Protected by the Shadows

by Helene Tursten

  Irene drove to the visitors’ parking lot opposite Tommy’s house because she couldn’t carry her shopping all the way from the store. She noticed that Tommy’s car wasn’t in its usual spot but assumed he would be home soon. She lifted the two bags out of the backseat, one in each hand, and pushed the door shut with her hip.

  She spotted a large white Mercedes van with blacked-out side windows a short distance away. In the gathering dusk it was impossible to see if there was anyone in the driver’s seat. There was nothing written on the side, and she hadn’t seen it in the lot before. It was just an anonymous white van, like thousands of others on the streets of Göteborg. Under normal circumstances she probably wouldn’t have paid any attention to it, but circumstances were far from normal, and the van stuck out like a sore thumb. Should she take a closer look? Or get back in her car and drive away?

  Before she had time to consider her options, both front doors opened. A man dressed in dark clothing got out of the driver’s side and came straight toward her. He was tall and powerfully built, and he was moving fast. Irene heard the sound of heavy footsteps running from the other side of the vehicle. Reflexively she stepped to one side, dropped the paper bag of groceries in her left hand, and took a firm grip on the plastic bag containing the six-pack of beer. The tall man hesitated when he saw her swinging the bag around in the air, but before he could work out what was going on, Irene took a step forward and let go of the bag. It flew through the air like a missile and struck him full in the face. Without a sound he fell back and sat down, blood spurting from one eyebrow. Clumsily he tried to wipe it away as it poured into his eyes, but to no avail. Yesss! Irene thought. But then the second guy appeared. He was a little shorter, but much stockier. His head was shaven, and he too was dressed in dark clothing. When he saw his buddy sitting on the ground, he paused for a second before growling something unintelligible and launching himself at Irene. He was holding something in one hand; Irene realized it was a knife. So they were intending to force her into the back of the van at knifepoint. An ice-cold rage surged through her body. Suddenly everything crystallized. She knew exactly how to handle the situation.

  When her attacker got close, she leapt in the air and started roaring at the top of her voice. At the same time she jabbed her arms, like a drunk who has just decided to take up boxing. She darted toward the man; as expected, he stopped and stared at her flailing arms and distorted face. Like lightning she bent her right leg and drew it up toward her chest before putting all the strength she could muster into a powerful kick, aiming her heel at his knee. It might not have been quite as vicious as a kick from a stallion, but it wasn’t far short. There was a horrible crack, like dry wood. In fact it was the sound of a kneecap being forced into cartilage and ligaments in what had been a fully functioning joint until now. It would never be the same again. The man went down with a bellow of pain, stabbing at the air with a short-bladed knife. Irene quickly moved back as she fumbled for her cell phone in her pocket. In her peripheral vision she glimpsed someone running; when she turned her head, she saw that it was Tommy.

  “Irene! What the hell is going on? Are you hurt?” he yelled.

  “I’m not, but they are.”

  She was short of breath, probably due to the mental strain. The attack itself had been over before it started. Tommy also took out his cell phone; holding it in both hands, he pointed it at the two guys writhing in agony on the ground.

  “Police! Stay down!”

  Neither of the men made any attempt to get up. In the half-light they couldn’t tell whether Tommy was actually aiming a gun at them, but Irene had a feeling they both already knew she and Tommy were cops. He could easily be armed, even though in reality it was very unusual for off-duty Swedish police officers to carry a gun. We’re not like our American colleagues who seem to sleep with a firearm under their pillows, Irene thought.

  Tommy shouted at the man with only one working knee to drop the knife, and without protesting he tossed it a short distance away. His companion was still clutching his eyebrow, while blood poured down his face.

  The first squad car arrived within minutes.

  Inside the white van they found two Gothia MC vests, cable ties, several yards of twine and a roll of duct tape. Everything necessary for an abduction, in fact.

  “At least they were planning to take me alive,” Irene said, trying to smile to show that she was joking.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. This was also in the back,” Tommy said, holding up a roll of thick builder’s plastic. The smile died on Irene’s lips.

  They opted for pizzas and beer; neither of them felt like cooking. The only problem was beer sprayed everywhere when they opened the first can; its flight through the air had given it a good shaking. Tommy simply went out onto the terrace and held the hissing cans over the neglected rose bed, one by one. Maybe it will give the poor roses some kind of nutrition, Irene thought. I’m sure they need vitamin B. She decided to keep her opinion to herself.

  “How did they know where I was?” she said instead.

  “Ann.”

  “Ann? But she didn’t know I was staying here, did she?”

  “I guess she put two and two together . . . You remember the painkillers I brought you the day before yesterday?”

  “I do.”

  Tommy took a slug of beer; he looked a little troubled when he put down the can. “Stefan and Ann came into my office when I was just about to leave. He asked if I had time to go over a couple of things; I told him I had to get to the drugstore to pick up some painkillers. Ann said she had an unopened pack in her purse, and that I was welcome to take it. So I bought it from her.”

  Irene rolled her eyes and continued the story. “And quick-thinking little Ann immediately realized the connection between a blow to the head, headaches, and the need for painkillers. So she tipped off her friends in Gothia MC, suggested they should follow you because you would probably lead them to wherever I was hiding.”

  Tommy nodded, looking very embarrassed.

  “I guess so. I never thought to check whether anyone was tailing me. I was just going home, behaving normally,” he said apologetically.

  “Of course. You’re not to blame.”

  He immediately looked relieved and finished off the pizza. “I have to say I was impressed by the way you handled those two guys earlier. That wasn’t a jiujitsu move though, was it?”

  “Hardly, but if you’ve been training in martial arts for over thirty years, you don’t just know the correct holds. You learn the dirty tricks too.”

  Tommy nodded as if she had confirmed something he had already worked out. “And you scored a direct hit with the six-pack!” he said with undisguised admiration in his voice.

  “Top scorer in sling ball in fifth and sixth grade,” Irene informed him with a smile.

  “Thank God for that,” Tommy said. He sounded as if he really meant it.

  It was a member of the Narcotics surveillance team who came up with a brilliant plan. When he told Lena Hellström about it, she immediately got the preparations under way without consulting Tommy Persson or Stefan Bratt. It was already late afternoon and there was no time for deliberation, she explained when she called to inform them that evening. Neither of them had any objections; they thought it sounded like a great idea.

  Narcotics and the tech guys worked flat out all night. At 7:05 the following morning a truck carrying a large construction site trailer arrived in Gårda and parked about fifty yards from the dilapidated building that had once housed the Pravda restaurant. The trailer was unloaded at the top of the street, which had become a dead end thanks to the closure of the route leading to Åvägen. A number of construction workers’ huts and storage sheds were already in place, hence the idea of hiding the surveillance equipment in a trailer. Demolition was due to start any day, so with a bit of luck no one would give it a second glance.

  The tra
iler was spacious and modern and included both a small kitchen and a bathroom. Admittedly it was only a chemical toilet, but if it worked on boats, it would work there, Irene thought. She was with Hannu Rauhala, Stefan Bratt and Fredrik Stridh. They had been joined by two detective inspectors from Narcotics, who were every bit as secretive as usual, but at least they introduced themselves as Malin and Lasse.

  Tommy Persson and Lena Hellström were back at the station, and would be in constant contact with the team in the trailer.

  There was a small dirty window in the short side of the trailer, facing Pravda, with a camera in the bottom corner. It couldn’t be seen from outside, and was disguised as a flashing intruder alarm. A sticky label on the glass stated that the trailer was alarmed. The other two windows were outfitted the same way; they also had thick, closed curtains, and screens behind these curtains made it impossible for passersby to see any internal lights. There was another camera concealed in a broken external light by the door, which meant they could see in all directions.

  The small room behind the window overlooking Pravda contained only a rickety table and four mismatched chairs. The door to the other room was closed, and the keyhole was plugged to stop any light from seeping through, just in case anyone decided to peer in. The trailer was supposed to look empty, ready and waiting for the demolition crew who were due any day now. Behind the closed internal door, however, the place was a hive of activity. Four screens registered everything that was going on outside, and the listening equipment was on a separate table. Directional microphones could easily pick up conversations inside the old wooden building, because there was nothing in the way. Everyone had been provided with headphones.

  The empty building opposite Pravda was now occupied by twelve heavily armed officers from the SWAT team. They had been driven in through the gates at the back in two anonymous black minibuses under cover of the lingering darkness at around four in the morning. The buses reversed into the yard, and the officers quickly jumped out and made their way inside, locking the door behind them as the minibuses drove away. The entire operation had taken less than a minute. The men headed for an apartment on the second floor, overlooking Pravda. Broken Venetian blinds still hung crookedly at two of the windows, and the last tenant had also left behind some thin, incredibly filthy curtains. The police had an excellent view, but no one could see them in the dim light of the apartment.

  Stefan, Tommy and Lena had decided to maintain the patrols by plain clothes officers, so yesterday’s borrowed dogs were once again on duty. None of them could understand why they were being walked around this boring area yet again, but they were all well trained and obediently trotted along beside their temporary masters and mistresses.

  “I think we’ve got a pretty good handle on the situation,” Stefan Bratt announced. He looked a little pale, but there was nothing wrong with the intensity in his eyes. Irene thought he seemed totally focused on the day’s task.

  All they needed now was for the leaders of the Gangster Lions and Gothia MC to actually show up. As Jonny Blom had said, there was a risk that Kazan had made the whole thing up, but deep down Irene didn’t think that was the case. Kazan had believed that the information he had given her was enough to guarantee him a new identity. Maybe he was also hoping that the cops would bring in the major players, giving Kazan and Fendi the chance to escape the gang’s revenge for the murder of Patrik Karlsson and the opportunity to build up their own business dealing drugs. It wouldn’t have worked in the long term, of course. The gangs always get their man. The bosses would simply have issued their orders from jail, and the end result for Kazan would have been the same: death. Had Fendi already paid with his life? If so, it was just a matter of finding out which gang had gotten to him first.

  The morning crawled by uneventfully. The officers inside the trailer discussed why Pravda had been fitted with a new front door; three shiny locks gleamed against the sturdy oak. The two large windows looking out onto the street were boarded up; there would be no possibility of seeing inside once the meeting started. However, they would have no problem listening to everything that was said.

  Nothing of interest happened until around eleven-thirty, when a small red van appeared with deli service—leave the party planning to us! on the side, and catering and party service in smaller letters underneath. Two men got out; Irene recognized both of them from Danny Mara’s party. One was Ali Reza, the bodyguard, the other was a young man in a waiter’s uniform. He had been among the group laughing on the stairs when Kazan smashed his glass. Reza had a good look around; he stared at the trailer for quite some time as everyone inside held their breath, keeping their eyes on the screen.

  After what seemed like an eternity Reza turned his attention to a young woman coming toward him with a springer spaniel on a leash. She smiled at the well-built young Iranian as she passed by; he watched her hips swaying beneath her thin skirt before once again focusing on the buildings around Pravda. If he had known that the dog in question was Frode, last year’s Sniffer Dog of the Year, and that the young woman was part of the Narcotics surveillance team, he would have shown a little more interest. In fact he would probably have shot them both with the revolver that was clearly visible under his jacket, Irene thought with a shudder. The very idea brought her out in a sweat and made her blouse stick to her back—or maybe it was just getting very hot inside the trailer.

  Fredrik whispered, “All right. Something’s happening.”

  Ali Reza went over and unlocked the heavy oak door. He disappeared inside, and after a few minutes he said, “We can unload.”

  Everyone jumped; they hadn’t expected to hear him quite so loud and clear in their headphones.

  Ali reappeared. The other guy had already opened the rear doors of the van, and they started to carry in several large Styrofoam boxes. It seemed as if lunch was being provided for those attending the meeting. There were also cases of beer and bags containing bottles. Presumably successful negotiations would be followed by a celebration. What would happen if those negotiations broke down didn’t bear thinking about.

  For almost an hour Irene sat listening to Reza and his pal moving around inside the restaurant: the scrape of furniture being shifted, the clink of crockery and glass as they set the tables. From time to time they spoke to each other in Swedish, but said nothing of interest to the police.

  A sudden flash of sunlight reflected on metal alerted Irene to an approaching car. It was a white Lexus, last year’s model. It had been parked outside the conference center in Sävedalen, and she knew it had belonged to Danny Mara. It glided smoothly to a halt in front of the oak door, and four men in sharp suits got out. One of them was Andy Mara, the new leader of the Gangster Lions. They looked as if they worked in the financial sector, and maybe they did. All four walked straight into Pravda without knocking. The driver remained in the car; most cops and criminals in Göteborg knew him as “The Cobra.” He was a short, overweight middle-aged gangster who had been with the Lions right from the start. After a serious bullet wound to one hip, he now worked as a right-hand man and driver for the bosses.

  The conversation inside came through the headphones:

  “Everything under control?” Andy Mara asked.

  “Yes, boss,” came Ali Reza’s deep bass voice.

  Then Andy said something in a foreign language. A younger voice replied, and Irene guessed it was the waiter. Then Andy reverted to Swedish.

  “When everyone has helped themselves to food, you and Casim can leave.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  It was fortunate that Andy Mara, who was Turkish, had to speak Swedish with the Iranian Ali Reza; otherwise the cops wouldn’t have understood a word.

  A long conversation in Turkish between Andy and the three men who had arrived with him then followed, and it was recorded for translation later.

  After a few minutes, a black Mercedes pulled up behind the Lexus and the leaders
of Gothia MC climbed out. It might have been Irene’s imagination, but she thought the car gave a sigh of relief as the undercarriage lifted a couple of inches off the ground. Three of the four burly occupants were easily identified as Per Lindström, Jorma Kinnunen and Andreas “The Dragon” Brännström. The fourth was tall and athletic with a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead. Beneath his Gothia MC vest he was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt, and his muscular arms were completely covered in tattoos, right down to his fingertips.

  Their driver also stayed in the car. He was a younger guy, identified by Fredrik Stridh as Alexander Svensson. Irene thought he seemed too young to have a driver’s license; in spite of all the external trappings, including tattoos and a shaven head, he looked like an ordinary kid from the suburbs. However, appearances were deceptive. According to Fredrik, Svensson already had an extensive record. He had been taken into custody by social services, had served time in a juvenile detention center for drug dealing and serious assault, and had resolutely fought his way to the top of the Desperados. He had just turned eighteen, and was clearly regarded as being ready to move on to Gothia MC. The fact that he had been trusted to drive the leaders to this important meeting spoke volumes.

  “So Andreas Brännström is still in town!” Fredrik hissed as Pravda’s door closed behind the new arrivals.

  The temperature inside the trailer rose significantly, and that wasn’t just down to the lack of air-conditioning. Everyone felt the change of pace.