Stockholm Noir

by Nathan Larson

  Over the next few days Berit scrutinized the newspapers, but there was nothing about a man who’d dropped from a great height and lost his life. She neither saw nor heard anything about Rafel anymore. And she never learned if Thea had been trying to protect her. She packed her bag and turned her back on the past. This was how Berit lived, in order to stay alive. She could have gone to the police, but they probably would have believed that it was all in her imagination, and maybe it was. That a couple of scruffy young things, under the influence of LSD, took their idol’s word that they could fly—this would soon be trumped by police work of considerably higher priority, namely the hunt for the man who’d murdered the country’s prime minister. And the tide of time, which is often called progress, swept away the cluster of sheet-iron hovels and illegal workshops in South Hammarby Harbor, for the location proved attractive to a new population. The toxic ground was cleaned up and then came social engineering. Renovated houses with magnificent views went up over the canal, built at a frenzied pace for a growing and socioeconomically homogeneous group of careerists within the burgeoning industries, for which the political and technological new order paved the way. Schools, day care centers, cafés, restaurants, and finely calibrated establishments for the elderly and disabled were built for the resourceful inhabitants. Freedom got a new meaning; its battle cry was, Bet on yourself! The shuttered lightbulb factory was lit up by a TV production company that delivered advertising-financed entertainment to the masses and generous profits to the owners. Being rich was no longer judged harshly, and those who didn’t grow rich only had themselves to blame. Those who now had to blame themselves were housed in the far-off suburbs’ symmetrical storage closets, a safe distance from the exclusive environs along the Hammarby Canal. That a sanctuary for the maladjusted had once been situated there was unimaginable.

  Sometimes this tidy enclave is still haunted. You know it by a shiver in the hazy air at the hour of the wolf, when the long winter is on its way; it can come rumbling from the soul of a PR consultant who, despite Bikram Yoga and Celexa, feels encumbered by his own success. Through the big picture window with a “seaside view,” the silhouette of a large bat quickly appears and evokes the yearning to be out and away. Far, far away.

  As if death were a friend.

  10/09/03

  BY NATHAN LARSON

  Kungsträdgården

  08/09/03

  Crap coffee bar, doing my best to hail the Swedish girl behind the counter, the blonde with the ponytail over by the cash register picking at her nails . . . But this dirty Iraqi or Pakistani or whatever she is won’t get out of my way.

  Her saying, “Another Americano?”

  For a moment I think she’s asking if I’m an American, and I nearly smack her filthy fucking face. Yes, her Swedish is street garbage, but it’s more that I’m not accustomed to these new names for a fucking cup of coffee.

  “Yes. Tusen tack,” I say to her, and smile big . . . though I would love to pretend to not understand her suburban accent.

  However. Last thing I want is to be remembered, so the modus is—keep it cordial, and bland.

  I’m working today.

  Now. Generally speaking, when it comes to an everyday kinda political hit like this one, usually in some asshole or armpit like Bratislava or any of the former Yugoslav territories (take your pick) . . . generally, I couldn’t be fucking bothered.

  Farm it out locally, or if that’s not viable, fly down some disposable thug, and be done with it. You could say my job is more administrative than anything else. But in this instance, it’s different.

  I want to see this particular bitch die.

  Indeed—I plan on relishing it, giving it special attention. She’s a piggy, soft-handed and pink like a female Goran. And after all: this is on my home court, quite rare in this business.

  The Iranian or Libyan or Afghan interloper bangs that scoop-like device they use to make this dago coffee on a railing, knocking the packed grounds out in a puck. These machines, these hyperactive faux-retro contraptions, always with Italian logotypes, Fabrizio, etc., it’s all bullshit, likely constructed in China.

  This coffee joint, which really is a piece of shit and to which I hope to never return, does have the advantage of being smack in the middle of Norrmalmstorg, with plenty of glass through which to observe the goings-on.

  I tap out a blend. I ask you: what in God’s name was wrong with the coffee of my youth, the coffee of the Konditori, that lovely poison that only seemed to get better the longer it cooked on its burner? The stuff of the farmer, the factory worker, the Swede. That is, was, and forever will be Swedish coffee.

  This fantasy dago coffee trend. It will pass, like so many other trends before it.

  Yes. This current job is personal. And very local.

  Fire up the cigarette, despite the General Snus parked under my lip. I like to double up.

  They just banned smoking in bars in New York City if you can imagine that, a horrible trendy pandemic that no doubt the faggots in our parliament will line up in enthusiastic favor of . . . so we’d better smoke while we fucking can, living as we are in not just a nanny state, but a nanny world.

  Trans fats. Sodium. All the components of a traditional diet. They’re trying to legislate, to politicize our diet. Herald loud the death of traditional Swedish food.

  Toll the bells for Swedish tradition, period.

  Making this current job all the more pressing, all the more essential.

  Stockholm. Sure, it’s been a cesspool as long as I can recall, but today? Hardly recognize it. Dark skin everywhere you turn. Dark eyes. I saw the blackest imaginable African and a full-blooded Swede, as white as purest snow, traipsing down fucking Kungsgatan, hand in fucking hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and we are supposed to simply accept the fact of them. It was all I could do to not vomit.

  Sushi and Korean “BBQ”—in the same fucking joint.

  All the expected American fast-food garbage.

  Fucking mosques!

  “So varsågod . . .” The immigrant materializes again.

  I’ve worn a Hugo Boss suit I bought at the airport in Frankfurt, faintly patterned white shirt, prissy Germanic metal-framed glasses—the northern European business uniform that makes you absolutely impossible to describe to the cops. He had a blue suit . . . loafers . . . a checked shirt . . . You see? Useless.

  The darkie girl drifts away. I glance toward the blonde, who is watching a wall-mounted TV, arms folded. Fucking hell, at least she could pay attention, I’m nearly the only motherfucker in this place.

  “And I’ll go ahead and settle up, please.” I don’t know if anyone hears me.

  * * *

  Here’s the situation.

  The target is a female, middle-aged.

  The target is with a friend, a female civilian, also middle-aged and quite well off.

  They’re having a lovely day, two cows getting older, shopping, Fika, etc.

  Over the last several months we have observed three other such jaunts, and they generally follow the same pattern—the ladies meet up, work their way to Stureplan by taxi or car, and if the hour is right they lunch at the Oyster Bar.

  After this the pair tends to stroll down Biblioteksgatan to Norrmalmstorg (where I am currently situated), where they will visit the Acne, Marimekko, Filippa K, and the Noa Noa stores before proceeding east down Hamngatan to the NK.

  And this is where we will take her.

  The hope is that they will not go to the outsized Åhlens, which they have been noted to do on one occasion, as the operation would prove much more difficult in that environment. Too many people, very close quarters, less space to work.

  The significance of the date, September 10 . . . it’s the most ridiculous thing, but if you can believe it, the client is convinced this will somehow act as a misdirect and point toward Islamists. Incredibly sophomoric, like an unimaginative spy novel, but nonetheless. The client gets what the client wants, within reason,
and any day is as good as the next.

  More to the point is that this evening, apparently, there is some sort of debate regarding the adoption of the euro, which the bitch supports of course, so eager to join the “Union” is she that all other concerns are swept aside.

  Not a political animal, no way. But Swedish money should stay in Sweden. Not to support these fucking aliens (another matter entirely) with their babushkas and hordes of filthy children, but just on principle.

  The Norwegians have the right idea with all that oil money. Keep it close. Spend it to make your country great. How can anyone refute this logic?

  The client: politician too. Boringly. Perhaps the most unengaging, least charismatic man one can imagine. From our one brief, furtive meeting I can recall his stale breath, his dandruff, cheap suit, his compulsive jiggling of the knee. His stiff, high-pitched speech. Just useless. Muttering about deniability, this being most important did I understand that there must be no direct communication, that discretion is paramount, that he knows no details, droning on and on, as if this were my first rodeo. I had to bite my tongue. The very fucking nerve. Talking to me like I’m new to this.

  Somehow this man, I’ll call him Johan, believes he is the true successor to the throne. Old friend of fat-fuck Goran. Been waiting in the wings for a decade and figures it’s his turn, and the only barrier between prime ministership and yet more years on the periphery is this bitch who has inexplicably and rather swiftly positioned herself as the next choice for the goddamn Social Democrats . . . It’s become, apparently, an obsession. His drug problem certainly hasn’t helped him think straight. And his taste for underage hookers (which I am not ashamed to say I helped provide, it’s sort of something we do on the side, so many eager boys and girls from Latvia, Estonia . . . what they’ll do for a passport and the promise of a shit job, say, in this shit café I now find myself in, who am I to deny them this life?), well, this information gives me leverage and a bit of control, and the client knows it.

  The rub, and I chuckle now thinking about it as I grind out my smoke, the upshot though . . . there’s not a chance in hell the client could win any election. Not a chance in hell. He’s like a flat cardboard cutout, stiff, awkward, and barely there. He doesn’t have the stuff.

  If he had the stuff, he’d do it himself. I’d walk him through it. Throttle the bitch on the floor of Parliament.

  But his lack of political future is beautiful. Cos it opens up the field for the true Swedes, friends in the Christian Democrats and the Farmers Party . . . citizens with the correct ideas, those who will carry us into the future and away from the failure that is Europe. The dirge that has been the Social Democrat era, seemingly endless, will come to an abrupt (and most welcome) halt. The time is now, you can smell it, you can taste it, ripe fruit.

  * * *

  Enough politics. I’ve got a focused pain behind my eye, no doubt brought on by all this political tripe . . . I take three Alvedon, down the capsules with the last sip of coffee, now cold.

  Waiting on the word from Carl-Erik via the radio in my ear. The client wants it nasty. Fair enough . . . I can accommodate such requests.

  “You’re on. No escort,” says Carl-Erik in my earpiece. Meaning the ladies are headed my direction.

  And without protection. Naturally.

  These arrogant, smug, stupid fucking “civil servants.” One would have thought after Palme it would be a given that SAPO would step it up, but no, that lesson has been completely lost on these fools. They just wander about like drooling geriatrics. The arrogance. That’s what it is, arrogance. Inflexibility. Safe little Sweden.

  I rotate slightly on the raised chair. Your usual Saturday crowd, maybe a bit less foot traffic than usual. Get a visual on the ladies easily. The matching glasses, squat little things. They come to a stop before the Filippa K window, consult each other, then wander inside.

  Consider next moves. “Get someone in there,” I murmur into my lapel. It’d be ridiculous to lose her.

  The decoy is positioned at the southernmost edge of the square on Hamngatan, and will ultimately drift up to NK should they wind up there. He’s not on radio but knows what to do if I indicate I have lost visual.

  I need to get out there.

  Did I not ask this sand nigger for my check? Don’t want to be ducking out on the bill, they’d remember that.

  Of course she’s disappeared, the Kurd, and the blonde remains immersed in the television, an American rap “artist” hopping around like a crazed monkey.

  As gently as possible, I try to flag her. For Christ’s sake, the place is empty.

  “Miss?”

  Takes her sweet time looking my way. Giving me suburban sass. A proper Swede, physically, if a bit too much makeup. The suburban influence. A tragedy.

  “Might I pay?”

  “What did you have?” she asks as if unbearably put upon, stepping to the register.

  “Two coffees. Two, what, Americanos.”

  Her fingers are poised over the keyboard, tickling the air. “A coffee or an Americano?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Was it a regular coffee or an Americano?”

  Jesus fuck. I can’t help it, I throw a glance back toward Filippa K . . . I don’t like that I can’t see directly into the store, and in order to speak to this pure-blooded yet stupid cooze I have my back to the shop.

  Gentle now.

  “Two Americanos. I was told you didn’t have regular coffee.”

  The blonde raises her eyebrows, taps twice on the keyboard. “Forty-eight kronor.”

  Just a moment. A hot flash of red momentarily obscures my vision, and fuck, I can’t help it, I find myself saying, God I can’t stop it, “Well for fu . . . How much is a cup of regular, just regular coffee?”

  “Oh, twelve kronor.”

  Steady now. I hear myself say, “But that’s what I asked for in the first place. That’s what I wanted to begin with. I didn’t ask . . .”

  The blonde believes that I do not see her roll her eyes, but I see it. I have to be careful here. I cast a furtive glance back out the window.

  “Sahrish,” she calls.

  No credit cards on an op, not ever. I’m fumbling with cash. Coins, bills . . . gotta get out of this fucking place.

  “It’s, ah, quite all right, I’ll just pay for the—” In my ear: “They’re moving. They’re moving.”

  “Sahrish,” she calls again.

  The gypsy pokes her head out of the kitchen. I should walk out of here but I must not be memorable to these gashes.

  “Did the gentleman have two Americanos or regular drip?”

  Sahrish or whatever the fuck her name is indicates a coffee machine with long red glitter nails, hooker nails. The machine is wrapped in its power card.

  “S’broken. Still.”

  “Oh, right,” says the blonde. “So yeah, forty-eight.”

  I can’t help it, I slam a fifty-kronor note on the counter. Both girls jump. I try to counterbalance this action, saying reasonably, “Yes, thank you. Keep the change. Keep the change. Thank you.” And I’m up and through the door before I fuck up this whole job by gutting these two irrelevant cunts.

  Striding across the square diagonally, my back to the shop and the target . . .

  “To you,” says Carl-Erik.

  “Where they headed?” I ask, not turning around.

  “Subject attempted to buy jacket—”

  “Fuck the details, please . . .”

  “. . . salesgirl directed her to NK outlet as they didn’t have her size at the store. Seems to be destination as expected. Getting in the van with our friend.”

  So all as planned.

  Our friend being the “crazy” Serb . . . who is about to be one busy little Slav.

  09/09/03

  Connect with “crazy” Serb kid at the Kungsträdgården tube.

  Kid has been out of the institution for about five days. We’ve got him stashed in one of our flats and thus far he’s just been shuf
fling around, not seeming to take an interest in anything. Except for Grand Theft Auto and the DVD player, which we have stocked with nothing but his favorites: Mission Impossible I, Mission Impossible II, and a compilation of our target’s greatest hits, especially her comments with respect to support for the military action in Bosnia, etc., etc.

  As promised, the boy is about to meet Tom Cruise, the man who sprung him—and be given his mission orders.

  Yes, we’ve been given the intel that this boy has some sort of illusion that Tom Cruise is communicating with him. All we’re doing really is indulging his fantasy. How can there be harm in that?

  Down in the dank tube station . . . watching him at a good distance for about fifteen minutes, concerned for a bit as he seems to get crafty, skulking around the station trying perhaps to figure out where I might be . . . After all, how thrilling to be meeting with Tom Cruise himself.

  I can sense his twitchy nervousness from across the station, me thinking, Fuck, we’re gonna have to reassess.

  But now here he is, seated on the number 11, as instructed, which is being cleaned before it reverses course and heads back in the direction of Akalla.

  I enter the empty train to his back, slide into the seat behind him in a black hooded sweatshirt. Saying, “Obviously don’t turn around or I fucking kill you. Your apartment satisfactory?”

  Kid stiffens, then nods. I speak Serbian, with what I hope is an American accent.

  “You ready to do this?”

  Kid nods eagerly.

  “Have you got the weapon?”

  Kid nods again. Simple fuck.

  Me saying, “Make it bloody. Make it ugly. This is yours. Gut her. Do it like she’s a dirty fucking Croat. She might as well be. Do it street style.”

  Another head-wag.

  “You won’t see me, kid, but I’ll be there, so no fucking around. I won’t step in and bail you out should you fuck up. Others will direct you to her. Wear that stupid hat you’ve got on, and a shirt with a recognizable logo.”

  “I have a Nike sweatsh—”

  “That’s fine. Listen to me. When you’ve finished, walk directly out. Ditch your hat and switch jackets, you’ll be handed a fresh one.”