by Jens Lapidus
So far, no traces led to Adamsson. But there was still so much they hadn’t gone through.
“It’s going to take us several months. Maybe years,” Hägerström said. “You can’t have Åsa living somewhere else for that long, and if they find out that I’m involved, I’ll have to look around for another job pretty quick. That won’t work. We need a breakthrough soon or else we’ll have to drop it and let the prosecutor nail that Brogren guy. Anyway, if you ask me, it doesn’t seem improbable that he did it.”
Thomas was breathing through his nostrils. The winter cold pushed down into his lungs. Filled him even though it was still warm in the car. He wasn’t going to bother commenting on whether Brogren was the murderer or not.
“I’m going to keep at it, in any case. I believe in our lead, even if it seems fuzzy right now. And there’s a particular lead we have to follow up on. We have to find Ballénius. He knows something, I can feel it. An old fox like that wouldn’t have acted the way he did at Solvalla if not for something special. He knows something.”
The Stockholmers were running around, harried as they made exchanges, returned Christmas gifts, and did post-Christmas shopping while, at the same time, everyone was trying to rest up and be on vacation. Thomas talked to Åsa a million times a day. She was sitting at home at Jan’s house with all the animals, bored. She was maybe going to spend New Year’s Eve with some friends and wanted him to come. He couldn’t say no to everything. Thankfully: what Åsa was most worried about was how she would hide the fact that she was staying with her brother-in-law from her friends at the New Year’s party. That felt like the biggest triviality ever.
Thomas’d scaled back work at the club while still doing his utmost to find facts on Bolinder. He spoke with cop acquaintances. Searched on the Internet. Asked Jonas Nilsson for help again—he was going to ask his older colleagues. Went to a library and asked to look through the newspaper archive. He asked around at the club. “Bolinder,” Ratko said. “Why are you so interested in him all the time?” After that, Thomas lay low at the club for a few days.
It was Sunday. High, clear blue sky, for once. The air was crisp. Thomas and Hägerström were standing outside the entrance to Solvalla. The day’s race was called the Silver Horse. It was a high-class V75 championship with a trophy statuette shaped like a royal silver horse as icing on the cake. The place would be packed with people. Ballénius ought to be there. This time, they wouldn’t lose him.
Agria pet insurance was still dominating the ad space. The excitement in the air was almost as thick as the mashed potatoes on the old guys’ steak platters. But there were fewer people outside than the last time Thomas’d been there—the colder weather was sending people indoors.
They worked their way through the outdoor crowd. Even though Thomas was certain that Ballénius wouldn’t be there, he wanted to be sure.
Ballénius wasn’t there.
They went into Ströget, the sports bar. Pretty much the same crowd with their jackets still on, just like last time. Definitely the same bacon chips in the bar. Mostly younger dudes here, downing burgers and beer. They wouldn’t find Ballénius here, he was certain.
Thomas eyed Hägerström; he looked nervous. Or else he was just tense, on alert. Double emotions: Thomas was grateful that the ex-IA guy was with him. At the same time, he was ashamed—hoped no old colleagues would see them together.
They moved on, up to the Bistro. The entrance was crammed with Finnish gypsies. Thomas pushed his way through. Walked up to the bar. He recognized the Danish restaurant boss with the beer gut whom he’d talked to last time. It looked like the beer gut’d swelled somewhat. He got the Dane’s attention. Asked his questions. The Dane shook his head—sorry, he didn’t know anything. Thomas asked for Sami Kiviniemi, the man who’d pointed Thomas to the right floor last time. But the Finn wasn’t there. So far, their Solvalla lead was worthless.
Thomas and Hägerström took the escalator up toward the Congress. The names of the horses that’d won the big championship were printed on the wall, year by year. Gum Ball, Remington Crown, Gidde Palema.
Before they walked into the Congress, Hägerström looked at Thomas.
“Are you armed, Andrén?”
He patted the front of his jacket. Felt the SIG Sauer through the fabric.
“Even though I’m just a traffic cop these days, I’m still the best shot in the Southern District.”
Hägerström smiled a little. Then he said, “It’s probably best if I stay by the entrance, right? You go in, because you’ll recognize him. If the old guy tries the same thing as last time, I’ll be a brick wall up here.”
Thomas nodded.
Hägerström continued, “And you call my cell as soon as you go in. It’ll be our own little radio that no one will look twice at.”
Hägerström seemed competent. Thomas tried to relax, walked into the Congress Bar and Restaurant. He held the phone in his left hand. Positioned himself at the top of the room. Tried to see down into the bleachers. Looked around. All the tables looked completely booked. He reported to Hägerström, “I don’t see him. But it’s big in here. Probably four hundred people at the tables.”
He began walking along the top row. His head constantly turned toward the tables farther down. People were loving the race, their attention was directed fiercely on the track. The voice over the loudspeaker in the venue sounded worked up: a high-odds horse was apparently about to win. Eighty feet farther off, he saw Table 118. Ballénius’s favorite spot. The place where Thomas’d found the old guy last.
Four people were sitting at the table. He could only see two of them head-on: a woman with massive lips that had to be fake, and a man in his thirties who was almost standing up in excitement over the action on the track. Thomas only saw the backs of the two others at the table. One of them could be Ballénius. Tall, thin.
He took a step closer. It would make things easier if the man didn’t turn around.
Closer. Thirty feet left. Thin, gray hair—it could definitely be him.
Closer.
He spoke to Hägerström, “I’m twenty feet away from a man who could be him.”
Thomas approached the table. Saw the guy head on.
Reminded him of Mr. Bean, except with gray hair.
It was definitely not Ballénius.
55
There were three reasons Mahmud took the job seriously: Jorge was a cool cat—Mahmud could feel it in his entire body. He and the Latino shared the same attitude, the same agenda. On top of that: Mahmud really wanted to fuck those Yugo cunts, show them that they couldn’t just play an Arab with honor any which way. There were rules, even for those who stood outside the law. Finally: it was mad exciting—an ill special-ops gig that could lead to some sick cheddar.
He’d been to see Erika Ewaldsson for the last time today. She’d led him into her office as usual. The mess, the blinds, the coffee cups—everything was the same as always. Except for one thing: she was speaking more slowly than she normally did. And she almost looked a little angry. Not like her—a pissy Erika sat still and didn’t peep. Not like today: babbled on, but still looked unhappy.
Then he had a different thought. Maybe she wasn’t pissed off. Maybe she was sad. Motherfucker, it sounded shadyish, but maybe she was gonna miss him. The longer he sat there and listened to her drone, the more obvious it became. She didn’t like that this was their last meeting. But it was even stranger: Mahmud felt funny too, like sad or something. Shit, Erika was kinda okay after all. He beat the thought away. Tried to picture Erika in front of him naked instead, coax his inner chuckle. She always wore baggy clothes. She wasn’t thin, but was she really that chunky? Her tits might still be nice. Her ass was wide, but maybe it gave her sick curves. No laughs—the opposite. Didn’t suit a G like him. But finally, he grinned to himself. Between her legs: she just had to rock a crazy Queen of Spades, major bush. Sooo Suedi.
The meeting was over.
“Okay then, Mahmud, we won’t be seeing each other a
gain. How do you feel about that? Strange?”
What? She was the one who thought it was sad. He didn’t care.
“It’s cool. You’ll probably see me on TV when I’m a millionaire.”
Erika smiled. “I thought you already were a millionaire, that’s what you usually say.”
“Yeah, sure I’m a Millionaire, a child of the Million Program. Did you people really think that was gonna work? Pile all of us into a bunch of towers out in the concrete?”
You could see it in Erika’s eyes again: she wasn’t happy. “I don’t know, Mahmud. But I really hope things go well for you. But how are you going to be become a millionaire? You haven’t actually gotten a job yet.”
Maybe she was grinning a little bit, after all.
“Okay,” Mahmud said. “Then maybe I’ll see you at the employment agency, or whatever it’s called.”
“That would be nice.”
“Yes.”
“There’s just one place I don’t want to see you again, Mahmud.”
“Where is that?”
“Here.”
They laughed together. Mahmud got up. Extended his hand.
She extended her hand, too. They looked at each other. Stood still.
Then they hugged.
“Take care, now,” Erika said.
Mahmud didn’t say anything. Tried to keep himself from hugging her again.
Mahmud’d been to the gym. It was snowing out. Stockholm was still decked out for the holidays. The Swedes’d sat at home with their families and celebrated a few days ago. Mahmud’d gone over to his dad and Jivan’s house. Jamila came over that night. She’d brought gingersnaps and baklava. They ate dinner, watched a movie that Mahmud’d been allowed to pick: I Am Legend. Dad didn’t like the flick.
In a way, they celebrated Christmas too, except Beshar refused to say the word Christmas in front of Mahmud. “That’s the Swedes’ thing. Not ours.”
Mahmud’d taken care of his homework. The first thing he had to do was the weapons. He got contacts through Tom. A couple of real heavy hitters from Södertälje. Tight networks—Syriacs. Cash-in-transit pros. Dynamite vets. Weapons fetishists. Tom didn’t know them well, but well enough to be able to buy three pieces. Two AK4s that’d probably been stolen from some army stockpile and a Glock 17. Felt epic: to hide three badass pieces at home in the apartment. Mahmud removed the bolts, wrapped them in a bedsheet. He put the rest of the weapons under the bed, behind a couple of bags of documents that he’d picked up at that apartment many months ago. Then he put the bed sheet with the bolts up on a beam in the attic. Couldn’t be too careful: if the 5-0 got him, at least he’d be able to say that the weapons had important parts missing. That they weren’t fit to use.
Another piece of homework’d been even easier: to get bolt cutters. First he thought of boosting one, but changed his mind. Unnecessary to take risks. Instead, he bought it at Järnia in Skärholmen’s mall—the phattest model they had. He paid cash.
The final piece of homework was the most difficult: to get manpower. Not that he didn’t know a lot of people. But who did he trust? Who would never snitch, kept shit synced, could handle the job? He already knew who he would ask: Robert, Javier, and Tom. But the questions still remained: Could he trust his homies?
Tom was traveling over New Year’s—fuck. Niklas wanted a total of ten boots on the ground, as he put it. Mahmud had to have a planning meeting with the other guys anyway. Robert and Javier came over to his house that night. Javier was wearing a shirt so tight his nipples were popping out like that fucking British bimbo Jordan. Robert was rocking his usual baggy ghetto style, like Fat Joe himself: track pants and an oversized hoodie. Mahmud couldn’t help but think, Will these blattes really be able to handle the attack? They saw themselves as real G’s and maybe they were hard core. But this—this was different. He just couldn’t blow this thing. Could never fuck up.
They split a doobie. Watched Bourne Ultimatum. Mahmud tried to get himself pumped up. Soon he was gonna lay it all out. Couldn’t sound lame. Had to do it right.
He ejected the DVD. Turned to the guys. “Boys, I’ve got a thing cooking. A big thing.”
Rob took a hit on the joint. “What? You got a connect?”
“No, this is personal. And there’ll be easy money.”
“Sounds good.”
“It’s like that home invasion we rocked, Rob, in that crib. Remember?”
Rob smiled. “Sure. Damn, we were fucking saints, giving you all the gear we lifted.”
“This is my turn to give back, promise. This is like that invasion times a hundred. We’re gonna hit a huge fucking house on Smådalarö.”
“Smådalarö. Where the fuck is that? Way up north or something?”
They laughed.
Mahmud began explaining. How he’d met Jorge in the reggae apartment. How the Latino’d been set on revenge on the Yugos, 110 percent. Old wrongs and shit, mafia style. He told them about Niklas, who’d floored Jamila’s ex and who hated the whore business more than a broad-backed feminist dyke. He explained about the upper-class horndogs who thought they were gonna fuck young pussy but would get slammed with a high-stylin’ blatte attack instead. They could trust Niklas. The commando dude knew his shit: the planning, the surveillance, the maps, the photos, everything.
Mahmud could feel that they were listening. They nodded. Asked semismart follow-up questions. Dug it. What sealed the deal: the weapons. When they heard what Mahmud’d gotten ahold of, they wanted in right away.
Mahmud: the meanest attack blatte on the Stockholm battlefield. The only downside was that he should’ve talked to Niklas ages ago, but the guy was impossible to reach. Mahmud didn’t want to call, since they’d decided to send coded texts. He fired off about ten texts a day instead. No answer. Maybe he’d misunderstood the code. So he stopped by Niklas’s crib, rang the doorbell, even put a note in the mail slot: Hey corpse, call me!
But nothing happened. One day, two days, three days passed. New Year’s Eve was approaching. Where the fuck was that guy?
What’s more: he had to find another soldier. Niklas wanted five people for the attack. If it even happened.
Mahmud thought about his buddies. Dejan, Ali, lots of other players. They wouldn’t be able to pull this off. He didn’t even know if Robert and Javier would man up, seal the deal. The same thought came sneaking back—Babak would be perfect.
But how? Babak’d totally turned his back on him. Regarded him as a massive traitor. With every right, as he’d realized too late—the Yugos were the enemy. His conscience boiling like heartburn.
He got out a pen and paper. Did something he’d never done before: wrote down what he was gonna say. After ten minutes, he was done. Read through it. Made some changes. He remembered from school: bullet points, that’s what it was called.
He hoped they would help.
He picked up his phone. Called Babak.
56
The air in the jail was heavy with smoke and bad karma. Even though the smoking ban that applied in the rest of Sweden’d reached this place, too. The linoleum in the hallways and the thick, blue-painted doors to the cells were so marinated in smoke that you could probably scrape a Marlboro from them.
Niklas took note of everything. The uniforms the correctional staff wore: baggy, green, worn down until they were pajama soft. The white-painted metal borders on the windows, the four-inch-thick flameproof mattress on the bed, the wooden chair, the mini desk, the fourteen-inch TV. The three PlayStation games that you could check out in the unit were worth their weight in gold. There was nothing wrong with the COs, they were just doing their job. But the detained men shuffled around in state-issued slippers—unshaven, languid, depressed. There was no need to rush in here. Life was measured out in the windows of time between hearings or, for the ones with privileges, conversations with loved ones.
He felt lost, and at the same time, superior. Most of the people in here were duds. According to Niklas, the logic was simple: that’s why peop
le ended up in here.
He felt like the robot in the Terminator movies. Registered his surroundings, the rooms, the people, like a computer. Scanned the placement of the cells, the guards’ equipment, tones of voices, attitude. Possibilities. He was classified as restricted, so he wasn’t permitted to speak with anyone, to make or receive phone calls, or to send or receive mail. They thought he might tamper with evidence if he gained access to the outside world. It was insane.
He thought about the interrogations he’d been through. A few’d only been fifteen minutes long. Others several hours. The investigators went over the same things over and over again. When he’d arrived at Benjamin’s place on the night in question, where they’d rented the DVD, who’d paid for the movie, if he knew what Benjamin’d been doing earlier during the night, if he’d like to comment on his mother’s testimony, when he’d left Benjamin’s place for home, what his mother’d been doing when he got home. And, yesterday: they started asking questions about Mats Strömberg and Roger Jonsson. They were on to him.
They sat in a small interrogation room in the same hall as his cell. There was a sticker on the eternal linoleum floor that pointed out the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca—someone was apparently permitted to pray in there. There was an intercom phone on the table, but outbound calls were blocked. There was a note on the wall: Important! Contact unit personnel before the client is released into the hallway. He couldn’t complain about security. His overall conclusion: breaking out of the jail at Kronoberg wouldn’t be easy.
Today: another interrogation, even though there was nothing to say. He didn’t have anything to do with Claes’s murder, that’s all there was to it.
His lawyer sat with him for a few minutes before the interrogation.
