“What about the—”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t speak until I say it’s okay. The weapon you drop with your clothing. Do you understand?”
“I can’t believe . . .” He trails off.
Jesus. I can’t have an actual conversation with this mouth-breather. Even from behind I can tell the kid is smiling.
“I want to turn around.”
“To look into my eyes is to die, kid. You know that. I’ll destroy you with my mind.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just . . . I can’t believe I’m talking to Tom Cruise,” he mumbles, dreamy. “You’re fucking wicked, man. You’re like a genius. You can speak Serbian, that’s fucking wicked, man.”
“That’s right. I do this using Scientologist technology. Now when the police take you, because they will, what do you say?”
“Deny it, deny it.”
“They show you the video. They smack you around. Looking bad for you, kid. What then, genius?”
“Confess.”
“To what, now?”
“To . . . to the crime. Shit, am I saying the wrong things?”
“No. But speak properly. Don’t stutter. You say nothing of Leijonborg. Nor that he brought in Tom Cruise. Nothing of this, nothing of the Impossible Missions Force. Nothing of your mission. Yes?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“You confess as a lone actor. We’re watching your mother. Do you understand?”
Nods, laughing. Kid thinks it’s a gas.
“On behalf of the IMF I deputize you, Mijailo Mijailovic, for a period of forty-eight hours. Boom.”
“Fucking wicked . . .” says the kid, dazed.
“The IMF will admit no involvement. We have agents everywhere.”
“. . . best day of my life,” breathes the greasy Slav.
Eyeroll. In English I say, “I don’t doubt it. You have your orders.”
And I’m gone the way I came in.
* * *
Carl-Erik and I, in the lobby at Berns ten minutes later. He reads Expressen and drinks a mineral water.
“What’s your assessment?” he says, not looking up as I sit to his right.
I open up Aftonbladet. My eye stumbles on something about fucking Estonia and the EU, Jesus wept, just why not let everybody in, you fools?
“Don’t fucking know, do I? He’s nearly retarded, huh? Or maybe that’s how they all behave now, these kids.”
“Nah, certainly not retarded. It’s an act, a defense posture. He’s not all there but he’s well aware of what he’s doing. Kid was abused . . .”
Boring. I get up, look around the room. Feel a hot rush of anger, perhaps unwarranted. Plop the newspaper where my ass just was.
“So why ask me my assessment? You just gave me yours and you seem to be the more informed of the two of us. Wasting time . . .”
“Oh come on,” says Carl-Erik nervously. It won’t do to attract attention obviously.
In my peripheral vision I note he almost looks at me. I’ll be docking him for that. But he’s good, Carl-Erik. He’s meticulous, careful.
“Tomorrow is a go,” I say, eyes to the door, now heading toward it.
10/09/03
Moving across the square diagonally toward Hamngatan. I’ll stay in front of the target.
“Nordiska,” I say into my lapel.
Several things will happen now. At a bus stop down the street near the Central Station, the “goth” Nazi will commence defacing the SD poster of the target, in his ridiculous gray trench coat. He will do this as loudly as possible, and we will of course make sure it’s all very well documented. The van will pull up at the side entrance on Regeringsgatan. Carl-Erik and the crazy Serb will remain inside and will move only on my say-so.
Three untraceable phone calls will be placed directly to Stockholm police, the first regarding a fight in progress in the cafeteria at the Kulturhuset. The second regarding a suspicious package in an abandoned taxi at Bromma Airport. The third with respect to an armed man at Djurparken. In the children’s area.
Two bomb threats will be called in, one to the Vasa Museum, and one to the Stockholm Stock Exchange Building.
Just scatter the pigs a bit, not that I’m the least concerned. Useless as they are.
“Plans for the companion?” inquires Carl-Erik.
“Who?” I say.
“Subject’s friend.”
“Not unless there’s interference. But he should be prepared.”
“Right,” says Carl-Erik.
I’m passing the Nordea Bank on my right, some asshole on his cell phone shoulders me. Without a word of apology.
And immediately I’m nearly run down by a flock of terrifying-looking women, all with double-wide prams, bearing down at great speed, blocking the entirety of the sidewalk with smug entitlement. I am forced to press myself against the wall lest I be flattened.
Fucking Stockholm. Fucking women having mongrel half-breed children by the dozen, all on state support, so we might enable their shopping habits. God forbid they should have to work to support their spawn.
“Stand by. Subject has entered Zara.”
I wonder what the fuck Zara is. “Where?”
“Adjacent to the McDonald’s.”
Realize that’s behind me. I pause near a bank of cash machines. There’s an Arab female in front of me, in (I kid you not) a full burka, digging through what could only be described as a beaded coin-purse. Yet another pram, decorated with voodoo black-magic totems, Islamic symbols.
Her ugly child, a little girl, tilts her face up to mine, spits out the Bamse binkie for which she is far too old.
Am I in Libya? Am in a North African medina?
God help us. God help us. This is not Sweden. I stare at the child, willing it sterile. May your womb be dry and barren, child. Her mother turns, and I offer the discolored creature the gift of my smile.
She looks away quickly, returns to her purse, puts her back to me.
No, I can’t stand it. Focus on work. Continue walking . . .
“Have the twin moved into place.”
Carl-Erik says something in Serbian.
Moving swiftly a half-block, closer now to the entrance to NK, I watch the double enter through the front, baseball hat, grayish Nike sweatshirt, tan work pants. The cameras will have duly noted this for posterity.
Good, good.
“Subject has exited Zara, to you . . .”
Good, good.
Elsewhere the goth Nazi is defacing yet another poster, at yet another bus station. I wonder idly how useful this will be, but figure the more elements the better, provided they’re contained.
I turn back toward Norrmalmstorg, already feeling that deflated sensation one gets with the completion of a job. Even as I see the pair of tants toddling up the street, might as well be sisters with their stocky lesbian bearing, hardly women at all . . . even at this moment I’m thinking about my laundry, thinking about what I’ll be doing tomorrow.
Shake this off. Still much to be enjoyed.
Something occurs to me, as the ladies draw nearer, laughing about something. I pause near the column at the department store’s grand entry. A beautiful building, really, completed in 1915 and reflective of early art nouveau architecture, built and designed by Swedes, with good Swedish steel . . . All this bullshit could be cut short if I just shot the bitch myself, right here and now.
It could be good fun. Sure, a bit whimsical, a touch ad hoc, some improvisation, a little stressful . . . but think of it: precisely like kiddie-fucker Palme. SAPO would shit themselves. What a glorious scandal.
Allow myself to touch the Sig Sauer near my heart, under my suit jacket. Feel the dense Braille of the grip.
I’m not seriously considering doing it, although nothing would be simpler. Merely daydreaming.
The ladies are almost upon me. Frumps, the both of them. Sexless frumps.
No, nothing so simple as a shot to the head. What we have planned will be so very, very much more entertaining, more
colorful.
I can’t help it, I have to tweak it a bit.
I spin and pull open the door to NK, as if I’m rushing through my day, make as if I happen to notice the approaching duo, and then, with maximum gallantry, stand aside and hold the door for them. Again with the wide smile.
As they trudge past me, the target’s eyes flicker across my face, flit away. Her arm brushes my open suit jacket, centimeters from the handgun. I’m pushing it.
As the ladies pass, though, do they thank me? Do they so much as acknowledge my chivalry?
No, they do not.
Because this is Sweden. The cunts have trained themselves out of such behaviors. The men are no longer men, they are lactating, self-hating slaves, forever prepared to flog themselves raw over the sins of their grandfathers.
There goes the back of her head, up the short staircase. Once again, I could simply . . . but no.
Now that the bitch is inside, it’s just a question of following procedure and, naturally, remaining flexible.
The two security guards who are in our employ will track the cattle from here. I don’t have much left to do but witness events unfold.
Find myself in the makeup section, overly lit.
“Transferring eyes to local law,” I say, “All parties go.”
The Serb and Carl-Erik will be entering the building from the side street . . .
I’m making my way casually toward the escalator. Take note of a blond salesgirl who, catching me looking at her, makes like she’s wiping off a bit of glass. Then glances at me again.
As I say: I make a note.
* * *
The bitches certainly take their time dawdling, but once they descend to the second floor (having started from the top), I see the designated area for the first time since I scoped the whole thing about two weeks back—and realize again why it makes sense.
The Serb is nearby, almost at my heel, doing a very good approximation I must say of the casual tail.
Shame to do it like this, really, but it seems to me that there’s more of an opportunity to really fillet her if there’s some coverage.
Within a store, open plan as they are, he’ll be able to pull her behind a clothing rack, or display case, or something, buying an additional five or ten seconds, which will be invaluable and will make the difference between a maiming and an actual, definitive kill.
Momentarily distressed to see they’ve shifted things around, moved the displays . . . but it hardly matters.
The shopgirl within is engaged with another customer at the register, who seems to be attempting a complex return of some kind. The girl on the floor has gone in the back for the moment, likely to look for a size for the bitch, who stands there squawking with her friend.
“Okay. Do it now,” I say into the radio.
Carl-Erik walks past quickly and brushes against the Slav—this is the signal.
MM takes it, and moves forward with intention. With swagger.
Good boy. The knife is out, he holds it close to his thigh.
I turn on my heel, begin walking rapidly as if I’m headed past the shop . . . Manage to see the first two solid stabs: one directly in the chest, thunk, surreal the silence that precedes the realization that this is now happening, the bitch is being cut . . . A second blow, as her arm comes up in a defensive move, thunk, in the meat of her armpit.
She begins speaking to him, attempting it seems to make this thing rational. She wears a half-smile. She believes, even now, that this is something she can talk her way out of.
For a moment there is, strangely, no blood whatsoever. And all at once, there’s blood everywhere, spraying a rack of white blouses like a Jackson Pollock.
Then more sound: her friend shrieks, the target seems to actually be continuing to talk reasonably to MM, I think, not realizing the inevitability of her situation . . . another thwack, heavy and wet. I’m wondering how much longer the bitch can keep yammering.
She’s hit again and makes a barnyard noise in her throat as she loses her balance and goes down, at last . . . There’s the flowering puddle of liquid across the hardwood floor, and the Serb moves in to continue . . .
And that’s unfortunately as much as I can stick around for, as I’m now moving down the escalator . . . Much hubbub to my rear, though far less than one would imagine. Still no alarm . . . our guys in house are seeing to that delay.
Plenty of people, however. Just hovering there. Mouths making little Os. Doing nothing.
Shame I couldn’t really get a long look, shame I can’t take the time to enjoy . . . but then again, there will be the video, to which I greatly look forward.
Within a minute, MM slams past me, taking the steps two at a time. I smell sweat and something intestinal. Good, he split her open.
MM is free and clear. Turning, I see no one in pursuit. This surprises even me. Nobody? Nobody at all?
I watch the Serb as he hits the ground floor, and moves out of my line of vision, presumably out the door, folks stumbling from his path. Free and clear.
Bon voyage, Slav. If you follow your instructions, the DNA on your discarded clothing will be sufficient to implicate you. We’ll make sure these items are preserved.
At this very moment, a photo of MM in attendance at a Lars Leijonborg rally, his face contorted in a shout, is on its way via e-mail to somebody’s inbox at Dagens Nyheter. It’s all so perfect.
Ah, Stockholm. I must thank you, as tragic a whore as you are. This entire operation would not have worked anywhere else in the world. Well. Perhaps Japan. This entire operation is exactly what Sweden—the distorted, mongoloid Sweden as epitomized by Stockholm, that is—deserves.
Nowhere else would a public figure like this be unprotected, and completely touchable. In these new times, in this New World, with all of its new threats, there remains this stubborn, bovine inability to adapt.
Where else but here, would any number of able-bodied people stand by and, cowering, watch another human get slaughtered? And do nothing. Not out of callousness—out of conditioning.
Nowhere else is blunda so deeply ingrained. Out of risk of embarrassment.
Oh, but I might look silly. I would draw attention to myself. What if they don’t want to be disturbed? What if no one else steps in? What if I’m wearing the wrong shirt? What about this haircut? I’ll be the only one, and I’ll look like an idiot, overreacting . . . presuming, how dare I think that I of all people can affect a situation like this? No. The officials will handle it. Why, I’d lose my place in line . . .
In the United Kingdom, amongst the Anglo-Saxons, there is a term—the Tall Poppy Syndrome. This is a much more descriptive expression than the Swedish equivalent. And within it is embedded an implied warning. Grow too tall, and be cut down.
Jantelagen in its truest form.
So in a funny way, I serve the social order. And thus, the cunt is cut down for having the hubris to aspire toward growth.
* * *
On my way out, I pause again in the perfume section. The blonde I’d seen previously steps over to me.
“I came back,” I tell her.
“Mmm,” she says. “I see that.”
“Something for my girlfriend . . .” I raise my eyebrows slightly, to indicate my doubts that said “girlfriend” will remain so for very much longer.
A quick but knowing look from the lovely salesgirl. “Well,” she says, indicating a purple bottle, “this is probably the most popular scent at the moment . . .” She lifts the flask. “Poison,” she says.
Any response I might give her is drowned out by the blare of the fire alarm.
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Caroline Åberg (translator) grew up in Uppsala, Sweden, and now resides in Bagarmossen, a suburb of Stockholm. She works as an editor and translator from Swedish to English and vice versa. Apart from her solo work, she produces performances and interactive art with her feminist collective ÖFA. When she is not working on books, she spends most of her time reading them.
&n
bsp; Carl Johan De Geer was born in 1938 and is a film director, photographer, painter, writer, textile designer, and set designer. He lives in Stockholm, has four grown children, three grandchildren, and is married to artist, writer, and director Marianne Lindberg De Geer.
Unni Drougge is considered Sweden’s leading female cult author, and has generated a wealth of literature as well as a great deal of debate. Her novels have attracted a lot of attention and have found a large readership that has grown with every book. Currently, Unni Drougge is working as a columnist, a lecturer, and a playwright. She is also the editor of a magazine issued by the women’s shelter organization Roks.
Inger Edelfeldt is an author and artist, born in Stockholm in 1956. She is internationally known for her illustrations for J.R.R. Tolkien’s stories in The 1985 J.R.R. Tolkien Calendar but in her home country mostly for her books: more than thirty titles in different genres—prose, poetry, works for children and young adults, comic books, and plays. She has received several awards for her work, and currently lives in Stockholm.
Carl-Michael Edenborg is a publisher, writer, and critic with a PhD in intellectual history. He has written several short stories and novels. His independent Vertigo publishing company has brought out many nonconformist classics, from Marquis de Sade to Samuel Delany. His latest novel, The Alchemist’s Daughter, was nominated for the prestigious Swedish August Prize in 2014.
Åke Edwardson is the author of novels—for adults and young adults—short stories, and plays. His fiction has won numerous awards in Sweden and abroad, he was a finalist for the 2007 Los Angeles Times Book Prize, and he is a three-time winner of the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy’s Best Swedish Crime Novel award. Edwardson’s books have sold over six million copies in twenty-seven languages. When he isn’t forced to write, he cooks.
Torbjörn Elensky has published three novels, two short story collections, a book on Cuba, and an introduction to the writings of Italo Calvino. He also works as a critic and essayist, covering a wide range of topics.
Inger Frimansson, one of the most well-known crime writers in Sweden, lives in Södertälje, near Stockholm. She has written nearly forty books in various genres, and her work has been translated into more than a dozen languages. Two of her books have won the Swedish Crime Writers’ Academy’s Best Swedish Crime Novel award. Her most recent publication is An Axe for Alice.
Stockholm Noir Page 21
