The woman was one of Systembolaget’s summer temps, and she was alone in the shop. Monday. A good day to start. Quiet. Sales of the number-one drink, for the most part. Bottles of Renat Brännvin vodka. But if any madmen came in asking for something like a French wine called Château Montpelliermontreusechargot, 1991 vintage, there wouldn’t be much she would be able to do. She was slightly anxious. The only customer was on their way out. Another came in. A handsome young man wearing a little hat, despite the summer heat. She felt a certain Château Montpelliermontreusechargot-risk. He didn’t look like a Renat Brännvin man in any case.
No, he didn’t ask for the number-one drink. Not for Château Montpelliermontreusechargot, either. Instead, she got a pistol in her face.
She emptied the tills at once and when the man left the shop, he was carrying six thousand, nine hundred and twenty-four kronor in a carrier bag.
The woman was lying unconscious on the floor.
Four hundred and one. Wasn’t that a darts game?
No, that was 501. That belonged in a completely different story.
She raised the key and sighed. She thought. She tried to work out the probability of this particular safe-deposit box being the right one. Tiny, she thought. Negligible, she thought.
The key didn’t go in.
Well, wasn’t that unexpected?
She groaned and considered their method. Was this really the best way? How reliable was it?
Yup. No more banks in Kinna.
Next stop, Borås.
There should be a couple of 401s there.
But first, contact. It had worked well so far. It was like he was with her the whole time. The advantage of the Internet. But also its disadvantage.
Virtual closeness.
‘Nothing?’ asked Niklas Lindberg. He was starting to get tired of asking the same question.
Bullet shook his head.
‘Do we have any reason to assume that the thing hasn’t just died?’ Lindberg continued.
‘It’s fine,’ said Bullet. ‘We’ve got to read it as a sign we should keep going north. The last contact was in Skillingaryd. It suggested we were going about the same speed. Then we sped up a bit. If they’d gone on to Helsingborg, we should’ve found a new signal somewhere along the way. The only thing I can think is that they turned off somewhere between Värnamo and Örkelljunga. So we’re working our way further north.’
‘Where are we now?’ Danne groaned from the back of the van. He was looking paler and paler. Would he really make it? Wasn’t it time for him to pull his weight a bit more? A slightly bigger robbery, maybe?
Just then, Rogge climbed into the van and sat down in the driver’s seat.
‘Go well?’
Rogge nodded, handing a carrier bag backwards and turning the key in the ignition. Niklas Lindberg peered down into the bag while the van swung out onto the E6.
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Good?’ said Rogge, putting his foot down. ‘Good? There’s gotta be twenty thousand in there.’
‘A slight exaggeration, but OK. Great.’
‘That’s more like it,’ said Rogge.
‘Can’t one of you bastards tell me where we are?’ Danne shouted. He sounded wheezy. He was losing blood the whole time.
‘Ängelholm,’ said Bullet, turning the dials.
The great man beckoned him over, gesturing disdainfully with his index finger. He would never have thought of doing so in his private moments. He played two different roles, two main roles, and these main roles each contained a number of minor roles. Ljubomir wondered how many there were. The great man was a cornucopia of roles.
Ljubomir strolled over to the desk. On the way, he tried to avoid looking at the beckoning finger – he couldn’t say that he liked it. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the large electronic globe. He had never seen it in action. It must have been impressive. There were rumours that the great man entered coordinates into the computer, and the best route for transporting drugs between them was automatically illuminated on the surface of the globe. He didn’t know. He hadn’t ever seen it in action.
Ljubomir reached the desk. The great man stared fixedly at him. More so than usual. Something would happen now. Some kind of test of loyalty. Again.
‘Have you come up with anything?’ the great man asked.
Come up with thought Ljubomir.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘The police claim to know who they are. That means they’re probably Swedes. Some mob. They’ve interviewed Zoran, Petar and Risto in Kumla. Some white detective going on about Nazis.’
‘Some white detective? They’re all white, aren’t they?’
‘White-haired. Snow-white skin.’
‘More specifically?’
‘I don’t know what he’s called. The other had stigmata on his hands. Spooky, like Petar said. The strange return of Our Lord Jesus Christ.’
‘Nazis, more specifically?’
‘Don’t know. I’ll check with Zoran.’
‘For God’s sake, “don’t know”! It’s your job to know. It’s about the man that killed Lordan, and you’re saying “don’t know”. Wake up, Ljubomir, otherwise I’ll replace you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t say sorry. How’s the surveillance going?’
‘They said everything’s quiet. No one has gone into the bank with our briefcase. It’s more difficult if they’ve got rid of the briefcase. But no one has been in the box, that much we know.’
‘“They said”? Haven’t you been yourself?’
Ljubomir was silent. It was a silent obstinacy. He had no intention of going there. He refused to go to that place. That was where his limit lay. The great man could see it. He could see it in Ljubomir’s eyes. And he was content. For the time being.
‘Fine,’ said the great man, gesturing with his index finger again. Though in the other direction.
It meant ‘clear off now’, that much Ljubomir had learned.
The great man never made that gesture in his private role.
But in his private moments, he wasn’t the great man.
Privately, he was Rajko, the childhood friend. From the little mountain village in eastern Serbia.
Four hundred and one. Shit, no. The numbers stopped at two hundred here. Shitty little bank. Ugh.
It was a drudge. Like a nine-to-five job.
Whatever that was. He had never had one.
Four hundred and one, another one gone.
He could hear how hollow his song sounded.
25
PARTY TIME! IT was 4 p.m. on Monday 28 June, and everyone was bursting with excitement about the obligatory PR party being held for the World Police and Fire Games.
The so-called Police Olympiad would take place between 16 and 24 July, with an opening ceremony in Stockholm Stadium on Saturday the 17th. Twelve thousand police officers, firemen, customs officers and prison guards from all corners of the world would compete in sixty-eight different sports. One thousand, nine hundred medals would be dealt out. It would be the biggest sporting event that Stockholm had ever hosted, the 1912 Olympics and 1992 World Cup included.
Paul Hjelm couldn’t quite see the appeal of watching all of these more or less mediocre sportsmen and -women in action. It screamed mutual admiration society. Unless you had friends or relatives taking part, it couldn’t be much more stimulating than a sixth division football match.
But it was a question of taste.
There were other problems with the games, and they weren’t.
For days, the media had been reporting what everyone on the inside already knew: that the finances were a mess. Those in charge of the budget for the World Police and Fire Games had presented the most hair-raising, overly optimistic calculations to the city of Stockholm – and with the help of difficult-to-explain PR trips to various holiday destinations, they had sent the budget far past the verge of bankruptcy. Stockholm’s taxpayers had been forced to step in with large sums of money so that the thirty thousand visitors wouldn’t arrive to a complete bankrupt mess.