Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  He was learning more and more about Mats Strömberg. The dude followed strict routines. Took the same route to the train every day. Bought a cinnamon bun and a coffee at the same shop every morning. Threw the coffee cup in the exact same garbage bin on the street. Either he left with his colleagues at eleven-thirty or he went by himself and bought something thirty minutes later. Alternated between three different lunch spots. Niklas could see straight into the pig’s office; it was on the bottom floor. Six people worked at the place. He wondered how much they knew about Mats Strömberg’s home life.

  What’s more: things were happening in one of the single-family homes. Roger Jonsson and Patricia Jacobs—the happy little family without kids. Niklas went through the footage. Realized: the guy was coming home later and later at night. Roger and Patricia were arguing. Obvious: things would blow up soon—he could see it in the man’s eyes. The way he gesticulated at Patricia. Body language that screamed violence.

  Other problems: the dirty real-estate fucker’d been in touch. Niklas couldn’t keep living in the apartment. It was just a transitional apartment, as the broker reminded him, and now he’d arranged for a real firsthand rental contract. Ready to go. One hundred and fifty G’s and the contract would belong to Niklas. He’d be in the housing system for real, no more subletting. He had a week to make up his mind. No possibility of prolonging his stay in the pad he had now. Dammit. Getting a firsthand rental contract was a good thing, but he just couldn’t do it right now. His employer was threatening to fire him—Niklas hadn’t gotten a proper doctor’s certificate to explain the days he’d missed. What the fuck was he supposed to do? He needed more people. More money. More time. More weapons. More everything.

  Solutions. Within a few days: time to make the hit against Mats Strömberg. When that part was over and done with, a certain amount of time would be freed up. Then he had to shore up his finances, maybe rob a bank. Finally: he was going to make a trip out to Biskops-Arnö Community College—a person he’d chatted with studied there, Felicia. She was studying some bogus thing called Ecology and Global Solidarity. A potential recruit, troop reinforcement, another pair of boots on the ground.

  On Monday afternoon, he’d gone to the Black & White Inn to get a weapon. Felt stressed out, wanted to miss as little as possible of Mats Strömberg’s life.

  The place was empty. He ordered a mineral water. Sat down at a table. A lone woman behind the bar was readying things for the night. She was slicing lemons. He eyed the menu: drawn with chalk on a blackboard. Plaice with French fries, pork tenderloin with a green pepper sauce. The woman behind the bar ignored him.

  After ten minutes, he asked her if Lukic was there.

  The woman shook her head. Then she walked over to the pub’s main entrance, turned over the OPEN sign hanging in the little window. Turned to Niklas. “You want stuff?” He nodded. Niklas understood the movement she made with her hand: come with me.

  Behind the bar. Through the kitchen. A dude was boiling something in there. A hallway on the other side. Peeling yellow paint on the walls. Flashing fluorescent lights. Past a bathroom, a cleaning closet, a walk-in freezer, a locker room. Like some fucking mafia flick. At the very end of the hall was an office. The woman closed the door behind them. Niklas eyed her. Mouse-colored hair down to her shoulders. Bags under her eyes that makeup couldn’t conceal. Still, strength in her gaze. His warrior instinct spoke loud and clear: this is a true fighter.

  She unlocked a wooden cabinet. Lifted out a metal suitcase. Hauled it up onto the desk. Turned the coded lock. Opened it. Four fabric-wrapped bundles. She unrolled the contents. Three automatics and one revolver.

  He recognized the Beretta immediately. A lot of boys down there used it—the classic 92/96 series, a basic 9-millimeter handgun that came in lots of different models. Chromed steel, camouflage-colored, aluminum frame, even one with real ivory in the grip.

  “That is a Beretta.”

  “I know. A ninety-two ninety-six. Tell me about the others.”

  “Whatever you want. The other three are Russian. First a revolver, Nosorog, nine millimeter. And this one, this is the same caliber, a Gyurza, special for bulletproof vests. For both righties and lefties. Really good. Finally, a Bagira MR-444, a light handgun, also nine millimeter.”

  “And the prices?”

  “This one and this one, dirty.” She pointed to the Beretta and the Gyurza. “You can have the American for five thousand and the Russian for four. But they’re good.”

  “What do you mean, they’re dirty?”

  “I can’t say that they haven’t been involved in robberies or other shit.”

  “Then you can forget about them. I want a new one, in the box. What do you want for this one?” Niklas didn’t want a revolver. He picked up the Bagira gun. It was really very light, definitely a plus. But how jam-safe was it? He had no experience with the make.

  “Twelve thousand. It’s clean.” She took it back. Wiped it off with the cloth.

  “How much ammo do you have?”

  “One pack, twenty rounds.”

  Problem. He needed at least fifty bullets. Wanted to be able to practice properly with the gun. This wasn’t some rush job.

  “How many rounds for the Beretta?”

  “A lot. Probably a hundred, I can get ammo like that lots of places.”

  Niklas thought: Dammit, she was really the one running this show. At the same time: he couldn’t use a dirty weapon. So far, everything’d been done so meticulously. He’d ordered the spy equipment under a false name and had it delivered to a P.O. box, rotated the license plates on the Audi, used a rental car some days, always hid behind the tinted windows, not spoken with or met anyone who could connect him to his surveillance operation, except for maybe the woman at Safe Haven—but she just had to be on his side. Couldn’t risk it with a gun that might be in the police database. He shook his head. This was shit.

  “I won’t buy dirty guns. I won’t buy a revolver that looks like it’s made of plastic. I won’t buy anything that I can’t get at least fifty rounds for. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “Calm down. I don’t have anything else right now. So, you’re interested or not?”

  Was she playing hardass or was she really like that? It didn’t matter—he needed a weapon. Soon.

  “I can’t buy any of these weapons. But could I place an order?”

  She nodded.

  It felt good. The attack would soon take place, his TACSOP—tactical standard operations procedure. Would set a precedent for the rest of the Operation.

  In the car on the way out to Biskops-Arnö. Westbound.

  He was thinking about the war. Righteous targets.

  The day before, outside his building, he’d run into Jamila together with her brother, sister, and father. The dad seemed to be an upstanding man. He’d thanked him. Just like all of Sweden would do when he’d completed the Operation. Applaud him. A beautiful thought.

  It was nine o’clock in the morning. Not much traffic at this time of day. The highway out toward Bålsta and Biskops-Arnö: dull. He thought about Mats Strömberg’s routines. In two and a half hours, he would, most likely, walk out of the door to his office with two or three colleagues.

  Shortly before Sollentuna, Niklas pulled over at a Shell gas station. Reeked of gasoline fumes. He filled his tank. The gas was insanely expensive. He thought about what it’d cost ten years ago, when he’d gotten his license. It was probably 50 percent more expensive now. And the price in Iraq: another story altogether. Kicked his anxiety into full gear again. What would happen if he had to keep working alone? If he was forced to move, pay for a rental contract? If nothing came of the gun he’d ordered?

  He went in to pay. Cash. A voice behind him in line.

  “Oh, hi there.” A smile. He recognized her right away: the woman he’d bought the Audi from, Nina. What the hell was she doing here? Maybe it wasn’t so strange after all, she just lived a few miles away.

  “I thought it was you.
I saw the car outside. Recognized it from twenty yards away.”

  Niklas, irritated. Not good that someone knew where he was and that he was the one driving the Audi. At the same time: he checked her out. Like an angel. Skin as clear as milk, speckled eyes gleaming in the sunlight that shone in through the big windows in the gas station. She met his gaze. Glittered. Her child looked like a child now. Not like a baby. He felt so bad for her. And for the child. He remembered.

  He said, “Yes, hi. It drives well.” He felt pathetic. Had to get out of there. Before Nina asked any more questions.

  “I see that you got it re-registered. What, you didn’t like my license plate? UFO 544. I thought it was pretty cool.” Again: the smile, the eyes.

  “Yeah, it was cool. But I was worried that someone would report me to the Ministry of Defense and stuff.” Good move—a joke, lighten the mood, then leave.

  Nina laughed. “You’re funny. So, where are you off to?”

  “I’m just out for a ride. I’m working.”

  “Well, I’m still on maternity leave. It’s almost getting a little boring. So, what do you do for work?”

  Niklas didn’t know what to say. Security guard was so pathetic. He wanted to sound vague. “I work in the private security industry.”

  “That sounds exciting. Do you drive the Audi at work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I miss it. It’s perky, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s nice.” He wanted to end the conversation without being rude. “Hey, I’ve got to get going. But it was nice to see you.”

  He got into the car. His palms were sweaty. What was happening to him? A normal conversation with a stranger and he felt more nervous than a nineteen-year-old rookie on his virgin tour down in the sandbox.

  Farther out. In the countryside. Along the highway: yellow fields about to be harvested. Farms, granaries, tractors.

  The exit sign for Biskops-Arnö looked filthy. Reminded him of the signs down there. Always worn down, dirty, buckled. Sometimes riddled with bullet holes.

  He drove across a narrow bridge to the island. Parked his car. Looked out over the area. Directly across from the parking lot: large, red-painted wood buildings, old barns. Further off: white stone houses. He kept walking. A grass-covered courtyard. Six flagpoles flying the five Nordic flags and another one, maybe the community college’s own emblem. A couple of people were sitting on the lawn in front of the building. Niklas approached them. A guy with a guitar in his lap. His nose, lip, and eyebrow were pierced. He had dreadlocks that were as thick as his forearms and some kind of hooded sweater that looked like it’d been bought at the bazaar in Kabul. The other two were girls. One had red hair, a shirt that was buttoned all the way up, and jeans that were much too wide. The other was dressed in cotton slacks and a black T-shirt. Ramones was printed across the chest in white lettering. Her earlobes were stretched out by some kind of earring that expanded the actual hole rather than dangling from it. Niklas could’ve fit his thumb through the girl’s earlobe. He thought, What is this place, anyway?

  Felicia’d told him to just ask around. The clowns showed him the way to her cottage.

  It was made of brown wood with a black sheet-metal roof, didn’t look to be bigger than 320 square feet. He knocked on the door. A girl opened it, wearing just panties and a tank top. Niklas felt awkward. At the same time: there was something incredibly cocky about opening the door for a stranger dressed in so little. The girl knocked on a door. Another girl came out. Shaved head, a ponytail left at the nape of her neck like a Hare Krishna sucker. She was dressed in some kind of kimono and Converse sneakers. Bizarre.

  “Hi, are you Johannes?”

  Niklas’d kept using his alias in all the conversations he’d had online.

  “Yes, hi. It’s great to be here, I’ve looked forward to it. I’m guessing you’re Felicia?”

  She nodded. Welcomed him. Asked if he’d found the way okay. Seemed nice. Still, there was something about her look, as if she was studying him.

  He remained standing in the doorway. Everything felt so strange.

  “Come in,” she said. He took a step inside. They sat in the little kitchen. The cottage was made up of two small bedrooms and a shared kitchen. “This is how all first-year students live.”

  She asked him if he’d had a chance to look around the campus at all. Of course he hadn’t. She started to talk about the place: courses in photography, film, writing, culture, history, foreign aid, ecology, and solidarity with developing nations. Niklas listened halfheartedly. Wanted to get a feel for her, the people out there, their attitude, strength. His mission today was to recruit.

  They’d been chatting every day for almost two weeks. He knew her beliefs through and through. In his world: she could become a warrior. Patriarchy, as she called it, subordinated women. The gender power structure, that’s what it was called. A permanent siege of social perceptions. How women should be, who they should be, how they should act—everyone was forced into carefully controlled categories. If you stepped outside the lines of demarcation, you were excommunicated. Were no longer counted as a woman, as suitable, as good, as a docile member of society. Even though everyone should know all this by now, there were so many people who just accepted the shit. Ate the shit. Let the men rule, whip them into submission, and never went out into battle. Like an unbalanced war where one side took the liberty of breaking the rules of the game.

  And Felicia—she was impressed by his powerful ideas. He could tell—every time he pulled out some war propaganda she responded by describing missions she’d been a part of or would like to do. Demonstrations—demos, as she called them—guard circles outside porn clubs, broken windows, spray-painted façades, trashed interiors, Internet assaults against porn sites, screaming battle cries against government officials, big businesses, and men.

  Maybe she was right for him.

  Felicia served herbal tea. Her cabinmate, Joanna, chatted about the course she was taking: something about natural medicine. She was going to Brazil next semester to become a shaman, she said. “You can learn so much more in the Amazon than you can in a Western country.” Her eyes glittered over the teacup. “So, what do you do?”

  He didn’t know what to answer. Could feel it instinctively: to mention his soon-to-be former job as a security guard was the wrong move. He let her question float in the air for a bit. Took a swallow of tea.

  Finally, he said, “I’m unemployed, unfortunately.”

  The reaction was not what he’d expected. Felicia almost looked happy. Joanna looked reassured. Felicia said, “Everything’s gotten harder since the pigs took power. Damn right-wing government. Don’t feel left out. There are a lot of us who support you. Who believe in a different kind of society.”

  They talked for a while. Felicia was getting riled up talking about how the new government was crushing the old and the weak, women and the low-income bracket. Niklas did his best to keep up, even though Swedish politics wasn’t really his thing. He didn’t care. The most important thing was that she was angry enough.

  After a while, Felicia got up. There was some kind of lecture that was open to the whole student body. She wondered if Niklas wanted to come—bringing visitors wasn’t a problem. Of course, okay, that’ll be interesting. Inside, he was nervous. He’d never been to a lecture before. Except for the run-throughs at DynCorp before a mission down there.

  A large group of people was gathering outside one of the bigger buildings, which looked like a barn. Felica and her roommate greeted a lot of them. Almost half of them looked like the ones Niklas’d seen earlier on the lawn. They didn’t exactly look like warriors. Still: Felicia’s shaved head gave him hope. A real GI cut, except for the rattail in back.

  The barn housed a nice-looking lecture hall. White-painted wood walls, powerful ventilation, lighting, a video projector suspended from the ceiling, chairs with little tables in the armrest that you could fold down and put your notebook on.

  The lecturer was dress
ed in jeans and a red checked shirt. Maybe forty years old. Niklas’d expected something different: a professorial type in a tweed jacket with reading glasses on the tip of her nose. He realized how naïve he was.

  Felicia whispered to him, “You’re going to like this.”

  The lecturer got going. Introduced herself, rattled off some introductory story about an ad campaign that was currently being run. According to the lecturer, the campaign privatized female identity and in that way cemented a form of politically created gender identification. After that, it just got denser. Talk about gender roles, the gender power structure, gender hierarchies, and sex changes. Niklas looked around. Mixed ages. Felicia was sitting as though in a trance. Shaman Joanna was drawing flowers in her notebook. She was flaky.

  He focused on the younger faces. Soldier material? Were they ready to spend nights curled up in the backseat of a car, to work hard as hell with planning during the day, to kick down doors, take care of crying children, attack the enemy combatants?

  Finally: he settled on a guy a little farther down in the same row. Short dark hair. A few rings in his ear, all in a row, as if someone’d riveted the metal spiral on a notebook along the outer edge of his ear. The guy looked young: short-sleeved T-shirt, thin, fit arms. Soldier arms. Niklas’d seen them on so many down there, a toughness in the body that allowed them to handle so much more than the beefcakes did. Above all: the guy had focus. His gaze was steely gray, stone hard, stiffly zeroed in on the lecturer. Resolute. A kind of willpower. Maybe he was right for this.

  “It’s not as simple as turning the hierarchical world order upside down . . .” The lecturer gazed out over the audience. It felt as though she was looking straight at Niklas. “But to completely free yourself from that kind of a worldview.”

  Niklas nodded in agreement. Dammit, he was going to turn the hierarchies in the Strömberg and Jonsson families upside down. To begin with.