by The Helicopter Heist- A Novel Based on True Events (retail) (epub)
When he told his brothers what had happened later that evening, their reaction was very different. They shouted and swore, and spent an intense twenty-four hours searching for Hassan Kaya. But the Turk had gone underground, or else he was holed up with their money in the Taurus Mountains. There was no sign of him. Once his brothers realized that, they had sighed, sworn some more and told Sami that he didn’t need to look so damn guilty. They had invested in the business together, and all three of them had been screwed over. That was that. It was no one’s fault but Hassan Kaya’s, and if that bastard ever turned up again…
To his friends who had invested money and who got in touch, one by one, as the rumors started to spread, Sami said the same thing over and over again. He would fix it. He would deliver. He had promised them a good investment, had promised them interest, and they would get it. Not in the form of earnings from frozen shellfish, but somehow.
He said the same to everyone he met, people who took his defeat as a sign of weakness and gullibility. The plan was still to go straight, to take on the role of a father. He would leave the life of crime behind him.
The difference was that he just needed to do one last big job to get back on his feet first. And the sooner it could happen, the better.
“I know how it sounds,” Sami had said when he got in touch with Mandel. He’d heard that the Estonian had something in the pipeline. “You know what I mean? It’s not that I don’t know how it sounds, one ‘last’ job, but I mean it. I want to do one more job, and whether that’s yours or someone else’s depends on what turns up first.”
* * *
—
Sami stopped dead.
What?” Toomas Mandel asked anxiously.
“Quiet.”
Sami was completely motionless, listening intently. Mandel did the same. He couldn’t hear a thing.
“Is it the pigs?”
Sami bent down to the stroller and lifted John from beneath the layers of blankets and covers. What had started as a quiet sniffle had turned into crying. It happened sometimes, when he woke from a deep sleep. Sami assumed it was his dreams that scared him.
“What the hell…is that a real baby?” Mandel blurted out in amazement.
“Are you stupid or what?”
“I just thought the stroller was a decoy.”
“A decoy?”
“To fool the pigs!”
“You’re sick,” Sami told the Estonian, rocking the baby in his arms until the little one calmed down and dozed off again.
Mandel shook his head.
“Don’t worry,” Sami said, gently putting the baby back into the stroller. “He’s not going to snitch.”
Mandel rolled his eyes. They turned back into the park. As they walked, Mandel went over the team and how he was planning on splitting the money.
“I need six million,” Sami said. “You can split it any way you want, but that’s my minimum. Got that? If you can’t guarantee me that, I’m out.”
“There’ll be more,” Mandel reassured him. “Much more.”
The majestic silhouette of the church was dark against the bright blue sky as they struggled back up the hill.
“The point,” Toomas Mandel explained, “is that it’s only three minutes to the boat club. No one’s going to believe we’re on our way there. We make it to the boat, we’re practically home. The police are up in Vaxholm and we’ll be in Bergshamra in less than ten minutes. They’ll never make it down in time. By then, we’ll be long gone, too much of a head start.”
“But does that mean you’re saying,” Sami asked, “that we have to ride down to the boat club? I don’t know…I’ve never even been on a horse…”
He had a feeling that rather than this being an idea that would get better the longer he sat on it, it was the opposite.
“It’s a possibility,” Mandel replied.
“But the whole of Täby fucking Racecourse is full of riders. You know? We’ll never manage to get away from them. They’re professionals.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s a possibility,” Mandel repeated. “It might be a bad idea, but if you’re on a horse, you can make it from the racecourse down to the boat club without getting caught up by any police vans or response units.”
Sami shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I buy the rest of it. Or I don’t know, a lot of it’s good. But you need to come up with another way of getting out. You know?”
“I’ll work on it.”
8
Michel Maloof was in the Hallunda McDonald’s, waiting to pay for his large meal, when the inconspicuous and now crumpled scrap of paper bearing Alexandra Svensson’s name and phone number followed a handful of change out of his pocket. To begin with, he didn’t remember where it had come from; eight weeks had passed since he’d met the man with the dogs. Maloof waited for his cheeseburger, twisting and turning the piece of paper in his hands. And then he spotted the address for the dating site. That jogged his memory.
He took his tray and sat down in one of the window seats, looking out at a branch of Bauhaus. He had never used any dating sites himself, he’d never had trouble meeting women. But he assumed that it suited some people, and each to his own.
He held up the note and drank his Coke through the straw.
Should he call her?
After the meeting at G4S, Maloof had thrown the black bag into his car and dejectedly driven away, emotionally overwhelmed and exhausted. Going in just a few short minutes from believing he would earn millions to realizing that he had fifteen years of negotiation and discussions ahead of him had been a real blow.
It felt like he had been subjected to some kind of cheap joke, as though the two directors had deliberately allowed him to misunderstand the situation and then piled on the pressure with their “contractual agreements.”
Maloof had driven straight from Stadshagen to Upplandsgatan to tell Zoran Petrovic what had happened. Maloof wasn’t much of a car enthusiast, but driving a Seat was frustrating when you were angry. Any sudden braking became smooth, and his sharp accelerations had no bite. Though maybe it had a calming effect, because by the time he reached Café Stolen, the worst of his anger had abated.
Petrovic had been waiting for him in one of the booths. His long, slender upper body stuck up like a twig above the table. He had a glass of lukewarm water in front of him. It was three thirty in the afternoon, and other than the staff, the place was empty. A new waitress Maloof had never seen before came over and asked what he wanted.
“I gave her a job mostly to test my self-control,” Petrovic had said once the girl in the tight skirt had gone back into the kitchen to fetch a cup of coffee.
It had been years since Maloof had stopped being surprised by Zoran Petrovic’s attitude toward women. He ignored the comment and told him about the meeting he had just come from instead. Though Petrovic was one of Maloof’s oldest friends, it was impossible for the Yugoslavian to detect any of the anger or frustration Maloof had just been feeling. Instead, he found himself faced with the always-smiling, calm and indifferent Maloof, who neutrally recounted the absurd conversation from the G4S conference room.
“That’s perfect though,” Petrovic had replied with his usual enthusiasm. “You’ve introduced yourself, they know who you are and what you have to offer. It couldn’t have gone better.”
“Right, right,” Maloof had said, laughing. “But, I mean, no. They could’ve bought the bags.”
“Forget about it,” Petrovic said with a laugh. “This is just the beginning. Going forward, shit, there could be a lot of money in this.”
After a few minutes, Maloof had reluctantly allowed himself to be infected by his friend’s enthusiasm. Both men were fundamentally optimistic; if things had been any different, they never would have made it this far.
Maloof put the scrap of paper onto the tray, but his eyes didn’t leave it as he lifted his cheeseburger out of the box.
Maybe Petrovic was right and everything would g
o to plan, but it was just as likely he was wrong. And what harm could calling her do? Hadn’t the man with the dogs said that this Alexandra Svensson was good-looking?
Maloof picked up his phone.
* * *
—
He invited her to a restaurant called Mandolin.
They agreed to meet at seven that Friday. Maloof made sure he was early, and he was waiting on the sidewalk on Upplandsgatan when the bells of Adolf Fredriks Church struck the hour. He had pulled up his hood to protect himself from the drizzle. The modern era’s winter had the capital in its loose grip, and galoshes would probably have been the best kind of shoes for that time of year.
When he saw a woman coming toward him from Tegnérlunden Park ten minutes later, he immediately knew it was her.
Alexandra Svensson was wearing a pair of practical rubber boots with a slim fur trim at the top, and her long down coat was pale blue. In her description of herself, the one Maloof had found on Match.com, she had written that she was someone who wanted to “bring a little luxury to life.” He was sure that the fur on her boots and the color of her coat were part of what she meant.
When she passed beneath the streetlight at the crossing with Kammakargatan, he could see her more clearly. She had written online that “biological age is meaningless,” but Maloof would have guessed that Alexandra was around twenty-five. A blond-haired, blue-eyed woman with round cheeks, a distinct protruding chin and a small, pouting red mouth, as though she wanted to be kissed. Maloof waved. Alexandra took a few happy, skipping steps toward him and gave him an impulsive hug.
Maybe her experience was that men who got in touch online didn’t always turn up?
They went into the restaurant together and were shown to a secluded table. They spent a moment reading the menus, but when the waiter came back to take their orders, he said that the chef wanted to surprise them instead.
“I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
Alexandra gave Maloof a questioning look, and with a smile and a quick laugh, he explained that he knew the owner.
Zoran Petrovic owned several places on Upplandsgatan.
* * *
—
They had a good night together. There was no other way to describe it. Maloof had decided in advance not to ask about either Västberga or G4S. If she wanted to talk about cash depots then he would listen. With interest. But if she decided not to, which had been the case for the majority of their dinner, he wasn’t going to insist. He was convinced that he had to win her trust first, and only then could he approach the questions he was interested in. It was all about patience.
As it happened, Alexandra Svensson wasn’t a particularly secretive person. Neither was she quiet. She talked openly about herself and her life. She had grown up in Nacka, studied economics at Stockholm University and dropped out to start working before she graduated. She liked having a regular income every month, it made her feel safe. She was subletting, or maybe she was subletting a sublet, a studio in Hammarby Sjöstad, and she said a few words about the secure transport company where she had worked for almost two years, and that she liked it.
“But basically half my wage goes to flowers,” she confessed.
“Flowers?”
“I love flowers,” said Alexandra Svensson. “When you get home and there are, like, flowers on the table, when it smells like roses and hyacinths…Is there anything better?”
“Yeah,” said Maloof. “No.”
“I’ve got a little herb garden in the kitchen, too. Nothing exotic. Basil, rosemary and, like, coriander. I think. Then there’s my balcony. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”
“No,” said Maloof.
“This time of year, all you can really do is plan ahead. But I’ve got all my geraniums in pots in the basement and as soon as it gets a bit warmer I’ll bring them up and put them out on the balcony again. I had, like, no idea they could even survive over winter, but they can.”
“Right, right.” Maloof smiled with a laugh.
Alexandra suddenly grew serious, and looked straight into his brown eyes. “It’s so easy to talk to you,” she said. “Like, I really think that. Really.”
“Right,” he replied, flashing all his teeth in a wide smile. “It’s…I think so too.”
“Cheers, Michel.”
She raised her glass and they sipped their red wine.
They were on their second bottle.
Alexandra Svensson continued. She hardly needed any encouragement; she took his opinions and thoughts for granted, and the evening passed without him having to give anything but his attention.
Something he was willing to give her.
* * *
—
They went back to Michel Maloof’s apartment through a Stockholm that was damp, empty and dark, and he didn’t even have time to take out the teacups before she had pushed him up against the wall with her tongue in his mouth. He was slightly shorter than she was, but he was surprised by her strength. She forced him to the floor in the living room and grabbed the blanket Maloof’s mother had made, the one that had been on the sofa, so that they wouldn’t be naked on the parquet floor.
After that unexpected and intense lovemaking session in which they had barely taken off their clothes, they sat down at the kitchen table and smoked—he had a pack of Marlboros stashed next to the spices in cupboard above the stove—before they went into the bedroom to make love again. This time more considerately.
Afterward, Maloof wanted to do nothing but sleep. It was four in the morning and he was tired from too much red wine and too many monologues. But it was right then, as he was on the verge of falling asleep on the soft down pillow, that she started talking about the building in Västberga.
He forced himself to wake up.
A few minutes later, he finally understood why the old man in the woods had suggested he meet Alexandra Svensson.
9
“Maybe it’s best if the uniforms wait outside?” Kant said in the elevator on the way up through the third of the five Hötorget buildings in central Stockholm.
Björn Kant, director of the Regional Public Prosecution Authority, was in his sixties and was one of Sweden’s most experienced criminal prosecutors. Seeing him walk the streets of the capital like an ordinary citizen, rather than sitting behind a desk, was an uncommon occurrence. The last time he had personally taken part in an arrest had to have been some time during the seventies, Caroline Thurn thought.
The prosecutor’s crumpled, dark brown suit even seemed more creased than usual.
“You want them to stay outside?” she asked. “Why?”
“No, it’s just…” Kant replied, “this isn’t an ordinary…I mean, there’s no need to embarrass the man. I don’t know what kind of meeting he’s in, and…”
“Embarrass?” Thurn repeated. She was surprised. “We’re here to arrest him. Maybe that is something he should find embarrassing?”
She was genuinely surprised. Though she was only half Kant’s age, she had worked as a task force leader with the Swedish Police Authority’s Criminal Investigation Department for four years, and during that time she’d had plenty of dealings with the prosecutor. She had never thought of Kant as anything but efficient, objective and decisive.
She glanced at him now, standing next to her in the dark elevator in which one of the lights wasn’t working. Thurn had a wiry, hard body, as tall as she was slim, with sharp features and blond hair tied up in a messy ponytail whose sole purpose was to cause as little bother as possible.
“Is that why you’re here in person?” she asked. “To make sure I don’t ‘embarrass’ our suspect?”
They had been working on the investigation with Interpol for almost two months now, and there was no doubt that Director Henrik Nilsson, with his thick, gray, combed-back hair and healthy tan, currently in a meeting on the eighteenth floor of the skyscraper, was much more than a simple tax evader. Thurn was convinced that the man had blood on his hands, even if he had
made sure it was only flecks, splattered from a distance. He was a criminal and he would be brought to justice.
During the investigation, Björn Kant had been less convinced about the extent of Nilsson’s activity than Thurn, but that he was guilty of a number of financial crimes was something they both agreed on.
“I know you think it’s irrelevant, Caroline,” Kant said. He was having trouble looking her in the eye. “But you know that he hunts pheasants with the minister for enterprise.”
“That makes no difference!” Thurn blurted out.
With them in the elevator were the two uniformed police officers Thurn had more or less grabbed along the way. Both were staring at the floor, pretending they weren’t hearing the conversation that was going on next to them.
“All I’m saying is that we should take it easy,” Kant mumbled, knowing that his more pragmatic side wouldn’t be appreciated by the young, and still shockingly naive, task force leader.
Certain police officers grew cynical after their first week on the job, but others were more resilient. The fact that Thurn had managed to retain her confidence in her fellow man year after year, despite everything she had been through, was an achievement in itself. Kant respected her highly for it, but he also knew that if the moral compass was working, it did no harm to act smoothly.
The elevator pinged and the doors opened.
The four public servants stepped out and moved quickly down the corridor toward the conference and meeting room on the south side of the building. The corridor was as tired-looking as those in police headquarters, Thurn thought. It even smelled of the same cleaning products.
“Do we know this is the right way?” she asked.
“I’ve been here before,” Kant replied.
She didn’t ask the obvious follow-up question. She was afraid that Björn Kant was yet another member of the minister’s hunting team, and that if she asked he would be forced to admit it. Better, she thought, not to know.
