by Jens Lapidus
“Okay. I think I understand,” Runeby said in a low voice. “I don’t really know where to begin. As for Adamsson today, I can tell you right away that I only hear good things. He seems to be well liked by you patrol officers in the Southern District. Isn’t that right?”
“If you’d asked me a couple of weeks ago, I would’ve said yes.”
“But now you’re less sure? I understand, but that has to do with your transfer, doesn’t it?”
“Not only.”
“Well, all right. I can’t talk about Adamsson as he is today. But I did have a great deal to do with him in the seventies and eighties. Those were strange times for us cops. When did you graduate from the Academy?”
“In ninety-five.”
“Ah, you’re that young. But maybe you’ve heard stories? Anyway, the political climate was completely different then. We lived in the shadow of the Cold War, as I’m sure you recall. But maybe you were too young to understand the nuances of what that meant.”
“I don’t know.”
Runeby went on at a calm pace. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. The first time I met Adamsson was in the military, I guess you could say. I wasn’t working in the Northern District at the time, but in the force we had several special units that could be deployed in the event of war. Within the Northern District, the assignment was to, in case of attack, initially—that is, before the military had time to react—defend the royal castle and the government buildings, Riksdagen and Rosenbad. Me and three others from what is now called the Western District were included in that unit because we were in the reserves. So I met Adamsson for the first time during a simulation exercise. He was competent and polite, as I remember. Within the police, he was known as a good shot, with vast knowledge about weaponry. We used to practice together with the National Home Guard, once a year or so. It was amusing, actually. Like a practice drill, except downtown. But there were guys in the unit who were skeptical. Many of them didn’t think there was enough invested in defense. They feared that an attack led by, for instance, the Soviet elite forces, Spetsnaz, would be able to occupy Stockholm in a matter of hours. As I remember it, Adamsson was a part of those discussions. And he was one of the ones who agitated the most. A group of us were stationed behind the House of Nobility, on guard. I remember how Adamsson chewed out a younger man. He was really cutting into him. You’re letting down the motherland, he barked. I remember that verbatim.”
While he listened intently, Thomas looked around Runeby’s living room. Dark wood bookcases with photos of the family and volumes of the National Encyclopedia, Jan Guillou’s collected works, and photo albums. On another wall were four large framed photographs of a coastline. Thomas assumed that Runeby or his wife’d taken them themselves.
“Maybe I should give you some background information after all. A lot of cops were under the impression that there was a war on. Not just the war we’re always fighting, that is to say the war on crime, but something bigger than that. It was the free world against Communism. The Russians could come any day. And a lot of cops saw themselves as part of the line of defense that would resist an attack.”
Thomas thought about his dad. No matter how big of a Social Democrat he was, he’d also always gone on about the Russians. “If we don’t wise up, we could end up like the Baltic countries,” he used to say.
Runeby spoke slowly. “In 1982, I started working in the Northern District. At that time, there were six SWAT teams there. One of them was included in the so-called Troop and was led by a commander who is dead now. His name was Jan Malmström, have you heard of him?”
Thomas vaguely recognized the name, but wanted to know more. He shook his head.
“He was a legend in many ways. But that team kept to themselves, they seldom spoke to the rest of us, only followed Malmström’s orders, dealt with appointments behind closed doors. It was generally acknowledged that they acted like real pigs, if you’ll excuse the expression, and sympathized with the far right. I remember that one of them, Leif Carlsson, openly called himself a Nazi. The others were bone-hard, too. Anyway, some of the members of the team were also politically active. There was a group that used to meet in Gamla Stan once a month or so. It had connections with a right-wing extremist publication called Contras. It was in that context that I met Adamsson a little later on. I myself was, how should I put this, deeply critical of the fact that certain elements within the Swedish government showed such weakness in the face of Communism.”
Getting warmer. Thomas couldn’t help but ask, “Is Leif Carlsson still alive?”
“As far as I know, Carlsson is still alive, but he must be around seventy by now. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The SWAT team and Gamla Stan. I think the Palme Commission looked into the people who ran those meetings. I feel like I’ve read that somewhere. But the ones who came to the meetings were never investigated. Malmström, Carlsson, Adamsson, Winge—no one bothered to ask about them. Since I was an officer in the reserves and connected with the National Home Guard and didn’t exactly shy away from being a little rough with the rabble, Malmström considered me reliable. I was invited to one of those meetings in Gamla Stan once.”
Runeby paused. The silence echoed in the room.
He took a deep breath, then he went on. “It was a basement venue on Österlånggatan. I think it was used by EAP, the European Workers’ Party, a small group made up of crazies that had its roots in the U.S. I remember that the first thing you saw by the entrance was a poster with a cartoon caricature of Olof Palme sitting on a cliff by the ocean. He was covering his eyes with his hands while around him the water was full of periscopes sticking up. It said: Palme is closing his eyes to the safety of our nation. I was surprised, almost shocked, to see how many people were there. A colleague of mine who’d been there before told me that there were senior police officers, officers in the navy, secret-service officers, and other high-ranking officials there. I recognized a few cops, but I had no idea who the others were. Lennart Edling, who’d organized the event, was stationed at the entrance to the venue, shaking everyone’s hand. When everyone’d arrived, we were served a drink. A police officer who’d been my first commanding officer in the Northern District gave the welcome speech. Maybe it sounds strange, but I remember exactly what it was about. We thought the subject matter was important. Patriotism, the threat against Sweden, Communism’s expansionist ideas. We were facing an overhanging threat, the lecturer said. If we didn’t do something about the danger, the Russians would come any day now. Then we sat down for dinner and I ended up next to Adamsson. He was my age, but we only knew each other superficially from the simulation exercises with the National Home Guard. This was sometime in 1985, so we must have been around forty—not totally green, in other words. He almost made an insane impression, as I recall. Babbled on about someone needing to do something about the hooknose—Palme, that is. That he, with his influence, was paving the way for the Soviet invasion of Sweden. Later, during the dinner, Adamsson got drunk and almost seemed to want to have a heart-to-heart. Started raving about how he liked me, that the department needed more people like me. Then he moved on to stranger things. He talked about organizing and administering a group that would keep watch over the traitor. That might be forced to do something about that Moscow marionette. I asked him who he wanted in the group. He told me that half the guys in the Troop were already in on it. I didn’t want to discuss the matter further because I thought he was embarrassing. After the dinner, there was a lecture. Right after the meeting, I didn’t think too much about what Adamsson’d said. There were so many extreme types there. But later, after the assassination, I’ve often wondered. I was actually the one who called the Palme Group and told them about those meetings.”
Runeby fell silent. Thomas was certain that he must have more questions, but he couldn’t think of a single one just then. The only thing he knew was that he needed more names, more people to get leads from. Finally, he came up with a question.
“Who gave the lecture after the
dinner?”
Runeby leaned forward on the couch and sighed.
“I did.”
40
Tonight: a classy party for a guy who’d gated out. Fitness Center was closed. The owners, the dudes who ran the place, half of the beefcakes who trained there—everyone was gonna celebrate. Patrik, a regular, was home from the pen. Mahmud liked him: an ex-skinhead who’d straightened out. The only thing the guy cared about these days was bodybuilding and loyalty to Mr. R.
Fitness people weren’t the only ones celebrating: the VIP room at Clara’s was crawling with everyone who was anyone in Stockholm’s underworld. Like at the gangsta golf that some old OG member started: everyone with a decent swing who’d done more than two years on the inside was welcome. A bunch of old skinheads who’d accepted that White Power music and heiling didn’t generate cash and who’d changed gears to bigger bling instead: MC gangs, fighting, professional racketeering. And: Yugo overload. Mahmud saw Ratko. He was sporting a nasty fake tan and bleached hair. Ratko nodded vaguely to Mahmud. But no handshake. Asshole.
Guest list (continued): a couple Albanians, four or five Syriacs, a group of guys from X-Team, the Bandidos’ supporter club. Between the Yugos and the Albanians: cheek-kissing and friendly words. You could feel it in the air: this wasn’t just to celebrate an insignificant gate-out from the Kumla pen. The purpose: to show generosity, chivalry, to invite future alliances. The Albanians were taking over the city. The Yugos had to watch out, as Robert said.
And, of course, a guest contingent that mustn’t be forgotten: the whores. Mahmud’d never seen so many of them at one time. Really, they weren’t any different from the bitches at the clubs, except that maybe they didn’t look quite as hot. He thought about how close he’d been to pulling a hat trick last weekend. Still, he could sense it clear as day: the hookers were in the room without anyone really giving a damn. If they’d been normal chicks, the guys would’ve at least stared, flirted, pinched some bunda. But now it was like everyone was waiting for something, weren’t gonna help themselves to the pussy spread yet. As if the girls were just part of the backdrop in a movie, something that had to be in place before filming could begin. Because everyone was waiting. For Mister Mister. Radovan would show up sooner or later.
Mahmud pushed his way through the crowd to the guy who’d just gated out, Patrik. His jacket felt tight over the shoulders—it was the first time since the tenth anniversary of Mom’s funeral that he’d sported threads this dressy. He wasn’t used to it, felt fly. Broad grins on both their faces. “Yo, Patrik, good to see you again, man. How many plates didja drop?”
Patrik: scarred, shaved head, pale gray suit and a narrow tie that was tied loosely. The tattoos on his neck were sticking up above his collar. He threw his head back and laughed.
“Mahmud, you little terrorist. I’ll be back at target weight in three weeks. Promise.” Then, in a more serious voice, “But I was working pretty hard in there. Heard you did a turn, too.”
“Just six months. No biggie.”
“Then you know how it is. Some guys try to sleep through their time. There’s enough downers in there with all the shit they prescribe the ADD clowns. But if you work at it, you can get some good training in.”
“Absolutely.”
“I heard you’re working for us now.” Patrik started stretching his arm in the middle of the conversation. Mahmud thought about all of it, this whole situation. They were celebrating Patrik like a fucking king. But really, what’d homeboy done for the Yugos? Run a little coat-check racket, gotten in trouble with some bouncers at a club on Södermalm, lost control, beaten the shit out of a bouncer, been locked up for a few years. Why was he a hero? Why was he celebrated? Patrik’d lost his shit, couldn’t do the job professionally. Not like Mahmud—hustler who hustled, made fat stacks. Never fucked up. Anything.
He felt like splitting. Asking Patrik to shut up. Ratko and Stefanovic could go fuck themselves. Radovan, if he ever showed up, could pork his own mother.
“But you were sitting in a sweet place, right?” Patrick asked. Mahmud’d almost drifted off, forgot that he was standing in the middle of some buzz.
“Yeah, Asptuna. Basically my hood, you know, Botkyrka. Not close security at all, really.”
“You should be happy you were in a place like that. Times are tough for us on the inside these days.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Didn’t you hear? They tried to cut a guy at Kumla this weekend. One of ours. Seven guys went into the shower, six came out. They stabbed him nine times with a sharpened toothbrush. He’s in the ICU but he’s gonna live, he’s a tough devil. Warred down in the Balkans and shit. Guys like that don’t go down too easy, even if those fuckers tried.”
Mahmud was somewhere else. His concentration was directed at the other side of the room. All the voices’d died down a little. Everyone’s eyes were directed at the entrance—Radovan and his entourage’d walked in. Two chicks behind him. The crowd divided itself—created an aisle as though he was some big star at an MTV gala. Mahmud’d seen Radovan once before, about six months ago at the K-1 gala. But that was at a distance. Now: the first time he saw the boss close up. Or, rather, the first time he felt him. The guy reeked of authority. Even the Albanians froze. Stepped up, took the Yugo boss’s hand, kissed, smiled, fake-laughed.
Radovan was definitely not the biggest man, didn’t have the hardest stare, the most spring in his step—even if it was obvious that the boss would’ve been one of the toughest guys twenty years ago. It was something else: he spread a feeling around him, moved with a kind of ease that could only mean one thing: power. And his exterior: not that Mahmud knew much about suits, but the one R was rocking looked mad exclusive.
The girls behind him: completely different. One: had to be a whore, or some kind of mistress. High boots, plunging neckline, clown makeup. And the other one: young, very young, and strangely properly dressed. She reminded him of Jivan. He wondered who she was.
Stefanovic took a step forward, kissed Radovan’s hand. Mahmud’s gaze locked on the finger that the ass-licking fags were kissing: Radovan was wearing a large signet ring. Obvious: this was the man, the myth, the master of masters—the massive legend—Stockholm’s Godfather of ten years.
Patrik walked up to the boss. Did as everyone else did—kissed Radovan’s finger. You could tell he was a vet; Svens didn’t normally do that kind of thing. Radovan said some words of welcome. Introduced his women. With one, he just introduced her by name. But the other one surprised Mahmud—she was his daughter. Then he made a small gesture toward Patrik: fixed the Sven’s tie knot. An open signal: nice that you’re out, but you’re a nobody. Hammered it home: this party isn’t for Patrik. Maybe it was just about the Albanians.
Mahmud was less than two feet away from R. Could feel his presence deep in his gut. Then, a surprise—the boss turned to Mahmud. Raised his eyebrows.
“And who are you?”
Mahmud didn’t know what to say. Managed to spit out, “Mahmud al-Askori. I work for you.”
Radovan looked even more surprised. “No, I don’t think so. I know who’s employed in my businesses.”
Stefanovic, right behind Radovan, leaned forward. Whispered something in Radovan’s ear.
Mahmud’d understood enough. Understood that he’d made a fool of himself. At the same time: understood that he couldn’t roll with this.
Radovan moved on. Mahmud wouldn’t be able to have a good time tonight. He might as well go home. But he didn’t. Didn’t mesh with his self-image. He went to the bathroom. Did a line instead. Tried to perk up.
The next day, Ratko called. Mahmud felt groggy. He’d partied hard the night before. It just ended up that way. A couple of noses of blow and some sweet talk with a chick’d gotten him going. Not good for his training. He downed a glass of water. Two tablets of Diazepam Desitin—for his anxiety.
Ratko’d been hounding him last night. Buzzed about Mahmud doing a good job. Flattered. Buttered.
Uttered, “I want you to help us with some stuff.”
Mahmud was doubtful. He wanted to get away from them. Get ahold of his life. Sure, he was raking it in, but he couldn’t take the humiliation. The Yugos were fucking with him. Still, he didn’t say anything.
Ratko explained. They needed help during the day. Keep an eye on some girls, as he put it. Mahmud assumed he was talking about whores. The girls lived in trailers at a campground. Ratko wanted Mahmud to make sure the girls had what they needed during the day. “And that they don’t head out on their own. If they do, they might get lost.” Smile. Wink-wink, you-know-what-I-mean.
“Don’t know if I got time.”
“You’ve got time for this,” Ratko said and patted him on the shoulder.
It was an order.
41
Iraq. With his company. Mike as sweaty as usual. Collin with black-painted streaks under his eyes. Joking that maybe they’d run into Harry, the prince of England, somewhere in the bush. The British accent. The mannerisms. The body language. The strap of the machine gun heavy over his back. Farther up, they glimpsed black smoke. Bubble-gum taste in his mouth. Collin always carried a couple packs of Stimorol with him. Pleasure in the heat. A Jeep was coming toward them. But he couldn’t see the driver. The landscape around him was changing. The stones and cliffs disappeared, were exchanged for burning oil drums. Fires everywhere. The world ignited by heat. The Jeep drew closer. Collin, Mike, and the others’d disappeared. Niklas approached the car. There was a man lying on the backseat. Blood was running from one of his ears. The face was turned down toward the seat. Niklas flipped him over. He could see him now—it was Mats Strömberg. “Why?” he said. The flames around them were licking the sky.
