisdictions that it would be harder to find than a dropped contact lens on the floor of a nightclub on a Saturday night. And what was more, all the trails would point to that Gustaf Hansén guy. His name was on countless documents connected to the first accounts in the chain. Many of the powers of attorney that’d been faxed out today looked as though they were signed by him. A large part of the online controls today: verified by security tokens that’d been issued to him. Not everyone would fall for it—but Natalie’d have to deal with the rest.
And for that, she wanted 10 percent.
But most important of all: tomorrow they were going to see the Russians and Stefanovic.
JW’d managed to arrange a meeting. That was when Natalie was planning on dealing with the traitor. She knew how.
She was lying in the safe room tonight.
She couldn’t sleep. The room was around two hundred square feet large. Just barely fit a pullout couch, two chairs, and a small table. The couch was pulled out: the mattress was hard and uncomfortable. She turned the bedside lamp on, looked around.
There were four monitors on one wall. One monitor showed what the camera above the front door captured: the gravel path, the gate farther in the distance. The second one showed the view from the camera above the kitchen entrance: the deck, a section of the garden, the illuminated lawn. The third one showed the set of stairs that led down to the rec room. She glimpsed Mom’s paintings of the king and the brass railing. The final screen showed what the camera just outside the safe room captured—the rec room with the couch, the projection screen in the ceiling, and the treadmill. The windows up by the ceiling were barred. Adam was sitting in an armchair with his cell phone in hand. He was awake.
A phone was hanging beside the monitors, and next to it was a laminated piece of paper with important telephone numbers: SOS, the police, Adam, Sascha, Patrik, Goran, Thomas. Stefanovic’s name was at the very top, but had been crossed out. There was an alarm button to G4S and other buttons to control the alarm system in the house. There was an extra cell phone on a hanger and a Maglite flashlight. There was a fire extinguisher in one corner. Two gas masks were hanging on one hook. A stun gun was hanging on another.
There was a plastic bin on the floor. She knew what was inside it: four bottles of water, one bag of nuts, Wasa bread with cream cheese, and a few cans of food. T
here was a first aid kit, a toiletry kit, a packet of wet wipes, a cell phone charger, and a map of Stockholm. There was also a change of clothes for Natalie.
The aim was that you would be able to survive at least twenty-four hours in there.
She remembered what Thomas’d said: “If something happens, you should first try to escape. The safe room should be your absolute last resort—it’s not a bomb-safe bunker. It can stop an intruder only for a certain amount of time, until we or the police arrive.”
Natalie tried to relax. Neither Stefanovic nor the Wolf Averin should be trying anything tonight—they were supposed to meet with Moscow tomorrow, after all. Eye to eye, just her, Stefanovic, JW, and the Russians.
Nothing should be happening tonight.
Still, she couldn’t sleep.
The house was so quiet. She eyed one of the screens again. Adam was still awake.
There was another bodyguard up there somewhere, Dani. Just to be on the safe side.
Mom was in Germany. Natalie’d sent her off to stay with relatives ten days ago. They hadn’t been in touch since. Was easiest that way.
She thought about Semjon Averin. He’d looked so self-confident and relaxed in the blurry image from the surveillance camera when he was driving the Volvo. He looked even more self-confident in the passport photo in John Johansson’s name. As though nothing in the world could move him. Averin’s attitude reminded her of Dad’s. Would she ever be able to feel the same way? Maybe.
She remembered one time when she’d been to the Solvalla racetrack with Dad. Two old geezers from the municipal environmental and building committee had been there too—Dad wanted to build an addition on their house.
Nice atmosphere in the air. Ads for Agria animal insurance wallpapered the area. Hot dogs, beer, and betting slips in everyone’s hands. The speakers announced the day’s upcoming race. Natalie was seventeen years old.
They were sitting in the Congress Bar and Restaurant: an à la carte restaurant in seven stories, right in front of the finish line. The nicest part of Solvalla: white linen tablecloths, wall-to-wall carpeting, low music playing in the background, flat-screen TVs, and tons of slips on the tables. Most of the people there were men in their fifties and sixties—just like the municipal guys who were shoving their faces with foie gras and sipping champagne across from Dad and Natalie.
The speakers blazoned out the special event of the day. Björn and Olle Goop’s horse was going to run a victory lap for the audience. People applauded. Natalie wasn’t interested. She regarded the men around the table.
They talked about building permits, detailed planning, and God knew what else. She wasn’t really listening, but she remembered that one of the municipal guys’d said, “I think it’s important that Näsbypark is a living, dynamic place. That we don’t make it too difficult for people to change their houses to suit their needs.”
The other municipal guy’d raised his glass. “Cheers to that.”
Dad’d pushed two envelopes across the table to the men. Raised his own glass. “No one could agree with you more than I do.”
His face was relaxed, confident. Total assurance that he knew what he was doing and that he was doing the right thing. Natalie hadn’t thought about it back then. She’d just accepted that that was the way Dad looked when he did business. But now she wondered—was it perhaps just a mask that he put on when he needed to?
Goran’d called an hour ago.
“Natalie, where are you?”
“I’m in Näsbypark. Sleeping in the bunker tonight.”
“Good. Who’s there with you?”
“Adam and Dani. Adam’s being switched out at three o’clock.”
“Natalie”—Goran was breathing heavily—“I heard that you’re going to meet with Stefanovic and try to make up.”
Maybe there was worry in his voice. Maybe it was irritation.
She said, “Yes, that’s true. I think it’s best that we end this war.”
“You’re right. That’s probably best. But is JW somehow involved in setting this up?”
“Yes.”
Goran was breathing heavily again. “Natalie, listen to me. You have my support, no matter what you do. But be careful with this JW guy. I’ve said it before, don’t trust him. There are things you don’t know about him. Things you don’t want to know.”
“Like what?”
“I can’t talk about that now. But veruj mi, be careful.”
Natalie reached for the glass of water on the floor. She picked up a tablet of Xanax. “Tell me now.”
“Natalie, you have to listen to me,” Goran said. “I love you. Now is not a good time to tell you. But I’ll explain soon. Good night.”
They hung up. Natalie popped the pill in her mouth. Gulped water.
Leaned her head back on the pillow.
She turned off the bedside lamp. Thought: What does Goran have against JW?
* * *
SWEDISH BANKER DEAD IN CAR ACCIDENT IN MONTE CARLO
Gustaf Hansén, a banker who was active in Liechtenstein and Switzerland, died on Sunday in a car accident in Monte Carlo.
Gustaf Hansén stopped working at Danske Bank five years ago after accusations of fraud. The tax authorities began an investigation that was dropped two years ago. Hansén had been living in Liechtenstein for four years. He was known for his great interest in cars.
Hansén was driving a Ferrari California Cabriolet at the time of the accident. He had a high alcohol content in his blood. According to sources within the Monaco police force, there is no suspicion of foul play.
Gustaf Hansén was forty-six years old.
61
There was no time.
His sister and nephew: had been kidnapped for forty-four hours now.
No time.
Jorge didn’t give a shit about anything—he was ready now. Time was a luxury. The CIT planning’d been detailed like a book: What’d that led to? Nada.
Now this motherfucking Latino was running on routine. Now he was going on his G-gene. Now he just had to act fast.
Sin mandamiento, sin reglas. There was no time for planning, for thinking ahead, for tight co-dees. No time. His plans’d grown out of a night on a mattress at a homeless shelter. How much was he thinking ahead? Half a day. And tight buds? He was gonna use an ex-cop, oooo yeah.
He thought: Let whatever happens, happen. I’m prepared to die for you, Paola and Jorgito.
Violence can solve most things.
You are me, and I am you. My blood will absolve us all from sin.
Jesus—joder: he was gonna sacrifice himself if need be.
He was gonna break Javier out, and then he was gonna settle the score with the Finn—get Paola and Jorgito.
He met Hägerström by the main entrance to Huddinge Hospital. Thirty degrees in the air. Maybe the scarf Jorge’d wrapped several times around his neck didn’t look that shady after all.
Hägerström was wearing a glossy down jacket. Jorge thought it looked gay.
Jorge was rocking baggy track pants and a cardigan. He was carrying a duffel bag.
A new Taurus gun was stuffed in his pants pocket. The same kind of gat that’d saved him once before. That the poor cabbie’d tasted against his temple.
His cell phone was in his other pants pocket. Bert T. Skogwall, Esquire’d, called thirty minutes ago. Informed him that Javier was now being moved to the closed psychiatric ward at Huddinge. Javier’d started acting weird as early as last night. Been awake all night, banging on his cell door. Cut himself and bled all over the cell. In the morning: the staff found him smeared with his own excrement with a rope made out of torn prison clothes wrapped around his neck. Javier—obviously psychologically unstable. Obviously: a risk to himself. The staff at the Kronoberg jail couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t try to take his own life—he had to be sent to receive proper care.
Javier: a homie. The dude knew how to handle the Department of Corrections. The lawyer briefed Jorge. Javier’d tied a T-shirt tig
htly around his upper arms so that the veins were clearly visible. Made a tiny cut in the crook of his arm, squeezed out a few drops of blood. Mixed the blood with water and simply splashed the cell with it. Then he shit on toilet paper and hid it under his bed. It stank. Finally, he mixed coffee dregs with bread—the right shit color. Smeared himself and everything around him like a toddler with finger paint.
Jorge and Hägerström took the stairs down.
Within an hour, one of the Department of Corrections’s transport vehicles ought to be pulling into the back of Huddinge’s closed psychiatric unit.
Jorge and Hägerström would play welcome committee.
But before then: they were gonna fix something.
They continued down the stairs. Continued out through the parking garage. Out on the other side. They jumped over a few concrete blocks. They saw it, behind a metal fence ten yards off.
Jorge set the duffel down. Pulled out a pair of bolt cutters that he’d lifted forty minutes ago in the Flemingsberg Mall.
Began cutting a hole in the fence.
The ambulance garage was behind there. Jorge saw the large garage gates. One was open. He could see two ambulances parked right inside.
A hole in the wall large enough so that they could bend it back and climb through.
It was calm outside the ambulance garage. Where were all the ambulance drivers? Where were all the bleeding, screaming patients?
Hägerström said, “This is not where the transports drive into. They arrive upstairs, outside the ER.”
Jorge thought: Okay, maybe it would’ve been smarter to carjack an ambulance up there. But it was too late for that now.
They walked into the garage. At least ten ambulances in different models were lined up. Even one that looked like a truck.
Jorge thought: If anyone were to ask me to draw an ambulance, I would draw a white car with a red cross on it—but not a single one of the real ambulances was white. They were all yellow with green color fields and blue symbols on them.