‘Bloody hell.’
The pitiful whisper slips out from my cracked lips but is swallowed up by the hum of the engine and the wheels against the road. I clutch the butt so hard that I can feel its every groove. The van lurches and I lose my footing. I drop one knee to the floor.
Deep down it feels like a relief.
‘Damn!’
I stand up again as the van swerves. Streaks of light flicker across the floor. Slouched like an old farmer’s widow, I work my way to the rear windows and peek out. We are driving back along the Söder Mälarstrand embankment, passing the animal pens where the abattoir vehicles fill their cargo. We will soon reach Väster Bridge.
Maybe it is better to wait until we have driven the whole way to Vasastan. Berglund will most likely leave the convoy at around the same place as he joined. The police station is not far from there and on the other side of the bridge we are back on Ploman’s territory. I smack my lips. The thought of that schnapps lying in Lundin’s coffin carrier is making my mouth water.
‘One bullet in the Reaper, one in Ploman, and then Kvisten gets a little something as reward.’
My voice echoes faintly. I sit down on the floor with my back against the van’s side. When I first met Gabrielsson he didn’t have a church of his own but spread his gospel from a flat not far from the Buenos Aires docklands. More than twenty years have passed since then.
‘Your oldest friend for fuck’s sake.’
I shake my head. Rickardsson, the ice-cold bastard, said we were cut from the same cloth. No way in hell can I reconcile myself with that. I hang my head and feel strain in my neck.
‘Kvisten’s run out of spunk.’
I clear my throat and try to spit out the taste. At times fury has taken over, and I have killed, but only in self-defence and I am not sure that counts. Shooting a man in the back in cold blood is a different matter altogether, that much is clear now.
I creep over to the doors again, stand up and look out. We are driving down Fridhemsgatan, first past the school and then the slums on the right. They are clearly driving back via the exact same route. If my assumptions are correct Berglund will leave the convoy soon.
I don’t have much time to pluck up the courage.
I was right. As soon as we turn off and onto St Eriksgatan I see Berglund’s black Volvo disappear in the opposite direction.
The hour is at hand.
A flash of fear sings in my limbs. I see my own face reflected in the window: a vicious hound who finally learnt how to be a good dog in his old age. All he needs now is one of those compassionate gunshots.
The factories down in the Atlas area are keeping quiet. This is the rag-girl hour, when all manner of human refuse creeps out to sniff around in the cool, dusky late evening. A tramp rifles around in the bins outside the tobacco shop on St Eriksplan; three streetwalkers are absorbed in a discussion with sweeping gestures, pale from alcohol, diseased blood and hatred, coarse and cruel, with shrill sneers and screeches. A man is kneeling in the corner of the square with a large neck swelling and a stubborn beggarly hand held out in front of him. The other is gripping a bottle.
I bear no grudge against them. We all do what we must to put food on the table. I have been where they are now and with a bit of bad luck I could end up back there tomorrow.
If I get out of this alive.
I press down the handle and open the door. A warmish breath of petrol penetrates the van. We are driving too fast. If I were to give up on myself and Gabrielsson by jumping out of the back, my body would be crushed on the pavement.
The hollow-eyed face of the Jewel flashes among the other girls and I blink. She used to be a neighbour of mine, and she was renowned for her riotous nature and unbridled, joyful indulgences, but she calmed down when she popped a tot. Was supposed to be apprenticed to a milliner, so they say. But the kid soon got sick and died because she left him in a draught. Now she wanders around here: a frail grey moth, hoping to return home with a couple of notes in her stockings once the night and the men are finished.
When the inhabitants of Sibirien fall, they fall hard.
I should know, if anybody does.
My rambling thoughts vanish as the van slows down and we turn left. I grip the side to steady myself. We swing right.
Where the hell are we going now?
The vehicle stops with a screeching sound and I gasp for air. Creeping back a few steps, I lean my weight on one knee and raise the Husqvarna towards the back window. The left front door opens. Rapid steps clatter across the pavement. It must be the Reaper.
If I am going to abandon my task, I should do it now while we are standing still. I try to reconstruct our journey to figure out where we are now. My collar feels too tight and I rip off my tie. My throat is as dry as snuff and I wish more than ever that I had a dram to lubricate my thoughts. A door slams somewhere and someone comes running back.
Too slow on the uptake.
As usual.
You blockheaded bastard.
The motor growls into life, we back up at high speed and I almost fall on my face. We turn around a corner and set off forward again. If ever I had an opportunity to get out of this quandary, I just missed it.
One more turn and the car accelerates even more. I stand up and look outside. We are back on St Eriksgatan driving north. We probably stopped outside Ploman’s casino on Sätertäppan. It’s not far to his headquarters now. If I am going to do it, it has to be within the next couple of minutes. My pulse is so furious that it feels like a thumping drum beat in my head. I conjure up the mental image of Gabrielsson again, naked and bony, nailed to the floor of his own church.
Death shouldn’t bother me any more. Everybody disappears from my life in one way or another. Everything I touch turns to shit. When Lundin croaks there won’t be a living soul left who can stand me.
‘What the hell am I going to do?’
There is nothing convincing about my whisper. I smack my dry lips. The pistol weighs heavily in my hand. More than anything I just I want to drop it to the floor. Instead I look around the little space.
The crates.
How did I not think of it before?
Maybe they’re right when they say that I’m as thick as two short planks. In all likelihood I am literally surrounded by fine imported spirits on their way to Ploman’s den. A mouthful or two should make my balls grow back.
I prise out the blade of my pocketknife and set the tip into a crack in one of the wooden crates. There is a muffled thud as I push the blade farther in with my palm.
That’s it.
I lean my weight on the shaft. With a creaking sound, much like the one that resonated between the walls of Katarina Church last Saturday, the wood releases its nails.
I pry off the board and reach my hand inside. I immediately feel something metallic in the straw-filled box. It is no bottle.
I take out the object.
I gulp.
The machine gun is a model I have never seen before. I run my fingers over it. The magazine is inserted from the side. I angle the barrel up towards the flickering light and touch the marking with my thumb. MP35. Means nothing to me.
According to Ma, Ploman has been growing stronger recently. If all the other crates contain the same thing it would appear that he is planning a full-scale war.
I peek out through the back window. The shop signs for a real estate agency, a gentleman’s outfitters and Liljan’s café rush by. If my pulse doesn’t calm down I am going to have a heart attack. Which isn’t really how I imagined my end would come. A has-been with a failed heart in the back of a fucking van.
The magazines and ammunition must be in the smaller boxes.
I put the weapon back in the crate and fall to my knees by the crate nearest the door. I fumble with my pocketknife as I try to get some air in my lungs. It feels as though someone has twisted a strap around my chest and pulled it tight.
The board creaks as I rip it off. I gasp. Rows of gold bars glitter in tigh
t rows packed with straw. The sender’s address is stamped at the top. The German eagle clutching a ring surrounding a swastika.
In the flickering light it looks as though its wings are poised, about to take flight.
The van rocks on its suspension. I am sitting with my shoulders pressed against the driver’s cab and my legs stretched out in front of me. I hold my Husqvarna with both hands, aimed at the doors. My coat pockets are sagging with the weight of a gold bar each. They must weigh four, five kilos apiece.
I have tied my dirty handkerchief over my nose and mouth. Sweat is flowing from this bastard hat down my forehead and stinging my eyes. My heart is racing. I would skin someone for a cigar.
If I come out of this alive I’ll buy the latest model of car, collect the suit at Herzog’s the tailor and invite Hasse to the Grand, all out of a day’s earnings.
A door slams shut, followed by a second. The vehicle sways. I listen to murmuring voices. There is a thump as someone kicks the front tyre.
I hear steps crunch against dry gravel and murmurs moving along the right side of the van. I cock the trigger with a soft click.
‘Little Ida,’ I whisper into the darkness.
Somehow I have always believed that we would meet again, father and daughter. God knows how. Regardless, I have always considered it an inevitability. Something to hold on to in the absence of much else. If I find a way out of this I can send some proper dough across the Atlantic. Enough to buy her a big house with a sun lounge and all the trimmings she fancies. She will want for nothing. Maybe it will release me from the guilt of what happened, free me from my nocturnal penitence.
Someone kicks the back tyre. The vibrations spread through the vehicle. I whimper like a newborn.
‘We’ll have someone refill the petrol and pump the tyres tomorrow.’
The voice is hoarse, ravaged by smoke. A thin wisp of a man passes first the left back window and then the right. I follow him with the front sight.
Footsteps scuff the gravel and die away. I gasp for breath through my handkerchief and creep over to the doors. I peek out through the sooty windows. No one there.
I carefully open one door and slide out. It has got darker, but is still too light. I sink to my knees and listen hard with the pistol in my hand.
The large gravel yard is enclosed by three brick warehouses and a high fence along the road. All the windows in the main building are lit up.
It doesn’t make it any more inviting.
There is a gateway in the fence about twenty metres away guarded by four blokes, each with a weapon hanging over his shoulder.
I am certainly not getting out that way.
Ploman’s compound is packed with vehicles of all descriptions. I crouch and shuffle my way over to a well-polished Chevrolet, then I look around again. A fence separates the compound from the road, with a wooden walkway running along the top. Belzén of Birka has a similar set-up at Kungsholmen. Shielded by the fence, they can defend themselves from enemies in the street below with the additional benefit of a better view. If I could find a way to get up onto it I could sneak above the guards’ heads, heave myself over the fence and jump down to the street. It doesn’t look much more than three metres high.
The bullion weighs down the pockets of my trench coat as I move quietly from car to car, along the side of the yard and well away from the centre. I search for a ladder or staircase of some sort. There is a large lorry parked next to the corner of the main building, so I suppose it must be hidden behind there.
A sudden blare of applause and shouts makes me dive onto my stomach next to an Oldsmobile.
I wind myself.
A shiver runs down my back.
Down in the harbour, Detective Chief Inspector Berglund said something about a get-together. It doesn’t exactly sound like a quiet poker evening in there. More like a football match.
I get up, work my way in a crouching position towards the lorry in the corner and slip around it. Just as I had hoped, there is a wooden staircase leading up to the ramp. The first step creaks but I continue, as quietly as I can.
To my right the metre-wide ramp leads along the main building and then curves towards the road. I have to crawl under two overhanging windows, open in this heat, then turn right and work my way along until I’m right above the guards’ heads. The wood creaks beneath my feet as I begin to slowly make my way towards Ynglingagatan, freedom and wealth.
Another round of applause bursts into the clear, warm summer night. I freeze. The sound of men chanting in unison flows through the open windows. From the racket they’re making I’d guess there are several hundred of them.
‘Heil Ploman! Heil, heil, heil!’
Are they holding a fucking Viking feast in there? Drinking mead and reciting verse? One look can’t hurt. I blink away a drop of sweat and creep as quietly as a cat towards the window where the yellow light is spilling out on the wood like lemon slices.
Snatches of speech in a gruff voice sail out into the evening as a plank complains under my right shoe. I glance at the guards. One of them is lighting a cigarette, another is kicking at the gravel. I swallow.
I am only a few metres from the window when a door screeches open under me. I fall to my knees and stretch out headlong on the floor. The gold bullion in my coat pockets hits the wood with a dull thud and pain shoots through my right thigh as one of the bars jabs my hip bone. My hat falls off.
As if in slow motion I watch it roll towards the edge of the ramp.
Steps crunch below me.
I grind gritty road dust between my teeth. I stretch out my arms.
The hat’s red silk lining shines as it spins over the grey boards. It is more than halfway over the edge when my fingers grab the brim. I snatch it back.
That was a close one.
I hold my breath. My heart is pumping so hard it is making me feel sick. It seems to almost drown out the harsh voice coming from the open windows.
‘…plan into action, much of the police force and the officer corps are behind our cause, and in a few days, when the Swedish people take part in the Olympic opening ceremony, National Socialism will stand out as the only real front against Marxism and Judaism.’
More steps crunch below me and a tall bloke comes into view. He is wearing well-polished black boots and black breeches with a strap across his broad back. He stops around two metres below and to the right of me.
‘…because in the chaos that arises in the wake of Jew murders and a Marxist terror bombing, our protection, gentlemen, is the only alternative that can bring about order.’
The man below turns around and I hold my breath. I recognise him and that dimple in his chin. He has a lurid red swastika armband on his arm. Under the black uniform cap I see a few blond curls. He is standing so close that I can hear the little clasp on his cigarette case click open. I have seen him somewhere very recently but I can’t remember where.
If he looks up I am done for.
‘…In a week the men will be sorted from the boys.’
The cigarette case snaps shut, a match rasps, a flame flashes on the skull emblem of his cap.
I cock the hammer soundlessly with my thumb by carefully pulling the trigger back with my forefinger at the same time. The man below me is using a long ivory-coloured cigarette holder. A few quick breaths, three puffs of smoke that chase after one another in the night, a light cough. I retain the tension in my left hand. As slowly as possible, I roll over onto my back, out of his sight.
The gravel crunches under his combat boots as he goes inside again and the door slams. I take a deep breath.
It judders with fear.
I get up onto my knees and peek at the figures by the gate. It has darkened somewhat and they are moving around but I can see one of them lay his rifle across his shoulders like a yoke and rest his forearms on it.
I approach the window in two silent moves. Light spills out on the ramp in a hazy semicircle.
‘…and with that I will hand over to our
German friend Helmut Kunz.’
Applause rips through the stuffy summer evening. I straighten up a little and peek inside. On the podium on the farthest side of the large premises stands the Reaper. He applauds with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Ploman is standing at a rostrum draped with Swedish and German swastika banners.
The German officer makes his way between the perfectly straight rows of the audience. They are all dressed in brown shirts with leather straps.
‘Heil Kunz,’ calls the Reaper and the attendees respond as one. As if on cue, a hundred right arms stretch diagonally up towards the ceiling three times. Their hands are completely straight, as if they are trying to slice existence itself in two.
Darkness descends slowly over the city like a sparse rain of soot. One of the guards switches his hunting rifle to the other shoulder, pulls the soft cap off his head and uses it as a cloth to wipe his face and neck. Another presses his index finger against one nostril and snorts a blob of snot onto the ground.
I continue at a slow pace on all fours, pressed tight up against the building. It has taken at least ten minutes to creep along the façade and I have just a few metres left until I reach the walkway that runs directly above the guards’ heads. The ammunition rattles gently in my trouser pocket as I edge half a metre on, weighted down by the gold.
A heavy humming bumblebee flies straight into my face on translucent wings. I bite my lip under my handkerchief. I creep forward a little, stand up, creep a little farther, trembling with terror.
I finally reach the corner, get onto my knees, grab hold of the top of the fence and stand up. A silent breeze breathes in my face. It is lucky that they don’t have barbed wire over the fence like Belzén of Birka.
I peer down.
Around a three-metre drop.
I hear the distant hum of traffic from Solnavägen and a whole choir of crickets singing in the park opposite. Diagonally below me, hidden under the ramp, the guard clears his nose again.
‘It’s so damn hot you gotta drench your nightshirt in cold water to get any relief. And then you get a bloody cold.’
Slugger Page 14
