The Helicopter Heist
Page 27
67
4:41 a.m.
The dark blue BMW is factory fresh, and the engine more powerful than the car Zoran Petrovic usually drives. He borrowed the vehicle direct from the reseller, a friend of a friend who owed him a favor or two. Petrovic’s part in the events of that early morning isn’t over yet.
He doesn’t have much time. He needs to make it from Norrtälje to Skärholmen in fifty minutes, and he’s going flat out. When they first talked about it, Maloof had said it was too tight, that they would need to find someone else, but Petrovic had insisted. He could do it.
Driving down the empty highway at 120 miles an hour that bright September night, the steering steady, Petrovic feels pure joy. The car isn’t swaying in the slightest, the engine nothing but a low whirr, and he turns on the radio. He needs music for this. “Run This Town,” by Jay-Z and Rihanna. The radio stations have been playing it all summer. He turns up the volume.
And that’s when he notices it.
The blue lights loom up in his rearview mirror. He has no idea where the police car has come from, he hasn’t overtaken any, but there’s no doubt it’s him they’re after. There aren’t any other cars on the road.
The goggles the helicopter pilot recently turned down are lying on the seat next to Petrovic. He realizes that he probably has traces of gunpowder on his clothes and his hands from checking the weapons earlier. And he also knows that if he doesn’t turn up at the agreed meeting point in time, there’ll be trouble.
He stares into the rearview mirror.
He still hasn’t slowed down. In fact, according to the speedometer, he is now doing 140 miles an hour.
The police are gaining on him. He won’t be able to lose them on the highway. But turning off now?
Petrovic doesn’t even know where he is.
68
5:02 a.m.
Since Ezra Ray returned with the cable for the detonators, not much has been said in the woods out in Stora Skuggan. He had found the cable lying beneath a plastic bag full of empty bottles.
At regular intervals, Sami walks over to the open field where the helicopter will land and squints up at the sky. He knows he will be able to hear it before he can see it, but he can’t sit still. The grass is damp with dew, and he can already feel the adrenaline building. It’s lying in wait to start pumping around his body in the next half an hour or so. Ideally, he would like to go for a quick run around the field, but he decides not to.
Nordgren has managed to find a stump that is more comfortable than the rock he was sitting on earlier. His weariness has vanished, but he doesn’t feel either nervous or expectant. It’s hard to explain. He can spend weeks and months planning something that, from the very beginning, is a real challenge; where every problem that he solves leaves him with a deep sense of satisfaction. But when the time finally comes, all that’s left is his desire to get it done. Nothing else.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” Ezra asks from his rock a few yards away.
It’s a joke.
“No chance,” Nordgren replies quietly.
It’s two minutes past five when Sami’s phone rings. He is halfway back to the woods and he knows Nordgren will have heard it. Maloof’s voice is drowned out by the sound of the engine. Sami can’t hear what he’s saying, but from the context, it’s clear why he is calling.
They’re on their way.
A minute later, and the silence over Frescati and Stora Skuggan is broken.
It’s no more than a low whirring sound at first, way in the distance, but it completely possesses them.
Niklas Nordgren gets up and stands perfectly still.
Sami and Ezra, who had been going to bring the equipment to the field, stop where they are.
Listening.
Allowing the sound of the helicopter to grow louder.
It’s as though someone had turned the volume far above what the speakers can handle.
And, as though on command, Sami and Ezra drop the equipment and run with Nordgren into the dark field. They stop. They had measured out the triangle an hour or so earlier. They turn on the torches.
The helicopter comes in low. The sound is deafening, but Sami experiences it as pure joy. Euphoria. The white machine seems to almost glide in above the treetops, toward where they’re standing.
Slowly, the pilot attempts to find the right position above the three lights. For a few seconds, the helicopter is completely still, hanging freely in the air, but then he lowers the machine to the ground. The wind makes the trees rustle and the bushes lie flat.
Sami and Ezra pull on their balaclavas.
Neither plans to let the pilot see their faces.
* * *
—
Jack Kluger lands, kills the engine and the rotor blades come to a halt. Maloof jumps out of the helicopter. He hugs Nordgren and Sami, but they don’t say much to one another. There’ll be time for that later.
Each of them is aware that the clock has started ticking. It’s not unlikely that someone has seen or heard the helicopter, either on the way down from Norrtälje or on a radar screen somewhere.
While Maloof, Nordgren and Ezra run into the woods to grab the equipment and load it on board, Jack Kluger moves around the helicopter, showing Sami the minimal storage space. There’ll barely be room for a single mailbag. They’ll have to use the main cabin instead.
Maloof and Nordgren fasten the ladders to the landing skids using cable ties. It’s much easier than they had thought it would be, the short ladder isn’t too short and the long ladder not too long. While they do that, Sami and Ezra load the rest of the gear into the cabin.
When the helicopter takes off a few minutes later, things are cramped. They plan to abandon a lot of what they brought with them in Västberga, leaving room for the bags of money.
Nordgren and Sami are in the seats behind Kluger and Maloof. The pounding inside the cabin is loud and rhythmic. It’s almost ten past five in the morning when they feel the power of the liftoff and the helicopter swings up into the air. The movement feels at once incredibly light and unbelievably heavy.
Kluger puts the machine into a sharp turn, and the dark contours of the woods by the university are heading straight toward them from one side until he straightens up again. Beneath their feet, the silent black expanse of Haga Park spreads out. To the north, Solna glitters like a small town, and to the south, the Wenner-Gren Center towers over the buildings around it, a reminder that Stockholm is a low-lying city. The red and white lights of the cars on Uppsalavägen are like drops of water rolling along a viaduct.
Sami, Maloof and Nordgren struggle into their bulletproof vests in silence, pulling on black plastic masks on top of their balaclavas. Before they climbed on board, both had taped up any openings in their clothes, around their gloves and shoes, to make sure they don’t leave any DNA behind.
Nordgren pulls on his cap. The equipment makes them less mobile, but they have no idea what might be awaiting them inside the building. The explosives are a risk. That’s the reason they’re wearing headlamps. If the electricity cuts out for any reason, they’ll need lights of their own to be able to move freely.
Kluger turns across the water. At high speed, and flying low, he follows the line of the highway south, past the Essinge Islands, where the beautiful houses are bathed in darkness at the top of the rocks, cars parked tightly along the narrow streets. The cloud cover breaks, the winds are strong at that height this morning. But lower down, it’s no more than a few miles per hour.
Nordgren checks the explosives, cables, batteries and soda cans in his backpack once more. He has the detonators in one of the pockets on his vest.
Sami checks his gun.
Maloof glances at his watch. They have plenty of time, the question is whether they’re moving too quickly. Will Zoran Petrovic make it? Should he ask him to send a text once he arrives, just to stay on the safe side? Maloof isn’t sure. And then his thoughts drift to Alexandra Svensson, who would be shocked if she could see h
im right now, in his black balaclava. He doesn’t feel guilty at not having told her everything about himself; leaving out certain details isn’t the same as lying. He has two different lives, and he wonders whether they could merge into one. Could Alexandra, he wonders as thin veils of cloud sweep by like anxious ghosts outside the helicopter, become a permanent part of his life? Could he imagine her sitting in the kitchen at his mom and dad’s house in Fittja, actually enjoying herself there? He hopes so. If everything goes to plan over the next hour or so, he’ll be able to be more open about himself in the future, once the money is clean and life is simpler. Maloof nods imperceptibly. That’s what he has been longing for, to make life more simple.
* * *
—
They float through the sky. From time to time, the helicopter lurches suddenly, and it comes as a surprise every time. An unexpected gust as they’re landing would flip this little steel bubble, Sami thinks. He knows it won’t happen, he’s gone through the statistics, flying a helicopter is relatively safe. But the sudden lurches mean he can’t relax; it feels as though they’re at the end of a rubber band that someone keeps erratically pulling on.
His thoughts turn to John, to how much he would be laughing through the pockets of air that occasionally make them bounce sideways.
Sami doesn’t fantasize about what will be awaiting them when they arrive. He knows what he has to do, from the second the helicopter lands on the roof in Västberga until the moment they climb into the cars that will take them away from Norsborg. His own run-throughs and preparations over the past week have been so frequent and intense that, in a way, it almost feels as though he has done this before, like the robbery has already taken place.
Instead, as he stares down at the lights on the highway, the headlights rushing toward Södertälje like a string of white pearls, his thoughts are on his two families; his parents and siblings, Karin and the boys. Deep down, he knows that he can’t win over both of them. What he will be able to tell his brothers tomorrow would win back their respect and recognition, but it’s also the very same thing that could cause Karin to pack up the kids and leave him.
It’s a catch-22. If he can never tell anyone where the money came from, then how will his brothers ever know that it was more than just words, more than empty promises? And if he tells the truth, if the rumors about who was responsible for this robbery spread across town, then how will he explain to Karin that he had no choice, for their sake?
The helicopter suddenly veers to the right, and Sami falls to one side. It’s the wake-up call he needs. He empties his mind. Ignore all that, all those thoughts and speculations. He’s here now, and it’s time to get to work.
69
5:02 a.m.
Zoran Petrovic veers off from the highway. He drives down the exit ramp at just over ninety miles an hour. In the rearview mirror, he can see that the police car has moved considerably closer. Petrovic turns off the radio and hears the police siren.
He doesn’t have a plan.
He’s improvising.
The exit takes him onto a small country road leading into a forest. He slams on the brakes just before he reaches a crossroads and throws himself out of the BMW. The police car is still several hundred feet away, and the sound of its sudden braking cuts through the darkness.
Petrovic runs around the car to the edge of the road. He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his trousers and drops them to the ground, along with his underwear. As the police pull up behind him, he squats down.
He’s not pretending. He loudly tries to take a real shit.
The police jump out of their car. One of them is holding a flashlight, and he shines it straight at the crouching Yugoslavian.
“What the hell are you playing at?” the police officer shouts.
But when they see what Petrovic is doing, they keep their distance.
“I’ve got such a fucking stomachache,” Petrovic whines pathetically. “I panicked. I had to.”
“You can’t just sit here and…”
“What a damn creep,” says the other.
“You’ll have to find a real toilet,” the first police officer says firmly.
“I’m lactose intolerant,” Petrovic moans, still not getting up.
“Did you hear what I said?” the first officer asks, in a considerably gruffer tone this time. “This is disorderly conduct. You could go to prison for this.”
It’s a threat the police are sure will work and, with a despairing sigh, more like a howl, Petrovic reluctantly stands up.
“There’s a toilet at the Statoil station,” the police officer’s colleague says nonchalantly, trying to be just helpful enough.
“Shit,” Petrovic whines. “How far’s that? I don’t know if I—”
“Get going!” the first officer says. “Right now. And make sure you stick to the damn speed limit, even if you do have a stomachache.”
Petrovic has no intention of tempting fate. He buttons his trousers as he moves around the car, and climbs in behind the wheel before the police officers have time to change their minds. He drives off. In the rearview mirror, he can see them standing there.
They’re probably finding the whole incident hilarious.
The minute they are out of sight, Petrovic puts his foot down again, back up to ninety miles an hour. His cell phone flashes in the seat next to him. A message from ZLATAN JR. One of his many names for Michel Maloof. Without lifting his foot from the accelerator, he grabs the phone from the seat to read the message.
70
5:13 a.m.
They’re approaching from the north.
The helicopter’s rotor blades cut a path through the calm air.
The rhythmic pounding of the engine shatters the silence.
Two hundred and fifty feet below them, the black water races past at sixty miles an hour, as do the huge, forest-covered islands where the occasional light reveals a cluster of houses or a farm. Tonight, the outlines of the islands look like ominous gray Rorschach inkblots.
Inside the helicopter, the four silent, black-clad men are strapped into their seats. Each of them is completely still, staring straight ahead, lost in himself and his thoughts.
Down on the ground, the lights of the cars and streetlamps glitter, illuminated facades and bulbs that have been burning all night in the low office buildings along the edge of the highway. But the four men don’t see any of that. Their eyes are fixed straight ahead.
The brightest light ahead of the helicopter’s curved windshield is shining up from the roof of the G4S cash depot in Västberga. It’s like a beacon lighting up the building, like a revelation.
From this point on in the robbers’ lives, there will always be a before and an after these few seconds, this morning of September 23.
Sami’s grip tightens around the machine gun in his lap.
Nordgren closes his eyes for a moment.
Maloof catches a flash of stars through a quick gap in the clouds.
That’s a good sign.
* * *
—
Kluger gets into position directly above the building. He allows the helicopter to sink slowly but deliberately through the air.
They land feather-light on the roof. Kluger turns to Maloof with a grin and then nods.
It’s almost a quarter past five in the morning; the journey took just as long as planned.
Everyone knows what he needs to do. Each has his own role.
They have to work quickly now.
Maloof is first out of the helicopter. Nordgren stays inside and begins to pass the equipment out to him.
Sami grabs the handle of the heavy sledgehammer and jumps out of the cabin. As he runs toward the glowing, pyramid-shaped skylight, Nordgren climbs out of the helicopter and helps Maloof unfasten the ladders from the helicopter’s landing skids. They work in time with the dull thudding of the rotor blades. And just as they finish and carry the ladders away, Kluger lifts off.
The white helicopter pulls up into the dark n
ight sky. The wind from the rotor blades tears at the mailbags full of equipment still lying on the roof.
Sami has made it to the skylight.
He lowers the heavy end of the sledgehammer to the roof and gets a good grip on the wooden handle. Then he gets ready. Bends his knees; finds a low, stable position. He raises the sledgehammer and, in one fluid motion, swings it in an arc above his head. He can feel the weight of it in every inch of his body, can feel the power of the movement take over and help him follow through.
The hammer crashes down in the middle of one of the square, three-foot-wide windows. The vibration travels up the handle and into Sami’s hands. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
He stares at the glass.
There doesn’t seem to be a scratch on it.
71
5:14 a.m.
The night has been relatively uneventful so far. Kalle Dahlström, the duty officer on shift at the police force’s regional communication center, has barely had anything to do. Tonight’s night shift is his second of the week, the time sheet has him down for three in a row followed by one day off before he goes back to ordinary hours. The phones are quiet and his colleague Sofi Rosander is sleeping on the uncomfortable couch that some sadistic person brought in to stop the staff from taking naps. When she wakes up, it’ll be with a back that feels like it’s been welded straight.
Kalle is playing Tetris on his phone. He’s secretly proud of how good he is, but he won’t share his high score. Despite the hours, weeks and days he has spent with those blocks and squares, he’s still an amateur compared with the real pros.
When one of the phones suddenly starts to ring, Dahlström jumps. He answers by pressing a button in front of him. He doesn’t even need to look up from his smartphone.
It’s 5:14. The man on the other end of the line is a security guard, and he’s speaking in broken, almost incomprehensible Swedish.