by Jens Lapidus
During the entire conversation, in the back of his head: he had to ask the Yugo what they could do about Gürhan and Born to Be Hated. Mahmud looked around. Hardwood floors, men in suits, ill view over the city. A couple of old guys at another table were staring at him and Stefanovic in a Sven way.
Stefanovic wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin.
“Okay, let’s talk business.” He lowered his voice. “First of all, I want to thank you again. It would’ve been hard to find him without you. The guys are taking care of him now. Do you know what I’m saying?”
Mahmud understood, but not really. For some reason, he shook his head.
“You don’t understand? This is how it is. We’re not taking him because he deserves it, but because we need it to show up in our balance sheet. You know, he didn’t really pocket too much in his little airport heist. We managed to take most of it back. So it’s not about the money. It’s about the principle. The rules of the game. Our entire business idea is built on one thing.” He leaned over, whispered into Mahmud’s ear, “Fear.”
Stefanovic took a sip of his wine.
“Anyway. You’ve proven that you’re a good guy. You did your job quickly, without making a mess, and in the right way. We appreciate that. Do you know what the most important thing is in this field?”
Mahmud shook his head.
“That we can trust each other. Trust is the only thing that matters. We don’t work with written contracts or stuff like that. Just trust. Do you understand?”
Stefanovic took a big bite of his food.
What the Yugo was saying sounded okay to Mahmud’s ears. “You can trust me. One hundred percent.”
“That’s good.” Stefanovic finished chewing. “You will get your pay today.”
Mahmud almost couldn’t keep up. It was all happening too fast. He needed to parry with his proposal. Still play according to the rules. He gathered his courage. Sharpened his talk.
“Hold on a sec, Stefanovic. Thanks for saying all that. It feels damn good to’ve been able to help you. Honest, it would’ve been hard for you to find that guy. He hung in my circles, not yours. You gotta be deep in the concrete to pull off a thing like that. And I’d be happy to work more with you. Word on the street is you guys are good. So, I’m yours. But, there’s something else I gotta talk about. I don’t want cash for the gig. I wanna know if you can help me with something else.”
Stefanovic raised his glass as if to make a toast.
“Tell me.”
“You know Gürhan Ilnaz, Born to Be Hated, from Södertälje?”
Stefanovic nodded. Everyone in the world he belonged to knew who Gürhan was—just like everybody knew Mr. R.
“He’s after me. It’s about a debt that I’ve already paid. But they’re piling on more and more, you follow? They’re acting like real pigs, threatening my family and stuff.”
He paused. “So, I was thinking. I just did you a big favor. Instead of cash, can you talk to Gürhan? You know what I mean, just do your thing.”
Mahmud expected another calm nod. Instead: Stefanovic laughed out loud. For at least a minute. Took a gulp of wine. Leaned back in his chair. Kept smiling.
“You can forget about that. Like I said, we’re grateful for what you did. But not so grateful that we’ll do something stupid. You’ll get the money we agreed on. Thirty G’s, right? Maybe you can make the Turk happy with that, what do I know.”
Mahmud tried, “But I helped you big time, man. It’s not a big deal for you to talk to him.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? Forget about it. But you can start selling for us. Then maybe you can save up a little.”
That’s where Mahmud’s story ended. He’d gone into the whole thing, quoted every comment, the full transcript. Almost forgotten that Babak was sitting on the couch, listening.
Now, Mahmud looked down at him.
“I’m fucking crushed, man. You feel me?”
Babak was playing with the DVD case.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”
29
Morning at the pissy guard job. Eyes red. Runny. Ragged underneath. Worse: a headache was pounding on the inside of his skull. Reminded him of his sleep deprivation. Last night again: four hours. Unclear how much longer he could take it. But so far, he was holding it together. The third night in a row that he’d sat outside the different men’s apartments from seven until after midnight. Boredom mixed with jittery suspense. In his head: imagined action scenes mixed with feelings of righteousness.
The project’d been named Operation Magnum. Suitable: in the movie, Travis popped the assholes with a .44-caliber Magnum revolver. It was a powerful weapon. This would be a powerful attack.
Niklas was sitting outside an apartment in Sundbyberg. He tried to see as much as he could with the help of his binoculars. The woman, Helene Strömberg, came home around five o’clock. She worked as a dental hygienist at a public dental clinic by Odenplan. The son came home at five-thirty. Ate dinner alone in front of the TV. The only room into which Niklas had good visibility was the living room. The kid was watching some nature show. Niklas, sarcastic: Real exciting, I thought there were video games for kids like him. The man, Mats Strömberg, came home at seven-thirty. He and Helene ate dinner together. Then Mats watched TV with his son. It seemed like Helene was doing laundry. A harmonious home. Had to be fake. Everything was still. Like the calm in the barracks before an attack. But nothing happened.
Later: from twelve-thirty to two-thirty, he collected the tapes from the cameras outside the two single-family homes and across the street from the apartments. Drove home. Downloaded the footage to his hard drive. Fast-forwarded through the video files one by one. For most of the day, the houses were dark. In the afternoon/night, the lights came on. People came home. Moms, dads, kids. They took their dogs for walks. Drove the kids to practice. Made dinner. Ordinary lives. So far. Or? Maybe the list didn’t contain names of battered women after all. Maybe it was a list of potential recruits to the switchboard, the telephone hotline, or the support network at Safe Haven. Maybe everything was to hell. A money pit. Maybe FISHDO—Fuck it, shit happens, drive on. Should he start making other plans?
What’s more: he had to watch his finances. The job wasn’t earning him much, ten thousand kronor a month, max. He’d poured hundreds of thousands of kronor into equipment, the car, and other stuff. He needed more for living expenses and future expenditures for the Operation. On top of that: the shady broker could reclaim the sublet at any time. What the fuck would he do if that happened?
The dreams returned. He saw Claes in front of him. Bloody hands. Punches to the stomach. Kicks to the face. Images from Iraq. Collin in combat gear. The attack against the mosque. Volumes of the Koran in tattered piles.
August was coming to an end. He waited. Patiently. Something had to happen soon—one of the men would reveal himself for what he was.
Thursday afternoon. End of the workday. One day left till the weekend. Even more time to spend on the Operation.
He called Mom on his way home.
“Hi, it’s me.”
Niklas could hear water running in the background. She must already be at home, washing dishes or something. Good.
“Hey, honey. It’s been too long. Have you stopped picking up my calls?”
He couldn’t take that accusatory tone. “No, but I’m working all the time. I can’t pick up when I’m at work.”
“How is work?”
“Work is shit, Mom. Pure shit.”
“Don’t say that. Maybe it isn’t as exciting as all the stuff you were up to overseas, but it’s safer. For all of us.”
Niklas was on his way to his car, which was parked in Biovitrum’s enormous parking garage. His steps echoed.
“Stop it, Mom. Sometimes you have to do dangerous things to earn your living and sometimes you have to do dangerous things just because you have to.”
“What do you mean? Why do you have to do that? What dangerous things are you doing now?�
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“No, I didn’t mean that.” Niklas saw the Audi parked thirty feet away. He unlocked it with the remote-control key. “But maybe you should be more grateful sometimes.”
She stopped clattering with the dishes in the background. “What do you mean? What should I be grateful for?”
Niklas opened the car door. Slid into the driver’s seat.
“All these years you’ve been nagging at me to stop with the warring, as you call it. Every time I’ve been back here you’ve whined. Then, when I do come home for our sake, what do I get? Even more whining. Mom, you have no idea about all the good stuff I’ve done for you. There is so much crap in this city. Do you understand that? Dirt that’s violating my blood. That’s violated you.”
He slammed the car door shut.
“Do you know what scares me, Niklas?”
“Other than insects, pigeons, and heights? No.”
“You scare me. You’re not the way you used to be. Before, you were always hotheaded and full of energy. I know you could get mad then, too, but you were always kind. What’s happening? All you do is talk about gratitude, about crap you see around you. About the parks department not doing their job because there are so many rats in Örnsberg. You sound so strange. Did you go to the open clinic like we talked about? How are you really doing, Niklas? Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? I’ll order pizza.”
First: surprise over her reaction. Quickly replaced by something else: indignation. Disgust. The open clinic was shit. What did she think? He felt his hand begin to shake. He could hardly hold the cell phone steady against his ear.
“Stop it! You’ll see. You’ll all see. I’m not like you. I’m something much greater; I’ll make an impression on people. It’s about impact, Mom, changing the world. And to do that, you have to act. People’s lives, the passage of time. Everyone just walks around and accepts this shit, but who’s doing anything about it? And you, all you’ve ever been is spineless.”
Niklas hung up. That was enough. If not even Mom understood him, it was pointless trying to explain to anyone.
Operation Magnum had to continue. Niklas drove straight out to Sundbyberg.
The Strömberg family’s apartment was on the second floor. Niklas climbed into the backseat of the car. Lay down. Rested the binoculars on his belly. Looked up at the apartment through the windshield. Still dark. It was quarter past five. Good thing he switched out the license plates regularly.
People walked by outside the car. The advantage of getting there so early: easy to find a parking spot. He’d had to give up because of parking a few times. Had to drive to one of the other apartments. It bothered him—he needed the routines.
While waiting for the family to come home he read his newfound genre: Anti-power-imbalance. Anti-porn. Anti-men-who-thought-they-had-the-right-to-do-whatever-the-fuck-they-wanted. Right now: a collection of Judith Butler essays. Scary academic, but it educated him anyway. Made him realize the sickness in Sweden. In the world. The men who abused their strength. The physical imbalance. He saw them as rats who took their chance to suck the blood out of human hearts just because they could. Like filth collecting just because there was room to collect. The shit that soiled every inch of the human body. Invaded the blood, the muscle fibers, the respiratory organs. Dirt. But they didn’t know who they were up against—poor devils.
At six o’clock, the son came home. Went through his regular routine. Turned the TV on before he’d even taken his jacket off. Disappeared into the kitchen. Returned with a bowl. Maybe cereal. Sat down in front of the TV.
But Helene didn’t come home. Seven o’clock came around. The kid talked on the phone a couple of times.
At seven-thirty, the Mats fucker came home. Disappeared into the kitchen. Time passed. This wasn’t going according to the family’s routines. Mats came into the living room. Sat down next to his son in front of the TV, beer in hand. The son got up, disappeared out of sight. Maybe he went to bed, but it was early.
The man remained seated. Chugged beer. Watched TV.
It was around ten-thirty when Niklas saw Helene come walking down the street. He already knew the key code to the building—it was easy to make out, just follow people’s finger movements over the keypad. He’d tried it out several times just to be sure.
It usually took her forty-five seconds to walk up to the apartment.
Correct: forty-three seconds after she’d walked through the front door, Mats rose from the couch. Swayed slightly. Disappeared out in the direction of the entrance hall.
Damn, Niklas couldn’t see what was happening. Considered getting out of the car, positioning himself farther up the street. Getting a better angle, catching a glimpse of the hallway. At the same time: he had to stick to his routines, not rush into anything, not run and wave the binoculars around unnecessarily. He stayed in the car. Waited.
After ten minutes: they came into the living room.
Helene was gesticulating with her arms. Mats was red in the face. Obvious—they were arguing.
Niklas was on tenterhooks. What were they saying in there? How aggressive was the man? He should’ve rigged a wireless listening device, bugged the whole place.
Then he saw it clearly. The man shoved Helene in the chest. Her face contorted; maybe she cried. He shoved her again. She took a few steps back. Was shoved again. His shoves moved them offscreen. Toward the entrance hall again. It was happening now, now a major assault was coming. Surely, soon.
Niklas threw himself out of the car. Grabbed the reverse peephole viewer and his Cold Steel knife. It was dark out. Streetlamps were hanging on wires between the houses. He punched in the code. A soft click as the lock opened. He tore open the door.
Took the steps four at a time. Advanced—adrenaline-focused, attack-tuned. Stealth position—ready to strike.
Strömberg. On the door: a ceramic plate with a colorful text in relief: WELCOME. The sounds from their argument could be heard faintly. Even though Niklas’d been up here and seen the door before, he now had time to think: The perfect picture is more of a lie than ever. Otherwise quiet in the stairwell. He heard his own panting breaths. Placed the viewer over the peephole in the door. Inside: Mats and Helene in a full-scale war. She was sitting on a stool. He was two feet away from her. Screaming. Niklas could hear it now that his head was only inches from the door.
“You fucking ego-bitch. How do you think this is supposed to work? If you’re out on the town all night.”
Mats took a step forward. Helene sat with her face in her hands. Sniveling. Sobbing. Weeping.
Mats kept hollering. Yelled about the conditions for their life together. The raising of their son. Cleaning up the kitchen. Lots of shit. Helene ignored him, never looked up.
Mats took another step forward. “Are you even listening to me? You fucking whore.” He grabbed her hair. Tore her head up. Swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Niklas could feel it. Her fear. Panic. Maybe she knew what was about to come.
Mats held her hair in a firm grip. Forced her to her feet. She tried to loosen his grip with her hands. He let her go. Pushed her toward the closets. She tumbled, tripped, fell. Tried to get up. He stood with his face inches away from hers. Continued shouting. Scolded, screamed, spit saliva.
She hunched down. Grabbed her shoes.
Niklas hardly had time to react. The door swung open. Helene flicked the light switch in the stairwell. Niklas stood there like an idiot, viewer tight in his fist.
Helene ignored him. Rushed down the stairs, still only in her socks. Shoes in hand.
Niklas walked up to the next landing. Listened.
Heard Mats yell, “Come back, calm down.”
His military preparations were worthless—there was nothing Niklas could do.
He waited until Mats closed the door. Walked out to the Audi. Saw Helene farther down the street.
She was walking at a rapid pace, but it looked like she was swaying.
Niklas followed her.
30
On the o
utside: tan, fit, strong.
On the inside: anxious, expectant, nervous.
The verdict was coming today. Åsa and Thomas’d come home from Gran Canaria the day before. Åsa said that she thought it’d been wonderful. But Thomas knew: the worry was eating away at her too, maybe worse than at him.
The decision would be sent at some point after one o’clock. Åsa was at work.
He went grocery shopping at ten. The sky: hard and gray like concrete, pale like his spirit. The drunks outside the liquor store, the so-called A-team, quieted down when he walked past with his grocery bags—they knew he was a cop. He thought, The A-team must be so damn good at shooting the shit—that’s all they do all day, sit together and talk. Hard-core social workout. Maybe he should send Ljunggren there for a while. Thomas smiled to himself—his colleague might be a hopeless case.
Ljunggren: made him miss his job. But also made him think about everything that was strange. The fax machine at home’d been overflowing when he emptied it yesterday, as soon as he and Åsa’d set down their luggage. At least thirty pages from Tele2 Comviq, ten pages from a smaller carrier, and over forty pages from Telenor. Now he just had to dive right in. Organize the information. Work in a structured manner. Åsa wondered if he wasn’t tired from the long flight. “It took over nine hours with the layover and everything. I’m beat, anyway.” Sure, he was tired, damn tired. But the lists stoked the embers. No, more than that—the lists injected him with pure energy. He wanted Åsa to go to bed right away so that he could start working.
She passed out by nine o’clock. Thomas sat with the lists for four hours. The whole house was dark except for the desk lamp in the office. He crossed off numbers that’d been called from the phone, checked for reoccurring numbers, searched on the Internet. He came up with names—lots of names.
He set down the bags of groceries. Opened the door slowly. Stocked the fridge. He packed in the butter, the pork tenderloin, the cheese, the milk. The last: organic. Åsa was stubborn about that. Thomas didn’t have the energy to argue, even though sensible people knew that that was all a crock of shit.
