by The Helicopter Heist- A Novel Based on True Events (retail) (epub)
He decided that they would need three, maybe four, fifty-foot chains with caltrops soldered onto them. It seemed like a lot, but though he calculated again and again, he kept coming to the same conclusion.
Two hundred feet of chain would cost money.
Exactly where they would be able to fix the chains on either side of the road would be down to the creativity of the person setting them out. Doing any kind of reconnaissance in advance was far too risky.
* * *
—
It was three o’clock when Sami finally felt happy with his afternoon’s work. He pushed the phone book back onto the shelf, confident that no one would see the pencil lines that, just to be on the safe side, he had rubbed out. He returned to the kitchen and was met by fantastic aromas and chaotic mess.
He took a deep breath and turned on the radio on the windowsill. It was playing nonstop music he didn’t recognize, and he started cleaning. He had just managed to wipe the table and most of the counter when the local news came on. It made him stop in his tracks.
“Just before midnight yesterday, thieves struck Täby Racecourse in a robbery linked to the Diana Race…” said the news reporter.
Sami’s jaw dropped.
That madman. He had done it.
“…but after a failed escape attempt on horseback, the thieves were apprehended before they reached the gates. We head now to our reporter at the scene…”
And failed.
20
Zoran Petrovic was early.
He moved on foot through the streets of Podgorica as dusk fell over the valley and the lights of the city replaced the overcast day with a warm, yellow glow in the sky. Petrovic was heading west. He turned right onto the wide Svetog Petra Cetinjskog Boulevard, which skirted the edge of Kraljev Park. The trees were in full bloom, as though they didn’t dare believe in a long summer and thought it would be best to give everything they had before June was out. Spring and early summer had been unusually cold in Montenegro, and the short, thin navy coat Petrovic had had tailor-made at Götrich in Stockholm wasn’t enough to keep out the chill. As a result, his long stride was even longer than usual.
Podgorica was a city that had been given many names over the years. It was somewhere that had always attracted settlers, the point at which two great rivers met on their way through Europe toward the Mediterranean.
Petrovic walked over the ugly new highway bridge spanning the Moraça River. From there, he could see the remains of the old stone bridge over the Ribnica, one of the few historic structures that had survived the bombs of the Second World War. The Hotel Podgorica, where he was now heading, was on the other side. In the bar, just beyond the front desk, one of the capital’s best bartenders was hard at work.
Petrovic took a table by a window that looked out onto the lush riverbed, and he ordered olives and glass of lukewarm water.
It was only a quarter to eight, and he was fifteen minutes early. He took out the phone he used whenever he was in Montenegro. It was two weeks since he had last been there, and he had forty-three new messages. He scrolled through all of them before going back to the top of the list to reply to those worth replying to. His more important business contacts would use his Swedish number if they needed to get ahold of him, so these were really the dregs of his acquaintances.
Though he came down to Montenegro no more than once or twice a month, he felt as comfortable there as he did in Sweden. Generations of Petrovics had left their mark in Podgorica, making him part of their shared history. Those relatives who had survived centuries of war and ruin had done so thanks to their deep roots. You could always find a family connection if you looked far enough back in time.
He had created his own universe in Stockholm. Everyone seemed to be a new arrival there, whether from the north of Sweden, Finland or Istanbul. The suburbs buzzed with energy, a suspicious nervousness that stemmed from efforts to fit in or stay on the outside.
He didn’t want to live without either of his two cities.
* * *
—
The bar and restaurant slowly started to fill with guests. Compared with Stockholm, things were done late in Podgorica; the rhythm of daily life in the countries around the Mediterranean was suited to a different climate. Through the huge windows out onto the river, he watched as the deep gray sky turned dark above the line of mountains. He usually waited like this only for beautiful women or rich men.
Filip Zivic belonged to neither category.
This was all for Michel Maloof’s sake.
Petrovic felt like he was both Maloof’s protector and admirer. It had been an oddly mixed feeling to see little Michel grow up and take the blows that had made him into the man he was. Petrovic no longer had any reason to take such a protective attitude, but after so many years it was hard not to.
In this particular case, there were two reasons he thought it was especially important to help out his younger friend. Partly because he knew how long Maloof had been eyeing the cash depot in Västberga. This was a chance for him to realize a lifelong dream. And also because Petrovic felt guilty for having wasted Maloof’s time on the blue security bags.
It had taken him a while to find Manne Lagerström, but that there would be helicopter pilots in Montenegro had seemed obvious from the outset.
The ugly civil war in the Balkans had raged for the whole of the nineties. Historical injustices had been atoned for or deepened, and the wider world had been taken by surprise by the hate that these former neighbors held for one another. Early on, one of Zoran Petrovic’s uncles had advised him to “ignore the politics as long as you live,” and that was precisely how Petrovic had handled the war. For as long as possible, he had tried to avoid taking any side in questions that had no answers. He continued to refer to himself as “Yugoslavian” and with time became a skilled diplomat in a conflict that demanded that everyone pick a side.
It was during the war in the nineties that he had come into contact with those people who now held high office in both Serbia and Montenegro. People who, back then, had run wild in Bosnian forests were now in charge of infrastructure spending, approving construction permits and dealing out taxes. Back then, dressed in ragged uniforms, they had mined bridge abutments against the enemy. Today, they wore suits and ties, surrounded themselves with lawyers and economists, and set political traps for their opponents.
Zoran Petrovic had called several of these people to ask for help, which was how he had come to hear about Filip Zivic—a man who, at that moment, at the very stroke of eight, had just entered the room.
Petrovic immediately knew it was him.
Zivic was a short man with thick hair and a dense, dark beard. He was wearing a well-made suit, and nothing about him screamed pilot or former soldier. Petrovic’s uncle had known Zivic’s father, and Petrovic thought that he had a childhood friend who had married one of Zivic’s sisters.
There was a calm presence to the man as he took a few steps toward the bar and glanced around. Petrovic raised a hand, Zivic nodded, came over to the table and sat down. He looked at Petrovic’s glass.
“Water or vodka?” he asked.
“Water,” Petrovic replied. “Lukewarm.”
Zivic laughed. “Your trademark, so I hear.”
“You’ve been checking me out?” Petrovic asked.
“Of course.” Zivic nodded with a smile. “And I’m assuming you’ve done the same for me.”
Petrovic nodded.
“I got the brief,” Zivic continued, “and I think it sounds exciting. You can count on me.”
Petrovic felt an immediate trust for the helicopter pilot, who also ordered a glass of water, this time carbonated, with ice and lime.
“But I do have a couple of questions,” Zivic continued.
* * *
—
It ended up being a long night, and Zoran Petrovic reluctantly said more than he had been planning to. Filip Zivic had survived the Balkan wars by not leaving anything to chance. He asked questions an
d then follow-up questions—both expected and unexpected. Petrovic answered as best he could.
Landing on the roof of a building in the middle of the night was, according to Zivic, no problem. It might seem difficult, but even in normal cases, helicopters landed on something called a “dolly,” a metal plate on wheels that wasn’t much bigger than the helicopter itself, and considerably smaller than the roof of a cash depot.
No, Zivic was more concerned about other things. Could Petrovic be sure that the Swedish police wouldn’t get into their own helicopters? Could the robbery really be carried out in ten minutes? And wasn’t there a risk that the police would open fire?
Zivic wasn’t happy until Petrovic had given him long, detailed answers.
By midnight, the two men had finally managed to talk everything through, and Zivic knew exactly what was expected of him.
“OK,” he said. “And when am I meant to be doing this?”
“We were talking about the fifteenth of September at the latest,” Petrovic replied.
“Why then?”
“Partly”—Petrovic sighed at the pilot’s inquisitiveness—“because of the day of the week. It has to be a particular weekday. And partly to give us enough time to prepare everything. Sweden comes to a standstill during July and half of August…”
“It’s a long time until September. Can I be sure you won’t change your minds?”
“This is going to happen,” Petrovic reassured him.
“Do I have your word?”
“You can have something better than that.”
Petrovic took out his Montenegrin checkbook. He found a pen in his inner pocket and wrote out a check for 20,000 kronor. He tore it out and handed it to Zivic, who stared at the slip of paper in surprise.
“I don’t need this if I have your word,” said the pilot.
“One doesn’t cancel out the other,” Petrovic replied with a smile.
They got up and shook hands.
21
The antenna on top of the Kaknäs radio tower blinked lazily in the distance. Its diffuse white glow vanished into the night, fading against the pale sky. The deer that hid among the trees on Djurgården during the day roamed across the dry fields at night, confident of remaining undiscovered by either dogs or people out for a stroll. And along the beaches around Hundudden, the swans rested at the edge of the water and the white-breasted Canada geese dozed by the footpaths.
The explosion ripped through the tranquil air.
The car was in the parking area hidden away behind the old riding school by Djurgårdsbrunn. During the winter, it was mostly used as a dumping ground for snowplows, and in summer by only the occasional taxi driver needing to attend to a sudden urge.
The windshield flew out of its frame, and tens of thousands of shards of glass rained down like crystals onto the concrete and into the woods. A red-and-yellow blaze flared up when the oil in the engine caught fire, ripping the hood from its hinges and sending it in a wide arc over the parking lot. It landed with a pitiful clatter a few yards away.
“Shit,” Michel Maloof said, running his hand over his beard.
“Wait,” said Niklas Nordgren.
They were standing at the edge of the woods, fifty or so yards away, watching the burning oil trickle beneath the car, a line of flame heating the gas in the tank. The flames from the engine compartment died out as suddenly as they flared up, and the wrecked car looked dark and burned out.
“Wait,” Nordgren repeated.
His words were followed by a second, more powerful explosion, as the flames finally made their way into the gas tank, possibly through the exhaust pipe or from beneath.
Maloof instinctively fell to his knees. Car parts flew through the air and landed on the ground all around them: window frames, electronics, plates and metal. Once it was all over and the silence had returned, the foam filling from the seats was still floating slowly through the air.
“Shit,” Maloof said again.
Nordgren took out his phone.
“The interesting thing about using a phone,” he explained, “is that you can be absolutely anywhere. On the other side of the world, if you wanted to be. All you need is for someone to put the other phone by the accelerator, or even better in the engine cavity, then you can call that phone’s number from the other phone and detonate it.”
He held up the phone he still had in his hand. “And then it explodes.”
“Shit,” Maloof said for a third time. He was genuinely impressed.
“Was it something like this you had in mind?” Nordgren asked.
He still didn’t know exactly what Maloof was planning. He was starting to suspect it was something big, something meaningful, but he had learned not to ask any questions, not even of his close friends. All Maloof had asked him so far was how they could use cell phones to detonate bombs from a distance. That was the reason for their trip to Djurgården.
From Maloof’s perspective, the secrecy wasn’t even about mistrust. It was more about respect. The robbery in Västberga was still in the planning stages, and raising Niklas Nordgren’s expectations would have been doing him a disservice. There were few people Maloof trusted as fully.
“This is better,” Maloof replied. “Much better.”
Nordgren smiled.
The two men stared at the wrecked car. It looked more like a burning skeleton.
“Should we…go?”
“Just need to put it out first,” said Nordgren.
He went to fetch a fire extinguisher from the car that Maloof had parked over by the old stables.
* * *
—
As they crossed the Lidingö Bridge, both the sun and the moon were visible in the pale summer sky. Maloof felt satisfied. Their quick trip out to Djurgården had shown once again that Niklas Nordgren’s know-how was exceptional. The man always lived up to expectations. He kept a low profile, but he knew more about almost everything than most other people. Maloof had never regretted saving Nordgren as “100%” in his contacts list. They had met five years earlier when they were both arrested for instigating the same robbery.
By then, Maloof had already lost count of how many times he had been thrown into a claustrophobic cell inside Kronoberg remand prison. For Nordgren, it had been the first time. They arrested him at work. Drove him to Kungsholmen in cuffs, booked him in, took DNA samples and fingerprints and then left him to spend a few nights on a rickety pallet bed before they unlocked him and sent him home. It turned out that Nordgren hadn’t had anything to do with the robbery that Michel Maloof would be convicted of just a few months later.
And so, when two uniformed police officers knocked on Niklas Nordgren’s door in Lidingö a few days later, he had assumed it was a simple misunderstanding.
“No,” he protested. “I’ve already been cleared in that investigation. You must have old information.”
The police grinned.
“You bet we do,” they replied, and while Nordgren said a few words to Annika about being back in time for the late news, the officers waited for him in the hallway.
It would be five years before Nordgren next sat down on the sofa in front of the TV.
Any DNA found at crime scenes across Sweden is registered and archived, and, as a matter of routine, this DNA is also checked against the country’s master database. As it happened, Niklas Nordgren’s genetic evidence had caused the computers in the police station to flash like one-armed bandits, spitting out one jackpot after another.
It transpired that Nordgren was a match for DNA found at the scene of a four-year-old bank robbery in Sollentuna. He was also matched to a two-year-old robbery in Mörby. And to a raid on a post office in Sundbyberg in 2001. As well as a robbery at a jewelry shop in Östermalm the year after that.
By chance, Niklas Nordgren was sentenced to the same amount of time in prison as Michel Maloof. When they got out, it was almost like they had gone down together. They started meeting more and more often.
Maloof’s infec
tious positive attitude toward life, his good nature and clear loyalty were a good match for Nordgren’s thoughtful curiosity. On top of that, they shared a fundamental character trait: both always looked forward, never back.
* * *
—
Maloof turned right after the bridge and continued along Södra Kungsvägen toward Larsberg. He parked two blocks from the building where Nordgren lived, and together they walked along the empty sidewalks through the warm summer night. It was just before midnight.
“You know…if you want,” Maloof said, “you can get in on it? There’d be four of us. Split everything by four?”
“OK?” Nordgren asked. “How big is it?”
“Well…” Maloof replied. He knew that not even paraphrasing it could make the plan seem less mad. “We’re planning to…land a helicopter on a cash depot right next to a police station and then grab a few hundred million.” He laughed.
“Seriously?” asked Nordgren.
“Yep, yep.” Maloof nodded.
Nordgren looked his friend in the eye.
“I’m in,” he said.
“That’s why we need your phone bombs,” Maloof continued. “To stop the police helicopters from taking off.”
22
At around nine in the morning, Sami gently pushed the door to the bedroom open. Karin had been up since five.
“We’ll go out for a while,” he whispered, referring to himself and John.
The baby had fallen asleep during his feed and Karin’s breast was still in his mouth. She gently pulled herself free.
“That’s not a problem, is it?” she wondered.
There was no mistaking the relief in her voice.
“Get a few hours’ sleep,” Sami said gently.
“So the milk has time to thicken and put him to sleep this afternoon,” she whispered with a sigh without opening her eyes.
