He Who Kills the Dragon

63.

This time Hassan Talib was there from the start when the black Lexus left the villa out in Sollentuna at eight o’clock in the evening. The surveillance vehicle had kept a couple blocks away and followed them along a parallel road, since they could track the target on the computer screen in their car and had no need to take unnecessary risks.

Only when they had passed the old tollgates in toward the center did they creep closer. The traffic was heavier, Sandra Kovac was driving, and when the black Lexus turned left at the end of Sveavägen she realized at once what was going on. The biggest multistory carpark in the center of Stockholm, she thought. Several blocks of it, with three stories underground. Four exits, and dozens of ways in and out for pedestrians.

‘Shit,’ Sandra swore. ‘The bastards are going to run.’

Magda Hernandez had grabbed a portable radio, jumped out of the car, and stopped by the ramp into the carpark in case they did a U-turn and drove out again.

Kovac and Motoele had chased around the garage trying to locate the black Lexus, and when they finally found it, it was empty, neatly parked on the lowest level beside one of the many exits. By then Kovac was already talking to Linda Martinez on their own encrypted radio channel.

‘Calm down, Sandra,’ Martinez said. ‘This sort of thing happens. It isn’t the end of the world. Take a turn round the area, see if you can’t get a glimpse of one of their other cars.’

‘So what do we think about this?’ Toivonen said half an hour later. ‘Are they planning to go abroad and get a bit of sun?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Martinez said. ‘It’s been quiet all day, no increased activity on the two cell phones we cracked yesterday. Since they left the garage it’s been completely silent on their phones, which probably means they’re together and don’t need to call each other. But they’re obviously up to something. The question is, what?’

‘Airports, ferries, trains?’ Toivonen asked.

‘Already sorted,’ Martinez said. ‘Our colleagues there have been warned and have promised to do what they can.’

‘Damn,’ said Toivonen, who had suddenly had an idea. ‘Bäckström, that fat little bastard, we have to check—’

‘Toivonen, you must think I’m soft in the head,’ Martinez interrupted. ‘We’ve had him under full surveillance since he left the police station four hours ago, four hours and thirty-two minutes, to be precise.’

‘So what’s he doing?’

‘He got home at seventeen minutes to five. What he got up to inside the flat isn’t clear, but to judge from the noises he seems to have taken a long nap. An hour and a half ago he turned up in his local bar, and he’s still there.’

‘Doing what?’ Toivonen said.

‘Drinking beer and shots, eating frankly dangerous quantities of vegetable mash and knuckle of pork, all the while hitting on the waitress. A fine blonde, name of Saila, a compatriot of yours if you’re wondering.’

Life isn’t fair, Toivonen thought.

At about half past eleven that evening another call was received on the Stockholm Police emergency number, 112. One of several thousand that had come in over the past twenty-four hours, and sadly all too similar to far too many of its predecessors.

‘Hello, here’s another call to spoil your quiet evening,’ the voice on the telephone said.

‘So what’s your name, and how can I help you?’ the operator said. Drunk, he thought.

‘My name’s Hasse Ahrén,’ the voice said. ‘Director Hasse Ahrén, I used to be head of TV Three,’ the voice explained.

‘And how can I help you?’ Hammered, the operator thought.

‘Someone’s shooting like a fucking madman inside my neighbor’s flat,’ Ahrén said.

‘What’s your neighbor’s name?’

‘Bäckström. A little fat bastard who’s some sort of policeman. Drinks like a fish, so if you’re wondering, Constable, I reckon he’s responsible for the shooting.’