by Jens Lapidus
“And Melissa Cherkasova?”
“No point discussing her now. That won’t solve our problem, will it? If you want to go there, I can bring up how I felt when you sent me Marko’s finger. We’ve got an hour to get somewhere. If we’re going to start talking about Cherkasova, we’ll both get in trouble with the Russians.”
“Okay, we can let it go for now. But I won’t tolerate that kind of thing going forward.”
“You’re at the beginning of your career. You’ll see. Everything isn’t that simple.”
They let the subject drop. Continued discussing other business, markets, areas that were ripe for expansion. Stefanovic wanted to keep the ski jumping tower—run a legal conference business there. He thought he had good connections in the home country when it came to selling stolen Swedish electronics. He thought it was fair for him to keep running the girl business—he was the one who’d built it up, after all.
Natalie thought: Economically speaking, this might be good. Maybe they could actually reach an agreement. Maybe she didn’t have to do what she’d come here to do.
It was obvious: it would make life easier. They would be able to work without interfering with each other. Okay, their territories would be smaller, but they would be able to focus. Develop. Increase the margins. It would send an important message to all the amateurs trying to become something in the Stockholm jungle: Kranjic is still the queen of the hill.
Then she thought: fuck me backward—I’m never going to strike a deal with this man. He killed my father.
Stefanovic kept talking. The point: the two of them were alone in the room.
Natalie: twenty-two years old. Thin. Attractive. Above all: a woman. In Stefanovic’s eyes: she was anything but threatening. Her men were dangerous. Her power could be dangerous. But just her, alone—Stefanovic had watched her grow up, he had taught her how to drive. He had been her chauffeur. Her jack-of-all-trades. An older brother.
He didn’t feel any fear. He felt safe with her.
Natalie rose. Took her blazer off. Rolled up the sleeves of her top.
Walked around to his side of the table.
Stefanovic looked at her.
“Listen, I think we can agree,” she said. “For the Russians’ sake, if nothing else. Let me look you in the eye, up close. I want to see that you’re serious about this.”
Stefanovic looked up at her. He smiled.
“Of course I’m serious.”
Natalie pulled out the comb that she’d transferred to her back pocket. Gripped the top of it, the actual comb part.
Stefanovic looked at her. Saw that she had rolled up her sleeves. Maybe saw that she was holding something narrow, dark, plastic-looking.
He said, “What do you want?”
Natalie stabbed him in the throat with the blade of the comb.
She felt it push in, deep. Stefanovic batted his arms.
She dodged his fists.
She stabbed him again.
67
Six hundred large, that’s all it was—to the Finn, it couldn’t really be that much cash.
The dude didn’t need to get out of the car for the money’s sake. Still: the Finn fucker didn’t want two innocent lives on his conscience. Above all: the Finn fucker didn’t want the brass on his ass for this. A felony. Looking at alotta time.
Jorge’d counted on that: the dude would be ready to face him, just to get this shit over with.
Risky business. Dirty business. No one wanted to stay here longer than necessary.
He heard a car door slam.
Someone emerged from the back car.
Slow steps. A man. Long coat. Dark pants. No hat.
The man came closer. The backlight made Jorge’s eyes sting.
He looked ordinary enough. Thin, light-colored hair. Piggy up-nose. Cloudy eyes.
Maybe thirty-five years old. Thirty feet away.
He opened his mouth, “Quit fucking around. I’ll get Paola and the kid if you get the money.”
Jorge recognized the voice. It was the Finn.
“Okay,” he said.
Jorge turned around. Walked back to the Citroën.
Opened the back door. Checked his phone when he leaned over to get the duffel with the money and the fake bills. A text from Javier: I see you. Waiting to see Paola and Junior.
Good. Jorge hauled the duffel out. Retraced his steps.
The guy with the beanie and the guy with the baseball cap remained glued to their spots.
He heard a quiet voice farther off. Saw the Finn approaching. With Paola and Jorgito walking in front of him.
Junior wasn’t wearing enough clothes, just a T-shirt and jeans. Fucking Finn fag.
Thirty feet between them. Paola was silent.
Jorge set the duffel down. “Here’s the money.”
The Finn signaled with his hand.
The guy in the baseball cap walked over to the bag. Stooped down by Jorge’s feet.
Opened the bag. Jorge knew what he would see: stacks of five-hundred-kronor bills, at least on top.
The baseball cap guy didn’t flip through the stacks. They’d already seen the photo Jorge’d sent with all the bills.
The dude called to the Finn, “It’s green.”
The Finn’s quiet voice: “Good.”
Jorge saw Paola and Jorgito begin to walk toward him.
Twenty-five feet.
Fifteen feet.
The baseball cap dude was still hunched over the bag. Three feet from Jorge.
Paola and Jorgito, six feet from Jorge.
He reached for his nephew.
Scooped him up in his arms. Jorgito was cold.
He began to cry.
The baseball cap guy picked up the bag. Walked back toward the Finn.
Jorge carried Junior toward the car while he pushed Paola in front of him.
The Citroën was clearly visible in the light from the other car.
A dozen or so feet left.
He heard the Finn’s voice: “What the fuck is this?”
He opened the car door. Pushed Paola inside. Tried to make his body as broad as possible over Jorgito.
The Finn yelled, “You little whore! This is fucking Monopoly money!”
Noise. New lights.
The smatter of bullets.
Jorge threw himself at the car.
Sounds echoed. Everywhere.
He felt a pain in his back.
68
They had been waiting for one and a half hours now. JW said they had to be done up there within two hours.
Hägerström could feel the mood in the air. The sofa groups were vibrating with tension. Toss a match in here, and the hotel would explode like an atom bomb.
He tried to relax. JW kept running around, talking on the phone the entire time.
Hägerström’s thoughts drifted off.
The floor in the kitchen at home on Banérgatan. Pravat, twelve and a half months old. They had just picked him up in northern Thailand.
Hägerström had been lying on his back. Anna was out grocery shopping.
He let Pravat climb over him. Stand up with his help. Hold on to him.
Pravat gurgled, da-da-da’ed, spoke in his own language. He was wearing learn-to-walk diapers and a striped shirt from the high-end children’s store Polarn & Pyret. Hägerström felt Pravat’s little hands and nails on his arms. It was one of the best sensations he knew.
He’d pushed his body carefully to the side. Pravat held on to him but was relatively stable on his feet. Hägerström pushed himself to the side a little more. Suddenly Pravat let go of him. Raised his arms straight out in the air, bent his knees, and straightened his legs. He was standing on his own. Entirely on his own.
Hägerström had cheered. Pravat laughed, almost seeming aware of his own feat. To have stood up on his own for the first time in his life.
Hägerström looked up, scanned the lobby again.
The elevator doors opened.
Natalie Kranjic walked out. She
was wearing a dark coat.
She approached JW.
Hägerström heard her say, “We’re done.”
Movement on the sofas. Different men stood up. Looked at Natalie and JW.
Waited for signals. What would happen now?
Natalie didn’t say anything more. She waved to Adam.
The beefy man walked up to her.
They strode toward the exit together.
Hägerström saw swift movements among the people in the lobby.
It was time.
He saw the civvies by the elevator take deep breaths. He thought he heard faint radio commands through hidden earpieces from the ones who were waiting outside. He smelled sweat, didn’t know if it was coming from the cops or the mafiosos.
Natalie and Adam walked out through the automatic doors.
That’s when everything around them exploded.
69
Natalie was done. Adam walked out through the hotel doors first.
Outside, night had fallen. There were a lot of cars to the left, in the hotel parking lot.
Adam pointed. “My car is over there.”
Her hands began to shake. The effort of walking calmly through the hotel lobby backfired.
She’d inspected herself closely before she took the elevator down. Her hand and forearm were bloody, which was to be expected. She’d washed up in the restroom in the hallway outside the conference room, for probably five minutes. Scrutinized every millimeter of skin until she was completely clean of blood.
Someone would discover Stefanovic within a few minutes. Either the Russians or one of his own men. Let that be as it may. She’d avenged Dad.
She saw Adam’s car: an Audi.
A man came walking toward her from the other side of the car.
Natalie stared into his eyes.
A broad face. Gray eyes. Light-brown hair.
Effortless self-confidence. A calm, relaxed gaze.
It was Semjon Averin.
He was holding something. Natalie didn’t have time to see what it was.
Then: all hell broke loose around them.
She saw rapid movements out of the corner of her eye.
Heard screaming, “This is the police! Get down on the ground!”
She saw Adam stare, wide-eyed.
She saw Semjon Averin raise his arm.
70
The pain was gone now. The cold on his face, gone.
Jorge was lying flat on the ground.
He knew so many things.
He knew nothing.
He: shot in the back.
He: on his way somewhere.
He drifted off again.
You are me and I am you. My blood cleanses us all from sin.
Moments in the present once again. Too tired to open his eyes.
He heard strange noises. Faint, fuzzy sounds.
Paola oughta’ve made it, inside the car.
And Jorgito?
Sálvame.
He didn’t know.
Couldn’t take it.
He should’ve said good-bye to Mom.
He should’ve told Javier.
A life.
His life.
A life deluxe.
It felt as though he was bleeding from the mouth.
Didn’t matter.
He felt calm now.
Relaxed.
EPILOGUE
(Four Months Later)
Hägerström was lying in his bed. It was firm, hard. He looked up at the wall.
Two photos of Pravat, secured with tape. He had taken one of them himself, in Humlegården a year ago. It was a close-up of Pravat’s face, with the park in the background. Pravat had sent him the second one. At the center of the photo was a large Lego fortress with figures standing atop the wall. Pravat was posing behind the castle—proud of his fine creation.
Hägerström looked out. The prison yard was gravelly and bleak.
His trial had lasted four days, ending two weeks ago. He had been in jail until then. Now he was here, in Kumla. Compared every single detail to the Salberga Penitentiary, where he had worked. Back then he had thought things like freshly painted walls, clean showers, and a working television set were just baloney. Now he longed for a single surface that didn’t feel dirty.
He hadn’t fought the charges. The evidence was robust. The prison transport guards were able to identify him, and they had found gunpowder on his jacket. Still, his lawyer did a good job. The prosecutor wanted to get Hägerström convicted for attempted murder. Four shots fired with an assault rifle at the tires of a transport vehicle belonging to the Department of Corrections on the seventeenth of October last year. According to the prosecutor, fortuitous circumstance was the only thing that had prevented the loss of life. But Hägerström had been a coastal ranger, he knew how to handle assault rifles. The lawyer was able to prove that there had never been any real risk to the transport guards’ lives.
He was convicted of attempted aggravated assault instead. Three years in prison.
The day after Hägerström was arrested at the Radisson Blu Arlandia Hotel, Torsfjäll had visited him in the jail cell.
The inspector had entered the cell alone. Only detectives on the case and his lawyer were actually permitted to see him, but Torsfjäll apparently had his ways.
“Good afternoon.”
Hägerström greeted him. “Hi. Great that you managed to get in.”
Torsfjäll remained standing. There were no chairs in the cell. Only a simple mattress on the floor.
The inspector shook Hägerström’s hand. “Have they interrogated you yet?”
“Just superficially. But I haven’t said anything about Operation Tide. I was waiting for you.”
“Good, because there’s nothing to say.”
Hägerström stared at the inspector. His teeth didn’t look as white as they used to.
“What the fuck made you think you could shoot at a prison transport vehicle?”
Hägerström’s thoughts came to a halt. Torsfjäll was speaking in a completely different tone than usual.
“It was part of the job.”
“Committing crimes like you did—that is never part of the job.”
“Okay, well. What do you mean there’s nothing to say about my role as a UC operative?”
“Because you’ve never been one. You were fired from the police force. You’ve been a civilian all this time.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about what we talked about the entire time—that you were fired from the police force. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s not what we said. I was fired formally. But I’ve still been on the force informally.”
Torsfjäll’s eyes were dead. He didn’t even try to meet Hägerström’s gaze.
“There is no such distinction within the police force.”
Hägerström could hear his own breathing.
“That was part of the agreement, was it not?” Torsfjäll said. “You’ve taken risks. I’m grateful for that. But you knew what you were getting yourself into. Really, you should just be damn happy you haven’t been convicted of more. Just think about it: engaging in unlawful monetary transactions, aggravated assault, harboring a fugitive. You could’ve gotten many more years for everything you’ve done.”
Hägerström said, “That’s highfalutin bullshit.”
The inspector set a voice recorder on the table. Pressed the “play” button.
A recording. Hägerström heard his own voice midsentence. Then he heard Torsfjäll’s voice: “You are not a police officer anymore. You are a corrections officer with an assignment. You have to act on your own without immunity.”
The inspector switched off the recorder. “See, I told you you weren’t a police officer any longer.”
Hägerström just stared. He remembered that conversation. But at the time he had interpreted it completely differently.
“And you must understand too,” Torsfjäll went on, “tha
t if I were to admit that I had ordered this, we would never be able to carry out similar operations again. And besides, if this came out, it would ruin my career. That would be a shame.”
The inspector was a sly fucker.
Hägerström had only one question left: “What happened to JW?”
Torsfjäll stood up.
“You fuck-up,” he said.
Back in his cell. Hägerström had been a fool.
Yet given that he had not been a member of the police force, he had gotten off light, just as Torsfjäll said.
Hägerström could have tried to convince the police investigators that he had been a UC operative, that he had believed he was employed by the police force the entire time and had acted only according to instructions from Inspector Lennart Torsfjäll. But what were the chances that they would believe him? It would be meaningless to try to dig up e-mails or texts from Torsfjäll since his computer and phone had been confiscated. He would have deleted anything important a long time ago.
He could at least have tried to get the police investigators to understand that he had been a civilian infiltrator. But same story there. How great were the chances that they would believe him?
And he had another, more important reason to not even try. If he were to say he’d been an infiltrator, he would be taking another risk: an enormous price on his head. JW, Jorge, Javier, and the others would pay anything to see him cut down, snuffed out. Dead.
Without Torsfjäll’s support to get a secure hidden identity, he would be an easy target.
It was a fucking terrible choice to make. He could say he’d been an infiltrator and maybe get away with a shorter prison sentence but live under a death threat for the rest of his life. Or he could take on the role of a criminal and live with that reputation for the rest of his life.
He concluded that it was better to keep his mouth shut. Keep on pretending. Play the part.
So he never said anything to the police.