Never Fuck Up: A Novel

by Jens Lapidus

  He and Hägerström’d gone through as many documents as they’d had time for. Tried to find information about who or what company the account on the Isle of Man belonged to. They couldn’t find anything. They just had to accept it—the shit wasn’t here. They saw the payment, the connection to Rantzell. But the essential part was missing—who’d paid.

  “What we should really do is search Bolinder’s house,” Hägerström said.

  Thomas looked at him quizzically. “But we don’t have probable cause to believe that any crime was committed by him yet, do we?”

  “No, but one of the auditors who I scared a little told me that Bolinder is a control freak. Apparently, he saves copies of everything at his house. And he meant everything: every single document that has been issued is, according to the auditor, filed in Bolinder’s private archive. That old fox doesn’t leave anything to chance.”

  Thomas felt a lurch in his gut. He knew what he had to do.

  Tonight.

  * * *

  Expressen—evening newspaper

  December 30

  MAN SUSPECTED OF MURDERING PALME WITNESS ESCAPED FROM DISTRICT COURT. The hearing in Stockholm’s District Court had to be cancelled. The 29-year-old man made an extraordinary escape from the District Court today by leaping through a window. The police are now issuing a warning to the public.

  The man was detained with probable cause for the murder of Claes Rantzell, previously Cederholm, one of the key witnesses against Christer Pettersson in the Olof Palme trial. It was today, December 30, that the man was supposed to go to a hearing in the Stockholm District Court. He had been detained for about four weeks and the District Court was supposed to decide whether or not he would remain in custody.

  No handcuffs

  For some reason, the man was not forced to wear handcuffs in the courtroom. The hearing took place on the ground floor of the building.

  When the spectators had left the room, the man rushed to his feet and broke a window in the courtroom. When the detention officers tried to stop the man, he stabbed one of the officers with a steel pen. He then disappeared in the direction of the Rådhuset subway station.

  The detention staff is defending itself with the claim that suspects’ handcuffs are always taken off during hearings and that there did not appear to be a reason to make a different assessment for this man.

  Expressen has tried to reach the District Court for comment as to why the hearing was held on the ground floor.

  The police issue a warning

  The county police are now issuing a warning to the public. The man is also suspected of two other murders. According to the police, he is armed and may be very dangerous.

  Ulf Moberg

  ulf.moberg@expressen.se

  61

  The apartment felt overstuffed with people. But really, only Mahmud, Rob, Javier, Babak, and two of Javier’s buds were there. On the stereo: some monster hit by Akon. On the TV: MTV on mute. On the table: a bottle of bubbly in an ice bucket, a transparent baggie filled with weed, and Rizla papers.

  Mahmud should have felt overjoyed—his boys, the music, the smokes, the champagne. The mood. New Year’s Eve was gonna be top of the line. They were hitting the town later, were gonna snort the snort, party the party, nail bitches—rock the piranha race straight up. Hump in the New Year so hard the chicks wouldn’t be able to walk till Saint Knut’s Day, or whatever that Sven shit was called.

  Still: he’d wanted to do the hit against the Yugos and the old pervs. Jorge’s story’d got him going. Niklas’s planning’d felt legit, like a real war. There was gonna be an attack, a massive guerrilla ambush. A hard-core invasion—on Million Program terms.

  But Niklas’d disappeared. Mahmud was angry as hell. The elite soldier guy could go fuck himself—he wasn’t so elite after all.

  He went into the kitchen. Brought out the champagne glasses.

  Babak smiled. “Ey, brother, you’re doing good. Not just an ice bucket, I see you got yourself real glasses now too.”

  Mahmud popped a bottle. It was only seven o’clock, but he didn’t plan on waiting with the bubbly.

  Rob laughed. “You stacking them bills, or what?”

  Mahmud nodded. Poured for the guys.

  “I’m working double. But fuck, man, not for much longer.”

  “Why, man? You deal, you watch the whores. I think it sounds like a perfect combo, like Big Mac & Co.”

  “Cut it, Twiggy. I’m gonna quit the whores. That shit’s wack. Skank wack, that’s all it is.”

  Babak set his glass down. Looked at him.

  “Habibi, I don’t get you. You get to work with easy pussy all day. You can do whatever you want to them. Double team, triple team, hat trick.”

  “Man, I don’t wanna hear it. Hookers, that’s some loser shit.”

  Babak shook his head. Turned to Rob instead. Mahmud pretended like he didn’t hear—thought about Gabrielle instead, the chick he’d banged this fall when things’d gotten embarrassing. He was gonna forget that now. Party. Hopefully get between the sheets. With someone who wanted it.

  The night rolled on. The clock struck eight. Babak was holding court. Bullshitting about new blow schemes, ideas for CIT robberies, bouncers he knew downtown, the new Audi R8 super car that he’d test-driven before Christmas.

  Robert laughed louder and louder. The bubbles were starting to work their magic. Javier and his buddies were talking amongst themselves, half the time in Spanish.

  Mahmud heard a sound that stood out from the general din. Not from the music. Not from anyone’s cell phone. Not from outside the window. He understood what it was: someone was ringing his doorbell. He got up.

  The speakers were blasting top-shelf Timbaland.

  Babak yelled over the music, “Who’s coming?”

  Mahmud shrugged. “No idea. Maybe one of all those bitches you’re talkin’ about.”

  He peered through the peephole. The hallway outside was dark. He couldn’t see shit.

  It was eight o’clock on New Year’s Eve—who wouldn’t turn the lights on in the stairwell? He remembered how Wisam Jibril’d shown up at his dad’s apartment on that summer morning.

  He opened the door.

  A dude. It was still dark. Mahmud tried to see who it was. The person was pretty tall, shaved head.

  He said, “I’m back. Jalla, Mahmud, let’s do this.”

  Mahmud recognized the voice.

  “Yo man. Where the fuck’ve you been?”

  Niklas stepped into the apartment. He looked different. Shaved head. Thin beard. Darker eyebrows than the last time they’d seen each other.

  Mahmud repeated the question.

  “Where’ve you been? We were supposed to do the thing tonight. You fucked it, man.”

  “Don’t use that tone with me.” Niklas sounded pissed. Then he grinned. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m back. Let’s do this thing. Now. Jalla.”

  A half hour later. The mood was completely different from when the bubbly’d been on the table and the stereo’d been jacking up the atmosphere. Serious, calm, focused. At the same time: ready to roll, pumped, sharp. At first, Mahmud hadn’t understood what Niklas was talking about. But when he understood, it felt good. Damn good. They were gonna go through with the attack. As long as his homeboys were into it—it would be the phattest shit ever. They kicked out Javier’s friends. Their swagger sagged, but Mahmud offered them the bag of weed to take with them. They still looked sulky, but accepted. There were lots of other parties in town tonight.

  Babak, Javier, and Robert were sitting on the couch. Niklas and Mahmud, each on a chair. Mahmud was still a little buzzed. But in a few hours, he would be on point. The Rizla papers, the cell phones, the champagne, and the glasses’d been put away. Instead: maps, aerial photos taken off the Internet, blueprints, photos of the house. And weapons: the AK-47s, the Glock, and Niklas’s own gun, a Beretta. A goddamned arsenal.

  Niklas went over the plan with the boys. Mahmud tried to fill in here a
nd there, mostly for show. Niklas was in charge.

  Babak raised his hand, like the good schoolboy he’d never been. “The Yugos that’re running this party, they armed?”

  Niklas looked at Mahmud. “Mahmud, you work with these assholes.”

  Mahmud cleared his throat. Weird feeling: to sit here with his homies planning the big gig together with a half-crazed mercenary soldier who didn’t seem to give a fuck about the money, who just cared about punishing people. Like in a movie somehow—Mahmud just couldn’t think of which flick.

  He tried to answer Babak’s question. “I don’t know for sure. But I’ve never seen them pack heat. I think some of them have gear like that, maybe Ratko. But why, really? The whores just need a good slap to be put in their place. The johns usually don’t pull any shit. And it’s not exactly like they’re expecting the SWAT blattes from Alby to make an entrance, right?”

  The guys laughed. Babak smiled, said, “Shit, man. The SWAT blattes, that’s us.” The mood lightened.

  Robert said, “The Yugos are on the decline, I’ve always said so, right?” The boys relaxed. Even Niklas cracked a smile.

  At around ten o’clock, they got up. Packed a bag and put it in Mahmud’s car: the weapons and the bolt cutters. They divided up in different cars. Niklas directed them to Gösta Ekman Road in Axelsberg. Parked outside. It was deserted. Everyone who wanted to be somewhere at ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve’d already made sure to get there.

  Niklas turned to Mahmud. “The bulletproof vests, the clothes, and the other gear’s inside. But I can’t go in there. Can you and one of your buddies get the stuff?”

  “Isn’t this your mom’s place? Why can’t you go in? What’s your mom doing tonight? Is she home?”

  “I have no idea. And we’re not going upstairs to ask. Haven’t you read the papers? Haven’t you understood my situation?”

  Mahmud didn’t read the papers. He looked at Niklas. The guy really did look different from the last time he’d seen him. Thinner, harder. His eyes were darting around more than ever. Then there was the thing with the shaved head and beard, too. “No,” he said. “What’s the deal?”

  “What you don’t know won’t hurt you,” Niklas responded. “Forget about it, I’ll tell you some other time. But I can’t go in. You have to do it.”

  Mahmud let a few seconds pass. Thought: The guy really is quasi crazy. But still okay, somehow. He’s got guts, he fights back. Just like I should’ve done, a long time ago.

  Mahmud climbed out. Keys in hand. Babak got out of his car. He was wearing a ski hat pulled down low. Walked leaning slightly backward, trying to look chill.

  It was cold.

  They walked in through the entrance. Down to the basement. There was a sticker on the garbage chute: Please—help our sanitation workers—seal the bag! They walked down a staircase. A steel door. A lock from Assa Abloy. Mahmud opened it. Turned the overhead light on. Inside: a row of storage units. He looked for number twelve. One minute. Found the unit. He opened it. Two black garbage bags filled with soft things. He looked. Inside: the bulletproof vests, the clothes, and the rest of the gear.

  Back to the car. Mahmud started the engine. Javier in the passenger seat. Robert in the back. Niklas’d climbed in with Babak in his car.

  He started. Followed Babak’s car.

  Robert leaned forward from the backseat.

  “Honest, man, are we gonna pull this off?”

  Mahmud didn’t know how to respond. He just said, “Check out that commando guy. The dude’s as cold as a glacier. I trust him.”

  Robert reached out his hand. A matchbox. A thin Redline baggie. Mahmud turned to Robert.

  “Is that some white dynamite?”

  Robert gave him a crooked smile.

  “I think we need a little extra strength tonight.”

  Mahmud fished out a snort straw from his inside pocket. Put it in the bag. Sucked.

  Outside, it was snowing like crazy.

  Like the ice age was back.

  62

  Niklas repeated to himself: Si vis pacem, para bellum—If you wish for peace, prepare for war. His mantra, his life’s mission. He’d armed himself, planned his attacks, guarded the perpetrators, hit the right people, at the right time, in the right way. Then came the latest incidents: the arrest, the escape, and now: a bunch of clowns. BOG, boots on the ground: five people—but really, they ought to count as three. Sure, Mahmud was okay enough, might hopefully equal one soldier, but he counted the other players as one. These were circumstances he hadn’t been able to prepare for.

  And somehow, it was all Mom’s fault. She was the one who’d cracked his alibi—the video night at Benjamin’s place was all to hell. He wouldn’t have had a chance if there’d been a trial, even if the lawyer seemed sharp.

  His escape from the hearing’d almost gone smoother than expected. As soon as Niklas’d made it down into the subway, he zeroed in on a man. It was almost New Year’s Eve, so there were a lot of people out. Still, on the platform: mostly retirees and moms on maternity leave. The man was one of the former. Niklas forced him down on the ground, didn’t even have to strike him. Took his shoes and coat. People around him hardly missed a beat—no one tried to stop him. Symptomatic: the losers just stood there and watched. That was part of the problem. Society was made up of bystanders. A train rolled in. So far, he didn’t see any cops. Everything’d gone so fast, just a few seconds since he’d leaped out of the window in the District Court. His thoughts in battle position. Strategic considerations in fast-forward. He didn’t get on the train. When it rolled out of the station, he jumped down behind it on the tracks and walked into the tunnel in the opposite direction. Hopefully, the people who’d seen him would think he’d gotten on the train, disappeared in the direction of the next subway stop.

  A thousand feet or so in darkness. The light from the next station glowed like a white dot farther off. There were blue signal lights and thick cables on the walls. He ran. The old man’s shoes fit okay. He’d only need them until he got to his own gear. So far, no trains, and that wouldn’t stop him anyway—the margin between the track and the wall was several feet wide. What could stop him: the rats that ran in the gravel down there.

  Rats.

  A few seconds of silence. The darkness closed in around him. Sounds from the animals’ jaws.

  Niklas stopped. He had to get out.

  The rats were moving down there on the tracks.

  He repeated to himself: I have to get out.

  Images came flashing back. The basement storage unit when he was a child. All the rats down in the sandbox.

  The thought was as clear as the light farther off down the tunnel: If I don’t get out now and complete the mission, my right to live ceases to exist. I will die. I WILL DIE.

  He refused.

  Refused to remain a passive observer of his own fate. So far, he’d let the circumstances control him. Yes, he made decisions—but always based on the situation at hand, on what others did, how he felt, what Mom thought. External facts, circumstantial occurrences that didn’t originate in the depth of his soul. He didn’t transcend himself. He didn’t steer his own path. Today, he would change course. He was a living force to be reckoned with. A counterweight to everyone else.

  He saw other lights farther up.

  The tracks vibrated. A train approached through the tunnel.

  He pressed himself against the wall. Tried to see if the rats were still there.

  A minor blast wave in the tunnel. As if the air was being pressed in front of the train.

  The train rushed by. He stood still. Close, close.

  Then he ran. Toward the light.

  He didn’t hear the animals. He just moved.

  Scrambled up onto the platform.

  It was eleven o’clock. A mother with a stroller eyed him.

  Niklas ran up the escalator.

  He made it.

  Back in the present. The car, the snow. The Arab he was sharing the car with was name
d Babak.

  Niklas told him about the mansion. Gave directions. Explained the plan of attack over and over again. Babak just nodded. Held the steering wheel tight, as if he was afraid of losing it.

  They took Nynäsvägen out toward the archipelago. Hardly any cars. Gray snow drifts along the roadside. Deep tracks in the snow.

  Niklas thought about Mahmud and his men. They had energy. They were cocky. But that wasn’t enough. Guys like that: they didn’t know what structure, order, and teamwork were. They were individualists who ricocheted their way through life. Didn’t understand the importance of organization. Hopefully they knew how to handle weapons—they’d practiced, according to Mahmud. Maybe they could handle the deep snow—panting their way through one and a half feet. They might possibly pull off the attack, the storming, the invasion. But would they be able to handle the situation that followed? Niklas hadn’t had enough time. He felt unsure of himself.

  He called Mahmud and ordered him to tell everyone to kill their phones.

  Babak turned up toward Smådalarö. The darkness outside was compact against the windows. It’d stopped snowing.

  He had to stop worrying. Get into the mood. Think about battle rattle.

  The cars stopped seven minutes later. They were actually supposed to have stolen or rented cars for tonight, but there’d been no time to do that now when everything’d happened so quickly. They parked outside a large white house. Niklas knew what it was: the clubhouse that belonged to the golf course.

  Niklas stepped out. Opened the trunk. Hoisted out one of the black plastic bags. Good that Mahmud’d been able to pick them up in Mom’s basement. The cops were most definitely keeping the house under surveillance, waiting to pick him up again. The media’d heated up the debate around the whole escape.

  He walked over to Mahmud’s car with the bag. The sky was dark and it’d stopped snowing. The Arab opened the door. “Here, change in the car,” Niklas said. “It’s better than standing out here. If someone comes by, we don’t want to call attention to ourselves.” Mahmud accepted the bag. Niklas walked back to Babak’s car. Hoisted out the other bag. Brought it into the car.