The Helicopter Heist
Page 11
They pushed their way over to the long, white bar where people were crowded together, trying to talk over the music with short, confidence-inspiring phrases. As Petrovic approached, a space suddenly seemed to open up for them, something that never would have happened if Maloof had been alone.
“What do you want?” the tall Yugoslavian asked.
“Mineral water.”
Petrovic nodded, but a second later his eyes moved diagonally across Maloof’s shoulder. Maloof turned and found himself staring straight into a blond woman’s décolletage. When he looked up and caught sight of her bright red lips, he understood why Petrovic had temporarily lost interest in their drink order; those lips were precisely the type of attribute he was interested in.
“Can I get you a drink?” Petrovic asked.
The tall blonde was wearing a white dress that she definitely wore only in the summer. June had just arrived, though the air felt more like March.
“Champagne,” she replied.
“In that case, a 1988,” said Petrovic. “Don’t drink any other vintage, they’re not worth the trouble.”
And with that, he had caught her interest.
“Have you ever been hunting with hawks?” he asked.
Equally confused and impressed, she shook her head.
Petrovic told a short story about how, in the vineyards of the Champagne region of France, they trained hawks to wipe out any pests that might damage the vines, and then he leaned his long body over the bar. In doing so, he crossed the invisible but absolute line between the paying guests and the hardworking staff on the other side. The bartender immediately came running. Petrovic ordered two glasses of champagne. He even remembered Maloof’s mineral water.
While they waited for their drinks and Petrovic entertained the blond with the story of why the grape harvest in 1988 had been so good, Maloof noticed a short, wide-eyed man, somewhere in his early middle age, heading straight toward them through the crowd. He was wearing a pair of well-worn jeans and a checked shirt with huge sweat patches beneath the arms.
Maloof elbowed his tall friend. “Is that him?
Petrovic turned and instantly lost interest in the blonde.
“Manne!” he shouted. “Come, come.”
The invitation was unnecessary. Manne Lagerström was already next to them. He smelled awful.
“Are we going?” Manne asked.
He stared at Petrovic without acknowledging either Maloof or the blonde.
“Sure,” said Petrovic. “Behave now, Manne. This is Michel. I don’t think you’ve met before.”
Maloof held out a hand. Manne had a limp, wet handshake.
“I hate this fucking place,” he mumbled.
Then he leaned forward to say something else, but the music was too loud and Maloof heard only every other word.
“What’s he saying?” asked Petrovic.
“He’s asking for money.”
Petrovic shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Let’s go,” he said.
The pretty blonde seemed to have completely vanished from his consciousness.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed.
The bartender had just returned with two glasses of champagne and a bottle of sparkling water. Petrovic dug around in his pocket and fished out a couple of 500 kronor notes. He threw them onto the bar, put a hand on Manne’s shoulder and steered him toward the exit.
“Next time,” he shouted over his shoulder to the blond woman. “Next time.”
She picked up her champagne and turned her back to them.
* * *
—
When they came out onto the street, Manne started protesting again.
“It’s payment in advance, you know?” he said. “Money. Now.”
His voice was weak and shrill. It was as though Lagerström’s sweaty body contained too much energy, and part of it had found an outlet through his mouth.
Petrovic shook his head. They were walking west, along Birger Jarlsgatan, and there seemed to be as many drunk people out on the sidewalk as there were inside the clubs. The taxis were parked up in rows three deep, waiting for customers to stagger into their backseats; the police had positioned a patrol car on Biblioteksgatan as a reminder of their existence; and techno music was leaking out through doors and windows.
“Shut it, Manne. You promised to show us what you had. Then I’ll show you what I’ve got.”
“It’s four in the damn morning,” Manne whined. “I’m not going all the way up there for fun. Because it’s not fun.”
They had reached the car, and Petrovic opened the door for the skinny man, whose entire body seemed to be trembling. But he shook his head and refused to get in.
“I swear,” he said, and his weak voice reached a falsetto. “I don’t work for the Red Cross. I’m not some free app.”
Petrovic sighed, shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of banknotes held in place with a rubber band. He threw the money into the backseat, and Manne jumped in after it. Petrovic closed the door behind him.
“He’s like a dog,” Petrovic said to Maloof, glancing at the man in the backseat with a look of disgust. “Just easier to train.”
* * *
—
Petrovic was driving toward Roslagstull. He had changed 500-kronor notes into twenties to make the roll seem thicker, and Manne was deep in concentration in the backseat, counting them. When he finished, he started counting from the beginning again. That kept him busy until they reached the Stocksund Bridge. By then, he was satisfied that the roll contained the amount they had agreed on, and he shoved it into his pocket and stuck his head between the two front seats. The energy that had made him shake with anxiety earlier seemed to have undergone a transformation, and it was now directed at the two men sitting in front of him.
“OK, guys,” he said. “Since we’re on this little trip together, we need to make the most of the situation. Will one of you sing me a song?”
Manne Lagerström laughed at his own joke as though it were the funniest thing he had ever heard. His laugh was bright and piercing, and it barely stopped before he continued:
“No, no, serious now, no singing tonight. But, Jesus, when I was little, that was all my mom and dad used to do when we went on car trips. Sang all those old songs and smoked menthol cigarettes. But you two aren’t singers. Or smokers. Right, lads?”
The roar of laughter that followed was like a minor explosion, though neither Petrovic nor Maloof knew which part of his monologue was meant to be funny. But Manne Lagerström wasn’t a performer who relied on the reactions of his audience; just having an audience was enough. He talked without break all the way to Norrtälje. He laughed uncontrollably at his own jokes, was moved to tears by his admissions, and told them his entire life story—everything from the early years in Sollentuna to the lonely man he was today.
Manne worked as a caretaker at the helicopter hangar in Roslagen. He had been in the job almost ten years now, and he hated it. He almost never saw the owners of the helicopters, other than when they turned up and shouted at him for doing something wrong. The pilots were invariably bullies who thought they were better than everyone else just because they could pull on a lever and step on a pedal at the same time.
“It isn’t fucking difficult to fly a helicopter,” Manne explained. And having a stupid certificate didn’t give anyone the right to act like an utter shithead. Not bothering to say hello, stubbing out cigarettes on the floor or putting chewing gum under the seats.
“You know how to fly?” Maloof asked.
“Course I fucking do!” Manne replied.
He was like a child in the back of the car, shifting back and forth on his seat and pulling at the dials for the air-conditioning before he realized that the backseats could be raised and lowered. That kept him busy for a long time, but he kept talking all the while.
“Can you?” Petrovic repeated. “Do you really know how?”
“Of course I can!” Manne yelled. “But who the hell ca
n afford doing the cert? Who the hell has access to a helicopter?”
This was yet another joke that seemed to surprise him with its finesse. He laughed loudly.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed, and in an attempt to bring some clarity to the matter, he asked, “But you’ve…never actually flown?”
“No, I’ve never flown a helicopter,” Manne Lagerström shouted. “I can, but I never have. Forget that now. Forget it. Did I tell you about when my dad chased the bloody badger that lived in the earth cellar?”
“Shut up, Manne,” Petrovic ordered as the forest on the sides of the road seemed to grow darker. “We don’t care about your dad. Just shut up.”
The story about the badger lasted almost all the way to Östhamra.
* * *
—
When they arrived, Manne jumped out of the car and ran around the hood to open the door for Petrovic. Then he ran across the parking lot to make it to the helicopter hangar first.
“So…Manne,” said Maloof, “seems…pretty special?”
“There aren’t enough letters in the alphabet to describe his combination,” Petrovic said with a sigh. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”
To the sides of the open landing site in front of the building were a number of tall pines. They formed a wide alley down toward Lake Limmaren. The office park on the other side of the main road was quiet and deserted, but the breeze carried with it the smell of burned rubber and wood.
On the way over to the hangar, Petrovic told Maloof what was what.
There were fifteen or so helicopters based in Roslagen. They were either owned directly by multinational corporations or else by private individuals who recouped the costs by renting out their expensive investments to the multinationals. Manne was the caretaker and the helicopter club’s only employee. His job was to make sure the hangar always looked clean and tidy. If management groups were going out on shorter day trips, the machines had to be ready, tanks full, all the paperwork in order. Manne could even carry out a basic service on them, if necessary.
When the managing directors’ secretaries called to book a helicopter for their bosses, Manne was the one who looked after the calendar. Zoran Petrovic knew many secretaries at that level.
The overexcited caretaker was waiting impatiently next to the unlocked hangar doors.
“Come on, come on!” he shouted.
* * *
—
There was a strong smell of gasoline and metal inside the hangar. The helicopters were lined up in rows in the darkness. Like sleeping horses, Maloof thought, not that he had ever seen a sleeping horse. There was something solemn about the scene. Powerful. Excessive. Rich. And the fact that Manne was running back and forth, babbling constantly, was extremely annoying.
“Here it is,” he shouted, waving them over. “Here it is, this is the one I thought you could take? A Bell 206 JetRanger. Nice, right?”
The distinguishing feature was that the helicopter was white, but otherwise Maloof thought that it looked just like all of the others.
Manne moved around it, pointing out features and telling them stories that seemed increasingly incoherent.
“You borrow it, you bring it back. I’ll take payment in advance. You know that, Zoran, I always take the money in advance. That’s how it goes. Money first.”
“Feels like you’ve already been paid,” Petrovic replied.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed.
“No joking, boys, no joking,” Manne begged them. He looked like he had been wronged. “I’ll get my money. And I’ll make sure she’s ready with a full tank whenever you need her. You just make sure it looks like you’ve stolen her. Everyone’s happy. OK?”
Maloof didn’t answer, but he nodded.
They had found themselves a helicopter. Now they just needed to find someone who could fly it.
19
Blood had been spilled.
The knife, whose razor-sharp blade had cut the entrecôte into strips, was still lying next to the chopping board on the kitchen counter. Sami Farhan never tidied up while he was cooking. The browned meat had been simmering away in the stew for over an hour now, but there was still blood on the counter. There were dirty bowls on the kitchen table, pots stacked up in the sink; knives, wooden spoons and whisks were everywhere, dripping onto the floor and the counter. If he had been asked to re-create the whole process again afterward, explaining what he had used each of the tools for, he would have found it impossible. He cooked the same way he did everything else in his life: with a restless, physical energy.
The aromas of his cooking filled the kitchen. Sami had started the day by making a vegetable stock. There was nothing wrong with cubes, but if you had the time, then real bouillon was better.
He added some finely chopped fresh red chili, cinnamon and sambal oelek to the stock in the stew. Onions and garlic were frying in the pan next to that. He would later mix the softened onion into the couscous with some apricots and orange.
Karin had taken the kids to her mother’s house a few blocks away on Sankt Paulsgatan. The idea was to give Sami an afternoon to himself and his stew, and it was the best present she could give him. There were people who emptied their minds by running mile after mile on the treadmill. Others had sex or got drunk. But Sami’s preferred method of soothing his soul and bringing new ideas to life was cooking.
When he tasted the bouillon with a teaspoon, he didn’t give a single thought to the recurrent anxiety he had been feeling at nights lately. Rumors about how he had been screwed over with the frozen prawns seemed to be growing, and soon there wouldn’t be anyone in the whole of Stockholm—suburbs included—who didn’t already know the story. Whenever he bumped into people he hadn’t seen for years in the supermarket, they would lower their voices and sympathetically ask how much money he had really borrowed from his brothers. Then there were the young men from the suburbs who, just a few months earlier, would have barely dared look him in the eye. Now they laughed behind his back.
There were no more clean knives in the drawer, but he found one on the windowsill, with no idea what it was doing there. He gave it a rinse and then chopped the apricots into smaller pieces. That took all his concentration, which meant he could avoid torturing himself with all the questions he still needed answers for, even if Maloof and his friend said they had sorted out a helicopter.
Sami peeled the skin from the oranges with a knife as sharp as the one he had used on the meat and continued to work at the same high tempo. Karin and the boys would be back at five, but Sami finished preparing the food by two. The stew could bubble away under the lid for a while. He didn’t plan to mix in the couscous until the last minute.
He glanced around the kitchen.
He needed to tidy up, but this was about using his own time for something more valuable than washing bowls. He took off his apron, threw it onto the kitchen table and went out into the living room.
* * *
—
Several years earlier, Sami Farhan had read a long article about online footprints, and ever since he had been worried about what Google and Facebook could reveal about him. The less he used computers and phones, the better. Being called a technophobe was a low price to pay.
He went over to the bookshelf and took down a trusty old telephone book. His children, he knew, would never understand why someone had printed these enormous stacks of paper and delivered one to every home in Sweden, much less why anyone had ever opened them.
The first pages of the yellow section contained maps of Stockholm’s suburbs, Västberga included.
Sami leafed forward to the right spread and studied the map. He put his finger on the building at the crossing of Västberga Allé and Vretensborgsvägen. Vreten 17, the G4S cash depot. He used a pencil to mark a thin line on each of the access routes.
The plan was to spend less than ten minutes inside the building.
In other words, they needed to hold the police off for the same amount of time.
&
nbsp; The usual approach was to scatter so-called caltrops across the road, sharp steel spikes that puncture car tires by embedding themselves in the rubber. The problem with that method was that once they had been discovered, they could simply be swept away. They would provide a few minutes’ distraction, but no more.
Michel Maloof had told Sami that the Serbs did things differently. They soldered the caltrops onto a chain that they then pulled tight across the road, fastening it on both sides. Car tires would be ripped to shreds without taking the tacks with them, which meant that the following car’s tires would also be punctured. You couldn’t just sweep them away, you had to cut the chain with pliers instead.
Rather than delaying the police for two to three minutes, the chains would add roughly the same amount of time. Assuming it would take a few minutes once the alarm went off, and another couple before the police reached wherever the chains had been stretched, that was all they needed.
Sami marked the access route from the north, from the highway and via Västberga Allé. Then he drew another line over Elektravägen, since that was the road the local police would take from their station. Just to be on the safe side, he drew a third line across Västberga Allé by Drivhjulsvägen, in case anyone tried to approach from the south. The question was then whether they also needed chains across Karusellvägen and Vretensborgsvägen. The likelihood was pretty small, Sami decided, plus those were both detours that, in themselves, would take more time.
Next, he tried to work out exactly how wide the roads he had marked out were. Since neither he nor Maloof dared go out to the Västberga industrial park and risk being seen in the vicinity of the cash depot, he had no choice but to estimate.