by Jens Lapidus
It was snowing out. Wasn’t it too early for that? It’d been okay warm the other day. November 21. White against a black background: TV blizzard. Crackling, flickering. Like in his head.
His mood improved a little once he’d climbed into the Benz. When he was leaving the shit behind. He thought about the cop that’d been in touch with him a few weeks ago. He had to be more careful. The pigs could have eyes out right now, for instance. He stopped the car by the side of the road. No one behind him. A car passed in the opposite lane. Should be cool.
Still: he pulled out his cell phone. Took the batteries out. Picked out the SIM card. Rolled down the window. Flicked it out. Like one of the snowflakes.
On his drive into the city, he thought about Babak. Okay, Mahmud’d tripped up. Never imagined that the Yugos would do Wisam like that. But Babak’d overreacted. Despite that: Mahmud wanted to call him. Talk a little. Straighten it all out. Get back to normal. Be homies. Blood brothers.
He passed Axelsberg on the highway. Thought about his sister. Thought about her crazy ex-neighbor. The Niklas guy. What was his deal? A week after he and his sis’d visited, Mahmud’s phone’d rung. Unknown number. Could be any buyer, dealer, Yugo fucker—but it was Niklas. Weird. Mahmud wigged out. Thought something’d happened to Jamila. But that wasn’t it, the Niklas guy just wanted to talk. Maybe get together. During the conversation, like, all the time, the dude got onto the subject of battered women, johns that should be shot, and what he called “the rot in Sweden.” Mahmud didn’t dig his lingo. He was grateful that Niklas’d tenderized his sister’s ex. But what was all this about johns, society’s decline, and a rat invasion in the boroughs?
The next day: in the trailer again. The weather was better. Ragheb Alama on low volume in his earbuds. Dejan’d called before lunch. Talked about a massive delivery. Ratko’d called, too. Worked up. Amped. “Mahmud. Make sure to keep an extra good eye. You follow? We’ve got a massive delivery going.” Mahmud thought they were beating a dead horse. Were all repeating the same words: massive delivery. MASSIVE DELIVERY.
In the afternoon, a van pulled up. A woman with Dejan. Mink coat. Looked so Russian it was almost funny. She didn’t speak a word of Swedish. Dejan tried to interpret, introduced her as the makeup artist. “Tonight, we’re doing a massive fucking delivery. They’re all going to the same address.”
Mahmud couldn’t care less. They could have as big whore parties as they wanted, he didn’t give. As long as he got out of there in time.
A few hours later, a Hummer showed up. Two guys climbed out. Mahmud saw right away through the trailer’s filthy windows—those weren’t some regular Yugos or clients. They were ultra players. He even recognized one of them: Jet Set Carl. The guy who owned a bunch of clubs, ran the slickest parties, cashed in the illest cash. The guy who, according to rumor, had slayed more bitches on Stureplan than Mahmud’d seen in his whole life. A legend. A king among brats. A force of power even among Svens. Mahmud wondered what the guy was doing here.
Mahmud turned off the music. Got closer to the window. Saw how the whores were ordered into one of the trailers where Dejan and the Russian were holding court. He waited. The girls came out, one by one. Finally: all sixteen’d been taken care of. Made up, styled, fixed for fucking. They went to their campers. The Jet Set guy was smoking with his buddy. A camel-colored coat to the knees, dark blue jeans, and a colorful scarf. Thin suede desert boots. His hair: more carefully slicked back than the coat of a cat. The two Sven slicks were eyeing the procedure.
After forty minutes, all the chicks were ready. Time stood still. Mahmud stared. Scouted. Spied.
Dejan walked around and knocked on all the trailer doors. The chicks came out. Miniskirts, tight tops, garter belts, high boots, heels, silk scarves nonchalantly wrapped around their necks. More dolled up than usual. Classier than Mahmud’d ever seen them.
They lined up in the cold. Sixteen in a row. Like a fucking horse show. The Jet Set guy and his buddy walked down the line. Checked the girls out one by one. Measured them with their eyes. Sucked them in with their gazes. Deliberated, negotiated, evaluated.
After ten minutes. Her, her, and her, and so on. Jet Set Carl pointed to twelve of the girls. The chosen ones.
Dejan and the Russian herded them into the van and another car. Jet Set Carl had another cigarette. The smoke was clearly visible.
Mahmud thought: a massive delivery. He didn’t even know where they were going.
He couldn’t drop what’d just happened. Two hours left before he was being switched out. He didn’t put the music back on. Didn’t bother Tom about their evening plans. Mahmud: not a guy who had anything against hookers. It was the world’s oldest profession, and all that. In his home country, dads often took their sons for a little test drive in Bahgdad’s seedier neighborhoods for their eighteenth birthday. It was good practice, good education. Young studs had to let off some steam. But still: he couldn’t handle this. The girls in the trailers were treated like objects. Were advertised on the Internet just like any other items for sale. Honestly, how could people be into chicks who didn’t want to spread ’em on their own? It was sick, somehow.
He looked out at the parking lot. Everything was calm. He wondered if the girls who hadn’t been picked felt safe or desperate.
His cell phone rang. Unknown number. At first, he wasn’t gonna bother picking up. Then he thought: I have to get out of my own depressed head right now. Might as well see who it is.
As he picked up the phone, he was struck by a weird feeling. A feeling that something big was about to happen. The signal sent a message through the depth of his gut: This call will change my life.
“Yo, this is Mahmud.”
“Hey, Mahmud, I roll with your boy Javier.”
Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. But he knew all about accents. Latino. Sounded pretty much like Javier, actually. After his years in the Million concrete, Mahmud could read accents like a fucking speech expert. The height of his knowledge: he could even hear the difference between some Kurdish languages—Sorani and Kurmanji, you name it. The dude on the line now: the s sounds were softer than on other Latinos. Crystal-clear Chilean accent.
Mahmud responded, “Okay, Javier’s my boy. And what do you want?” Really, he didn’t want to talk to some coke-tweaking junior meal ticket right now. He wanted to chill with Robert and the boys tonight.
“I want to meet you. My name is Jorge. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me. I did time at Österåker with your sister’s man. They still together?”
“No.”
“Good. Can I be real with you?”
“Yes.”
“Your sister’s dude was a real cabrón.”
Mahmud couldn’t help himself, he laughed. Who was this chico?
“Anyway. Javier’s told me about your little hang-up. And it interests me.”
“Whaddya mean ‘hang-up’? What’re you talking about?” The name Jorge reminded Mahmud of something. He knew he’d heard people talk about this guy a couple years ago. Plenty.
“You’ve been running your mouth. I think half the city knows how you feel about Mr. R.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to see you, live. Talk this through. I think we’ve got an enemy in common. And you know what we say in my hood: my enemy’s enemy is my friend.”
Then it hit Mahmud who Jorge was. A couple of years ago: a lotta talk about a newbie who’d revolutionized the coke business in Stockholm. Helped the Yugos take the blow to the boroughs, the projects. Spread the shit among the Svens, the middle-class yuppies, the immigrant kids. Made doing a line as normal as grabbing a beer at the bar. But then things’d derailed somehow. Rumor was that the Yugos mass-executed the guys who’d helped them build the empire, that those same guys’d tried to jack a massive shipment from R., that it’d all been about internal fights within the Yugo mafia. Jorge, the name was familiar. Sure, Mahmud’d heard Javier talk about that guy—he’d been the Yugos’ own little dealer consultant. He
wondered what the Latino wanted from him.
Jorge kept talking. “You’re not a big talker, but I think you’re curious and want to meet up. Do you know who I am? Does Västberga Cold Storage facility ring any bells? Abdulkarim? Mrado Slovovic? Do you know who those guys were?”
Mahmud remembered. He knew. And he admitted to himself: he really wanted to meet this Latino.
Jorge suggested a place. A day. A time. They hung up.
After the call a thought in his mind, crystal clear: This might be an opening.
47
Niklas sat up within a microsecond. A crackling sound’d woken him. Was there someone in the room? He reached for the knife on the floor next to the bed. Listened again.
Silence.
Stillness.
Darkness.
He held the knife in front of him, combat grip. Crawled out of bed. Crouched. He could make out vague outlines in the room. There was some light coming from the kitchen. There were no shades in there.
The crackling again. No big movement in the room that he could see. He made his way along the length of one wall. Every muscle tense. Every step a practice in stealthfight.
The apartment only consisted of one room and a kitchen. So the room was a quick check. It appeared empty. Of people, at least. But there was always the risk that they’d gotten in. Like they always succeeded in doing, in the end.
He went into the kitchen. Significantly brighter in there. The light from the streetlamps farther down the street were shining in through the window. The kitchen wasn’t bigger than fifty square feet. He could see right away that there were no humans in there. But what about the others? He had to search more carefully: his empty cupboard, under the sink, the shelves where he kept granola and bread. Under the pizza cartons, the yogurt packages, the plastic bags. He didn’t find them. The apartment was secured.
It must’ve been his dream that woke him. It’d been stronger than before. First, the mosque over there. Glass shards from the windows and torn prayer mats. The typical Iraq smell from fermenting trash and sewers. Then: scene change. Back in Sweden, except twenty years ago. Claes shoving Mom into the wall. A painting came tumbling down. She fell. Headfirst. Remained. Niklas bent down, grabbed her arm. Pulled, tugged. He screamed. Yelled. But not a single word came out.
Niklas dressed. He peeked through the blinds. The darkness outside was complete. It was seven-thirty in the morning. Today would be a hectic day.
He ate yogurt. Boiled two eggs. Four minutes, exactly. Soft-boiled, but not too soft-boiled.
He sat down in the room. Inspected the Beretta. Tonight he was going to use the silencer. Picked up the black metal cylinder that he’d also bought at the Black & White Inn. Screwed it on, screwed it off. Test-aimed at the window. Weighed the weapon in his hand. Put his jacket on. Slipped the gun into his inner pocket. Tore it out and went through a rapid reloading sequence. Repeated. Fast. Faster. Fastest. He would need to shoot at close range, using hollow-point ammunition, to counteract the limiting effect of the silencer.
He thought about Nina. There was something special between them, that much was obvious. She needed his help. She’d suddenly emerged while he’d been sitting outside her door. Completely alone. Niklas’s first thought’d been, Where is the child? He got out of the car. Looked at her. Fifty feet away. She didn’t seem to see him.
Nina: dressed in a white coat with a black belt. Collar popped like some badass agent. Tight blue pants and black leather boots with a low heel. On her head: a red knit hat that wasn’t pulled down properly. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Whatever it was she radiated, it hit him like a sandstorm down there.
She walked toward him, but didn’t seem to recognize him. Then it struck him: she didn’t want anything to do with him. Of course. She knew that he’d seen through her. Looked into her sorrowful eyes and unveiled the truth of how she was feeling. How she was treated. Humiliated.
Niklas remained motionless. Nina’s gaze was fixed straight ahead. Purposeful steps. A faint smile on her lips.
Ten feet. Her purse swung in time with her steps.
Six feet. He remained motionless. His breath billowed out in small clouds.
Three feet. He had to say something, grab her. She passed him. A whiff of her perfume. They almost touched. Almost.
He called out, “Nina!” At the same time he thought, What am I going to say now?
Nina turned around. Three feet away. Surprised, quizzical. She clearly didn’t recognize him. But she still smiled sweetly.
“Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who bought your Audi.”
Nina’s smile broadened. “Right, of course. And we saw each other at the gas station, too.” She glanced at his car. “You don’t have it anymore?”
Niklas didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to disappoint her.
“I do, but I have several cars.” He tried to laugh, but it felt like the chuckle got caught somewhere in his throat.
Nina didn’t seem to notice anything.
“Oh. Do you live in the area?”
Yet another question he couldn’t answer.
“No, I was just passing through.” What an answer. It sounded dumb as hell. “Passing through,” what did that even mean?
“Oh, okay. Well, nice to see you again. We seem to bump into each other now and then, so I bet we’ll be seeing each other again.” She turned to resume walking. But Niklas glimpsed it again. Her look. The sorrow that came over her. The feelings of powerlessness. Repression. Torturous humiliation. He had to help her. She was so beautiful.
“Nina, wait a minute.”
She turned around again. This time: her smile was more uncertain. “Yes?”
“Where are you going?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering.”
“I’m going to the stables with a friend. You have to make the most of having a babysitter. But I have to hurry. She’s waiting for me.”
“Can’t we get together sometime? And talk through it all.”
Nina’s smile was even more uncertain. But her eyes: he saw that she was asking him for help. Wanted him close.
“What do you mean?”
“Talk about how you’re doing and stuff.”
“I don’t know what you mean. We don’t know each other that way, you just bought a car from me. That’s all. But it was nice bumping into you. See you.” Her steps were faster. Away from him.
Niklas remained standing, watching her. Her butt swayed rhythmically. And he’d seen it clearly when she said, “See you”—she wanted to see him again. To tell him. Make him understand. She needed him. How could she know that he already understood, all too well.
The run felt extra good today. His thoughts were clear. Nina’s perfect face. Tonight’s mission was planned in such detail that even Collin would’ve been jealous. Ready for Operation Magnum’s second offensive. What bothered him: that Benjamin fucker. But Niklas knew what he would do about it.
After the push-ups and sit-ups, he did practice exercises with the knife. In order to relax, mostly. He needed peace of mind. He took a shower. Ate lunch. Went through the tapes from the surveillance cameras. He knew the routines of his targets better than they did.
At two o’clock, he made the call that he’d been planning to make for a few days now. To Mahmud, Jamila’s brother. He hoped it would lead to results.
Niklas went down to the car. Drove to Alby. Mahmud’d said he’d be home now.
Back home. An hour since his meeting with Mahmud. Niklas was pleased. The conversation’d gone well. Mahmud wasn’t a warrior of his caliber, but the Arab was okay. And the best part: he owed Niklas a favor. What Mahmud’d promised to do for him solved some of his problems. Sure, it stretched his finances even more, but that was inevitable. Too many risks hanging over you wouldn’t do.
He packed his bag with the usual stuff. The binoculars, concealable transmitters, tapes and memory cards for the surveillance cameras, the computer, the knife, the gloves
. And: the Beretta and the silencer.
Took two tablets of Nitrazepam. Sat down on the couch. Turned the TV and DVD on. The taxi drivers talking over coffee at night. Travis was bare-chested. Tested his Magnum. Later: the child whore, Jodie Foster, met Travis.
Niklas remembered who he’d met a few days ago. He’d shadowed Roger Jonsson one night. Seen him drive to downtown Fruängen. Park the car outside the bus station. Niklas saw the guy walk past the subway station. He got out of the car, too. Remained sixty feet or so behind him. Roger: walked leaning forward as if he were constantly about to grab something.
Niklas’d weighed his options. It wasn’t time for the offensive yet, but if things got messy, he had no problem doing what was going to happen to Roger Jonsson anyway. It was late at night, hardly any people out except for a group of half-trashed teens who were hanging out inside the glass doors of the subway station. Probably trying to find warmth while they waited for something to happen.
Roger, that asshole, kept walking for a while. Went into Fruängen’s Pizzeria. Niklas stopped. Didn’t, under any circumstances, want to raise suspicion. Inside the pizzeria: dimly lit. Something was weird.
He got an idea. Ran back to the car. Rummaged through the bag. Got out the equipment. Ran back. Approached the pizzeria carefully. He snuck along one wall. When he was right outside the window of the place, he bent down. Pretended to tie his shoes. Actually, taped a bug outside the window, right at the edge of the concrete.
He didn’t know if it’d work. The bug he’d stuck there was meant to be used in the same room as the object under surveillance. The question was how much he would be able to hear now. But maybe, with luck.
Ten minutes later: two other men walked into the pizzeria. Niklas at a proper distance. Sitting on a bench. A bottle in hand. Pretended to be drinking.
The earpiece was in place. The rest of the equipment fit in his jacket pocket. It was cold out. He was already shivering.
So far, he hadn’t heard anything from inside the place, but now things started happening. First, two men who spoke some other language. Sounded like Serbian. Then they switched to Swedish. More men. A low crackle, almost like he was listening through a pillow. Some words were muffled, sometimes entire sentences. But he got the gist: they were waiting. Yearning. Lusting. Soon there’d be a display. Of women.
