Never Fuck Up

37

Dig the procedure: cut the crystals with the razor blade. To break apart the stones. No face mask like when he’d laced blow with Tetramisole—animal medicine—earlier this week. No latex gloves. No Yugo standing over his shoulder watching his every move. Goading him. Distrusting him. Shitting on him. Just Mahmud, alone at his digs. His crib was a few blocks away from Robert’s. Take note: his own crib. Stylin’. Even Dad was proud.

On the TV: Brazil against Ghana in some kind of international friendly. He didn’t give a shit.

He cut up more than he needed. Like a rhythm. Irritation flowing out of him. Pissed-offness that was about to explode. Everything with the Yugos was fucked. Snorting was sweet. But these last few months, Mahmud’d started going for a heavier rush. Once the cocaine flakes were cut up, all they needed was three drops of water to dissolve. He picked up the disposable needle. The cocaine wasn’t like the doping shit—made his veins contract. It was maybe the tenth time in his life that he mainlined blow. Still remembered his virgin crank four weeks ago. White dynamite—the rush like a trip to paradise. Robert and him, together in a mad high-def video-game world. Grand Theft Auto number fourteen million. Un-fucking-real.

He pointed the needle toward his arm. Made sure the vein didn’t roll away. Pressed. A drop of blood shot up into the barrel. He pressed some more. He let the blood flow up into the barrel again. Then into the vein. Ten second wait. Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Blast off! Like a bolt of lightning straight to the brain. Weed paled in comparison, snorting felt weak, boozing was for pussies.

The green color of the football field on the TV screen looked greener than the Amazon. This was life, deluxe.

Where the fuck were Robert and the others? They were supposed to call. Maybe come by and check out his digs. Then they were hitting the town. Mahmud did a line. Regular old feeling. Nice, but once you’ve tried intravenous, intravenose just doesn’t feel the same.

He considered his situation. Other than on nights like this, it sucked fag cock. He worked like a Sven, forty-hour weeks or whatever. Might as well’ve had a regular nine to five, as Erika’d suggested. He drove around the projects all day. Picked up the shit at Shurgard storage facilities over half of Stockholm. Sold to clockers in Norra Botkyrka, Norsborg, Skärholmen, Tumba, everywhere. At pizzerias after closing, at pubs, clubs, gyms, fighter clubs, in basement storage units, attics, at party pads, in continuing-education hallways, subway stations, the glassed-in meeting spots of the indoor malls, parks, playgrounds. Most of all, he dealt from the driver’s seat. ’Cause that’s how it was: he rolled in a real sweet ride—a Benz CLS 500. He was paying in installments, sure, but fuck it, you know? And he never would’ve gotten wheels like that with a regular gig.

Under him he had six, seven dudes, and one chick, as a matter of fact: his regular dealers. Dijma was one of the best. Bought at least seven ounces a month. Mahmud—on his way to becoming the Snow King of southern Stockholm. Flipped at least two kilos a week. At least half a million on the street, cash. He paid the Yugos four hundred and thirty G’s for every kilo. Seventy G’s left for him. He was riding high, but had to work like a dog for the paper. And the heavy downside: Radovan wouldn’t loosen his grip. Mahmud: a well-paid serf. No matter how much he wanted to make his old man, his sisters, Erika, and everyone else happy. He couldn’t do it. So, he’d made up his mind: he might as well become the king. It was high time for an Arab at the top. Bigger than the Yugo Godfather.

He got less time over at the gym. His training suffered. He wasn’t feeling too hot. The juice he’d been taking’d had side effects. The Winstrol fuckers were lethal, man. Acne’d spread all over his face and back like Ebola or something. His kidneys hurt. Weird, thick hairs’d started sprouting on his back. He hadn’t even slept two hours last night. But he had to take the Winstrol. The juice wouldn’t work otherwise.

Now he had to take it down a notch. Couldn’t crank up both juice and C at the same time. He ordered better protein online instead. Upped his usage. But it could never make up for the fact that he was putting in less time at Fitness Center, or that he wasn’t taking steroids.

The thoughts made his head spin: everything he was gonna do with the dough. At the same time: the Yugos could bring him down anytime. They were motherfuckers, all of ’em.

The clock struck eleven. He picked up his cell. Called Robert. Homeboy didn’t have proper voice mail, just some blaring Arabic music as his message. No point in recording anything. Rob would see that he’d called, anyway.

The clock kept ticking. Mahmud did another line. Played PlayStation like a video-game god.

His cell phone rang. It was Rob, keyed up like a kid: “Fuck man, come out, we’re down the street. We’re gonna own this city.”

Mahmud put his coat on. A leather jacket with Benz logos on the arms. Tucked a tin-foil ball with two grams in his pocket. Tonight: he was gonna show Stockholm—slay bitches like never before.

First thing, Mahmud and Javier each did a line. Heavy beats on Rob’s car stereo. Mood: soaring. The only thing Mahmud was missing: Babak next to him in the backseat.

Obvious: Rob’d tricked himself out for pussy-catching. Major backslick, short but well-trimmed stubble, gold chain around his neck, tight V-neck silk shirt. His biceps were stretching out the fabric.

“Ey, you hot tonight or what?”

Robert laughed. “Shit, I’m so hot I’m almost coming right now, man.”

“Hustler’s hustler. Wanna take my CLS instead?”

“If you cool. We’ll be big pimpin’, man.”

Javier just grinned at their buzz. They switched to Mahmud’s car.

The feeling: so fly.

On the road. Robert turned to Mahmud: wide piranha grin.

“If I don’t score a hat trick tonight, I’ll give you ten times the cash. You feel me?”

“What, you gonna fuck three chicks, or what?”

“No, habibi. Hat trick, you don’t know what that is?”

Mahmud could imagine a bunch of things, but he wanted to hear Rob’s latest idea.

“Hat trick, okay. That’s when you get to spray in all three holes in one night.”

Mahmud roared. Javier threw his head back. Rob looked pleased—laughed at himself. Three fly hustlers on a bitch safari—man, if they didn’t score some pussy tonight, they never fucking would.

Mahmud, between the laugh attacks: “Fuck, man, I swear, I’m gonna rock a hat trick tonight too. You watch.”

The laughter died down. They were approaching the city.

Mahmud grew solemn. Wanted to run some serious stuff by his buds.

“Something’s got me real pissed.”

“What, something about Babak? Just drop it, man.”

“No, not that. And I swear, I don’t wanna fight with Babak. Tell him hey from me, salaam.”

“So, what’s the deal?” Mahmud could see Robert’s face in the rearview mirror. He looked curious for real.

“Man, those Yugos are fucking me so hard. I wanna quit.”

“So quit. Tell them to fuck themselves.”

“No, I’m not the kinda guy who lights a fire. I burn low and slow like a spliff. But it can boil over. You follow?”

Javier leaned back. “I don’t follow. You make mad cheddar. Cruise in an ill car. What’s the problem?”

“I’m like their bitch. It’s different for you, Rob, you do your own thing. Entrepreneur, or whatever, but they keep me on a leash like a fucking whore. They’re like COs, decide what I do, when I do it. Threaten to tell my old man if I don’t do what they say, to ruin shit for my sister. They’re assholes, man. I gotta do something.”

Robert, in a serious tone for the first time all night: “Mahmud, listen to me. I might not believe in the Yugos in ten years, but right now—watch yourself. That’s all I’m gonna say. Watch yourself. They’re animals, don’t play with them. As long as you’re bringing it home, keep working and smile while you do it. I swear.”

Silence in the car.

The energy in the city: white hot. Mahmud remembered: the Svens were celebrating some kind of All Saints’ Day. The November darkness was lit up by platinum-blond pieces of ass rockin’ stilettos, legs shivering. Slick brats with Barbour vests that looked more like inner linings than like jackets.

But the night was theirs. Javier’d booked bottle service at White Room. If Mahmud’d tried to make the reservation: he’d have been given the cold shoulder right away. He couldn’t gloss over his immigrant Swedish. And there was no way he’d get in the front door without a reservation. Been proven time and time again by some little blattes who were college educated or something: the kids’d filmed the apartheid regime ruling the Stockholm nightlife and made a big show of suing the clubs. They ought to be heroes in Sweden—but nothing changed for Mahmud.

But Javier was almost like a Sven. Tight.

Inside at White Room: ice buckets built into the tables, crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, bar lit up in pink with top-shelf vodka and bubbly. Jewelry on the walls—some kind of exhibit. The dance floor was a circle in the middle of the room. Crazy pull. The only shitty thing was that they didn’t get into the VIP room. Fuck it: they were gonna throw down. But don’t misunderstand: throwing down didn’t mean that Mahmud danced. A Million blatte like him would never humiliate himself like that. That was reserved for the Svens, the fairies.

Still: the feeling of being on the inside couldn’t be beat. He thought of the time he’d seen Daniel and his boys at Hell’s Kitchen. The anxiety in his gut. The flashes of panic pulsing through his brain. He wondered what was worse: to owe Born to Be Hated stash or to whore for the Yugos?

Three lines later: Mahmud, Robert, and Javier were sitting at their table. Mahmud went easy on the alcohol, as usual. The booze was for the bitches. The plan: get ’em drunk enough to fuck ’em, but not too trashed—no one wanted to end up with a vomit-stained cock. Mahmud thought the Sven brats were staring at him and his bros threateningly. Weren’t digging their game. The blatte kings were plucking the honeys.

He felt vibrations in his pocket. His phone was bothering him. And he had to check it. It could be business. The text was an order, straight-up: “D wants 50 tickets tonight.” In other words: he had to go to some Shurgard storage place, pick up fifty grams of C, and then deliver the shit to Dijma. Here he was, with his homeboys and three, four willing females, life on top, a hat trick within reach. And right then, Mr. R. had to force him on duty. A bad fucking hand. He ought to refuse, give them the finger. All his hate welled up at once. Knocked around inside him. It was as if his glowing anger was ignited into a roaring fire. Turned into an insane lava stream. He ought to screw the Yugos. Tell them to fuck off. But at the same time—so strong, more powerful than the hate, the rush, the heat: he knew what he had to do. Time to deliver.

He was happy that he’d laid off the booze. Better to drive on a fading C-rush than with vodka running through his veins. He turned the stereo up to a blare. Snoop killing it. Not the way Mahmud felt right now.

Through the city, over the dreary South Side, the highway a straight shot south. Past Liljeholmen, Årsta, and so on. Kungens Kurwa—kurwa, as in whore.

The storage facility was empty of people. Of course: it was twelve-thirty on a Saturday night. Ice-cold drops of drizzle. He checked in, rummaged through the boxes in the unit for a while, pocketed all the grams that were in there—six bags with five G’s in each. Back to the car. Swish-swish through the night. To the next storage unit, Årstaberg. He knew these places like the back of his hand. In/out like a speed racer.

An hour and a half later: fifty grams in a bag in his pocket. Stupid dangerous: if he got collared by the 5-0 now, he’d get locked up for two years. At least. The courts made decisions based on a rising scale of possession, rigid assessments, mad tough sentences for dealers.

Back in the city. Hard to find a parking spot. Mahmud didn’t have the energy to drive around and around. Didn’t care if he got a ticket—he parked the car in front of a building that said Royal Library on it. Fired off a text to Dijma on the number he thought the Albanian was using this week. Waited ten minutes. The November night was dark. It was far between the streetlamps where he was parked. He thought about Dad. If he found out about this shit he’d cry himself to death.

A silver-colored Saab pulled up next to him. Mahmud almost jumped in his seat. Had he dozed off in the darkness in the car?

He had time to see Dijma in the front seat. A dude climbed out of the Saab. Opened the back door of Mahmud’s Benz. Slid into the backseat. Mahmud, tense as hell. Didn’t recognize the guy. The grams in his pocket were worth almost three hundred large on the street. Was Dijma trying to pull a fast one?

The dude looked pasty. Circles under his eyes, mouse-colored hair with straight-cut bangs that looked Eastern.

“Move,” he said in English.

Mahmud started the car. Saw the Saab in front of him.

They rolled out onto Sturegatan. Mahmud was getting bad vibes. This wasn’t the way things usually went down.

The dude in the backseat met his quizzical eyes in the rearview mirror. “Park the car at Stadion.” Mahmud got a weird feeling: the guy pronounced the word Stadion a little too good to be a freshly imported Albanian dealer.

He drove up Sturegatan. The Saab took a right at Karlavägen.

“Don’t follow him,” the pickup man ordered.

Mahmud slowed down. “I don’t know you,” he said.

“Are you delivering or not?” the Albanian replied.

Mahmud didn’t respond. Didn’t want to pick a fight. Wanted to get back to the honeys.

They drove across Valhallavägen. Hardly any traffic. Mahmud parked the car next to Stadion’s reddish stadium building. The rain continued to fall in fat drops.

Mahmud killed the engine. Played with the grams in his pocket. A dark Volvo pulled up next to the car. Parked, locking the Benz in.

The dude in the backseat leaned forward. Said in Swedish, “You’re a good guy, Mahmud.” What the fuck was this? Suddenly the Albanian was speaking Swedish. Mahmud had to figure out what was happening. Was Dijma trying to rip him off? Was it the Yugos, playing with him? Or the cops? Tonight, of all fucking nights, his butterfly was at home in his apartment.

“Yo, who the fuck are you, man? Get lost.” Mahmud glanced out at the Volvo; two Swedish-looking guys were sitting in the front seats.

“I’ll be leaving soon. Don’t worry. You can call me Alex.”

Mahmud could feel it in his entire body: this was a cop.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Why not? I want you to listen to me, just for a few minutes. I assume you’ve got something in this car that you’re not allowed to have. Am I right?”

“I told you, I’m not talking to you.”

“Just tell Dijma that things got hot and I split. I’ve already messed with him all night, so he won’t be surprised.”

“I haven’t done anything illegal, or whatever you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay, Mahmud. I’m not going to take anything. We’re not going to try to write you up for anything tonight. Not this time. Just listen for a minute.”

Mahmud didn’t get what the cop fucker was babbling about. Everything was messed up. The Volvo outside. His chances of getting away: minimal.

“We know what you’re up to. But we need more information. We need someone on the inside. Guys like me can go in and do swift gigs, but we’re not let in for real. You’re a good guy. Your dad cares about you. You’ve got sisters you can help. You don’t want to get sent back in. Come on, Mahmud, you didn’t like the slammer, now did you? Just think about what your old man would say.”

Mahmud stared straight ahead, refused to meet the cop fucker’s eye.

“Pork your mother.”

The guy seemed unfazed. Went on, “We’re not unreasonable. We can forget what we’ve got on you so far. I could arrest you now and you’d get two years just for the grams you’ve got in your pocket. And I’ve got solid evidence for two more drug-related charges. You’d get eight years at least, you know that. But if you work with us, we’ll just strike all that from the record. The only thing we want…”

“Are you fucking deaf or what?” This had to end. Mahmud was gonna take the asshole’s head, shove it into the gearshift, and then book it. It was worth a try.

“Calm down, Mahmud. Just listen for a second. We need you. We’ll drop the stuff we have on you. And the only thing we want is for you to meet us now and then and tell us what’s happening.”

This: totally loco. They seriously thought he was gonna become a rat. Shit. man, they weren’t sane, the popo-pussies.

“You playin’ me? You think I’m a snitch? Never.”

Alex sounded disappointed. “You should consider it. It’s not about snitching. Not at all. We keep everything clean. No one would ever know. But I won’t keep you any longer. Think about it. Don’t do anything stupid, now. I’m going to get into the car right there.”

The cop put one hand on the door handle, held out his other hand. “Here, take my card.”

Mahmud ignored him.

The brass named Alex left it on the backseat.

“Call me if you change your mind.”

“Forget it.”

“Take a few days, think it over. Otherwise, the next time we meet will be when I interrogate you in custody. Capice?” Alex didn’t wait for an answer. He got out of the car. Turned around before he slammed the door shut. “One more thing. If news of our little chat leaks out for any reason, we’ll come get you. Right away.”

The cop climbed into the Volvo. Its engine revved.

Mahmud remained sitting for a few minutes in the dark. Picked up the card. It just said ALEXANDER WREN, ENGINEER, and a cell-phone number. Nice cover. He rolled down the window. Tossed out the card.

White Room would be open a little while longer, but he didn’t have the energy to go there. What if Dijma was a narc too? Impossible. Dijma felt about as real as only an Albanian could.

He was a loser. Apparently not even the 5-0 thought he was a real G. At the same time: who was he standing up for, really? The ones who’d forced him into this shit by exploiting the fact that he loved his abu and sister.

Mahmud texted Dijma. Asked him to come pick up the gear himself. The Albanian met him outside the Royal Library. Dijma was not surprised when Mahmud explained that the asshole who was supposed to do the deal’d started some shit over the price. Mahmud said he’d thrown him out. Mahmud accepted 250 big ones in unfolded thousand-kronor bills. Immediately, everything felt better. Fuck, maybe he should take a turn down to White Room after all. Check if Rob, Javier, and the bitches were still there.

Down among the champagne bottles, it was like the Wild West. Brat players with French-cuff shirts and more wax in their hair than Mahmud used in three months were dousing one another with bubbly. As soon as Mahmud’d had a seat, Rob held out a tin of tobacco. Mahmud peeked below the lid: a nice little pile of C. He went into the bathroom. Did a line. Two hundred and fifty thousand—he was feeling better and better. Okay, it wasn’t just his money, but what the hell, he had to relax a little after that turn with the cop.

Back out in the crowd. The dance floor was packed. The spotlights were pumping colors all over the room. The Eurotechno was pounding in time to the girls’ arms in the air. This was it. Javier’d picked up some chick. Rob was buttering up a juicy morsel of his own. She gazed into his eyes. Mahmud wondered what kind of sweet lies he was spinning.

Two chicks helped themselves to the final drops of Grey Goose vodka. Mahmud winked at one of them. Yelled over the music, “Hey, sweetie. Let’s have some bubbly instead.” Unclear if they heard what he said. But three minutes later he was back at the table with the flyest bottle of pink champagne. Then they definitely got it. He poured for them. They toasted him. He didn’t drink. But they smiled. The chick he’d winked at was the prettiest he’d seen since Lindsay Lohan. Bleached hair that looked like angel-spun cotton candy. Big doe eyes. A gray top with puffed sleeves. She downed her glass. Mahmud poured more for her. Whispered in her ear: “Do you want to have more fun, real dynamite?”

She laughed. Their hands touched, Mahmud gave her the Redline baggie. When she and her friends pushed past him in the booth, he pinched her butt.

The angel-honey came back five minutes later. Pupils like mechanical pencil lead. Sneezed into her hand. Smiled at him. Mahmud, the king. Tonight, he was gonna score a hat trick. Ha-ha, hat trick!

They were already sucking face in the taxi on their way out to his crib. Her hand inside his pants. Back and forth. He went crazy, wanted to put it in. But unnecessary to pick a fight with the driver.

The rain outside felt clean. The girl’s name was Gabrielle. Her jeans hugged her legs and went down over her black heels like drainpipes. She staggered, wasted.

They tumbled into the apartment. He didn’t want to turn the lights on—embarrassing how messy and nasty the place was. She took his cock already in the hall. Started sucking. No unnecessary foreplay and cutesy shit. Just the way he liked it.

He was about to come. His breathing grew heavier. Gabrielle noticed. She tried to avoid him jizzing in her mouth.

Mahmud murmured, “Come on, keep it in.”

She nodded, his cock moved along with the motions of her head.

They lay down on the bed. He rested for a few minutes. Turned some music on.

Took her jeans off. Kept her top on. Put his cock in.

Gabrielle groaned like in a porno. They went at it for a while. Mahmud slapped her ass.

“Put a condom on, okay?”

“Nah, I’ll come on your back.”

That seemed fine with her. Mahmud assumed she was on the pill. He kept going, wham-bam. Came after a few minutes, didn’t bother pulling out. Unclear if she even noticed. Sweet—second leg out of three done. The guys would hear about this tomorrow.

Gabrielle went to the bathroom. When she came back, he’d served up a line on a CD case. “I’m cool, I don’t need any,” she said. “Could you call a cab?”

What the fuck was this bullshit? He still had one more thing left to do. Had to complete the hat trick. Spraying in her asshole was the grand finale.

He leaned over her. Began to kiss her neck, up toward her face. Let his lips move over her eyes, cheeks, forehead. He licked her ear, caressed her hair, tits, ass.

“Come on, baby, be nice. Feels good, right?”

They lay down on the bed again. He was gonna fucking enter her, that’s all there was to it.

Mahmud took her top off. Her body was hot as hell. He lay down on top of her carefully. He was, like, ten times bigger. Kept kissing her forehead. She closed her eyes. Guided his cock inside her.

Missionary for a few minutes. Then he flipped her over. Pushed his cock toward her asshole.

“No, not there,” she whispered.

“It’s gonna feel so good. I promise.”

He grabbed hold of her ass cheeks. Tried to force his cock in.

“I don’t want it there.” Her voice was high-pitched now.

“Come on, just a quickie.”

Gabrielle wriggled her butt. He grabbed hold of her harder.

“Stop it. I don’t want to.” Her voice jumped up another notch.

It was insane: him, the muscleman, the pussy king, the bitch-fucker—

limp. Ill opportunity, a fine piece of ass on her belly, all he had to do was push it in, do his thing. What the fuck was wrong with him anyway? He let her go. Saw her relax.

“Just stay there, please. You’re so beautiful.”

He got up. Looked down at Gabrielle. Her legs straight on the bed. He had to do this thing. He rummaged through his clothes, his jacket, his wallet, his jeans. Finally he found what he was looking for: a dime bag with a few milligrams left. He put some cocaine on his finger. Rubbed it against his cock. It had to work. He needed to get it up again.

Now.

38

Niklas held the weapon. Weighed it. Admired the sheen of the metal. Felt like over there, except this weapon’d hardly been used.

Thought back over the past few weeks. The woman at Black & White Inn’d delivered his order. A clean, proper gun: a new Beretta. He test-fired it for the first time in a wooded area in Sätra. Twenty rounds into a couple of beer cans lined up on rocks. Real Baghdad feel in the middle of the Stockholm autumn. He had to learn the weapon. The safety, the slide, the rear sight, the hammer’s release, the clamping pin, the sear, the magazine catch, and so on. Him and the Beretta: they would become one. As it should be.

Followed by training at home. The slide motion for this specific piece should be automatic, embedded in his elbow movement. He turned the lights off, practiced in the dark, practiced in baggy clothes, without clothes, walking, lying down, running. Left, right, right, left.

All you fucking wife-beaters—Operation Magnum’s offensive begins now. This is your nightmare, and it’s coming for you. Go, hide—if you can.

Today was the day. He was going to eliminate the first target. Mats Asshole Strömberg.

The months’d passed by quickly, yielding good results surveillance-wise. The only bad part: Niklas’d been thrown out of his place in Aspudden. The illegal broker fucker’d gotten hold of another apartment and Niklas’d had to pay up. A bigger hit than expected, considering that he’d gotten rid of the Audi and bought a Ford instead. He wouldn’t compromise with safety. But the money would run out in a few days. What should he do? The basic principle remained: war has a cost.

His relationship with Mom’d only gotten worse. He couldn’t handle being in touch. She’d called, texted, even sent a letter. After their fight a few months ago: it didn’t feel right. Mom’d been humiliated for half her life. Still, she didn’t seem to want to understand the importance of what he was about to do today. Her way of thinking was so twisted. But therein probably lay the answer. That so many women went along with men beating, repressing, harassing, terrorizing them. That they didn’t defend themselves, didn’t do something about it, didn’t fight back. Niklas was familiar with the hard-core feminists’ arguments even though he’d stopped surfing their pathetic websites after the Biskops-Arnö incident. It was about societal structures, gendered power, patriarchy, built-in patterns that every single individual apparently had to ape.

Niklas’d stuck the GPS location device under Mats Strömberg’s car on a night in October. Since then, he’d followed the guy’s driving route like a fucking map freak. Reminded him of a British sergeant in DynCorp. The guy’s greatest pleasure was maps—seriously. When the others listened to their MP3 players, flipped through porn magazines, or played poker, Sergeant Jacobs read maps with incredible intensity. But shit, that dude was sharp in the field. Once he’d studied an area, he knew it better than he knew his own gun.

On the way home, Strömberg often passed by a bodega in Sundbyberg. Parked his car. Got out, hung out in the bodega for fifteen minutes. At first, Niklas didn’t understand what the guy was up to. One day, he followed him in. Mats Strömberg wouldn’t recognize him, anyway. The deal: gambling. The guy seemed to drop the household kitty on horses and sports, etc. And Niklas began to sense a pattern. It was on the nights that bets were decided that Mats Strömberg found it necessary to take things out on his wife.

When October grew chillier, Strömberg draped himself with a checked scarf, tied it like a fucking fogie—with a simple knot and most of the fabric hanging flat down against his chest. His jean jacket was exchanged for a butt-ugly green nylon jacket. The leather shoes for a pair of boots that looked military-issue. And it was then, in October, that Niklas was able to establish another pattern: the first Monday of every month, Strömberg met a few friends at a pub by Mariatorget. He knew now: same pub, about the same time, same dudes. The pics that Niklas’d snapped were clear. Three months in a row.

And tonight was the first Monday in November. Definitely: time for attack. He knew that Mats Strömberg would be home late without a car. Operation Magnum was entering the next phase.

Niklas’d rented a neutral vehicle, a gray Volvo V50. Didn’t want to risk the Mats fucker recognizing the Ford as the one that’d been parked outside his house for so many hours over the past few days. The guy could start wondering. The Volvo was perfect: no one noticed a car that dull.

Waited. Outside the pub where Mats Strömberg was sitting, all happy. It never got boring, strangely enough—letting time lapse with nothing to do but to stare out through the window. Strömberg shouldn’t be allowed to be happy. Four days ago, he’d beaten up his wife in front of their son. She just cried. He just hit. The son hid behind the couch.

Niklas wasn’t going to take him out here in the city—too many people around. Instead: he would trail the guy out to Sundbyberg. And there, on the street, at a spot he’d identified and analyzed: an end to the tragedy.

His cell phone was on silent. It was in the bag on the passenger seat. Still, he could feel it vibrating as if it’d been in the pocket of his jeans. The display showed: Benjamin. This really wasn’t the time to talk. On the other hand, Niklas might need Benjamin’s help again. His cash problem was too much of a reality to ignore.

“Hey, it’s Benjamin.”

“I can see that.”

“Where’ve you been these last few months? Fuck, man, this is the first time we’re talking in God knows how long. Did you go back to Iraq, or what?”

“Hey, I can’t really talk right now. What do you want?”

Benjamin was silent for a few breaths too many. Obviously surprised by Niklas’s brashness.

“If you’re gonna be like that you might as well go back down to the desert. I don’t give a shit. Dammit, man, you’ve screened my calls at least ten times lately.”

That was true. Niklas’d chosen not to pick up the phone, screened the calls, even ignored his voice mail. Focus, that was what mattered, not a bunch of pointless phone calls. Still: his money was running out.

“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. What is it you want?”

“I think you’re gonna wanna hear this. If you didn’t already check your messages.”

Niklas thought, I can’t take this.

Benjamin went on. “The police called me a couple weeks ago. Brought me in for questioning and everything. I was there in the middle of October, I think. Take one guess what it was about.”

“No idea.” Niklas felt a pang of worry.

“It was about that thing this summer. Remember?”

“What?”

“Quit it. Know who they were asking about?”

Niklas’s anxiety was rising. He already knew the answer. It could only be one thing—damn it.

“They were asking about you.”

“Why?”

“Remember when you asked me to say that you’d been over at my house all night?”

“Yeah, but what did they say this time?”

“You never told me what that shit was about, man. What the fuck did you drag me into? They interrogated me for at least two hours. Pushing me like crazy. Did we really watch a movie? What did we see? When did you get to my house, when did you leave, am I sure about the date? Get it?”

“You didn’t say anything, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. But I don’t know, man. You didn’t tell me what the deal was. Murder, man. Niklas, what the fuck is this, anyway? This is insane. Murder.”

“I don’t know any more than you do. I have no idea. I’m being totally honest. Do they suspect me of something?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? Murder, man. Come on, Niklas. What is this about?”

Niklas felt himself grow hot and cold at once. How did this happen? He didn’t have an answer for Benjamin.

He was at a crossroads: no way he could take this kind of crap. At the same time: Benjamin’s alibi—invaluable. He had to grovel like a fucking brownnoser.

“Yeah, it’s about some dead guy that was found in my mom’s building. They brought me in for questioning too. And Mom. Some poor sucker who was beaten to bits down in the basement. They really brought out the heavy artillery.”

“Okay. But what does that have to do with you? Why’d they drag me in there and interrogate the shit out of me again? And what did you need that gun for?”

“Nothing, that was just for fun. And about the dead guy in my mom’s house, I honestly don’t know. No idea. But if I’m a suspect I guess they would’ve picked me up ages ago. But you know, with my background, things can get messy with the police no matter what.”

Silence.

More silence.

A drop of sweat along his temple.

In a low voice, Benjamin said, “We’re buddies and all, but… but this is getting kind of big, I think. What am I getting out of this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’ve got your back like crazy right now, man. And what’s in it for me? You don’t think I deserve something for making up a story about that movie night?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You want money?”

“I don’t know. But yeah, yeah I do, actually. Don’t you think that’s fair? I’m putting my neck on the line for you. You’ve gotta be a little generous.”

This was just too much. First the illegal broker, then the vehicle swap and the rental, and now this: a comrade who betrayed. Went the blackmail route. What was he supposed to say? He had to offer the asshole something.

“I didn’t expect this from you, Benjamin. But how about this, you did something good for me and that ought to be worth something. I can pay you five grand. I don’t have more than that.”

Benjamin made a smacking noise with his mouth.

“I’m glad we understand each other. Double that and we’ll be completely clear.”

At midnight, Mats Strömberg and one of his friends stumbled out of the pub. Flushed face. The fogie scarf sloppily tied.

He jumped into his buddy’s car, which, it turned out, was parked three cars in front of Niklas.

Not good if the buddy was planning to give Strömberg a ride all the way home. But Niklas’d seen it before—most often, the Mats asshole was dropped off by the Central Station and took the commuter rail out to Sundbyberg.

Niklas trailed the car without a problem in the light traffic.

Just as he’d expected: Mats Strömberg was dropped off at the Central Station. Walked down to the commuter rail. Niklas’d thought the whole thing through. Had studied the commuter rail timetables for the evening and night. Mats would catch the 12:22 train out toward Bålsta. Might be delays. Niklas checked the traffic info on his smartphone. Tonight, the 12:22 train was running according to schedule. It would take him nine minutes to drive out to Sundbyberg in the night traffic. The train only took seven minutes, but it didn’t leave for another eight minutes. He was safe.

On the highway, one thought running through his head: the shots had to hit the right spots. Take him down quickly. The job had to be done fast and clean. In Operation Magnum, no wounded targets were left behind.

He parked the car about a hundred feet from the exit to the commuter rail station. Rolled down a window. Waited. Cold air streamed in. Checked the train schedule one final time on his phone. The train would arrive in three minutes. He put the Beretta on his lap. A woman with a Labrador walked by on the street. Otherwise, the area was clear of civilians. He double-checked the chamber, the safety, the hammer.

One minute left until the train was supposed to pull into the station below. Niklas bent down, checked again that his shoes were tied properly. Could feel it in his gut, like the hours before an attack. Small, small movements. As if they had a life of their own. At the same time: expectation, excitement in the air. Excitement over doing something for the greater good.

Now he heard the shrieking of the train’s brakes. Looked at his watch. Niklas’d test-walked the stairs up from the platform and out through the station. Depending on where on the train the guy got off, it should take between thirty and fifty seconds.

The doors opened automatically. Two people got off. No Mats. Then a family: the mom was pushing a double stroller filled with kids and the dad was carrying a sleeping child. After them: a couple of teens.

Finally: Mats Strömberg.

The flush on his face’d settled. He looked like a model citizen. Walked past the Volvo where Niklas was sitting. Niklas got out of the car. Thirty feet behind the target. The Beretta in his pocket. Strömberg walked at a normal pace. Four hundred yards to the domicile. In about 165 feet, he would cross over a small park. No streetlights there and no houses.

It was almost twelve-thirty at night. Niklas didn’t see a single soul out except the target. He’d planned this so well, so long, not just in order to execute this perfectly, but in order to make sure he’d made the correct selection.

One hundred feet left before the park. Niklas sped up. Twenty feet behind Strömberg. The guy didn’t seem to notice that he was being followed.

Niklas put his hand in his inner pocket. Felt the warm steel of the revolver.

The trees in the park were clearly visible, dark green.

Niklas knew: aiming for the head is uncertain if you want the target to die. The head can move and is made up of parts that can bust without the victim dying: ears, jaw, skull, parts of the brain, even. The back, on the other hand. If you hit the vertebral column, the shot will be fatal instantly. What’s more: enough to shoot at very close range. Large, safe surface to aim at. If you miss the spine there is a great chance that you’ll hit the aorta, the inferior vena cava, or the large pulmonary artery. That’ll get the job done, too.

Mats was ten feet ahead of him.

To the left was a jungle gym that could hardly be made out in the dark. But Niklas knew that it was there. He’d made up his mind: this was the best spot.

Six feet left.

Mats turned around. Niklas met his gaze. Wondered if the asshole knew what was about to happen.

Three feet. Niklas extended his arm. The black Beretta almost disappeared in the darkness.

A shot.

Immediately followed by another shot.

Perfect hit. The bullets’ entry points should be about eight inches below the neck. He couldn’t see, exactly. Bent down. Mats lay facedown on the ground. Two small holes. In the correct spot on the back. The bullets’ exit points should be significantly larger, but he couldn’t check that now.

Niklas turned around. Jogged through the park. Out onto the street: calmer steps. Back to the car.

Three hours later. The Volvo: burned out, cleared. Any possible DNA traces’d gone up in flames. The weapon was washed and buried. Maybe he would use the same gun the next time, he hadn’t decided yet.

He was an awesome soldier. A liberator. A hero.

In the Ford on his way home from the charred skeleton of the Volvo, he stopped at a pay phone in Aspudden.

A number of signals went through before anyone picked up. This was going to be a good call.

Groggy or teary, he didn’t know how to read her voice.

“Hello, this is Helene.”

He’d promised himself to make it short.

“Hi, I’m sorry to be calling in the middle of the night.”

“Who is it?”

“I wanted to inform you that I have just set you free.”

“Who are you, what do you mean?”

“I’ve removed him. You don’t have to worry anymore. He isn’t coming back.”

He would’ve liked to speak longer with Helene Strömberg, she seemed sweet. But he couldn’t. Not right now, anyway.

39

Thomas was standing in the kitchen making breakfast. It was eleven o’clock. Last night’d gotten late. He hadn’t come home until close to 6:00 a.m. Åsa would be sleeping anyway, so it didn’t matter. He could come home at eleven-thirty or six-thirty—she didn’t know what he was up to, anyway. Dammit, sometimes the anxiety almost overwhelmed him. He woke up in a cold sweat. Impossible to fall back asleep.

He’d gotten himself a nice deal at the traffic-control unit: worked part-time. Could do late nights at the club on so-called junior Saturdays, a.k.a. Wednesdays, and then sleep in. Flipped the day for half the week. Monday mornings were tougher than he could’ve ever imagined.

There was an opened envelope on the kitchen table. Beside it, some paperwork. The words: Adoption Center. When he bent down he could feel his heartbeat speed up. It couldn’t be true. Please say you’ve found something for us. Something I can live with.

The papers felt tacky, sticking to one another. He was nervous, his hands were trembling, he tried to read calmly. Lots of filler words. Information has been verified. A doctor has been consulted. Our ambition is for the family not only to receive word of the child as soon as possible, but that the information received also be as accurate and complete as possible. How much information we have been able to collect about the child, however, varies a great deal between different countries and areas. He read through it, even though he kept wanting to flip ahead. Maybe to prepare himself in case of bad news. He wondered why Åsa hadn’t called.

Then there was a bunch of untranslated official Estonian paperwork, stamps, strange signatures. The pages that followed: descriptions of the orphanage, the boy’s age, condition, family situation. Rules for picking him up, demands for further permits, etc. And then, on the final pages: the pictures. Of Sander.

The boy was the most wonderful child he’d ever laid eyes on. A sixteen-month-old angel, chubby, with pale blond curls and brown eyes. He loved the kid immediately: Sander. His heartbeat transformed into rhythmic bells of joy. For the first time in many years, he felt completely warm inside. Happy, he guessed. It was fantastic. He called Åsa.

She picked up on the first ring. Bubbling with joy. Talk interlaced with tears. For once, Thomas didn’t get annoyed. He felt the same; they were going to have a son. They began planning right away. When they would pick up the boy, outfitting a nursery. Wallpaper, a lamp, a crib, a car seat, a stroller, a BabyBjörn. All the stuff Åsa’d heard her girlfriends go on about for years.

Åsa said that she hadn’t wanted to call and wake him up with the news. She wanted him to see the surprise for himself in the kitchen, the way it’d been for her. Thomas laughed. Maybe he was too hard on her about needing his sleep.

Goddammit—he was going to be a dad. He couldn’t decide: Laugh/cry. Cry/laugh. Laugh until he cried.

He worked out up in the TV room. The joy was still there, underneath it all. But the other thoughts’d snuck up on him. It was more than ten weeks since he’d been transferred to the traffic geeks. More than eight weeks since he’d done his first job for his new employer. His side gig as the Yugos’ made man was better than he’d expected. The strip club was beginning to feel like home. Life changed so quickly. The way he saw his work. His attitude toward everything. It snuck up on him over the years, a tiny bit at a time. The temptations aren’t actually built into the job—they’re built into the person. And one fine day you find yourself in a wasteland, where it doesn’t matter anymore how you treat the rabble and yourself. When it feels normal. He often thought about his dad. Gunnar’d built Sweden. Believed that everyone deserved to come along for the ride. Back then, Thomas wouldn’t have let anyone ruin what his dad’d built. But now he wasn’t so sure anymore. How’d he been treated by his own? Ljunggren and Lindberg? Sure, they toasted him at their Friday get-togethers, but what did they do, really? Ljunggren’d agreed to be reassigned that night and not gone on the beat with him. His regret about it came too late, somehow. There was no police spirit when you needed it. In comparison, Ratko, Radovan, and the others he’d met were real men. Honest in their own way. They stood by their word, did what they’d promised. He was paid the salary they’d agreed on without written contracts. But most important of all—nothing leaked out to Åsa or the cops. Thomas trusted the Yugos. More than anyone within the police force. It was strange, but true.

So, no matter how weird it sounded, the job at the club imbued him with a kind of calm. It offered a slow, steady rhythm that he felt at home with. It was more his style: freer rein. Uppity johns at the strip club got a taste of Andrén if they grew too rowdy.

Sometimes he did other things too—more complex, sophisticated. Participated in the security team at more high-class get-togethers. Swedish and foreign businessmen who wanted to have a good time. The strippers were glammed up to look like chicks with class, pro makeup artists were hired, young brats from the fancy Östermalm area organized the parties. Thomas didn’t see much of the actual events, but he dealt with the surrounding details. Taught the younger gym guys Ratko introduced him to how to use a baton and a Taser. Explained how to deal with a tanked fifty-year-old: calmly and correctly, but without taking no for an answer. Hard as steel. Made sure the right vests were bought, radio and walkie-talkie systems, belts, handcuffs, and gloves. He knew this stuff like the back of his hand. Ratko loved him. Maybe it was a breakthrough. Maybe he could do this full time.

And then there was the major thing. That kept eating away at him. Like a Post-it note stuck to the inside of his forehead. The Palme thing. Leader of the Social Democrats during Thomas’s entire childhood and adolescence, Sweden’s prime minister. Murdered. The moment when Sweden lost its virginity. It was insane. Everything pointed to the fact that Rantzell was the murdered man he’d found five months ago. And Rantzell was Cederholm. And Cederholm—that name ought to ring a bell—was the key witness in the entire Palme investigation. The man who claimed that he’d given a Smith & Wesson revolver to Christer Pettersson. The weapon that half the trial’d revolved around. Had Christer Pettersson had such a weapon or not? Was Cederholm credible or not? What was the nature of their relationship? The questions were making his head explode. But worst of all: What’d he stepped into? He thought about the way Rantzell’d been killed. Professionally done. The sliced fingertips, the missing dentures, no other ways to identify the victim. At the same time: so cheap and simple. In a basement, bloody, messy as hell. There had to have been a better way.

And one more thing: it almost felt personal. He thought about his old man again. For his dad, being a Social Democrat was as instinctive as being a man. There were no alternatives. Not because he was actually interested in politics on a theoretical level, but because he voted with his gut. What’s good for me is good for Sweden—everyone deserves to come along for the ride. Gunnar’d worked as a housepainter all his life. Hadn’t done what everyone did today: worked 80 percent off the books and did a little on the record for the sake of the tax man. Gunnar worked for someone, not for himself. He was an employee, a paycheck slave, his entire life. Union member since he was eighteen. “The Social Democrats,” he used to say, “are giving Sweden a chance.” People said that Palme was hated because he betrayed his class—the upper class he’d been born into. But Gunnar sang a different tune: “Palme was hated because he could talk so you felt it, all the way into a painter’s heavily surface-treated heart.”

Thomas remembered his dad in front of the television. Standing with him when Palme spoke at the square at Norra Bantorget. The man’s footwork behind the podium. Gunnar’s laughter when Palme smiled after delivering a sharp line.

Now someone’d killed Cederholm, the guy who’d ratted out the person who was a hair’s breadth from being convicted of the murder of Olof Palme. Thomas didn’t know what to do with it all. He’d told the current detective on the case, Ronander, that he’d met Ballénius at Solvalla, and he’d given him all the other info too. But he didn’t let slip about his conversation with Ljunggren that night in the car.

He knew it, could feel it in the pit of his stomach stronger than he’d ever felt any other warning—he shouldn’t poke around in this mess. And still, he did. To Thomas, it was so obvious. If it’d stopped at Adamsson bursting in on his and Hägerström’s visit to the morgue, he wouldn’t have given it another thought. But then, when Ljunggren told him that it was Adamsson who’d stopped him from going out on the patrol too, Thomas knew: Adamsson was knee-deep in this shit.

His options were pretty simple: either he forgot about Adamsson or else he proceeded with his own investigation. The conclusion was even simpler: no one would get away with shitting on him—he was going to nail those fuckers. Solve the Rantzell mystery.

It was on that night two months ago, when Ljunggren’d told him who Rantzell really was, that he’d made up his mind.

Right after they parted ways, he’d climbed into his car. Made an effort to keep to the speed limit. The embarrassment if he ended up being investigated by his own traffic unit would be too much. He went into a pizzeria on Sveavägen. Ordered a calzone and a glass of some cheap-brand whiskey. Downed it in two minutes. Everything was spinning. At the time, he’d just found out. Cederholm was Rantzell. Rantzell was Cederholm. Adamsson was involved. How much? In what way? Ljunggren’s new information opened up an abyss.

Thomas scarfed down the calzone.

The incidents were being put into a context. If this was connected to something as big as the Palme murder, anyone could be involved. It was sick. The guy outside their window three months ago could be a cop, a South African mercenary soldier, a Mossad agent, a Kurdish PKK terrorist. Anything. Thomas belonged to the camp that thought Christer Pettersson actually was the one who’d popped Palme. But there were some doubts. Sure, he’d heard other theories. Someone didn’t want the track marks on Claes Rantzell’s arm to come to light. Someone’d swept Thomas out of the picture. Someone with astonishing resources.

So far, Thomas’d acted impeccably, at least according to himself. It couldn’t be prohibited for a cop to look around a little on his own—and as soon as he’d found something out he’d called the new detective heading the investigation. But now it was time to go rogue completely. He needed to clear his name.

After the calzone, he walked across the street to a Cuban place. Had a seat at a table. Ordered a glass of Gran Reserva. Felt lonely. The walls were painted black. Big Cuban flags. Should he tell Åsa what he was doing?

He asked to borrow a pen and some paper from the waitress. Started writing down what he knew about the murder in bullet-point form.

Drank the wine in big gulps. The pistol was dangling along one side of his suit jacket. The waitress set down a small plate with grilled scampi. He ordered another glass of wine.

Looked at his list. Names, places, times. Too few bullet points. A big question mark around Rantzell. Who was he?

His cell phone rang. It was Åsa, who wondered where he was. He told her the truth: “I’m sitting at La Habana, alone, drinking red wine.” She wondered why. He almost told her the truth: “Seeing Ljunggren put me in a bad mood.”

An hour later: when he went to take a piss, he saw himself in the mirror. A reddish-purple grin filled with worry. He thought, Come on now, this’ll work itself out.

He walked outside, climbed into the car. Really didn’t care about his blood alcohol content. The traffic unit could go fuck itself. He drove toward Fruängen. His buzz felt fine, anyway.

The fall darkness that usually made him depressed felt invigorating. This was his investigation.

He’d realized that something was going on in the building already down by the entrance. Two big notes were posted on the elevator door. A police investigation is being conducted on the third floor, as well as on certain other floors. Due to this, the county police will be present in your building for a certain period of time. We apologize for any inconvenience. If you have any questions, please call: 08-401 26 00.

He took long strides. The right floor. The right name on the mail slot. Caution tape. Thomas took a step forward. There was a heavy padlock on the door. He went back down to the car again. Found his skeleton key. Brought his gloves along. Cleared the padlock in under a minute.

Went inside. The hall was dark. He turned the lights on. Jackets on hangers to the right. The floor was bare. His colleagues’d probably cleaned up shoes and other crap. Sent the stuff to the lab. Thomas wondered why they hadn’t taken the jackets, too.

The kitchen was small. Dirty dishes and silverware, run-down and nasty—standard protocol in junkie apartments. He knew the drill. Had been inside more crack dens than regular apartments in his life. He tried to analyze what kind of job the cops’d done in there. Felt like the booze was making him sharper. He could follow the sequence of events. How they’d swabbed, searched for fingerprints. Polished surfaces, placed dirty objects in evidence bags. He let his gaze register the details. Rantzell didn’t take care of himself. The signs were all there, the filth spoke a clear language.

The living room: a leather couch, a leather chair, flea-market art, shelves empty of books. Thomas took a step forward. Dust in the bookshelf. He remained standing there for a second. Looked, registered. Analyzed. Tried to see things through a detective’s eyes. What would Hägerström have seen in here? There was something, his gut told him so. He looked around the room again. The coffee table was cleared, traces in the dust, stains, burn marks. The TV, video: nothing strange. Hägerström, what would he have been looking for? Things that didn’t tally. Anomalies. Departures from the ordinary. Thomas knew all about crack dens. He could visualize the bookshelf before they’d emptied it. A couple of paperbacks maybe, possibly some inherited hardcovers or collected works. Even addicts cared about culture. Probably a few photos, possibly memories from a better time, a time before the present.

Then he saw it: the tracks in the dust on the bookshelf. They weren’t straight, regular. As they would’ve been if the technicians’d pulled the books out one by one and placed them in evidence bags. This was different—the books’d been swept out of the bookshelf. His thoughts came to a halt. Then he repeated the thought: the books’d been swept out. That meant that either Rantzell’d swept them out himself, or else someone’d searched the apartment before the police got there.

He went into the bedroom. The bed was stripped. Ingrained filth and stains covered the mattress. A rug on the floor. A mirror on the ceiling. He searched for traces of the person or persons who’d searched the apartment. Tried again—to think like someone else might. He didn’t see anything. Opened the closet. No clothes remained. He saw a box. Opened it. It was empty.

He continued trying to spot something, whatever it might be. On the wall farther down in the closet was a small metal cabinet, eight by eight inches. The door was ajar; it was empty. Looked like a key cabinet with three rows of hooks. He looked closer at the cabinet. It had obvious traces of having been broken into. That decided it: Rantzell wouldn’t break open his own cabinet, now would he? And what else did it mean? Maybe there’d never been anything in the cabinet. Or else the technicians’d taken what’d been in there, probably keys. But someone’d broken into the apartment before them. And maybe taken the keys that could’ve been hanging in the cabinet. What kinds of keys do you keep in a cabinet like that? Could be anything—for your bike, for the attic, the basement, the summer cottage, the car. He thought: no, not the car, it was too impractical to keep keys like that in a cabinet way back in a closet, behind clothes and a bunch of other junk.

He let his eyes scan the room again. Tried to understand what was important. It didn’t work. He was tired, his buzz was fading. It felt weird, being there. If he was found out, he could kiss the dull traffic unit good-bye. Pronto.

He left the apartment.

Took the stairs down. It was eleven-thirty at night. Down by the entrance. He stared at the note again. A police investigation is being conducted on the third floor, as well as on certain other floors. Other floors? Where could that be? He thought about the key cabinet. Just had to check one more place.

He went down into the basement. One of the storage units in the basement was cordoned off with caution tape. He stepped over the plastic barrier. The unit was open. An old carpet, two moving boxes. In one: dusty porcelain. In the other: old porn magazines. Other than that, the storage unit was empty. Thomas started walking back. The other storage units were more or less crammed with junk. Skis and ski boots, armchairs, bags, furniture, spare beds, crap. The bars felt feeble. The padlocks on the wooden doors were thin. He passed a unit that was almost empty except for a computer that looked like it was twenty years old. Imagine, people saved shit like that. Thomas felt a headache coming on. He just wanted to go home. Coming here was a mistake. He glanced into another storage unit. Froze. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Plastic bags. All with the same print on the side: Willys. He saw the image in front of him clearly: the woman who’d sat next to Ballénius at Solvalla’d had a bag like that.

His mind cleared. There was a connection. This was his chance. He opened the lock with his skeleton key. Stepped into the storage unit. Bent down. Checked out the dust, looked for footsteps or other signs that his colleagues’d been in here. Didn’t seem like it. On the other hand: next to the bags, the layer of dust was a little bit thinner than over the rest of the floor. Obvious: someone’d already taken something from the storage unit.

Thomas went out to his car. Got two big plastic bags from the trunk. Brought them down to the storage unit. Emptied the contents of the plastic bags into the two big bags. Smushed the bags down too. Tomorrow, no one would know he’d been there.

He remembered he had already been completely awake when Åsa woke up. Too many thoughts in his head. He needed to gain control over his ideas. Bring some order to his investigation. Understand what the finds he’d made in Rantzell’s basement meant. It was a lot of paperwork. It would take time to go through it and he didn’t like paperwork. He had to think things over. Give it time.

The Adamsson trail was the theme of the day. The questions were piling up. At which end would he begin unwinding the knot? When should he begin? In the present or in the past? He tried to analyze.

But how does a traffic cop run an investigation on a superior who is also the boss of all his colleagues in the Southern District? Should he go to the Palme Group, the little that was left of the Palme Commission, and tell them about Adamsson’s intrusion at the morgue? Maybe there was some paperwork that would back up the fact that the intervention happened. If not, it all went bust. But even if it was possible to prove that Adamsson was behind the incident at the morgue, it didn’t mean anything. Adamsson’d been right about that—they had been at the morgue without the requisite authority.

On the other hand, Thomas was certain that no evidence existed to prove that Adamsson was the one who’d ordered Ljunggren to switch patrols that night. Nothing more than Ljunggren’s word, and that wouldn’t weigh particularly heavily against Adamsson’s.

And Hägerström? Shouldn’t he call Hägerström? No, he would never call that IA snake. You had to have some pride.

All his suspicions were founded in the present, but he didn’t have much to go on. Maybe it was better if he tried to go back in time, research history. Find out who Adamsson really was and who he’d been. Thomas felt alone. His usual colleagues and friends were not reliable. The people at the shooting club were no support. And Åsa, she was really more of a burden in all of this.

The only person he could think of was Jonas Nilsson. He was simple—didn’t think too much. Thomas perceived him as genuinely kind, through and through. After all, Nilsson’d helped him look up Ballénius—without anything leaking about that, at least not that Thomas knew of. The only problem with Nilsson: he was a former colleague. In reality, Thomas didn’t know him anymore. But it was worth the chance.

He called the guy from Åsa’s cell to be on the safe side. They decided to meet up on a night that week. It was dicey: he didn’t know if he should tell Nilsson what it was all really about, the murder of a prime minister. He’d have to choose some happy medium.

It all went smoothly. They met up at Friden. Nilsson seemed happy to see him. They ordered beers, started shooting the shit straight off the bat. Compared districts, complained about equipment, bosses, their colleagues. Empathy-whined about Sweden, the National Police, the weather.

Thomas explained his thing: “I’m really damn pissed off about what happened to me.”

Nilsson was understanding. To be transferred to the traffic unit was a pure nightmare for a real cop.

Thomas went on. Explained that he thought it was Adamsson’s fault, that he wanted to find a way to really stick it to the old fucker. And then he said it. “Nilsson, do you know any old cop who might know what Adamsson was like back in the day? You know, we’ve all heard a bunch of talk about the guy. What he was up to during the eighties and all that. It would be golden if you knew someone who knew more than we do. Just to have something to hold over Adamsson.”

Nilsson promised to think about it. Talk to the old-timers, maybe one of the guys who’d helped him with Ballénius.

Jonas Nilsson delivered a name a few days later: Göran Runeby. Northern District, detective inspector. Not bad. According to Nilsson, Runeby was the kind of man who knew the police force the way a genealogist knows his family tree.

Runeby agreed to meet in an unbiased manner, that’s what he told Jonas. Thomas didn’t know what to expect and it didn’t matter—even if Runeby only knew what anyone could figure out—that Adamsson’d happened to pinch a police secretary in the butt now and then, that he’d had a predilection for excessive force, that he disliked immigrants—then that was good.

Thomas met Runeby at his house in Täby. The old guy lived in an okay house, two stories, more than 2,700 square feet. Thomas wondered if an inspector’s salary could really stretch that much further, or if Runeby’d played the game the same way he did.

Runeby’s wife was home. Welcomed him at the door.

“Hello, it’s so nice to see a fresh face. How do you two know each other?”

Thomas didn’t really know what to say. He just smiled and mumbled something about police matters.

“Sure. The usual, in other words.” Runeby’s wife smiled. Thomas thought she was probably used to the way the men carried on. She reminded him of his own mother.

Runeby came down from upstairs. Led Thomas into the living room. He had white hair and a white mustache. A thin gold watch on his wrist: over thirty years in the service of the state. The guy really was an old hand.

“I’m so glad you were able to come all the way out here. May I offer you something to drink? Cognac, whiskey?”

Thomas had a cognac. Runeby closed the doors to the room.

He was a straight shooter.

“So, Nilsson told me that you’ve got a particular interest in old Adamsson?”

Thomas liked his style. No small talk. Real police mentality.

“That’s right.”

“Just so you know—you can trust me,” Runeby said. “I’ve never liked that quasi-fascist.”

Thomas reacted inside. A police using the word fascist in that way wasn’t exactly par for the course.

He looked at Runeby.

“I’m sure you’re aware of what happened to me.”

Runeby didn’t say anything.

“I was transferred after the episode with the boxer. And it’s made me bitter as hell. I feel betrayed and poorly treated. Collegiality seems hard to come by in the Southern District. I’ll be completely honest with you, Runeby—I blame Adamsson.”

Runeby nodded but didn’t say anything. Waited for Thomas to go on.

“But that’s not what I want to discuss with you. I want to talk history. The past. I’ve heard quite a lot about Adamsson. But Nilsson said you know even more. That you’re well informed about the police in this city. So I would like to ask you, very humbly, if you would tell me about Adamsson, the old quasi-fascist, as you called him. Who is he and who was he?”

“And why do you want to know, if I may ask?”

“I hope you understand that I can’t go into that. But he betrayed me. I have no right to demand anything of you. But Nilsson said that you’d probably be willing to share some information with me.”

Runeby looked pleased. Even if the old guy hadn’t proven himself yet, Thomas couldn’t help but like him. There was something calm, dignified, and inviting of respect about the old inspector. Again: genuine cop feel—but with something special, something extra. Thomas couldn’t put his finger on what. But he could sense it plainly. Some kind of warmth.

“Okay. I think I understand,” Runeby said in a low voice. “I don’t really know where to begin. As for Adamsson today, I can tell you right away that I only hear good things. He seems to be well liked by you patrol officers in the Southern District. Isn’t that right?”

“If you’d asked me a couple of weeks ago, I would’ve said yes.”

“But now you’re less sure? I understand, but that has to do with your transfer, doesn’t it?”

“Not only.”

“Well, all right. I can’t talk about Adamsson as he is today. But I did have a great deal to do with him in the seventies and eighties. Those were strange times for us cops. When did you graduate from the Academy?”

“In ninety-five.”

“Ah, you’re that young. But maybe you’ve heard stories? Anyway, the political climate was completely different then. We lived in the shadow of the Cold War, as I’m sure you recall. But maybe you were too young to understand the nuances of what that meant.”

“I don’t know.”

Runeby went on at a calm pace. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. The first time I met Adamsson was in the military, I guess you could say. I wasn’t working in the Northern District at the time, but in the force we had several special units that could be deployed in the event of war. Within the Northern District, the assignment was to, in case of attack, initially—that is, before the military had time to react—defend the royal castle and the government buildings, Riksdagen and Rosenbad. Me and three others from what is now called the Western District were included in that unit because we were in the reserves. So I met Adamsson for the first time during a simulation exercise. He was competent and polite, as I remember. Within the police, he was known as a good shot, with vast knowledge about weaponry. We used to practice together with the National Home Guard, once a year or so. It was amusing, actually. Like a practice drill, except downtown. But there were guys in the unit who were skeptical. Many of them didn’t think there was enough invested in defense. They feared that an attack led by, for instance, the Soviet elite forces, Spetsnaz, would be able to occupy Stockholm in a matter of hours. As I remember it, Adamsson was a part of those discussions. And he was one of the ones who agitated the most. A group of us were stationed behind the House of Nobility, on guard. I remember how Adamsson chewed out a younger man. He was really cutting into him. You’re letting down the motherland, he barked. I remember that verbatim.”

While he listened intently, Thomas looked around Runeby’s living room. Dark wood bookcases with photos of the family and volumes of the National Encyclopedia, Jan Guillou’s collected works, and photo albums. On another wall were four large framed photographs of a coastline. Thomas assumed that Runeby or his wife’d taken them themselves.

“Maybe I should give you some background information after all. A lot of cops were under the impression that there was a war on. Not just the war we’re always fighting, that is to say the war on crime, but something bigger than that. It was the free world against Communism. The Russians could come any day. And a lot of cops saw themselves as part of the line of defense that would resist an attack.”

Thomas thought about his dad. No matter how big of a Social Democrat he was, he’d also always gone on about the Russians. “If we don’t wise up, we could end up like the Baltic countries,” he used to say.

Runeby spoke slowly. “In 1982, I started working in the Northern District. At that time, there were six SWAT teams there. One of them was included in the so-called Troop and was led by a commander who is dead now. His name was Jan Malmström, have you heard of him?”

Thomas vaguely recognized the name, but wanted to know more. He shook his head.

“He was a legend in many ways. But that team kept to themselves, they seldom spoke to the rest of us, only followed Malmström’s orders, dealt with appointments behind closed doors. It was generally acknowledged that they acted like real pigs, if you’ll excuse the expression, and sympathized with the far right. I remember that one of them, Leif Carlsson, openly called himself a Nazi. The others were bone-hard, too. Anyway, some of the members of the team were also politically active. There was a group that used to meet in Gamla Stan once a month or so. It had connections with a right-wing extremist publication called Contras. It was in that context that I met Adamsson a little later on. I myself was, how should I put this, deeply critical of the fact that certain elements within the Swedish government showed such weakness in the face of Communism.”

Getting warmer. Thomas couldn’t help but ask, “Is Leif Carlsson still alive?”

“As far as I know, Carlsson is still alive, but he must be around seventy by now. Where was I? Oh, yeah. The SWAT team and Gamla Stan. I think the Palme Commission looked into the people who ran those meetings. I feel like I’ve read that somewhere. But the ones who came to the meetings were never investigated. Malmström, Carlsson, Adamsson, Winge—no one bothered to ask about them. Since I was an officer in the reserves and connected with the National Home Guard and didn’t exactly shy away from being a little rough with the rabble, Malmström considered me reliable. I was invited to one of those meetings in Gamla Stan once.”

Runeby paused. The silence echoed in the room.

He took a deep breath, then he went on. “It was a basement venue on Österlånggatan. I think it was used by EAP, the European Workers’ Party, a small group made up of crazies that had its roots in the U.S. I remember that the first thing you saw by the entrance was a poster with a cartoon caricature of Olof Palme sitting on a cliff by the ocean. He was covering his eyes with his hands while around him the water was full of periscopes sticking up. It said: Palme is closing his eyes to the safety of our nation. I was surprised, almost shocked, to see how many people were there. A colleague of mine who’d been there before told me that there were senior police officers, officers in the navy, secret-service officers, and other high-ranking officials there. I recognized a few cops, but I had no idea who the others were. Lennart Edling, who’d organized the event, was stationed at the entrance to the venue, shaking everyone’s hand. When everyone’d arrived, we were served a drink. A police officer who’d been my first commanding officer in the Northern District gave the welcome speech. Maybe it sounds strange, but I remember exactly what it was about. We thought the subject matter was important. Patriotism, the threat against Sweden, Communism’s expansionist ideas. We were facing an overhanging threat, the lecturer said. If we didn’t do something about the danger, the Russians would come any day now. Then we sat down for dinner and I ended up next to Adamsson. He was my age, but we only knew each other superficially from the simulation exercises with the National Home Guard. This was sometime in 1985, so we must have been around forty—not totally green, in other words. He almost made an insane impression, as I recall. Babbled on about someone needing to do something about the hooknose—Palme, that is. That he, with his influence, was paving the way for the Soviet invasion of Sweden. Later, during the dinner, Adamsson got drunk and almost seemed to want to have a heart-to-heart. Started raving about how he liked me, that the department needed more people like me. Then he moved on to stranger things. He talked about organizing and administering a group that would keep watch over the traitor. That might be forced to do something about that Moscow marionette. I asked him who he wanted in the group. He told me that half the guys in the Troop were already in on it. I didn’t want to discuss the matter further because I thought he was embarrassing. After the dinner, there was a lecture. Right after the meeting, I didn’t think too much about what Adamsson’d said. There were so many extreme types there. But later, after the assassination, I’ve often wondered. I was actually the one who called the Palme Group and told them about those meetings.”

Runeby fell silent. Thomas was certain that he must have more questions, but he couldn’t think of a single one just then. The only thing he knew was that he needed more names, more people to get leads from. Finally, he came up with a question.

“Who gave the lecture after the dinner?”

Runeby leaned forward on the couch and sighed.

“I did.”

40

Tonight: a classy party for a guy who’d gated out. Fitness Center was closed. The owners, the dudes who ran the place, half of the beefcakes who trained there—everyone was gonna celebrate. Patrik, a regular, was home from the pen. Mahmud liked him: an ex-skinhead who’d straightened out. The only thing the guy cared about these days was bodybuilding and loyalty to Mr. R.

Fitness people weren’t the only ones celebrating: the VIP room at Clara’s was crawling with everyone who was anyone in Stockholm’s underworld. Like at the gangsta golf that some old OG member started: everyone with a decent swing who’d done more than two years on the inside was welcome. A bunch of old skinheads who’d accepted that White Power music and heiling didn’t generate cash and who’d changed gears to bigger bling instead: MC gangs, fighting, professional racketeering. And: Yugo overload. Mahmud saw Ratko. He was sporting a nasty fake tan and bleached hair. Ratko nodded vaguely to Mahmud. But no handshake. Asshole.

Guest list (continued): a couple Albanians, four or five Syriacs, a group of guys from X-Team, the Bandidos’ supporter club. Between the Yugos and the Albanians: cheek-kissing and friendly words. You could feel it in the air: this wasn’t just to celebrate an insignificant gate-out from the Kumla pen. The purpose: to show generosity, chivalry, to invite future alliances. The Albanians were taking over the city. The Yugos had to watch out, as Robert said.

And, of course, a guest contingent that mustn’t be forgotten: the whores. Mahmud’d never seen so many of them at one time. Really, they weren’t any different from the bitches at the clubs, except that maybe they didn’t look quite as hot. He thought about how close he’d been to pulling a hat trick last weekend. Still, he could sense it clear as day: the hookers were in the room without anyone really giving a damn. If they’d been normal chicks, the guys would’ve at least stared, flirted, pinched some bunda. But now it was like everyone was waiting for something, weren’t gonna help themselves to the pussy spread yet. As if the girls were just part of the backdrop in a movie, something that had to be in place before filming could begin. Because everyone was waiting. For Mister Mister. Radovan would show up sooner or later.

Mahmud pushed his way through the crowd to the guy who’d just gated out, Patrik. His jacket felt tight over the shoulders—it was the first time since the tenth anniversary of Mom’s funeral that he’d sported threads this dressy. He wasn’t used to it, felt fly. Broad grins on both their faces. “Yo, Patrik, good to see you again, man. How many plates didja drop?”

Patrik: scarred, shaved head, pale gray suit and a narrow tie that was tied loosely. The tattoos on his neck were sticking up above his collar. He threw his head back and laughed.

“Mahmud, you little terrorist. I’ll be back at target weight in three weeks. Promise.” Then, in a more serious voice, “But I was working pretty hard in there. Heard you did a turn, too.”

“Just six months. No biggie.”

“Then you know how it is. Some guys try to sleep through their time. There’s enough downers in there with all the shit they prescribe the ADD clowns. But if you work at it, you can get some good training in.”

“Absolutely.”

“I heard you’re working for us now.” Patrik started stretching his arm in the middle of the conversation. Mahmud thought about all of it, this whole situation. They were celebrating Patrik like a fucking king. But really, what’d homeboy done for the Yugos? Run a little coat-check racket, gotten in trouble with some bouncers at a club on Södermalm, lost control, beaten the shit out of a bouncer, been locked up for a few years. Why was he a hero? Why was he celebrated? Patrik’d lost his shit, couldn’t do the job professionally. Not like Mahmud—hustler who hustled, made fat stacks. Never fucked up. Anything.

He felt like splitting. Asking Patrik to shut up. Ratko and Stefanovic could go fuck themselves. Radovan, if he ever showed up, could pork his own mother.

“But you were sitting in a sweet place, right?” Patrick asked. Mahmud’d almost drifted off, forgot that he was standing in the middle of some buzz.

“Yeah, Asptuna. Basically my hood, you know, Botkyrka. Not close security at all, really.”

“You should be happy you were in a place like that. Times are tough for us on the inside these days.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Didn’t you hear? They tried to cut a guy at Kumla this weekend. One of ours. Seven guys went into the shower, six came out. They stabbed him nine times with a sharpened toothbrush. He’s in the ICU but he’s gonna live, he’s a tough devil. Warred down in the Balkans and shit. Guys like that don’t go down too easy, even if those fuckers tried.”

Mahmud was somewhere else. His concentration was directed at the other side of the room. All the voices’d died down a little. Everyone’s eyes were directed at the entrance—Radovan and his entourage’d walked in. Two chicks behind him. The crowd divided itself—created an aisle as though he was some big star at an MTV gala. Mahmud’d seen Radovan once before, about six months ago at the K-1 gala. But that was at a distance. Now: the first time he saw the boss close up. Or, rather, the first time he felt him. The guy reeked of authority. Even the Albanians froze. Stepped up, took the Yugo boss’s hand, kissed, smiled, fake-laughed.

Radovan was definitely not the biggest man, didn’t have the hardest stare, the most spring in his step—even if it was obvious that the boss would’ve been one of the toughest guys twenty years ago. It was something else: he spread a feeling around him, moved with a kind of ease that could only mean one thing: power. And his exterior: not that Mahmud knew much about suits, but the one R was rocking looked mad exclusive.

The girls behind him: completely different. One: had to be a whore, or some kind of mistress. High boots, plunging neckline, clown makeup. And the other one: young, very young, and strangely properly dressed. She reminded him of Jivan. He wondered who she was.

Stefanovic took a step forward, kissed Radovan’s hand. Mahmud’s gaze locked on the finger that the ass-licking fags were kissing: Radovan was wearing a large signet ring. Obvious: this was the man, the myth, the master of masters—the massive legend—Stockholm’s Godfather of ten years.

Patrik walked up to the boss. Did as everyone else did—kissed Radovan’s finger. You could tell he was a vet; Svens didn’t normally do that kind of thing. Radovan said some words of welcome. Introduced his women. With one, he just introduced her by name. But the other one surprised Mahmud—she was his daughter. Then he made a small gesture toward Patrik: fixed the Sven’s tie knot. An open signal: nice that you’re out, but you’re a nobody. Hammered it home: this party isn’t for Patrik. Maybe it was just about the Albanians.

Mahmud was less than two feet away from R. Could feel his presence deep in his gut. Then, a surprise—the boss turned to Mahmud. Raised his eyebrows.

“And who are you?”

Mahmud didn’t know what to say. Managed to spit out, “Mahmud al-Askori. I work for you.”

Radovan looked even more surprised. “No, I don’t think so. I know who’s employed in my businesses.”

Stefanovic, right behind Radovan, leaned forward. Whispered something in Radovan’s ear.

Mahmud’d understood enough. Understood that he’d made a fool of himself. At the same time: understood that he couldn’t roll with this.

Radovan moved on. Mahmud wouldn’t be able to have a good time tonight. He might as well go home. But he didn’t. Didn’t mesh with his self-image. He went to the bathroom. Did a line instead. Tried to perk up.

The next day, Ratko called. Mahmud felt groggy. He’d partied hard the night before. It just ended up that way. A couple of noses of blow and some sweet talk with a chick’d gotten him going. Not good for his training. He downed a glass of water. Two tablets of Diazepam Desitin—for his anxiety.

Ratko’d been hounding him last night. Buzzed about Mahmud doing a good job. Flattered. Buttered. Uttered, “I want you to help us with some stuff.”

Mahmud was doubtful. He wanted to get away from them. Get ahold of his life. Sure, he was raking it in, but he couldn’t take the humiliation. The Yugos were fucking with him. Still, he didn’t say anything.

Ratko explained. They needed help during the day. Keep an eye on some girls, as he put it. Mahmud assumed he was talking about whores. The girls lived in trailers at a campground. Ratko wanted Mahmud to make sure the girls had what they needed during the day. “And that they don’t head out on their own. If they do, they might get lost.” Smile. Wink-wink, you-know-what-I-mean.

“Don’t know if I got time.”

“You’ve got time for this,” Ratko said and patted him on the shoulder.

It was an order.

41

Iraq. With his company. Mike as sweaty as usual. Collin with black-painted streaks under his eyes. Joking that maybe they’d run into Harry, the prince of England, somewhere in the bush. The British accent. The mannerisms. The body language. The strap of the machine gun heavy over his back. Farther up, they glimpsed black smoke. Bubble-gum taste in his mouth. Collin always carried a couple packs of Stimorol with him. Pleasure in the heat. A Jeep was coming toward them. But he couldn’t see the driver. The landscape around him was changing. The stones and cliffs disappeared, were exchanged for burning oil drums. Fires everywhere. The world ignited by heat. The Jeep drew closer. Collin, Mike, and the others’d disappeared. Niklas approached the car. There was a man lying on the backseat. Blood was running from one of his ears. The face was turned down toward the seat. Niklas flipped him over. He could see him now—it was Mats Strömberg. “Why?” he said. The flames around them were licking the sky.

Niklas woke up. Tried to calm down. His heart was beating like crazy. Thought about the dream he’d just had.

He couldn’t fall back asleep. In today’s world, moral standards were served as a smorgasbord. You chose your ethical rules depending on your worldview. The bearded warriors down there chose their ethics based on their hate for the United States. Found support for their beliefs in the Koran and sunna. The Americans chose their rules based on their terror of no longer being the kings of the hill. But Niklas knew the important rules of the game. There was no right or wrong; there were no rules at all, really. Morality grew in the human mind. But there was still one rule: if you don’t act, you can’t change anything. You reach your goals through action. Morality was a human construct, it had no value. His mission was to create peace for women. No nightmares would stop him. Nothing in the real world would stop him.

He stared straight into the wall. Dreary grayish color. The structure of the fibers in the wall were clearly visible.

He thought about the two entry points in Strömberg’s back. Considered whom he should take next. Roger Jonsson or Patric Ngono? Niklas’d trailed both guys even more intensively over the past week, since taking care of Strömberg. Ngono was worse to his woman. But there was something about Roger Jonsson, too. Something that didn’t tally. Niklas’d seen him several times over the past few weeks. The guy checked out of his work. Took the car to Fruängen. Picked up a woman outside a mall. They drove home. Came out again after about an hour. Roger drove her back. Obvious: he was playing two hands. Classic infidelity. But who was the woman? A prostitute, of course. The guy visited prostitutes. Double trouble.

But something else determined Niklas’s decision. He’d ordered as much public information as was available on the two assholes. Not much. Patric Ngono appeared in some old Immigration Services case, but the guy was on the safe side now. Had gotten permanent residency, lived here for more than eight years. Collected welfare at some point, but now he was working. Probably under the table, but still.

There was nothing like that on Roger Jonsson. But there was something much worse. A conviction. Gross Violation of a Woman’s Integrity, between 1998 and 2002. And Aggravated Rape. Jonsson’d served three years. The sentence was public. Niklas ordered all the documents.

The reading almost crushed him. No, never—nothing crushed an elite soldier, one who’d seen the real shit down in the sandbox. On the contrary: it made him stronger. More sure of Operation Magnum. Si vis pacem, para bellum.

42

He’d driven out to the nursing home on a clear day in the middle of September. The surroundings were beautiful. Thomas could glimpse a lake behind the main brick building. The trees were still green, but you could sense that fall was on its way; there was a kind of damp in the air that snuck up on him when he climbed out of the car.

Tallbygården: a private nursing home on the shore of Lake Mälaren. High standard of living and good care, that’s what it said on the place’s website. The home for your idyllic final years. The home where quality care was valued highest. The home where Leif Carlsson—former police inspector, SWAT team member, neo-Nazi—lived.

Stig Adamsson’d claimed that he was going to start a right-wing group whose mission would be to keep an eye on Olof Palme. But what did that mean, really?

Thomas’d tried to read up on the story. A couple of borrowed books and the Internet—it was almost too much for him. The murder of Olof Palme was Sweden’s equivalent of the Kennedy assassination twenty-three years earlier. A web of conspiracy theories that never seemed to end. He made a list of a couple of theories before he lost interest—they flourished like weeds. One basically amounted to: members of Augusto Pinochet’s feared death squads were in Stockholm the week of the murder, but since the intelligence chief, Holmér, thought the two professional Chilean assassins, Michael Canes and Robert Tartino, were one and the same person, the lead was never followed. Another theory claimed that Christer Pettersson’d made a mistake; he’d actually intended to shoot Rantzell—then known as Cederholm—but due to the clumsy work of the police, they were forced to cover up parts of the investigation. Bullets were missing, phone-tapping transcripts were forged, the police authorities refused to explain what the two patrol cars that’d been parked outside the Grand Cinema on the night of the murder’d been doing, exactly. It was endless.

Thomas needed real information. From people. Not from a bunch of circumstantial evidence, detail obsession, and conspiracy craziness. Above all: he needed to understand the connection to the present day—to Rantzell’s mangled body in the basement at Gösta Ekman Road.

Runeby’d mentioned the SWAT team that Adamsson’d been a part of. That’s where Thomas had to begin. Among the people who knew Adamsson—who shared his views—during the time of the murder with a capital M. There’d been eight cops in total, of which Adamsson was one. Their boss, Malmström, was dead. Six people remained. It wasn’t too difficult to find information on them. Jonas Nilsson knew all of them well, most of them were still on the police force, but no longer in positions that were as conflict-ridden. The classic fate of a patrol officer: sit out your final fifteen years in a basement, registering bike thefts.

He made up his mind easily: his first visit would be paid to Leif Carlsson. He was the oldest. He’d been an outspoken Nazi. Above all: the guy had Alzheimer’s—he was the perfect interrogation victim.

Tallbygården appeared peaceful. He saw old people on a few of the balconies facing the greenery. Narrow walking paths wound their way through the trees. He walked into the entrance hall. Ficus trees, couches with Josef Frank fabric, and a message board with notices and information materials pinned up on it: Singing with Lave Lindér on Thursday. Trosa’s librarian will be here to speak about new books at the library on the 17th, at 8 a.m. Gentlemen’s Aerobics on Tuesday morning is canceled.

Thomas waited awhile. There was no welcome desk. He thought about Runeby. The final thing the inspector’d told him was that he’d been the one to hold the lecture that time in Gamla Stan. Really, it wasn’t as strange as it sounded—the guy’d served two years in some kind of private army in South Africa in the late seventies. “For the battle’s sake,” as he’d said. “Not because I was a racist.” Thomas didn’t really care what his reasons were—but he had to watch out. How mixed up was Runeby really in that Gamla Stan organization?

After a few minutes, a nurse came walking out through a glass door.

“Is Leif Carlsson here?” Thomas asked.

The nurse led him up one flight of stairs. Flowers in the windows, framed prints with Swedish art classics: Zorn, Carl Larsson, Jirlow. A TV room, a cafeteria, plenty of staff. The nurse knocked on a door. Never even asked who Thomas was.

Leif Carlsson didn’t look as frail as Thomas’d imagined. Neatly combed side part. Blond hair that was going gray at the temples. A crooked smile, a glimmer of challenge in his blue eyes. Did he really have Alzheimer’s? Leif Carlsson was tall. Thomas could picture what he’d looked like thirty years ago, probably significantly bigger: a terrifying vision to the rabble on the street.

The TV in the room was switched on. Carlsson seemed to have been sitting in a chair in front of it. He’d stood up when Thomas came in. The nurse left them alone. Closed the door.

“Good morning. My name is Thomas Andersson, inspector, the Palme Group.”

Carlsson dropped his hand. “So, you’re coming now?”

Thomas couldn’t judge if it was an accusation or a fateful declaration.

The old man sat down. It looked as though he was constantly tasting something in his mouth with his tongue. Probably a tic.

Thomas sat down on a chair by a small desk. The assisted-living apartment was small: a bedroom with the door ajar and a living room, where they were sitting now. Carlsson’d furnished it like a real home. A Persian carpet on the floor, a couple of paintings on the walls, an armchair and a desk in rococo style.

“I just want to ask you some questions. I hope that’s all right.”

Apparently, Carlsson’d been seriously ill for five years. His resistance to an interrogation ought to be weaker than a kid’s.

Carlsson nodded. “I have nothing to hide.”

Thomas pressed record on an audio recorder he had in his pocket.

“Tell me about the Troop.”

“You mean the A-route?”

“Yes, that’s the only group that’s ever been called the Troop, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, I think that’s what we called it.”

“Who were ‘we’?”

“Who are you, anyway?”

Thomas responded calmly, “Thomas Andersson, the Palme Commission.” Well, the geezer sure had Alzheimer’s.

Carlsson moved his tongue around in his mouth again. Repeated, “So, you’re coming now.”

Thomas went on, “Tell me about the Troop, the A-route. Who was in it with you?”

“In the Troop? It was Malmström, of course. Then it was Jägerström, Adamsson, Nilsson, Wallén. A couple more. I don’t remember.”

“And Malmström, he was the boss?”

“Oh yeah. Malmström. He was a real officer. The kind we need in the police force. But he quit. He lives out by Nykvarn nowadays.”

“Malmström is dead.”

“Really? That’s too bad. I haven’t seen him since I retired.”

Thomas started thinking about ending the interrogation. Carlsson was obviously too confused. But the question was if his memory from the eighties was better than his memory from the present.

“Who used to go to those meetings in Gamla Stan, in the EAP offices?”

Leif Carlsson looked disoriented. “I was never there.”

Thomas felt his surprise grow. The old guy wouldn’t lie, would he?

“Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true. The guys who organized it, Ålander and Sjöqvist, didn’t invite me. Not because I had anything against them, or that they had anything against me. That wasn’t it. I shared their patriotism and worry in the face of the Red infiltration. But I was never invited. Maybe it wasn’t so strange, though. My father worked at one of the companies that Bolinder owned. So he was afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

“What did you say?”

“They were afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

“But why?”

“Dad worked at Bolinder’s company.”

“And who was this Bolinder?”

“The financier.”

“The financier of what?”

Suddenly Carlsson got that gleam in his eye again, tasted the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then he said, “Bolinder. He was the one who funded those meetings, the organization, the project. All of it. But I think I was the only one who knew that.”

“Why were you the only one who knew that?”

Leif Carlsson started giggling. “Just because I’m sitting here talking a load of crap doesn’t mean I didn’t do my part for Sweden.”

“I understand. But tell me more about Bolinder.”

“I don’t remember Bolinder. But Bohman, he was too weak.”

“Bohman who?”

“Gösta Bohman, I mean. The head of the right-wing party. Are you too young to remember him?”

Carlsson looked pleased.

Gösta Bohman was the Moderate Party leader in the seventies. Leif Carlsson was confused. The Alzheimer’s made it difficult to know what was relevant and what wasn’t. Thomas tried to ask a few more questions, but was just given confused answers in response.

He needed someone else.

On his way home. Thomas’s thoughts were spinning. Bolinder—where’d he heard that name before? It didn’t fit. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t one of the security-service people that Runeby’d mentioned. Who was Bolinder?

Then it clicked: he’d heard Ratko talking about planning “higher-class events” at some Bolinder’s place. Thomas’d even instructed a couple of gorillas how a set of walkie-talkies worked because they might be needed at one of those events—was it the same person?

43

He stayed in bed. His thoughts were churning around, around. In the same old tracks. He thought about the narc who’d approached him about a week ago. Maybe they tried that on others, too. Who could be trusted? Robert felt safe. Tom and Javier, too. But Babak? Fuck, man—he missed Babak.

At around two o’clock, he got up. Made coffee. Dumped sugar into it. Perked up a little. Popped a Diazepam. Later, he’d need an upper to make it to the gym. Pressed play on a porno. Tried to jack off. He thought about the honey from last weekend. Gabrielle. The porno felt lame in comparison.

Ratko called at three o’clock. Mahmud’d almost managed to forget his order. He got dressed. Jeans, a hoodie. Baseball jacket. Fall—the worst season. The weather needed to make up its mind. Not shilly-shally like some tranny.

Ratko’d given him directions: “Go to Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace and wait.” Shit, they were really pushing him around. He was their bitch.

A half hour later. Mahmud knew these projects like the back of his hand. Maybe he should check into the university. Honestly. Lecture on Shurgard storage facilities and housing project sociology. He knew why they built areas like this. They created a world where no one would get it into their minds to try to get ahead. Just stay down there in the shit, without getting too worked up about it. Society’d made him into what he was.

The business signs didn’t even try to be sexy around here. State Dentistry, the library, the Coop Konsum grocery store, Swedbank, the accounting firm Håkansson & Hult, a barber, the Pasta House: Extra Much Extra Cheap, Svedin’s Shoes, a pizzeria, a pharmacy. And, finally: Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace. He sat down. Ordered a Diet Sprite. Tried to call some peeps. First Rob, then Tom, then Javier, then his sis. No one picked up. Time crawled slower than an old lady with a walker. He waited.

After twenty minutes, Dejan walked in. The guy was a sly motherfucker. Rimmed Radovan for pennies. Talked smack about Arabs as soon as he got the chance. They shook hands.

Mahmud climbed into his Benz. Followed Dejan’s car. First the high-rises. Then a couple of single-family homes. Then industrial buildings. A bunch of nature. The road was winding. Away from the concrete. After ten minutes: a sign. THE VIEW, CAMPGROUND—TRAILER AND RV.

Set up in the November rain: twenty-odd trailers. Five run-down cars. A sea of mud. Sparse trees all around. Electrical wires led to the trailers from poles.

Dejan parked his car. Mahmud pulled in behind him. What a nasty fucking trailer park.

Dejan walked up to one of the campers. The white paint was gray. A faded sticker on one of the windows said: Go Gästrikland!

They walked in. The smell of smoke hit Mahmud in the face like an uppercut. Low radio music. First, he didn’t see the girls. It was like they were a part of the furnishings. Gray, beige, brown. Boxes of food, pizza cartons, Coke bottles on the kitchen counter. They were sitting at the doll-sized table. Dark brown hair. Chopstick skinny. One was very pale. Thin lips. Sorrowful eyes. The other: rosier cheeks, but even darker eyes. In front of them on the table: packs of counterfeit Marlboros. The feeling: grody. Dejan said something in Russian or a similar language. The girls seemed disinterested. Didn’t even look up.

Dejan explained in his crap Swedish: “This, Natascha and Juliana. Maybe not juiciest meat we got, but okay.” He grinned. “Here, we got real tasty ones. Promise.”

Mahmud didn’t know what to say.

“Now you know who they are. That’s enough,” Dejan said.

They stepped out. Dejan brought him to seven more campers. Two whores in each. The same bored attitude. The same smoke-saturated rooms. The same empty stares.

On the way back to the car, Mahmud asked, “So, what do you want me to do?”

Dejan stopped. Threw his arms open.

“This our stockpile, yes? You keep track a little of stockpile. Make sure nothing get lost, transport sometime. If client here—not allowed to hurt stockpile. Days, only. When you not do your other business.”

Mahmud got it: they saw him as some kind of fucking poon-nanny. Man, if his dad found out.

That night, he took care of his usual business. Slung more than sixty grams to a contact who represented an Iraqi family that owned restaurants.

Jamila called around ten o’clock. Wanted help installing a new DVD player. Shit, she was living it up on the bills he slipped her when his business boomed. Just these past few weeks, she’d bought a Gucci bag with a bamboo handle for eight thousand, high-heeled shoes for three G’s, and a silver necklace with fat letters on it: Dior. Crazy, but Mahmud couldn’t help but love the glitter in her eyes when she came home with the stuff. He was gonna keep outfitting her and his little sis. The real deal.

He fiddled with the DVD player. Was planning on hitting the town later. Had arranged to meet up with Robert. Piranhasize Stockholm. Maybe that Gabrielle chick would be out tonight. If not, he was gonna find someone else.

Jamila told him about the latest Louis Vuitton bag, the latest Britney gossip, and her plans for the future: start her own tanning salon. Mahmud thought, Don’t let the Yugos fuck it up for her. She told him about nasty texts she’d gotten from her ex.

“He doesn’t dare do shit,” Mahmud said. “That loser.”

Jamila sighed. “I don’t know, Mahmud. He’s crazy. And that Niklas guy moved away, too. He was so sweet.”

“Yeah, he was tight. Where’d he move?”

“Not far.” He’d given her the address.

“Okay, he like you, or what? You know what Dad would say about him.”

“He doesn’t feel like that kind of guy. I think he just wants to help me. Honestly, you know?”

“Maybe.”

Mahmud had a thought. Niklas seemed like a good Sven. What’s more: like a real commando, special-ops style. Maybe he should get to know him better. And another thing: the soldier guy could keep an eye on Jamila now and then.

Jamila dug the idea. And she was the one who usually screamed and sulked as soon as Dad said she needed to be controlled more. Mahmud grinned at her. “Come on, sis, you’re a little sweet for that Sven. Admit it.”

They decided to pay him a visit. Niklas didn’t live far away.

They rang the doorbell.

Niklas opened the door. In his face: both surprise and joy. He began to speak with Jamila in his half-assed Arabic. Mahmud eyed the guy properly for the first time. Dressed in a T-shirt with DynCorp written on it; it was tight over his pecs and biceps. The guy looked built. Not like Mahmud—built like a safe—but tougher, more sinewy, endurance muscles. He wondered what DynCorp was. The guy looked sweaty. Maybe he was working out at home. Mahmud tried to catch a glimpse of the apartment. Saw a computer, a bed, lots of paperwork, tools, junk. Saw something else too, on the table: a long, shiny knife. Shit, Niklas seemed a little psycho.

They left a short while later. It’d been nice, anyway. Jamila was glowing. Mahmud laughed again.

“Cut that out. You know what Dad would think.”

Jamila turned to him. Her eyes: serious.

“Don’t talk about what Abu would say to me. If he even knew a tenth of all you do, he’d die.”

Mahmud stopped. “What’re you talking about?”

“You know what I mean. He’d die of shame.”

It hurt. Like a knife being twisting into his gut.

Die.

Of shame.

He knew how right she was.

His entire body was screaming at him. Get away from them. Step off before it’s too late.

Break up with the Yugos.

44

Niklas got out of bed. More tired than usual. Four hours of sleep. His cameras kept rolling at night. The footage he’d speed-scrolled through didn’t show anything interesting. But it would come. He wanted proof. Righteousness was his thing. Strömberg, Jonsson, Ngono—he already knew enough about them. Niklas was a man of honor: if one of them didn’t show himself to be that kind of man, he wouldn’t attack. It wasn’t about morals, it was about action.

After breakfast, he strapped the heart-rate monitor on. Got dressed: underwear, workout clothes.

The air was colder now. The asphalt was wet. He jogged at a calm pace. The air was cool to breathe. It felt so good.

Home again: He practiced katas with the knife. Felt in better shape than in a long time. The sweeps through the air. The knife’s arch-shaped movements staked out a blocking area in the room. Smooth stabs. Nimble jabs. The knife had to follow the will of the hand’s muscles as if it were a sixth finger.

He showered longer than usual. Yesterday, he’d seen Jamila’s brother, Mahmud, again. Not the kind of person he would’ve gotten to know ten years ago. Even less the kind of person he would’ve met down there. The question at hand: Was he a person he ought to know now? Maybe Mahmud could help him with the fight? Niklas knew the dude didn’t share his beliefs, but the guy had drive. Something in his eyes. Not the vermin’s sparking spitefulness. Something else.

Above all, the Arab seemed as hot for cash as Niklas was. Niklas couldn’t care less what Mahmud wanted to do with his money. Money was a means to an end. But maybe, maybe the Arab could be something else for him? Benjamin was a traitor. The anarchist-feminist activists weren’t willing to participate in the Operation. Mom was out of the match. The Arab might prove to be a puzzle piece in the war.

After the shower, he ate again. His financial situation was starting to reach crisis level. He didn’t have the energy to think about that right now. He didn’t know what to do.

He climbed into the Ford. Missed the Audi, somehow. He needed to think.

He drove slowly. Tried to figure out where he wanted to go.

Thought about his money situation again.

He drove out of the city via Nortull. Kept thinking about Mahmud. How could he use the Arab? The Biskops-Arnö people’d just talked and talked. The only people they influenced were one another—the rest of society didn’t give a damn about them. Then he thought about Mom again. Why couldn’t they talk anymore? Why couldn’t she just accept? Everything he did, he did for her.

Niklas looked around. It was strange. He was in Edsviken, Sollentuna. Where Nina Glavmo-Svensén lived. The woman who’d sold him the Audi. He drove toward her street. Pictured her green eyes. The baby on her arm. Her crooked smile.

He reached the area. Vikingavägen ran like an artery through adjoining plots of land. The small streets were like detours leading into the inner realms of an idyllic world.

There, a hundred feet farther up, was the house where she lived. Number twenty-one. The yellow wood siding didn’t look as shiny in the drizzle as it had during the summer, when he’d been there last. The trees were barren. He thought about what things must be like for her. A man who denied her the right to a life. She needed Niklas. That much was clear. Crystal clear.

The car rolled slowly down the street. He leaned his head back. Tried to look in through the windows, see if there was a light on in there. Fifty feet from the house. He saw that the garage doors were closed. The autumn sky was the color of chromed steel. Nina lived somewhere in there, in the warmth.

He could feel it: she was home. He drove past the house. Slowly. Peered. Stretched to try to see in. Saw a movement further in, inside a room. She was there.

Niklas turned right. Up a hill. His palms were sweaty. The wheel was sticky. Right again. Down. Back on the street. His heart was pounding. Number eleven. Da-dum. Number fifteen. Da-dum. Soon, number twenty-one again.

He wanted to ring her doorbell so badly. See her. Touch her. And she probably wanted to see him.

He stopped the car outside the house. Too bad it wasn’t the Audi anymore. That would’ve made Nina happy.

So happy.

45

Jasmine showed up late to the club. Thomas saw it right away. Thought: There’s something different about her tonight. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled down low over her eyes, a baggy hoodie, a knee-length skirt over tight jeans. Tanning-salon bronzed like a mulatto after two weeks on la playa. What was it that didn’t tally? He looked again. She wanted to hide something. Her choice of dress was speaking loud and clear: the hoodie, the skirt. The tan, the baseball cap.

Then he saw: the lips. They were pouting like on someone goofing off. Then he saw more: the breasts. Also pouting a stupid amount—either she’d stuffed two handballs under her sweater or, more likely, she’d filled up with at least two pounds of implants in each tit.

Thomas grinned. “You look—how should I put this? Thriving.”

At first, Jasmine was dead serious. Acted like she didn’t understand. After three seconds: she grinned back at him. “Whaddya think?”

Thomas gave a thumbs-up. “Sure. But the lips? Are they gonna settle a little, or what?”

Jasmine laughed. “I think so. I’m switching fields, so I need this.”

“Chapstick model, or what?”

“Ha-ha, real funny. I’m gonna make a career.”

“Oh yeah? Are you gonna tell me what you’re gonna do, or do I have to guess?”

“Erotica.”

Thomas was silent for a second too long. Jasmine noticed his reaction.

“What? You got a problem with that?”

He didn’t want to argue. To bare your body in front of people and run the register now and then at a well-guarded strip joint maybe wasn’t the best gig in the world, but still—it paid good money. And he was there to keep track of the rabble-rousers. But porn felt dirtier somehow. He couldn’t explain why. He liked porn. But he also liked Jasmine—they laughed a lot. Not just at the same jokes, but together at the same jokes. As if they understood each other. He didn’t want her ending up in trouble.

“The producer paid for the implants and everything. It’s totally free. Can you believe it? You know what this kind of thing costs?”

“I have no idea. But is it really the right thing for you?”

“Of course.” Jasmine went on to describe how good the erotica business was going to be for her. Told him about her plans, different career paths, routes to fame.

“Erotica is, like, much better than stripping. There’s no money in stripping in Sweden. And, you know, the strippers are bitches with a nasty attitude. But everyone says it’s the opposite in the film industry. That it’s like one big, happy family, you know?”

Thomas shut her out. It hurt to listen. He’d watched too much porn to care to imagine Jasmine in the scenes he usually jerked off to.

Later that night, Ratko showed up. Laughed at Jasmine too. “I think things’re gonna go well for you, honey,” he said, like he was her dad or something. What bullshit.

Ratko sat down next to Thomas. Put his arm around his shoulders. Jasmine was inside, doing a show. One of her last.

“What do you think about Jasmine’s plans?”

Thomas looked around the room. Wondered what Ratko was trying to get at. Was it a provocation? He didn’t care either way—he always spoke his mind.

“I think it sounds like shit. That’s a dirty business.”

“So, you think this is a lot better, then?”

“We keep order here.”

At first, Ratko didn’t answer. Thomas turned to him. “Was there something you wanted?”

A crooked smile on Ratko’s lips. “You do a good job, Thomas. We think you’re performing. Just so you know.”

Ratko got up. Walked into the show area.

Thomas didn’t bother trying to interpret what the Yugo’d just said.

When the right moment came along, he was going to ask about Sven Bolinder, the so-called financier, the one Leif Carlsson’d babbled about.

He woke up around eleven o’clock. Åsa’d gone to work without waking him up, as usual.

In the bathroom. He let the shaving cream soak in for an extra long time. Shaved meticulously: short strokes with a fresh razor. He looked at himself in the mirror. Tried to really see himself, not just his reflection. Who was he? What did he want?

He knew what he wanted: to track down Rantzell’s killer and bring home his adopted child. It felt like a good balance. One project to solve outside the home. One to solve at home. But who was he? During the day, he was an upright citizen. At night, he belonged to the underworld. Just like the enemy. Maybe he was the enemy?

He thought about Leif Carlsson’s muddled answers. Then he thought about Christer Pettersson, who’d almost been convicted for the Palme murder. It wasn’t a question of if there were any connections. It was a question of how strong the connections were. Too bad he couldn’t ask Pettersson himself. The guy’d bit the dust a couple of years ago in what seemed like a natural enough cerebral hemorrhage.

Thomas’d mixed what everyone in Sweden who was over thirty years old knew about the murder with his more specialized knowledge from the police force. And then he’d done some research too, lately.

A picture was emerging. Of one of Sweden’s most wanted men: Christer P. The biggest murder investigation ever, a national trauma: the unsolved murder of a prime minister. An unhealed wound in the Swedish consciousness. An unpleasant, stinging mystery for anyone who came from the same background as Thomas—regular Swedish middle-class people who still knew where they had their roots. Whom they had to thank for being where they were today.

Olof Palme’d been shot in the open, on a public street, more than twenty years ago. Thomas wasn’t as politically interested as his dad’d been, but according to him: Palme—Sweden’s biggest ever politician internationally. A man of honor, a friend to regular Swedes. Executed with a clean shot to the back. It was a good shot, he had to admit.

Three years later, the District Court convicted Christer Pettersson of the murder and sentenced him to life in prison. The guy was identified by Olof Palme’s wife, Lisbet Palme, during a lineup arranged by the investigators. What’s more, there were apparently witnesses who placed him at the scene of the crime and who said he had the same limp the perpetrator apparently had. Pettersson: an aggressive deadbeat alcoholic. Maybe the perfect scapegoat. But this was the murder of a prime minister. You couldn’t just make a conviction based on circumstantial evidence and shady claims—the Court of Appeals freed Pettersson. There was not proof beyond a reasonable doubt, that was the claim.

Claes Rantzell, previously Claes Cederholm, showed up as one of the key witnesses in the federal prosecutor’s appeal to the Supreme Court a few years later. The state really wanted to get Pettersson convicted.

Claes Rantzell: drug dealer, front man, finally run down on booze and pills himself. In the fall of 1985, a few months before the murder, he said he’d lent Pettersson a Magnum revolver, make: Smith & Wesson, .357 caliber. Rantzell said he never got the revolver back. What’s more, Pettersson’d been over at Rantzell’s house on the night of the murder. Rantzell was the witness who’d been interrogated the most during the entire preliminary investigation, but his memories seemed to vary—Magnum delivery boy, ammunition Santa, canary. A perfect witness to identify Pettersson.

But the Supreme Court didn’t hear the case. The appeal collapsed. There was no new trial for Pettersson. No conviction for the legend from Sollentuna that time either. But in most people’s eyes, he was still guilty. Lisbet Palme’s poorly handled ID, along with Claes Rantzell’s claims about the Magnum revolver, sank him. The logic of the Swedish people was simple: Lisbeth somehow recognized Pettersson, he’d been near the scene of the crime, and he’d had access to a revolver of the same make as the murder weapon. On top of that: he was an aggressive, down-and-out drunk—that made it all easier, somehow.

And now Rantzell’d been killed. It might not to be so strange—men like Claes Rantzell died of cirrhosis or other diseases that took out people with crappy lifestyles. Or through violence.

But in this case: someone was trying to cover up the tracks in a much too sophisticated way.

This thing was ten times bigger than he’d thought before he knew who Rantzell was.

So much bigger that it gave him vertigo.

The two leads emerged slowly. Adamsson in the past. Rantzell in the present.

After the sloppy interrogation with Leif Carlsson, the Alzheimer’s patient, he needed to speak with someone else. He’d been thinking about calling Hägerström again. But no, not now.

Who of the other members of the Troop, the SWAT team that Adamsson’d been a part of, could he get something out of? Malmström was dead. Adamsson was the enemy. He’d already talked to Carlsson. Remaining: Torbjörn Jägerström, Roger Wallén, and Jan Nilsson, who were all still active-duty cops, and Carl Johansson and Alf Winge, one of whom was retired while the other ran a private security company. And he should do some more research about this Sven Bolinder guy, too.

Thomas decided to begin with Alf Winge: the guy seemed to live a calm life without needing to break too much of a sweat. What decided it: Winge wasn’t a cop anymore and Runeby’d mentioned him as one of the guys at the meetings in Gamla Stan. He’d been an insider.

Alf Winge walked out of 32 Sturegatan at five-thirty. The trees in the Humlegården park were almost bare of leaves. The offices of Alf Winge’s private security company, WIP—Winge International Protection AB—were situated on the third floor of the building. Thomas’d checked out the website. WIP detailed their services openly: they did specialized surveillance and protection assignments, as a complement to other actors on the surveillance and security market. The field’d grown like an avalanche since 9/11.

Alf Winge was around fifty years old. Still had a spring to his step that seemed powerful. Cop style: integrity, good posture, gaze fixed on something farther down the street. He had a shaved head, stern furrows along his cheeks, light-blue eyes that looked gray. He was dressed in a dark-blue coat, sturdy black shoes, a Bluetooth headset still in his ear even though he wasn’t using it right then.

Thomas saw him get into his car, an Aston Martin, real sports-car feel. WIP was apparently doing well. Thomas started the engine of his own car. Winge’s killer ride rolled down Sturegatan. Thomas followed. He knew where Winge lived. He knew the road Winge usually took home. He knew where on that road he was going to stop the old riot-squad cop.

Forty minutes later: Bromma, a luxury suburb where, probably, not too many cops could afford to live—except for the ones who abandoned the force and put their cards on something private instead. Kiselgränd: a day-care center surrounded by sparsely growing trees. It was deserted now, after its six o’clock closing. The only movements were the cars that drove past, on their way home.

It didn’t look like Winge was reacting to being followed. Or else he saw, but didn’t give a shit. Maybe he was a real hardass.

Thomas stepped on the gas. Drove up alongside Winge’s super ride. He’d borrowed a blue light from the traffic unit. Put it on the dashboard. Flashed the lights. Saw Alf Winge turn his head to the side. Register that an undercover cop car was trying to get him to pull over.

Winge hit the brakes. Pulled over to the side of the road. Thomas turned in slowly. Parked diagonally in front of the Aston Martin. Was almost surprised that Winge’d stopped so easily.

Thomas flashed his police badge in front of Winge’s face. The guy didn’t move a muscle.

“What do you want?”

“License and registration, please.”

Winge extended his arm, showed his license. He looked young in the picture. Alf Rutger Winge.

“This is just a routine check. Would you mind stepping out of the car for a moment?”

Winge remained seated. “What is it you claim I’ve done?”

“Nothing. It’s just a routine check. We’re on the lookout for certain things in this area.” He added something that he thought Winge would like: “You know, there’s got to be limits for the rabble. We don’t want them here in Bromma.”

For a brief moment, Winge looked like he was thinking it over. Then he opened the car door. “Okay.” A car drove past on the road. Thomas waited, the baton in one hand. Then he went into action. Hit Winge in the kneecaps as hard as he could. The guy crumpled, sank slowly down to his knees. He didn’t even scream. Thomas was over him immediately. Slapped the cuffs around one wrist. Winge turned around, tried to hit back. Thomas was faster: sprayed him with pepper spray. At least he was screaming now. Thomas was acting as if in a trance—the other wrist in the handcuffs behind his back, dropped the spray, pulled out his gun, pressed it up against Winge’s side, and spoke in a clear voice, “Get up.”

Winge got up. Must think Thomas was some kind of road pirate who’d gotten his hands on a police badge. Thomas pushed him into his own car. Tears from Winge’s red eyes: blinked, blinked, blinked.

He started the car, secured Winge’s cuffed hands to the car door with another pair of handcuffs. Pulled up in the empty yard of the day-care center. Away from the road. Away from where people could see them. Free to begin the interrogation.

Winge’d collected himself a little. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Thomas steeled himself. “Shut up.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I don’t give a shit who you are.”

“I don’t have any money on me and they’ll track the car down in five minutes; it’s got a built-in GPS. What do you want?”

“I said, shut up. I’m the one asking the questions.”

Winge stopped. Did he recognize the most hackneyed of cop interrogation phrases?—“I’m the one asking the questions.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Did you hear what I said? I’m asking the questions.”

Tears were still running from the old guy’s eyes.

“Alf Rutger Winge, this is not about your money or your car. This is about the Troop, the meetings in Gamla Stan, and Bolinder. We already know most of it, so I just need you to answer a few questions.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Troop, that was ages ago.”

“Yes, you know what I’m talking about. Just answer the questions. Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

“Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I will repeat what I said: Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Winge didn’t drop his gaze. But he didn’t say anything.

“I will only repeat the question one more time: Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Nothing.

Thomas knew what he was about to do now was the riskiest game he’d played so far. It was one thing to slap around drunks, junkies, and immigrant gangbangers. Another thing entirely to run that race with an ex-cop who knew his rights better than a fucking defense lawyer. Still, it was all or nothing.

He put his gloves on. Hit Winge right over the nose. It broke. Blood sprayed the inside of the windshield. Dammit—Thomas would have a whole bunch of cleaning up to do. He struck Winge over the ear. Then on the forehead, jaw, ear again. Alf Winge’s face in pieces.

“Were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

“Forget it.” Slurring mixed with bubbles of bloody spit.

Thomas hit him one more time on the nose.

“Where you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

Silence.

Winge’s head hung. Saliva, blood, snot, drool dripped down in his lap.

Thomas: felt like on the beat. Excitement. Adrenaline, the smell of blood, sweat. The combination was better than alcohol and Rohypnol. He wouldn’t let Alf Winge mess this up for him. He had to answer.

“For the last time, were you a part of Adamsson’s group?”

No response.

Thomas hit him a third time on the nose. It would never heal properly.

Winge whimpered. Slowly raised his head. Stared straight into Thomas’s eyes. Thomas tried to read his gaze. It was completely blank, empty. Maybe there’d never been anything in it.

He said, “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

After the incident with Alf Winge, Thomas’d taken it easy for a few days. Waited to see what would happen.

He’d released Winge. He couldn’t take it any further. If he beat him more there was a real risk of sustaining injuries, and that was a risk he couldn’t take. Dammit.

But there were other threads to tug at in order to try to unravel the knot. Right after he found them, Thomas’d started going through the bags he’d plucked from Rantzell’s storage unit. That was about eight weeks ago. Reading documents wasn’t his thing, but he tried. It felt insurmountable: contracts, records, registration documents, tax documents, certifications, receipts, bank notices, account details, paper. So much information that he didn’t understand. And so difficult to know what might be relevant.

Giving his nights to the Yugos and his days to the traffic unit took time. He felt like he was constantly jet-lagged. One night he worked until five in the morning. The next day he drank coffee and talked hybrid cars with the traffic cops in the afternoon. He didn’t have time to go through the documents. Still: after a few weeks, he began to get some sense of what was going on. It was obvious that Rantzell’d been busy lately: as a front man, or what they called a goalie, in eighteen companies over the past seven years. Thomas thought about the old cops’ jokes about John Ballénius: “There’s just one goalie who can compete with him, and that’s Thomas Ravelli.” In about half of the companies where Rantzell was a board member, Ballénius was an alternate, and the other way around. A couple other old deadbeats showed up in some of the companies. Thomas made a note to look them up.

He couldn’t see any particular pattern for the companies where the fogies’d been active, except that a bunch of them were in the construction business, but that was pretty much always the case. Täby’s Chimney & Sheet Metal, Frenell’s VVS AB, Yellow Bend Building AB, Roaming GI AB, Skogsbacken AB, Stockholm’s Speedy Delivery AB, Dolphin Leasing AB, and so on. Eleven of the companies appeared to have gone bankrupt. Three were involved in disputes with the tax authorities. Seven of the companies’d spit out invoices like a fucking assault rifle—probably invoice fraud. Two had real boards with people who seemed to be a part of other legitimate companies as well. Five of the companies used the same auditor. One company sold porn films.

He didn’t know enough about this kind of stuff. Where should he begin looking?

Finally, he arranged the crap in chronological order. Thought, I’ll start with the most recent stuff. Maybe there’s someone there who’s met Rantzell alive, and the closer I can get to the deed itself, the closer I ought to get to the murderer.

The most recent document was a contract of sale between the company Dolphin Leasing AB and a car retailer. For a Bentley. It looked like it was signed by Rantzell, on the day before he was rubbed out.

The Bentley store was on Strandvägen. Stockholm’s sunny side, the classic address for the upper crust. Thomas thought about his dad’s exaggerated class contempt.

Thomas went to the store in the middle of November. The city was warmer than usual. As a rule Thomas didn’t give a shit about all the climate-change chatter, but today he actually thought about the weather. Warm summers with an excessive amount of rain, dams breaking in the Jönköping area, weird winters with too much snow and icicles that formed in the slushy weather and fell down on poor law-abiding souls walking on the sidewalk. Sometimes, it was like it was all going under, the whole shebang. The political clowns who tried to clean up the city, the climate, his life.

He walked in.

Spotlights gleamed on the six cars that were lined up on display. This wasn’t some ordinary Sven car dealership. Hell no. Instead: small, exclusive, disgustingly expensive.

A young brat was standing behind a counter, trying to look busy. Longish hair casually combed back, a suit jacket, the top buttons of his shirt undone like a fucking fag. Thomas wondered, Shouldn’t they have real men working with cars this powerful?

There were two other customers in the store. He waited till they left. Flashed his police badge for the shop kid.

“Hi, I’m from the police. May I ask you a few questions?”

Thomas purposely didn’t give his name.

Richie Rich looked surprised. He probably didn’t see too many cops in his store—an honest police salary even times ten wouldn’t be enough for the kinds of cars they were flipping here.

They stepped into a small office behind the counter. An oak desk, a computer, and a fountain pen in a marble holder. Elegant.

Thomas laid the contract of sale for the Bentley on the desk.

“Are you the one who signed this? Are you Niklas Creutz?”

The guy nodded. “But I don’t remember this contract.”

Thomas eyed him. How many cars could they sell a month in this store? Five, six? Maybe fewer. Every car sold ought to be a pretty big deal. Every car sold ought to equal a decent commission for this little brat. He ought to remember.

“Are you sure? How many cars of this model have you sold this year?”

The guy closed his eyes. Tried to look like he was giving it some thought. But why did he have to give it some thought? He ought to be able to check some list or something.

“Four, I think,” he said after a while.

Thomas asked again, “Are you completely sure you don’t remember? It’s pretty important.”

“May one ask what this is in regards to?”

“One may certainly ask. But one won’t get an answer.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll ask you one last time, just so you feel that I’ve given you some time to think it over. Do you remember the person who bought this car?”

The guy shook his head.

Thomas thought, The brat’s a bad liar.

46

Mahmud: whore handler, hooker guard, hussy driver. For two weeks, he’d spent more than half his time at the campground. He sat in one of the trailers for most of the days. With a window facing out toward the rest of the grounds. A total of twenty-two dirty-white trailers. Nine belonged to Dejan and his people. A bunch of half-baked white trash lived in four of the others, like in a fucking Eminem song. The rest of the trailers: empty, waiting for the summer.

Damn, it was dull. He listened to his iPod: Akon, Snoop, and music from the home country: Majida El Roumi, Elissa, Nancy Ajram. Flipped through porn and auto magazines. Texted Rob, Tom, Javier, and his sis. Whined, moped. Tried to make the time pass. Almost hoped that one of the chicks would come running over the field. Flying the coop. So there’d be a little hunt. A little action.

But, nope. They stayed put. Now and then, a car rolled into the area. Dejan usually called to give forewarning. Sometimes the man went right into the trailer. Sometimes the girl came out. Climbed into the car. Mahmud could see her expression, even from a distance—the slave trade was written on her face. They came back a few hours later. Or else they called and let the phone ring only once—a sign that everything was fine. Same, same, but different somehow.

Mahmud had to drive them. Natascha, Juliana, and the others. Skinny girls. Pale, worn-down, worn-out. They went to addresses all over the city—mostly the crappy boroughs, but sometimes to the fancy areas downtown. A few times, he drove four girls at once. Dropped them off at the same address. When they came back they were made up better, their hair done. Mahmud drew his own conclusions: someone’d tried to give them a little class and style.

Mahmud never hung with the whores. He didn’t know why, really. Just felt it strongly: I couldn’t handle what they’d tell me. But maybe it didn’t matter, really. Their Swedish was even worse than Dad’s.

Dejan came out to the trailer park sometimes. Dealt with practicalities: booked hotel rooms and transport for the girls. Administered the Internet ads. All the girls were online. Called the customers: informed them of prices and services. The dude stank. Mahmud’d smelled most things in the slammer. You got a little too close to your neighbors sometimes, a lot of guys didn’t wash properly. The worst ones skipped the showers but still rolled deodorant on top of the sweat every day. Dejan: like one of them. Nasty-sweet perfume stench ruined by sweat and dirt.

At sixish, sevenish every day, Mahmud was rotated out. He drove into the city. Took care of his real business. Why did the Yugos do this to him? He knew the answer. They wanted to show him that there were no shortcuts in their organization. You start at the bottom and if you’re good, you can work your way up. But he didn’t even want to run their race.

Fuck the whole fucking shit.

A guy who looked like a mouse came to switch off with Mahmud today. Small, yellow lower row of teeth and a little-girl walk. Mahmud didn’t bother asking what his name was. Felt better that way. He’d just done a fat line, 90 percent pure. Just wanted to get out of there. The guy eyed Mahmud’s porn magazine, which was lying open on the table. Close-up of a monster cock stuffing a chick’s ass. Mahmud closed it. Was ashamed. The dude said, in crap Swedish, “Why you read that?”

Mahmud didn’t feel like having a discussion. Just wanted to sit in his car and enjoy the C-rush. He flexed his neck muscles. “You got a problem with that?”

“In trailers, is real stuff.”

Mahmud put his jacket on. Opened the door. “Know what? I like willing bitches. Ever met one of those?”

The guy stared back. Mahmud slammed the door.

It was snowing out. Wasn’t it too early for that? It’d been okay warm the other day. November 21. White against a black background: TV blizzard. Crackling, flickering. Like in his head.

His mood improved a little once he’d climbed into the Benz. When he was leaving the shit behind. He thought about the cop that’d been in touch with him a few weeks ago. He had to be more careful. The pigs could have eyes out right now, for instance. He stopped the car by the side of the road. No one behind him. A car passed in the opposite lane. Should be cool.

Still: he pulled out his cell phone. Took the batteries out. Picked out the SIM card. Rolled down the window. Flicked it out. Like one of the snowflakes.

On his drive into the city, he thought about Babak. Okay, Mahmud’d tripped up. Never imagined that the Yugos would do Wisam like that. But Babak’d overreacted. Despite that: Mahmud wanted to call him. Talk a little. Straighten it all out. Get back to normal. Be homies. Blood brothers.

He passed Axelsberg on the highway. Thought about his sister. Thought about her crazy ex-neighbor. The Niklas guy. What was his deal? A week after he and his sis’d visited, Mahmud’s phone’d rung. Unknown number. Could be any buyer, dealer, Yugo fucker—but it was Niklas. Weird. Mahmud wigged out. Thought something’d happened to Jamila. But that wasn’t it, the Niklas guy just wanted to talk. Maybe get together. During the conversation, like, all the time, the dude got onto the subject of battered women, johns that should be shot, and what he called “the rot in Sweden.” Mahmud didn’t dig his lingo. He was grateful that Niklas’d tenderized his sister’s ex. But what was all this about johns, society’s decline, and a rat invasion in the boroughs?

The next day: in the trailer again. The weather was better. Ragheb Alama on low volume in his earbuds. Dejan’d called before lunch. Talked about a massive delivery. Ratko’d called, too. Worked up. Amped. “Mahmud. Make sure to keep an extra good eye. You follow? We’ve got a massive delivery going.” Mahmud thought they were beating a dead horse. Were all repeating the same words: massive delivery. MASSIVE DELIVERY.

In the afternoon, a van pulled up. A woman with Dejan. Mink coat. Looked so Russian it was almost funny. She didn’t speak a word of Swedish. Dejan tried to interpret, introduced her as the makeup artist. “Tonight, we’re doing a massive fucking delivery. They’re all going to the same address.”

Mahmud couldn’t care less. They could have as big whore parties as they wanted, he didn’t give. As long as he got out of there in time.

A few hours later, a Hummer showed up. Two guys climbed out. Mahmud saw right away through the trailer’s filthy windows—those weren’t some regular Yugos or clients. They were ultra players. He even recognized one of them: Jet Set Carl. The guy who owned a bunch of clubs, ran the slickest parties, cashed in the illest cash. The guy who, according to rumor, had slayed more bitches on Stureplan than Mahmud’d seen in his whole life. A legend. A king among brats. A force of power even among Svens. Mahmud wondered what the guy was doing here.

Mahmud turned off the music. Got closer to the window. Saw how the whores were ordered into one of the trailers where Dejan and the Russian were holding court. He waited. The girls came out, one by one. Finally: all sixteen’d been taken care of. Made up, styled, fixed for fucking. They went to their campers. The Jet Set guy was smoking with his buddy. A camel-colored coat to the knees, dark blue jeans, and a colorful scarf. Thin suede desert boots. His hair: more carefully slicked back than the coat of a cat. The two Sven slicks were eyeing the procedure.

After forty minutes, all the chicks were ready. Time stood still. Mahmud stared. Scouted. Spied.

Dejan walked around and knocked on all the trailer doors. The chicks came out. Miniskirts, tight tops, garter belts, high boots, heels, silk scarves nonchalantly wrapped around their necks. More dolled up than usual. Classier than Mahmud’d ever seen them.

They lined up in the cold. Sixteen in a row. Like a fucking horse show. The Jet Set guy and his buddy walked down the line. Checked the girls out one by one. Measured them with their eyes. Sucked them in with their gazes. Deliberated, negotiated, evaluated.

After ten minutes. Her, her, and her, and so on. Jet Set Carl pointed to twelve of the girls. The chosen ones.

Dejan and the Russian herded them into the van and another car. Jet Set Carl had another cigarette. The smoke was clearly visible.

Mahmud thought: a massive delivery. He didn’t even know where they were going.

He couldn’t drop what’d just happened. Two hours left before he was being switched out. He didn’t put the music back on. Didn’t bother Tom about their evening plans. Mahmud: not a guy who had anything against hookers. It was the world’s oldest profession, and all that. In his home country, dads often took their sons for a little test drive in Bahgdad’s seedier neighborhoods for their eighteenth birthday. It was good practice, good education. Young studs had to let off some steam. But still: he couldn’t handle this. The girls in the trailers were treated like objects. Were advertised on the Internet just like any other items for sale. Honestly, how could people be into chicks who didn’t want to spread ’em on their own? It was sick, somehow.

He looked out at the parking lot. Everything was calm. He wondered if the girls who hadn’t been picked felt safe or desperate.

His cell phone rang. Unknown number. At first, he wasn’t gonna bother picking up. Then he thought: I have to get out of my own depressed head right now. Might as well see who it is.

As he picked up the phone, he was struck by a weird feeling. A feeling that something big was about to happen. The signal sent a message through the depth of his gut: This call will change my life.

“Yo, this is Mahmud.”

“Hey, Mahmud, I roll with your boy Javier.”

Mahmud didn’t recognize the voice. But he knew all about accents. Latino. Sounded pretty much like Javier, actually. After his years in the Million concrete, Mahmud could read accents like a fucking speech expert. The height of his knowledge: he could even hear the difference between some Kurdish languages—Sorani and Kurmanji, you name it. The dude on the line now: the s sounds were softer than on other Latinos. Crystal-clear Chilean accent.

Mahmud responded, “Okay, Javier’s my boy. And what do you want?” Really, he didn’t want to talk to some coke-tweaking junior meal ticket right now. He wanted to chill with Robert and the boys tonight.

“I want to meet you. My name is Jorge. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me. I did time at Österåker with your sister’s man. They still together?”

“No.”

“Good. Can I be real with you?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister’s dude was a real cabrón.”

Mahmud couldn’t help himself, he laughed. Who was this chico?

“Anyway. Javier’s told me about your little hang-up. And it interests me.”

“Whaddya mean ‘hang-up’? What’re you talking about?” The name Jorge reminded Mahmud of something. He knew he’d heard people talk about this guy a couple years ago. Plenty.

“You’ve been running your mouth. I think half the city knows how you feel about Mr. R.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to see you, live. Talk this through. I think we’ve got an enemy in common. And you know what we say in my hood: my enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

Then it hit Mahmud who Jorge was. A couple of years ago: a lotta talk about a newbie who’d revolutionized the coke business in Stockholm. Helped the Yugos take the blow to the boroughs, the projects. Spread the shit among the Svens, the middle-class yuppies, the immigrant kids. Made doing a line as normal as grabbing a beer at the bar. But then things’d derailed somehow. Rumor was that the Yugos mass-executed the guys who’d helped them build the empire, that those same guys’d tried to jack a massive shipment from R., that it’d all been about internal fights within the Yugo mafia. Jorge, the name was familiar. Sure, Mahmud’d heard Javier talk about that guy—he’d been the Yugos’ own little dealer consultant. He wondered what the Latino wanted from him.

Jorge kept talking. “You’re not a big talker, but I think you’re curious and want to meet up. Do you know who I am? Does Västberga Cold Storage facility ring any bells? Abdulkarim? Mrado Slovovic? Do you know who those guys were?”

Mahmud remembered. He knew. And he admitted to himself: he really wanted to meet this Latino.

Jorge suggested a place. A day. A time. They hung up.

After the call a thought in his mind, crystal clear: This might be an opening.

47

Niklas sat up within a microsecond. A crackling sound’d woken him. Was there someone in the room? He reached for the knife on the floor next to the bed. Listened again.

Silence.

Stillness.

Darkness.

He held the knife in front of him, combat grip. Crawled out of bed. Crouched. He could make out vague outlines in the room. There was some light coming from the kitchen. There were no shades in there.

The crackling again. No big movement in the room that he could see. He made his way along the length of one wall. Every muscle tense. Every step a practice in stealthfight.

The apartment only consisted of one room and a kitchen. So the room was a quick check. It appeared empty. Of people, at least. But there was always the risk that they’d gotten in. Like they always succeeded in doing, in the end.

He went into the kitchen. Significantly brighter in there. The light from the streetlamps farther down the street were shining in through the window. The kitchen wasn’t bigger than fifty square feet. He could see right away that there were no humans in there. But what about the others? He had to search more carefully: his empty cupboard, under the sink, the shelves where he kept granola and bread. Under the pizza cartons, the yogurt packages, the plastic bags. He didn’t find them. The apartment was secured.

It must’ve been his dream that woke him. It’d been stronger than before. First, the mosque over there. Glass shards from the windows and torn prayer mats. The typical Iraq smell from fermenting trash and sewers. Then: scene change. Back in Sweden, except twenty years ago. Claes shoving Mom into the wall. A painting came tumbling down. She fell. Headfirst. Remained. Niklas bent down, grabbed her arm. Pulled, tugged. He screamed. Yelled. But not a single word came out.

Niklas dressed. He peeked through the blinds. The darkness outside was complete. It was seven-thirty in the morning. Today would be a hectic day.

He ate yogurt. Boiled two eggs. Four minutes, exactly. Soft-boiled, but not too soft-boiled.

He sat down in the room. Inspected the Beretta. Tonight he was going to use the silencer. Picked up the black metal cylinder that he’d also bought at the Black & White Inn. Screwed it on, screwed it off. Test-aimed at the window. Weighed the weapon in his hand. Put his jacket on. Slipped the gun into his inner pocket. Tore it out and went through a rapid reloading sequence. Repeated. Fast. Faster. Fastest. He would need to shoot at close range, using hollow-point ammunition, to counteract the limiting effect of the silencer.

He thought about Nina. There was something special between them, that much was obvious. She needed his help. She’d suddenly emerged while he’d been sitting outside her door. Completely alone. Niklas’s first thought’d been, Where is the child? He got out of the car. Looked at her. Fifty feet away. She didn’t seem to see him.

Nina: dressed in a white coat with a black belt. Collar popped like some badass agent. Tight blue pants and black leather boots with a low heel. On her head: a red knit hat that wasn’t pulled down properly. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Whatever it was she radiated, it hit him like a sandstorm down there.

She walked toward him, but didn’t seem to recognize him. Then it struck him: she didn’t want anything to do with him. Of course. She knew that he’d seen through her. Looked into her sorrowful eyes and unveiled the truth of how she was feeling. How she was treated. Humiliated.

Niklas remained motionless. Nina’s gaze was fixed straight ahead. Purposeful steps. A faint smile on her lips.

Ten feet. Her purse swung in time with her steps.

Six feet. He remained motionless. His breath billowed out in small clouds.

Three feet. He had to say something, grab her. She passed him. A whiff of her perfume. They almost touched. Almost.

He called out, “Nina!” At the same time he thought, What am I going to say now?

Nina turned around. Three feet away. Surprised, quizzical. She clearly didn’t recognize him. But she still smiled sweetly.

“Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who bought your Audi.”

Nina’s smile broadened. “Right, of course. And we saw each other at the gas station, too.” She glanced at his car. “You don’t have it anymore?”

Niklas didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to disappoint her.

“I do, but I have several cars.” He tried to laugh, but it felt like the chuckle got caught somewhere in his throat.

Nina didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Oh. Do you live in the area?”

Yet another question he couldn’t answer.

“No, I was just passing through.” What an answer. It sounded dumb as hell. “Passing through,” what did that even mean?

“Oh, okay. Well, nice to see you again. We seem to bump into each other now and then, so I bet we’ll be seeing each other again.” She turned to resume walking. But Niklas glimpsed it again. Her look. The sorrow that came over her. The feelings of powerlessness. Repression. Torturous humiliation. He had to help her. She was so beautiful.

“Nina, wait a minute.”

She turned around again. This time: her smile was more uncertain. “Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.”

“I’m going to the stables with a friend. You have to make the most of having a babysitter. But I have to hurry. She’s waiting for me.”

“Can’t we get together sometime? And talk through it all.”

Nina’s smile was even more uncertain. But her eyes: he saw that she was asking him for help. Wanted him close.

“What do you mean?”

“Talk about how you’re doing and stuff.”

“I don’t know what you mean. We don’t know each other that way, you just bought a car from me. That’s all. But it was nice bumping into you. See you.” Her steps were faster. Away from him.

Niklas remained standing, watching her. Her butt swayed rhythmically. And he’d seen it clearly when she said, “See you”—she wanted to see him again. To tell him. Make him understand. She needed him. How could she know that he already understood, all too well.

The run felt extra good today. His thoughts were clear. Nina’s perfect face. Tonight’s mission was planned in such detail that even Collin would’ve been jealous. Ready for Operation Magnum’s second offensive. What bothered him: that Benjamin fucker. But Niklas knew what he would do about it.

After the push-ups and sit-ups, he did practice exercises with the knife. In order to relax, mostly. He needed peace of mind. He took a shower. Ate lunch. Went through the tapes from the surveillance cameras. He knew the routines of his targets better than they did.

At two o’clock, he made the call that he’d been planning to make for a few days now. To Mahmud, Jamila’s brother. He hoped it would lead to results.

Niklas went down to the car. Drove to Alby. Mahmud’d said he’d be home now.

Back home. An hour since his meeting with Mahmud. Niklas was pleased. The conversation’d gone well. Mahmud wasn’t a warrior of his caliber, but the Arab was okay. And the best part: he owed Niklas a favor. What Mahmud’d promised to do for him solved some of his problems. Sure, it stretched his finances even more, but that was inevitable. Too many risks hanging over you wouldn’t do.

He packed his bag with the usual stuff. The binoculars, concealable transmitters, tapes and memory cards for the surveillance cameras, the computer, the knife, the gloves. And: the Beretta and the silencer.

Took two tablets of Nitrazepam. Sat down on the couch. Turned the TV and DVD on. The taxi drivers talking over coffee at night. Travis was bare-chested. Tested his Magnum. Later: the child whore, Jodie Foster, met Travis.

Niklas remembered who he’d met a few days ago. He’d shadowed Roger Jonsson one night. Seen him drive to downtown Fruängen. Park the car outside the bus station. Niklas saw the guy walk past the subway station. He got out of the car, too. Remained sixty feet or so behind him. Roger: walked leaning forward as if he were constantly about to grab something.

Niklas’d weighed his options. It wasn’t time for the offensive yet, but if things got messy, he had no problem doing what was going to happen to Roger Jonsson anyway. It was late at night, hardly any people out except for a group of half-trashed teens who were hanging out inside the glass doors of the subway station. Probably trying to find warmth while they waited for something to happen.

Roger, that asshole, kept walking for a while. Went into Fruängen’s Pizzeria. Niklas stopped. Didn’t, under any circumstances, want to raise suspicion. Inside the pizzeria: dimly lit. Something was weird.

He got an idea. Ran back to the car. Rummaged through the bag. Got out the equipment. Ran back. Approached the pizzeria carefully. He snuck along one wall. When he was right outside the window of the place, he bent down. Pretended to tie his shoes. Actually, taped a bug outside the window, right at the edge of the concrete.

He didn’t know if it’d work. The bug he’d stuck there was meant to be used in the same room as the object under surveillance. The question was how much he would be able to hear now. But maybe, with luck.

Ten minutes later: two other men walked into the pizzeria. Niklas at a proper distance. Sitting on a bench. A bottle in hand. Pretended to be drinking.

The earpiece was in place. The rest of the equipment fit in his jacket pocket. It was cold out. He was already shivering.

So far, he hadn’t heard anything from inside the place, but now things started happening. First, two men who spoke some other language. Sounded like Serbian. Then they switched to Swedish. More men. A low crackle, almost like he was listening through a pillow. Some words were muffled, sometimes entire sentences. But he got the gist: they were waiting. Yearning. Lusting. Soon there’d be a display. Of women.

A few minutes passed. The conversation seemed to dry up. The men in the pizzeria sat in silence. Sometimes the Serbian-speaking dudes exchanged a few remarks.

For a short while, Niklas considered storming the place. Make it quick, put those assholes out of their misery. But alone against five men—could get difficult.

Yeah, not now.

Then he heard a gravelly new voice. First Serbian. Then Swedish with a heavy accent. He was able to pick out enough words to understand what was going on.

The gravelly voice said, “Six fine things. Very fine.”

“Is one styled the way I like it?”

“Absolutely. I always keep my word.”

Then a brief exchange followed that he couldn’t hear properly. But he picked up how it was concluded: “They are your very own white slaves.”

The man with the accented Swedish went on, “They’re back here. As usual. Gentlemen. Have your pick.”

The voices disappeared.

Niklas remained sitting for a few minutes. His mind was exploding with thoughts. Maybe the chance of slaughtering the pigs’d increased now that their attention was so obviously directed elsewhere. Maybe it’d be enough if he took down two or three of them and then split? But no, now wasn’t the time. He needed to plan.

They must’ve brought the women in through a back door or else they’d been there long before Roger arrived. He looked around. Deserted. The streetlights were illuminating small islands of asphalt. He walked up to the pizzeria again. It was empty in there. He peeled off the bug. Walked around the building. It was connected to the indoor mall. Seemed like there were offices on the second story. The street level contained restaurants, hair salons, a shoe shop, a bank. He walked in the other direction. The building ended after two hundred feet. In the back, he saw metal doors, loading docks, garage doors. Now he just had to figure out which door belonged to the pizzeria.

He waited. A man and a woman came out from the door Niklas’d been betting on. It wasn’t Roger. Darker appearance, maybe Indian or Pakistani. The man was dressed in a brown leather jacket and baggy jeans. Almost looked like a bum. Worn down, unkempt hair, stubble. The girl looked young. Much too thinly dressed, she hugged herself as soon as they stepped outside.

The man was holding an arm around her back. Niklas thought: As if they were a real couple. What a lie.

They walked toward some parked cars. Niklas made up his mind: it wasn’t worth waiting for Roger. He was going to find out more about this guy. Now.

He ran back to his car again. Panted so hard his lungs hurt. He couldn’t lose them. His pants were tight over the knees, his shoes felt heavy compared with his running gear. He didn’t give a shit about anything. Increased his pace. Jumped into the Ford. Stepped on the gas, drove to where he’d seen them. He just had time to spot a yellow Volvo driving off. He glimpsed the john’s curly hair in the driver’s seat.

He followed the car. Southbound. Out on the highway.

It stopped in Masmo. The man led the girl again. In through the entrance of a building. In the same calm, overly confident way. Like he owned her. Like he thought his behavior would go unpunished.

Two hours later, the girl came out alone. She made a call on her cell phone. Leaned against the building’s façade. Lit a cigarette. Niklas thought he could smell the smoke, even though he was sitting in his car.

She sat down on a low fence. Leaned her torso forward. Clasped her arms around her knees. Hung her head. She must be freezing. In both body and soul.

Niklas got out of the car. Planned on offering her a ride away from there. Offering her a safe haven. To take her away from the war. The shit. The filth.

THE FILTH.

He walked up to her. The girl didn’t seem to hear him. He scraped his feet on the asphalt intentionally. No reaction. He was standing in front of her, tapped her on the shoulder.

She looked up. She had a thin face, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and light-brown eyes that glittered in the light from the streetlamp. Her gaze: full of shame. At the same time, she looked indifferent.

Niklas extended his hand.

“My name is Niklas.”

She shook her head. In poor Swedish, “I not understand Swedish so good.”

Niklas repeated himself, in English. The girl continued to look surprised.

“What do you want?”

He hadn’t used his English in a long time, but it was still good.

“I came to take you away from here.”

The girl stood up. He saw her entire body up close for the first time. A short skirt and thick, nude-colored tights. Long legs. A leather jacket that didn’t appear to close. Under it, he glimpsed her pouting breasts. She stood in silence. Seemed to be reading him as much as he was checking her out. Niklas was ashamed: he’d just looked at her like she was a piece of meat. Just like it said in all those feminist books he’d read.

Finally, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’m taking you away from here. You shouldn’t have to do what you do. And I’m going to punish them.”

“You can take me away from here. But it cost. One thousand five hundred for one hour.”

“No, no. You misunderstood. I don’t want to buy you. The opposite, I want you to stop with this. You’ll be free. And I’ll punish the ones who think you can be sold. I promise.”

A dark blue Opel stopped on the street. The girl looked over at it. Then back at Niklas.

“Now, I have to go.”

“Don’t go. Come with me.”

“No, I go.”

Niklas glanced at the Opel. A man in the driver’s seat. Looking at them.

Niklas said, “I’ll punish him too.”

The girl started walking toward the car. Right before she climbed in the car, she turned around.

“You can never punish them all.”

Finally, it was time. Crouched as if in battle. Approaching the back of Roger Jonsson’s house. Because he knew that today the pig’s partner, Patricia Jacobs, was away at a conference. And he knew more: the asshole followed Swedish hockey finals like a well-trained dog follows its owner. Tonight at seven, Färjestad versus Linköping. Huge game between two fan favorites.

He thought about the last thing the prostitute’d said. Tonight, he’d show her. Roger Jonsson—whore buyer, wife cheater, woman torturer. He was going to be punished so hard he’d wish he’d never been born.

Niklas was dressed in dark, lightweight clothes that were made for winter runners: thick, tight leggings and a thin Gore-Tex windbreaker. On his head: a homemade balaclava, a hat that he’d cut eye and mouth holes out of. He was going to roll it down when it was time. A small backpack was strapped tightly to his back. The Beretta, in a holster.

In front of him: a small lawn, a deck with a set of stairs, a balcony door onto the deck. He reached the house in five steps. The TV was in a room with a window overlooking the street, so there was no risk that Roger would discover anything. What’s more: it was the middle of the second period right now. The risk that the guy’d so much as leave to take a piss: less than zero.

He picked the deck door. He’d already tried it out twice before while the couple was at work.

He could hear the sounds from the game faintly. The applause from the audience, the worked up clichés from the commentators, the rapid sounds from the skate blades captured in a close-up.

Niklas knew the layout of the house. Had sat outside and stared in for so many days. Had created a picture of how the rooms were laid out. If there was an alarm, where the wireless phone was usually kept, if they locked the front door, which way the hinges opened. And, again: he’d broken in twice before for a visit. Just to get a quick look around. To feel at home.

He stopped. His heart was beating louder than the feet stomping in the bleachers from the cheering section on TV. A short second: he brought his hands into starting position for tanto dori. Took a deep breath. Let the air out through his mouth. Felt the calm wash over him.

A few more steps. The sounds from the hockey battle were clearer now. He pulled out his gun. He was one with his weapon.

Niklas could’ve gotten a sniper rifle. Camped out on some rooftop across the street. A single shot to the face—easy. Sprayed wife-beater brain matter on the wall of the house. He could’ve attached a bomb to the TV, blown up 430 square feet of the idyllic suburbs with the tap of a finger. Or why not simply poison Roger Jonsson? There were many easier ways than the one he’d chosen. But that wasn’t what it was about. Operation Magnum was a school. A pedagogical signal to all perpetrators. You will be punished. You will suffer.

It was time. Niklas walked into the TV room. Striped wallpaper. A couch and two armchairs. Nasty wall-to-wall carpeting and a stereo console. On the couch: Roger Jonsson. Pudgy, pale, pathetic.

Niklas pointed the Beretta at the guy’s head. Picked up the remote control, switched channels.

“I don’t like hockey.”

Roger Jonsson looked like he was going to shit his pants. If he’d been pale before, he was more green now. He tried to say something.

Niklas shushed him.

“Don’t say anything. Then I’ll have to shoot you.”

There was a risk that someone would see them from the outside. The house across the street didn’t have a direct view into this room. But if someone drove past in a high car, like an SUV, for instance, they would be able to see in. Niklas brought out his backpack. Taped Roger’s mouth. Taped his hands, feet. Threw him on the floor.

“I know you like eating carpet, you fucking pig.”

Niklas was pleased with his comment. He’d thought it out way ahead of time.

He sat down on the couch. Put the Beretta in his lap. Now no one could see them from the outside. Time for some action.

He explained. Held a planned lecture. For at least ten minutes. The gender power structure was over. Everyone who beat, humiliated, exploited their physical strength would soon find out. Everyone who bought women, raped people, played with lives.

He dealt Roger kicks with even intervals.

The beads of sweat on the guy’s forehead must be stinging his eyes.

Niklas unfolded a piece of paper. It was Roger Jonsson’s conviction. Gross Violation of a Woman’s Integrity and Aggravated Rape.

Niklas dug around in his backpack. Fished out a small blowtorch. Roger’s eyes widened.

Go time.

Niklas read sections of the conviction aloud.

A long night for a wife beater and whore buyer.

Four hours later. Niklas left the same way he’d come. Through the garden. Out on the other side of the house. The rental car was parked around seven hundred feet farther away. Maybe someone would see him walk through the area. But they wouldn’t see his hair color or facial features. It was pitch-black outside and he’d broken the streetlights the night before.

He fished out his cell phone. He’d prepared a prepaid card.

He’d memorized the number of Patricia Jacobs.

Loud music in the background. Disco at the company party? He hoped Patricia got to dance.

“Hello?”

“Hi, can you hear me?”

“Wait a sec, let me go somewhere quieter.”

Seven seconds. The noise in the background diminished.

“I think I can hear you better now. Who is this?”

“You can call me Travis.”

“What did you say?”

“You can call me Travis.”

“I don’t think I know you.”

“You don’t need to. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve removed him. You don’t have to worry anymore. He’s not coming back.”

“What do you mean? Who are you?”

“Ask the police what it feels like to get your private parts treated with a blowtorch. I know what he’s done to you. I know what he did to his last woman.”

48

He thought about his private investigation over the past few weeks. Alf Winge hadn’t leaked shit. But the Bentley dealer was hiding something. Thomas wasn’t a seasoned detective. But his gut was speaking loud and clear. Shouldn’t he call one of his old colleagues after all? The answer to that question still hadn’t changed. The rest of the guys in the Southern District were too close to Adamsson. Should he be in touch with Hägerström? Nah, he didn’t need that piece of shit. Still: there was so much to dig deeper into. Runeby’s info about Adamsson’s project in the eighties. The impenetrable material he’d gotten from Rantzell’s basement. The Bentley kid’s insecurity.

Thomas found out as much as he could about the guy in the store. Niklas Creutz. Didn’t show up in the criminal registry, no tax debt or late-payment notices. Came from an old banking family. Daddy probably still paid for the brat’s rent and the car he drove. Still: he got the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Could see Niklas Creutz’s face in front of him. Went over the sequence of events. The guy’s almost panicked expression.

Thomas ran a search through the multiple databases on his own this time. Really didn’t give a shit if someone wondered why he’d done a search on Creutz. No hits on suspects or people with claims filed on them—but on people who’d filed claims, bingo: Niklas Creutz’d been subjected to some unpleasantness this summer. Thomas ordered the criminal report from the City District: aggravated assault in the dealership on Strandvägen. Perps unknown. The only thing the brat’d said in the report was that he remembered that the perps were dark, with a foreign appearance, one pretty short but hefty—very hefty. They’d forced their way into the small office. Given Creutz a real going over. The doctor’s certificate pointed to a broken rib, swelling and bruises on the face, as well as two lost teeth in the upper row. In the report taken at the scene of the crime, he’d explained why: They wanted to know if I’d sold a Continental GT to someone named Wisam. Then they wanted to see all the paperwork on the car. Then they called me a racist. Wisam Jibril, I think. I don’t understand why. Then they beat me up. I thought I was going to die.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. The last document that Rantzell’d signed: a contract of sale, Bentley Continental GT, 1.4 million kronor. And then this: someone’d beaten that poor sucker bloody. For the sake of the very same car. Why?

He had to find Wisam Jibril. Ran the same searches on him as he’d done on the Bentley dealer. Got a hit right away. The guy had a solid criminal record: unlawful threats, assault, armed robbery, drug-related crimes, etc. A gangster, a robber, a guy who’d been around the block. Thomas ordered copies of court records, preliminary-investigation paperwork, surveillance notes, printouts from the general reconnaissance register. Worked like a maniac. The guy was a suspect in at least three big robberies, emphasis on big. A CIT robbery in Tumba in the spring of 2002 and one in the Norrtälje area in the fall of the same year. Total value: 1.5 million kronor. But even bigger: a robbery at Arlanda. Thomas remembered the newspaper articles vaguely. An airplane load of bills. Many, many million kronor. Wisam Jibril was definitely not some nobody.

Horrendous sums. A legendary coup. Exquisitely elegant execution. But no one saw, heard, or knew shit. Still: the talk around town was buzzing according to the report that Thomas’d read: Wisam Jibril’d supposedly died in the tsunami catastrophe in Thailand. But, in reality, he’d been back in Sweden for a year or so. Jibril: king of robberies. Jibril: consumed his capitalist gains like crazy. Pimped apartment, flat-screen machines, a Bentley, a Porsche, a BMW. According to another report: the cars the suspect drove were actually leased from one and the same company—Dolphin Leasing AB.

Jibril: a dude who wanted to hide that he was sitting on a pot of gold. A guy like that had every imaginable reason to get rid of a poor, run-down front man who might be a burden if he started letting his mouth run.

Summa summarum: Thomas might’ve found a perp. There was a connection to Rantzell and, most important, there was a motive. The only puzzle piece that didn’t fit: how did Rantzell’s Palme connection come into the picture if Jibril was the one who snuffed him out? He couldn’t let it go. Something still wasn’t right.

Despite that: Thomas had to get ahold of Wisam Jibril.

Thomas got in touch with Jonas Nilsson again. Nilsson was a man of honor. His latest good deed: introducing Thomas to old Runeby.

The days passed. Thomas kept working like crazy. Days at the traffic unit. Nights at the club. Him and Jasmine, Belinda, Ratko, a new guy named Kevin. His side gig felt normal. More than that, he actually dug the place. The camaraderie, the freedom.

He needed to check off all the old-timers from the Troop. He ran through the list in his head again. Malmström, Adamsson, Carlsson, and Winge: nothing more he could do there. Left: Torbjörn Jägerström, Roger Wallén, Jan Nilsson, and Carl Johansson. Four former riot policemen. Someone ought to know more about Adamsson’s hatred of Palme. But Thomas’d rethought things—these guys appeared tougher than he’d initially anticipated. Winge’d proved as much. He needed to turn to other tactics.

In one way, he was surprised the man hadn’t returned—the one who’d threatened him and Åsa from outside their house that time. He understood that his interrogation with Leif Carlsson might not’ve gone public—the guy was so far gone he probably didn’t even remember what he’d had for breakfast. But Winge—shouldn’t something happen soon? On the other hand: maybe Winge didn’t want to make a thing of it until he knew who Thomas was, and he couldn’t know that at this point. Thomas patted himself on the back: he hadn’t been driving his own car when he’d followed Winge.

Thomas got the number of Kent Magnusson, the old junkie he and Ljunggren’d collared in the schoolyard in Skärholmen during the summer. Thomas knew a lot of deadbeats like him, but Kent was the one he’d done a favor for most recently.

Thomas called him. The junkie didn’t understand whom he was talking to at first. Thomas asked what he’d called to ask. Kent didn’t sound like he was doing too well, but finally Thomas got a promise out of him: The junkie was going to check with his contacts. Ask if they could get Morfin-Scopolamin, for injection.

Early morning: Thomas out on his private beat again. This time, outside Torbjörn Jägerström’s house in Huddinge. He thought about his failure with Winge. The risk he’d taken. Again: What if Winge’d figured out who he was? He ought to make sure Åsa armed herself. Or even better, moved somewhere for a few months until this was all over and done with. Dammit, they were supposed to pick up Sander soon.

Torbjörn Jägerström lived in a house that was the same size as Thomas’s own. Not in an upper-class neighborhood like Bromma, where Winge held court. Not a huge mansion like Runeby’s. Just normal. Jägerström was the youngest of the guys in the Troop, forty-seven. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five when he took up with those other old guys. Nowadays he was in charge of the task force in Norrmalm, the northern part of the inner city. Senior officer. He’d made something of himself.

Thomas’d already spent three or four mornings sitting outside his house like this. Checked Jägerström and his wife’s morning routine. He knew it by now: the wife left a half hour before Jägerström went to work. The same morning routine should apply today.

He checked the thermometer in the car. The cold’d come creeping. November was the worst month of the year. A whole winter stretched out ahead, no pleasure to await.

Jägerström’s wife emerged from the front door of the house at exactly the same hour, down to the minute, as the last time he’d been out scouting. Stressed steps. A purse over her arm. Proper, business casual. He wondered what she did for a living.

He waited a little while longer.

Checked the contents of the small leather bag on the seat beside him one more time. An injection needle. An ampoule with Scopolamin. He opened the car door. Walked up to the house. Rang the doorbell.

A long time passed before Torbjörn Jägerström opened the door. Burly guy. Shirt unbuttoned. Chinos. Thick gold chain with the hammer of Thor around his neck. His facial expression was stiffer than on a corpse.

“Good morning,” Thomas said.

“Good morning? And what do you want, if I may ask?”

“I’m from Länsförsäkringar, the insurance company. We’re conducting a study in the area about what home insurance people have.”

Jägerström stared. “I recognize you.”

Fuck. Thomas’d actually thought the same thing when the door opened. He must’ve met Torbjörn Jägerström in some work context. But there was no time to lose. He shoved the Taser into Jägerström’s chest. Felt the vibrations all the way up his own arm, the muscles contracted involuntarily. Jägerström collapsed. Thomas closed the door behind them. Bent down, dug through his bag. Pulled out the rubber band, tightened it over one of Jägerström’s biceps. Ran his fingers over his forearm. Searched for a vein. Picked up the injection needle. Drove it in. Injected two full doses of Scopolamin.

Waited. Thought about the drug. Morfin-Scopolamin: muscle relaxant with a calming effect. The drug was normally used as a painkiller before surgery. But also: the active substance in truth serum.

Jägerström revived after half an hour. Thomas’d put him in an armchair in the living room. Taped his hands, just to be on the safe side. He was such a genius.

The room reminded him of Runeby’s living room. The same dark-wood bookshelves with framed photos of family, an encyclopedia, Jan Guillou’s collected Hamilton books and a couple by John Grisham and Tom Clancy. The only thing that differed from Runeby’s living room was the absence of photographs on the walls. Instead, there was a large lithograph: two drummer boys marching beside each other on a snow-covered field. Thomas recognized the theme: Björneborgarna’s March. The two drummer boys dressed in old army uniforms were meant to represent Finland’s two peoples, Swedes and Finns, fighting together for their country’s independence. But this motif had another significance too: “Björneborgarna’s March” was a piece of music. The salute and parade march for the Finnish Defense Forces. But it was also the march the Troop used to sing when they did their so-called special operations on the street. Common knowledge in the police department: Björneborgarna’s March’d been hummed countless times while drunks, blattes, and bums were beaten to bits in the eighties. A war march. A call to arms.

Thomas thought, Fuck you people.

Jägerström was still groggy. Drooling like a baby. He was mumbling something.

Showtime.

Thomas had a seat in the armchair across from him.

“I’m going to ask you some questions. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Jägerström nodded, blinked. A strand of saliva hung from his chin. Thomas wiped it off with Jägerström’s shirt.

“You’re going to tell me everything exactly the way it was. I thought I would begin by asking your name.”

“Torbjörn Elias Jägerström.”

“Good. What is your wife’s name?”

“Eva Elisabeth Jägerström, maiden name Silverberg.”

“Good. How is your sex life?” A control question.

“It’s gotten better since our son moved out.”

“Okay. And how was it before?”

“Probably better than yours, anyway.” The guy’s great sense of humor didn’t seem to be suffering. Thomas couldn’t let the joke get to him. He had to concentrate on his interrogation.

“Now I’m going to ask you some other questions about the old Troop. Were you a part of it?”

“Absolutely. That was my best time on the force.”

“Were you a part of the meetings that were organized by Lennart Edling in the eighties?”

The left corner of Jägerström’s mouth made a jerking motion. Thomas put his hand on his shoulder. “Take it easy. It’s okay, you can tell me.”

Jägerström leaned back in the armchair. He actually looked like he was relaxing further, if that was even possible.

“Lennart Edling, that crazy old guy. He was a little extreme, but a man of honor.”

“What do you mean by ‘a man of honor?’ ”

“You know what I mean. There aren’t too damn many left in this country, but Edling is one of them. If he’s alive, that is.”

“Yes, but what do you mean by that?”

“I told you, you know what I mean. Men who care about Sweden’s future. Who stand up for who they are, who don’t let Arabs, Communist cunts, and Jew swine take over this country. Do you understand what I’m saying? Now when we’ve finally gotten a center-right-wing government, they make a fucking nigger minister. It’s a joke. I haven’t voted for those parties since ninety-four.”

“Are you a man of honor?”

“I do my best. Duty above all.”

“Tell me about those meetings in Gamla Stan.”

Jägerström explained slowly. He hadn’t been to every meeting—he was young, had just met his current wife, there wasn’t time for everything. But Malmström was a good boss and there was a lot to learn. For Jägerström, the meetings were mostly pleasant get-togethers, a way to network. But also: a way to safeguard the police department and Sweden. The Scopolamin was working better than expected—Jägerström kept on talking without pause.

Thomas asked about Adamsson.

“Adamsson? You can’t find a better guy. He’s done well, I think. Runs the Southern District like his own little platoon. A real patriot. An upright citizen.”

“Were you a part of Adamsson’s Palme group?”

Jägerström stopped. The corner of his mouth started jumping again. He brought his taped hands up to shield his face. Mumbled something again.

“What did you say?” Thomas asked.

“I can’t talk about that.”

Thomas tried to cajole, to speak calmingly to him, to try to make him relax.

His only answer: “I can’t. You have to understand that. I can’t.”

This wouldn’t do. There was only one option left: Thomas brought out the injection needle again. Shot another ampoule of truth serum into Jägerström’s body. Waited fifteen minutes. Jägerström almost looked like he was sleeping.

Thomas tried again. “Were you a part of Adamsson’s Palme group?”

Torbjörn Jägerström’s power of resistance was gone with the wind. It was almost funny. Jägerström: iron fist, macho man, super cop—babbled like a three-year-old. Still, his answer was razor sharp.

“I was a part of it. It was necessary. Protecting Sweden, that’s the job assigned to the police and the secret service by the parliament, and that job had to be done no matter who was in power in the government. Since Palme was a threat to Sweden, we had to watch him the way we would any other potential national threat. Palme was too close with the Russians.”

“So, what did you do, practically speaking?”

“I was only twenty-five years old. I wasn’t a commanding officer or in a leadership position. So I don’t know too much, but we were divided into cells. The ones in my group didn’t know who was in the other groups. At least I didn’t. My area of responsibility was weapons. I made sure the group had access to a big enough arsenal and combat equipment. There was a coup in the air.”

It was insane. Thomas could hardly believe what he was hearing. He felt like taking a break. Calling the evening newspapers or Hägerström. Doing something. But he had to keep asking questions, learn something tangible.

“Tell me more.”

Jägerström explained how often they’d met up. Who’d been a part of his group. What they’d discussed, how they’d organized themselves, planned. How they’d feared the Russians, Communist conspiracies, tried to recruit trusty senior police officers, naval officers, secret-service people. Still: Thomas couldn’t get anything out of him that pointed to Adamsson or anyone else being directly involved in the murder of Olof Palme. He had to make the pieces fit. There had to be a connection. What Adamsson’s men’d been doing then: attempted treason. What Adamsson was doing now: muddling the murder investigation of a key witness.

“Are you at all in touch with Adamsson today?” he asked.

“No, not with him.”

“Why not?”

“We just grew apart. Nothing more.”

“And what about anyone else from that group?”

“Yes, a few of us get together now and then, maybe twice a year. Me, Roger Wallén, a couple others. Sven Bolinder has even joined us a few times. When he does, things get a little fancier, some company picks up the bill.”

Thomas tried to get Jägerström to say more. The clock was ticking. Jägerström’s cell phone was ringing nonstop. People were probably wondering where he was. Why he hadn’t showed up to work, called back, picked up. Thomas switched off the phone. But it was still dangerous. He couldn’t stay here much longer. Jägerström babbled on. About the meetings, about honorable men, about patriots. The Scopolamin made him too talkative. It was mostly nonsense. Rubbish that was difficult to understand. Disjointed slurring.

Thomas had to bring this to an end. The question was if he’d even gotten any information of interest. Not really, but he had to leave. Someone might come by the house.

He’d have to do his thinking at home.

Jonas Nilsson called one night a few weeks later.

“Hey, it’s me.”

Thomas sensed that he was calling for a reason.

“Hey there, Nilsson. What’s up?”

“Things’re swell, let me tell you. I just bought a new car.”

“Nice, what kind is it?” Actually, Thomas just wanted him to get to the point. Did Nilsson know something about Jibril?

“A Saab 9-5 Aero.” Right kind of car for a cop, Thomas thought. Cops didn’t drive super fly models, but they didn’t ride around in junk buckets either, no Japanese duds or Škodas.

“Damn, that’s awesome. And have you heard anything about what we talked about?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. I met one of our informants today. A real hard-boiled guy who decided to straighten out. The guy got married and has a couple of kids, but sometimes he gives us a few leads to show his goodwill.”

“Okay. And?”

“Jibril is dead. Word on the street is the Yugos got him.”

Dammit.

Thomas tried to find out more. But Nilsson didn’t know anything. They ended the conversation. Thomas remained standing where he was. Suddenly, he grew worried. How dumb was it to have that conversation over the phone? For the thousandth time, he thought about the man outside his window. Winge. Jägerström. Bolinder. They were prepared to go far to stop him. Maybe they didn’t know who he was yet. But then, the man outside his window’d known.

They’d gotten him kicked out of his job. Had threatened him and Åsa. Messed with his report. Murdered his father’s hero. Sweden’s morale was on the line. If even middle-aged Swedish police officers were rotten to the core—there was no hope. Fuck no, he wouldn’t let them succeed. This was his way back.

Thomas picked up the phone again.

When he punched in the numbers he felt an almost childish excitement. Nervousness paired with suspense.

He didn’t like Hägerström. At the same time, he knew he should’ve made this call a long time ago.

When the signal went through, he heard a short click on the other end of the line.

“Hi, you’ve reached Martin Hägerström. Please leave a message after the beep.”

Fucking voice mail. Major letdown.

Thomas kept the message short: “This is Andrén, call me.”

49

Mahmud was on his way home from the gym. In one hand, the wheel. In the other, a plastic container with the Lionhart mix: creatine and other dietary supplements. Sipping strawberry-flavored gunk with a straw, like a milkshake. The side effects of the last juice he’d been cranking were still making themselves known. He had to wait before he started up again. It was lame. But true.

Right now, he was on his way to meet the Latino who’d called him. Jorge.

The car stereo was blaring. Ragheb Alama was crooning like a god.

He thought about Niklas, the commando guy, who’d come over to Mahmud’s house the other day. Asked for a favor. A very, very big favor. The guy wanted Mahmud to fuck up a friend of his. Mahmud didn’t give a shit about the details.

Niklas really did seem crazy somehow. His eyes were always darting around. Above all, the guy was probably lethal—at least if you judged by what he’d done to Jamila’s ex. Why couldn’t he spook that Benjamin guy himself?

“Habibi,” Niklas said in Arabic. “You really have to help me. I’m in a tight spot and I might get locked up. So this Benjamin has to understand that if he rats me out, there are others on the outside who’ll punish him. Do you understand?”

Mahmud thought, Really, I shouldn’t bother with this. But honor was honor. Niklas’d helped his sister. And nothing in the world was more important than a sister. He owed Niklas.

Mahmud nodded. “I’ll do it, buddy. Where does this pussy live?”

Niklas seemed ecstatic.

The rest was simple. Yesterday, before he went on whore guard duty, he drove out to the guy’s address. Niklas’d tipped him off that Benjamin was home. It didn’t take long for Mahmud to figure out where in the building the guy lived. Did a quick line in the entranceway. Took the elevator up. Hummed to himself, “Coke gives you wings.”

Rang the doorbell. Felt angry as hell. Life was sour on him so now he’d get sour on this Benjamin chump.

A bearded guy of average height opened the door. Looked surprised. Mahmud delivered a straight right cross. His brass knuckles were in place. The guy tumbled backward into the apartment. Bleeding from the nose. Tried to raise his guard, swung at Mahmud. But it wasn’t an even fight—Mahmud had brass knuckles, after all. He landed another punch. The guy fell over. Was lying down. Trying to shield his head while he yelled, “Who the fuck are you? Stop. My nose, man.”

Mahmud pulled out a roll of electrical tape. Taped the guy’s hands and feet. Stared into panicked eyes. Felt powerful. It was like he was Gürhan now. Ey, whatcha say now? Not so cocky, huh? Snitching bitch.

Benjamin was lying completely still. Whimpering. Mahmud sat down on a stool.

“Hey, Brillo-face.”

Benjamin didn’t say a word.

“If you rat my friend Niklas out, I’ll come get you for real. You feel me?”

Benjamin closed his eyes.

Mahmud didn’t wait for an answer. Opened the door, walked out. Thought, Shit, maybe I should become a bruiser after all. He had to work a full week to make thirty grand on blow. This had taken fifteen minutes, including the drive.

Malmvägen. A black guy came toward him. Flow in his step. His walk was reminiscent of Robert’s. But more exaggerated. One of his legs jerked with every other step. Was he walking to the beat of some song in invisible earbuds? Dressed in a hoodie pulled up over his head and tucked behind his ears, which stood straight out like on Mickey Mouse. A down vest over the sweatshirt. Baggy camo pants. Around his neck: Africa’s silhouette in Rasta colors: green, yellow, and red. The grass, the sun, the blood.

Walking toward Mahmud, without a doubt.

He crossed his arms. This was definitely not Jorge.

The Rasta guy tilted his head. Crap teeth—looked like they were gonna fall out of his mouth at any moment. Spoke English with a thick accent—sounded like Sean Paul, almost incomprehensible. “Hey you, Arab man. My friend wants to meet you.”

Mahmud dropped his arms. Relaxed. The nigger was apparently Jorge’s messenger. Introduced himself as Elliot. Mahmud followed him. The jerk in his step. The flow in his walk.

Malmvägen was big, spread out. Satellite dishes hung like ears off the high-rises. This was northern Stockholm’s Million district.

Elliot didn’t look back.

They walked into a building. Up the stairs.

Elliot rang a doorbell. Music could be heard through the door: reggae rhythms.

A broad dude opened the door. At first, Mahmud couldn’t see if he was black or Latino. Thick dreads. Fat ganja grin when he saw Elliot. The door slammed shut in front of Mahmud’s face. He remained standing outside alone.

He thought: What the fuck is he doing?

Mahmud didn’t know what to do. Ring the doorbell? Bang on the door? Split? The last was probably the best alternative. He started walking back down the stairs.

Then the door opened halfway. Elliot peered out again. Called, “Hey, Arab brother, you welcome.”

Mahmud turned. Walked in.

In the hall: music was blaring even louder from the other rooms. Back beat. Sweet weed smell. A hallway. A blue throw rug. White-painted walls. There was a large animal skin pinned up on one wall. The lion of Judah with a crown and one paw raised in greeting. The blatte with the dreads sat down in a chair and started rolling a joint.

Elliot nodded.

Led Mahmud down the hallway.

The living room: Marijuana paradise. Couches, pillows, and cushions spread out. Blankets covered other areas of the floor. Ten or so people were sitting and lying down. Above all: they were smoking. There was a hookah between two couches. Two hollowed-out wood hash pipes on the coffee table. Piles of Rizla papers. Bags of weed. Pictures of Bob Marley, Haile Selassie, and the silhouette of Africa. A stereo stood next to one of the other couches. A vinyl record with a green, red, and yellow label was turning.

The people in there: stoned out of their minds.

Elliot showed him to a spot. Mahmud ended up on a cushion next to a pretty girl who seemed to be sleeping. Blond dreadlocks tied back with a hair band. This place was mad wack.

One of the guys on the couch got up. Approached Mahmud. The guy’s voice was barely audible over the music. He extended his hand. Someone lowered the volume.

“Welcome to Sunny Sunday. I’m Jorge, Jorgelito. And you’re Javier’s friend, right?”

Mahmud nodded.

“May I offer you a smoke?”

Mahmud accepted the bag of weed. Picked up a pipe. But didn’t do anything. Gaze glued on Jorge.

Jorge smiled. “They come here every Sunday. Worship Jah. Relax with some weed. Do what the black man should do. Chill, dig the music, feel the power.”

Mahmud didn’t know if he should laugh or split. He maintained an interested look.

Jorge went on. “You’re not African. Me neither. But we’re still niggers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Mahmud didn’t get what the Latino was talking about. He put the pipe back on the table. Got up.

Jorge put his hand on Mahmud’s shoulder. “Chill, man. I just wanted you to relax a little. We’ll go into the kitchen.”

They had a seat in the kitchen. Jorge closed the door. Poured two glasses of water.

Mahmud eyed him. The dude was thin but still built, somehow. Short hair and a small, ugly mustache. Dark eyes with something in them besides weed haze.

“Okay, I’m sorry if you don’t like this place. I love it.”

Mahmud grinned. “I’ve got nothing against it. But I always get a little jumpy when there are too many Zinjis around.”

“Not a problem with me, man, but don’t say anything to them out there. And, like I said, we’re all niggers. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Nope.”

“Let me put it this way. Segregation is like apartheid. The Million Program has the same effect on us as slavery. You understand now?”

Mahmud had a vague notion. Jorge was trying to be serious. Comparing immigrant guys like Mahmud with how black people’d lived in South Africa. He didn’t have the energy to have a discussion. Just nodded.

Jorge starting telling his story. The Latino’d only been in Sweden for a month. Really, he lived in Thailand. It was easier because he was wanted in Sweden since the drug incident by the Västberga Cold Storage facility.

It’d all begun when the Yugos’d wrapped him in a trial many years ago. Slaughtered him like a dog. But Jorge busted out of the pen by climbing over a wall, like fucking Spider-Man. Mahmud recognized the story, but honestly—he’d thought it was a tall tale. Jorge explained: he’d known all along that things wouldn’t end well with the Yugos. They should’ve helped him, taken responsibility for him since he’d worked for them, but instead they’d gone south on him. So Jorge’d started fucking with them. Shit hit the fan—they beat him real bad and from that day forward he hated Radovan more than anything else in the world. Jorge wasn’t the kind of guy to let a beating slide.

Mahmud saw himself in the story. Jorge’d had an energy he couldn’t feel right now, but still. They were driven by the same obsessions.

Jorge kept telling his story. How he’d tried to come up with ideas to sink the Yugo empire. Shadowed Radovan, found out a bunch of things about the organization: smuggle routes, dealing technology, drug methodology. He looked at Mahmud. “Do you still use those Shurgard storage units out by the parking lots?”

Mahmud grinned. The Latino knew what he was talking about.

But it all went to hell. Jorge got played. Had to bust the border. Now he was sitting on a good pile of dough and a Yugo hate that was hotter than lava. But, as Jorge said, “If that’d been all, I would’ve dealt with it. Swallowed the sperm with a smile.” But there was something else, too. Something worse. Darker. Harder. He didn’t want to go into details. “It was about dirty human trafficking” was all he said. He focused in on Mahmud. “I think you understand what I mean.”

Mahmud wondered if the Latino knew what he did besides sell blow. The blatte seemed to know about everything.

Maybe Jorge knew what he was thinking. He said, “I know what you do, man. It’s not pretty, but I don’t blame you. You’re in their clutches now. I know you’re cool. Javier’s told me. And I trust him. He’s un hermano.”

Jorge swallowed a gulp of water.

“You feel what I feel. You hate them. You want to get out. Let me tell you, man.”

Jorge began explaining stuff about Radovan’s other businesses. Blackmail, financial fraud, brothels. Mentioned the organized luxury whore parties. Mahmud felt like the pieces were falling into place. It agreed with what he’d seen the other day: the way the hookers’d been collected, made up, fixed up, the slick players who’d run the operation.

It took Jorge ten minutes to finish. He stared out into space. Seemed like his thoughts were still stuck in the story.

“It’s messed up,” Mahmud said. “But what can I do about it?”

Jorge’s reply was slow in coming. “You and me, we’re not the only ones who feel like this. I’ve got contacts who want the Yugos to get what’s coming to them even more than we do. If you want, I’ve got a job for you.”

Mahmud didn’t really understand what Jorge was talking about.

“You earn dough by taking a hit at Radovan’s whore business. A contract. With good pay. And everything you find, you can keep.”

Mahmud still didn’t really follow, asked him to explain further.

Jorge explained. Someone was willing to cough up 300,000 if Mahmud took a hit at the Yugos and the luxury-whore johns.

Three hundred thousand. Shit. Even though business was booming now, that was a lotta cash.

Still: he asked to think about it. Needed to digest everything. Jorge understood that he couldn’t give an answer right away. “Get in touch with me within a week. Or we’ll have to find someone else.”

When they’d walked back into the living room, Mahmud asked, “I still don’t get it. Why do you want me to do it?”

Jorge’s response wasn’t very helpful: “Because you’re perfect.” Then he laughed. “Forget it for now. You can think about it, remember?”

They sat down on the couch.

“Stay awhile,” Jorge said. “Listen to some Marley. Take a hit and feel the power. Haile Selassie Jah, as they say around here.”

Mahmud relinquished control for a while. Leaned back. Took four hits on the joint that Jorge’d rolled. A man with a knit Rasta-colored hat was half-lying on a cushion next to them. Accepted the joint from him. Took deep hits.

The smoke, the music. He inhaled the atmosphere.

Mahmud: relaxed for the first time in a long time.

No woman, no cry.

With flow. Rhythm.

One of life’s tranquil moments.

His irritation over everything was released in the fog. Three hundred thousand glimpsed on the horizon.

He floated away.

Praise the Rastafari, Jah.

Sunny Sunday shines.

50

It was still dark out when Niklas was woken by a text from Mahmud: I heard they found a corpse with dirty feet, saggy balls & a hairy ass—call me so I know you’re still alive. Niklas assumed the Arab was trying to joke.

Still, he waited to call. Needed to process the information he’d received during the night. The Operation’d advanced to the third phase: Patric Ngono. Niklas was well trained by now: he knew the mission and the SOP. The planning of the actual attack was already under way.

It wasn’t just about Ngono: there were three others in line after him.

Part of the victory was that the media’d started to understand what he was doing. Soon, they would get more material.

He thought about Nina Glavmo-Svensén. He thought about what he should do with Benjamin. Hoped that Mahmud’s treatment’d sent a clear message. So many human beings in so many different roles. And he was the only one who cleaned up—made sure that Sweden became a little more fair, a little more logical.

Niklas sat down at his computer. Opened the folder that he’d labeled “Johns.” Roger Jonsson wasn’t the only one who bought women.

In the afternoon, after training exercises, he called Mahmud.

“Hey, it’s me. The corpse.”

Mahmud laughed. “So you’re alive, habibi. You got time to meet up today?”

Niklas wondered what he wanted. Mahmud didn’t want to tell him over the phone—they decided to meet up later that night.

“You want in on something I’m doing?” That was the first thing Mahmud asked when they met up at his house.

Niklas thought his apartment was nasty. He could handle his own filth. But Mahmud’s dirt disgusted him: crusty dishes, bottles of protein shakes, bowls with dried powder mixes. And the Arab’s way of dressing: sweat pants and a T-shirt that said Beach Wrestling across the front. Was that really a way to dress when you had company? But Niklas owed him one. He didn’t say anything.

What Mahmud told him was the best thing he’d heard since he’d arrived back in Sweden. He almost felt religious. How could something fit so well into Operation Magnum? Mahmud’s question was simple: he’d been asked to do a job—on contract. It wasn’t just anything—it was about striking against some big-time pimps in Stockholm. Plus hurting the people and the organization that ran the human trafficking as much as possible.

Mahmud didn’t want to go into details. Maybe he didn’t know much more. He just said that someone who had some unfinished business with Radovan and the whore business wanted to get things done. The Arab didn’t know it, but no one was more suited for this job than Niklas.

They discussed some ideas briefly. Mahmud wanted to establish certain principles: no conversations on cell phones or landlines, no talking to anyone on the outside, when they needed to talk they’d fire off a text first—he outlined a bunch of different codes they would use.

They discussed if they needed to get anyone else on board. Benjamin is out, Niklas thought to himself. Would someone from Biskops-Arnö work, maybe? Felicia? Erik? No, they were too weak. Couldn’t handle the fight when the storm really blew in. They’d already proven as much.

Mahmud had a stringency and a warrior instinct that Niklas hadn’t expected. Niklas really got going. Started discussing types of weapons, attack methods, strategic planning. Mahmud smiled.

“Buddy, everything in its own time. We’ll get to that.”

“But you’ve got to give me something to get started on now.”

Mahmud thought it over. “Okay, I have the address of the place where we’re going to make the hit. We have to know the area. So it’d be perfect if you checked it out.”

Mahmud: like a badass general. Niklas loved it. Above all: he loved having a partner. To be a part of a TF again—a task force.

The next day, Niklas drove the Ford out to Smådalarö, in the Stockholm archipelago. The address Mahmud’d given him wasn’t a street, it was just the name of a place, maybe a house: Näsudden, and a zip code. Mahmud’d been talking about their employer’s warning: be careful—these guys have security. They’ve made a mistake before and don’t want to do it again. It was unclear if Mahmud knew whom it was they were going to be dealing with. Niklas had no clue, but he was an expert, after all.

A good day: clear weather. Fall was turning into winter. He looked forward to the snow. When it’d been at its worst down there, he used to think about clean, white, glittering snow. Icicles dripping as spring approached. The crunching sound when you walked over hard-crusted snow. It was his childhood. Not a happy childhood, but at least it’d been clean. Not filled with dust, gun oil, sweat, and sand.

Still, he missed the real war. Everything felt so natural when he was among the other men. He knew the shape of each day. What was expected of him. How he would make his bed, care for his equipment, joke with Collin and the others, run through the day’s guard-duty schedule, bodyguard mission, or whatever it was. And sometimes their extra missions, the stuff that was too dangerous or too dirty for the official forces. The raids in the suburbs, the villages, the small communities where the enemy gathered, prayed to their god, and hoped for luck in war. Niklas knew why he’d become a soldier. It was a meaningful life. A life with dignity.

He drove over the bridge to Dalarö. Took a left by the sign: Smådalarö. A twisting road along the water. There were boats pulled up and protected by wood structures and tarps. It was one o’clock. Darkness would fall in less than two and a half hours. Sweden is a strange country, he thought. During the winter, you live in the dark for more than half the time.

He continued on. Golf courses, pine forest, private drives that branched out from the road and probably led to flashy summer homes. Niklas’d memorized the map and the aerial photos that he’d downloaded from Google Earth.

Six hundred and fifty feet left.

The small turnoff was blocked by a black metal gate. He stopped the car. There was a camera and a big sign on one side of the gate: PRIVATE PROPERTY. GUARDED BY G4S. They could guard as much as they liked.

He parked by a small forest road. Walked back through the woods. His boots clucked through the wet underbrush.

After a few minutes: a metal fence. Nearly seven feet high—like an industrial fence except without any barbed wire along the top—but not impossible to climb over. Still: there could be surveillance cameras. He walked along the fence, arrived at the gate after a few yards. Now he knew. Walked back along the fence, up into the woods. Lucky that the leaves’d fallen off the trees. After 330 feet or so, he glimpsed buildings beyond the trees.

He pulled out his binoculars. The main building was easy to see. Three floors. Pillars around the entrance. Crazy castle style. Gravel in front, a parked car. Next to the big house: a building that looked like a garage and a smaller outbuilding, maybe a stable, maybe a barn. He pointed the binoculars at the big house. Could see an entrance. He counted the windows, estimated the number of rooms, the height of each level.

Continued along the fence, his eyes locked on the trees behind it. He didn’t see any cameras. Looked closer at the fence posts and ground mounts. Concluded: no electricity. No motion sensors. It would be easy to get through.

After another few yards, the fence began to curve. Now he could see the house clearly, just 130 feet off on the other side. Hardly any trees. He picked up the binoculars again. The back of the house. There was another entrance there. He eyed the lock, what material the door was made of, tried to calculate where it led to. He could see straight in through a couple of rooms. A kitchen, a dining room, some kind of living room. He could clearly see motion sensors in the corners, in the ceilings, in the rooms.

He continued around the back. Estimated the distance, the possibility of climbing in through the windows. He needed answers to two big questions. First of all: Where would the target be located on the night of the attack? Second of all: Would the security staff be heavily armed?

They should be able to calculate the answer to the first question. Figure out the floor plan. The party would be in the largest room. Phallic compensation on this scale must’ve demanded more building permits and authorization than the entire Söderleden highway. The application documents for all those building permits must be in the county archives. And those kinds of documents were public information.

He was a fucking genius.

Question number two might prove more difficult. But maybe Mahmud could get some information.

On his way home, he saw images in his mind. Instead of scenes from Iraq: the attack against the house. The familiar rat-tat-tat from assault rifles mixed with the sound of glass shards crashing down on the ground. The panic in the eyes of those horndogs. Himself in full gear, battle rattle.

It would become a killing zone.

With pleasure.

51

There was too much information. Where should he begin? How would he possibly understand it all? He tried to grasp what was relevant, and what was just false leads. How did one carry out this kind of investigation? Dammit, the Palme Group’d probably had fifteen people working on it full time for over twenty years, without getting anywhere. How would Thomas Andrén, by himself, alone, hunted—above all, a patrol officer—do this?

Still: Thomas’d gotten certain information. Adamsson’s surveillance group’d met in Skogsbacken AB’s office space in the eighties. The company was owned by Sven Bolinder. The deal: in the bugs from Rantzell’s basement, Thomas’d found documents that had to do with none other than Skogsbacken AB—one annual report, a few payment orders and verifications. The conclusion was clear as day: there was a connection—past, present.

Sven Bolinder: well-known multimillionaire, finance shark, player on the black market. Maker of spare parts for the car industry, supplier of retail services. But apparently also a whore hound, a john shepherd, an arranger of so-called finer events. Bolinder was suspected of being the chief owner of a business empire that included over twenty-five companies in seven countries. And the white-collar-crime cops Thomas’d spoken to probably didn’t even know the half of it.

Thomas worked like a maniac. Continued to go to the traffic unit for show and for access to the databases. Continued to work nights at the club: with a new fire inside—there were connections to the investigation here as well. Thomas inquired, inspected, investigated Ratko without the Yugo understanding what he was doing. Apparently, Bolinder usually invited his friends to a party twice a year. Always when his wife was abroad. And it was the Yugos, along with some finer party boys, who arranged the revelry.

Thomas continued to try to work through the material from Rantzell’s basement. Over and over again. With increased effort, concentration, organization. More focus on Skogsbacken AB. How long’d the company existed, what exactly did the business comprise, who was on the board, what did the ownership structure look like, where were the bank accounts? There was a lot that wasn’t in the bags, but he learned as he went along. The Swedish Companies Registration Office, the National Tax Authority, annual reports, details about the companies’ operations. He worked as methodically as he could. But really, he probably needed help. At the same time: something just had to surface soon.

He’d read a book about the Palme murder by a journalist, Lars Borgnäs. There was a connection, in theory. The investigators’ tunnel vision’d steered their view of the murderer and the murder of the prime minister. It’d also steered their vision of another important detail: the weapon.

Borgnäs described the theory in detail. In the same way that they’d gotten stuck on the idea that it’d been Christer Pettersson or possibly some other lone lunatic who snuffed out Palme, they’d zeroed in on a single hypothesis when it came to what kind of gun was used and, therefore, what kind of gun’d been sought. Things locked into place pretty much right after the murder. The national chief of police, Hans Holmér, appeared at a press conference where he held up a couple of guns. They were all the same caliber: .357 Magnums. “What we know now,” Holmér apparently said, “is that the murder weapon with all certainty was a Smith &Wesson revolver, .357 caliber.” There were a few other, less common makes that were also under consideration, the chief of police explained. But most likely, it was a Smith & Wesson. And it was completely clear that a Magnum revolver, .357 caliber, was what’d been used. After that, all investigative work regarding the weapon was carried out with the assumption that it had to be a .357 caliber Magnum. The Palme weapon became synonymous with a Magnum revolver. Thomas tried to remember. He and everyone he knew’d always assumed that the murder weapon was a Magnum.

But, according to Borgnäs, the truth was different. And it wasn’t only him—most weapons experts agreed with him. The murder weapon could have been of that caliber, but it could also have been of a completely different caliber. But no other type of weapon had been searched for, even though they were more common than the Magnum revolver.

The connection was in the murder weapon. Rantzell was the one who’d tied Christer Pettersson to a revolver that probably didn’t even have anything to do with the Palme murder. Rantzell’d planted it all nicely. The revolver, the time, the opportunity. Framed Pettersson as the murderer. And now someone’d murdered Rantzell. Maybe someone who didn’t want the fake connection to come to light.

Åsa wondered what was going on. They saw less and less of each other. Thomas was always tired—the bags under his eyes looked like black bruises. The people from the adoption agency were coming for another home visit. The final one before Sander.

“We have to make things even cozier here so they can see that we care. That we’re nesting.”

Thomas sighed. “What does ‘nesting’ even mean?”

“You know, to prepare the nest for a child.”

“But we can’t set up the baby room before we actually get Sander, can we?”

“Yes, we have to take care of that now. So that they see that we know how and that we want a child here. We should buy a stroller and enroll in that parenting class, too.”

Thomas shook his head. Åsa turned her face away. Pulled her hair back in that way she always did when she was sad. They tried to talk it through. From Thomas’s perspective: he wanted nothing more than to bring the boy home, that was his dream. But right now he didn’t have time to really get involved.

The feeling lingered: this wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all.

He went out to the garage. Glanced at the Cadillac. It’d been weeks since he’d even touched it. Same thing with the shooting club—he hadn’t been there since he’d seen Ljunggren. It was strange: as if his entire life’d been turned upside down. He’d dived into the investigation in a way that he’d never done before. It was scary. He climbed into his regular car. The garage door opened automatically.

He drove to the station. Listened to Springsteen. Tried to collect his thoughts.

He arrived. The garage in the police station. The only advantage of the traffic unit: your own garage.

Thomas climbed out of the car. Breathed in the smell of exhaust that never really aired out properly. The fluorescent lights gave off a pale glow. The concrete looked grainy, almost like wood. He heard his own footsteps. Eyed the parked cars: tried to calculate which of his colleagues’d already arrived at work.

He heard footsteps behind him. The door to the stairwell was sixty-five feet farther off. Thomas began to search for the key card in his pocket.

The steps behind him sped up. Thomas slowed down, didn’t see a reason not to wait for a colleague who was clearly in a rush.

But something was wrong. The footsteps were too fast. Thomas turned around. Saw too late: a man with a ski mask over his face. He was wearing dark clothes. Thomas didn’t have time to react. The man came charging at him, holding something in his right hand. A gun. Thomas flash evaluated: maybe a Colt, maybe a Beretta.

“Stay where you are,” the man said in a clear voice.

Thomas tried to read the situation. There was nothing he could do. The muzzle of the gun, in a steady grip. This was a pro.

The man pointed him toward a darker corner of the garage. Where the overhead lights weren’t working.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“You know what I want. Stop snooping around.” The man’s low voice—he was almost whispering.

“Forget it. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve recorded the interrogations I’ve done with multiple people, just so you know.”

“Don’t talk so fucking much. If you’re not afraid now, you will be soon. Stop snooping. This is the last time you’ll be getting this message.”

“Fuck you.”

Thomas felt something hard hit him over the head. As he fell toward the concrete floor he had time to think: You shouldn’t hit someone with a weapon that nice. Weapons like that are made for shooting.

Then he hit the hardness below.

Thomas opened one eye. The other eye. Breathed in the smell of exhaust. The man was gone. He brought a hand to his forehead. The blood was sticky.

A vibration in his jacket pocket. Then the ringer on his cell phone. He just didn’t want to answer right now. But still: he had to get his phone out either way, in order to call for help.

A familiar voice on the other end of the line. It was Hägerström.

“Hiya Andrén, sorry for not calling you back.”

Thomas was completely taken aback. For a moment, he forgot his current situation.

“Hägerström. I’m glad you’re calling. Sorry for being such a dick last time.”

“No worries. How is everything?” Hägerström sounded happy.

Thomas considered. Should he tell him that he was lying beat up like an idiot in the police station garage? No. Yes. The answer: Yes—now was the time. He couldn’t continue working alone any longer.

“Not so good, actually,” he said. “I was just threatened and assaulted by a masked man.”

“You’re joking? Are you all right?”

“Yes, it’s true, and no, I’m not completely okay. But it’s nothing alarming, either.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“But why?”

“I’ll tell you later. We have to meet up. As soon as possible. When are you available?”

“Let’s say the day after tomorrow. But are you sure that you’re all right?”

Thomas tried to truly evaluate. His forehead was pounding, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore. “I’ll be fine,” he said. “Nothing too serious. So, I’ll see you the day after tomorrow?”

“Absolutely. There’s just one more thing I want to tell you.”

“What?”

“Adamsson is dead.”

52

It’d been easy to rope Niklas into the job. Yeah, the dude was strange somehow, but Mahmud couldn’t think of a better partner for this gig.

A few days after Mahmud’d told him the address, Niklas’d already been out at the house on Smådalarö and done some reconnaissance. A real pro: he’d brought binoculars, a range finder, a camera with a serious lens. Taken photos of the house from all angles, zoomed in through the windows, snapped close-ups of the fence, the locks, the alarm systems, the gate, the distance from the windows to the ground.

According to Mahmud: the house was the perfect place to rob. It was just like when he, Babak, and Rob’d stormed that Ecstasy junkie’s apartment. Once they were inside, no one would bother them. No one would discover them from the outside. But this would be an even better home invasion: they’d be walking into a fucking prostitute party—no risk that anyone’d be calling the 5-0. It was genius.

The Yugos were gonna taste his fat cock. The nasty old johns were gonna get hit hard. Mahmud was gonna get the easiest money in town. Rastafari Jah! That little Sunny Sunday’d changed his life. Jorge was the king, man.

After this, all the running around to Shurgard storage units would be over, he wouldn’t have to poon-nanny anymore, wouldn’t have to sling any more shit. He was so fed up with Dejan, Ratko, Stefanovic, and the other cunts that just hearing their names made him feel sick. The hit against Smådalarö would be the last thing he did. Honest, he was gonna listen to Erika Ewaldsson, his dad, and his big sis. Use Jorge’s money to start something clean. Something honest. Something that fit into Suedi society.

He and Niklas’d met twice. Studied maps and floor plans that Niklas’d gotten ahold of. Dude had mad Tom Lehtimäki–style skillz. Actually, more than that: hard-core Special Forces shit. Mahmud felt like fucking SEAL Team Six.

They studied the house from above. Checked out the roads, height differences in the terrain, the way the forest grew in the area. It was winter now: no dense trees would hide them. They analyzed where they could put out caltrops, if they’d need a distraction—maybe torch the garage or some other side building.

The architectural drawings of the house were even cooler. Niklas’d gotten them from the county offices. Sweden was weird—you could basically get anything out of a public institution. Magical transparency. The house was big, more than five thousand square feet. Massive kitchen, dining room, spa area in the basement, gym, living rooms, bedrooms, guest bedrooms, walk-in closets. Questions: What was the best way to get into the house? Where might there be surveillance or guards on duty? Which doors would be locked and which would be open? The biggest question of all: Which room would the pussy party be in? They compared the blueprints with the photos that Niklas’d snapped. Identified the rooms, saw the interiors through Niklas’s camera lens. Could cross some rooms off the list. The johns were not likely to be in the kitchen, not in the dining room. More likely: the big living room, the spa area, maybe the guest rooms. It depended on what kind of event this was really gonna be. Mahmud had to try to do some snooping on his end.

They discussed how many bodies they needed. Niklas wouldn’t budge: he and Mahmud would never pull it off alone. It messed with Mahmud’s line of thinking, but he didn’t protest. They evaluated alternatives for weapons. Niklas had sick know-how. It was almost scary—what’d this player done in his previous life? Assault weapons, laser sights, night vision. Maybe they would need a grenade, flak jackets, proper dark clothes that they could burn when it was all over. This was gonna be done right. Beautiful.

They planned, chatted, fantasized. Strategized, made lists, memorized the photos, the terrain, the maps. Tried to visualize the different stages of the attack, understand the dangers. Still: they knew too little. Mahmud also had to go out to the house and look around. Niklas wanted to go out there again too. At night.

Again: he was weird. Used military terminology like a crazy commando or something. Rattled off a bunch of abbreviations, tactical terminology, weapon vocab that totally blindsided Mahmud. At the same time: he was perfect.

They ended their last meeting with homework. Mahmud was gonna get weapons and bolt cutters and talk to some guys he trusted, see if they wanted in. Niklas was responsible for clothes, bulletproof vests, night-vision goggles, grenades, and caltrops.

As Niklas said: It was gonna be a killing zone.

Mad Call of Duty shit.

53

It was as though Niklas was in a trance. His thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. His sleep was reduced to brief moments of rest between planning sessions on the computer, time spent in the woods around the house on Smådalarö or in front of the tapes from the surveillance cameras he’d mounted in the trees around the house. His mantra rhymed: don’t loiter, reconnoiter.

Patric Ngono was on hold—the whore parties were so much bigger. Abusive men in action at a high level. Society’s absolute deterioration in relief. The filth that invaded society would be dealt with, cleaned up, driven out.

Benjamin’d stopped calling. That was a relief. When Niklas was done with this, he would teach that traitor a lesson. Mahmud’d done him a big favor by talking to the guy. Benjamin must understand that Niklas wasn’t alone.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer Mom’s calls or texts. She wouldn’t understand, anyway. The same thought kept coming back: He was doing all of this for her.

He didn’t go running. Didn’t even train with the knife.

This was the last stretch, the finish, the final sprint.

The surveillance cameras did provide some interesting information. The security company visited the house a few times every week. Neither Sven Bolinder—the guy who lived in the house—or his wife seemed to be home too often. But Niklas had a feeling that there’d be a whole lot more security on D-Day. The question was how it would be handled.

Mahmud’d also gotten hold of certain information. The Yugos usually ran the security operation with their own men. But it was unclear what that meant. He didn’t know if they were armed. If they wore bulletproof vests. If they were trained for war.

And: Mahmud’d started to understand how this so-called luxury event went down. There was going to be a big party; a couple of party planners took care of the food, bartenders, a dance floor. Spruced up the women. Niklas studied the blueprints of the house. Came to some conclusions. Guessed: party ground zero ought to be the big living room along one of the house’s short ends, on the ground floor.

Everything was going according to plan. But it would take time for the Arab to get weapons. As long as he didn’t mess that stuff up. Maybe Niklas should take care of that himself? At the same time: Mahmud’d assured him that his contacts were legit. And Niklas didn’t like dealing with the chick at the Black & White Inn.

He took care of his own homework right away. Ordered equipment online. Now all he had to do was wait—like an Advent calendar: count down, day by day. Four weeks, then it was time. Bolinder’s event was being held on New Year’s Eve. Operation Magnum would reach a crescendo.

A few snowflakes’d fallen during the night, but they soon melted. Niklas thought about tears on a bone-hard cheek. A face that’d been forced into resilience. Like the black tarmac when it gleamed in the winter darkness.

Niklas was on his way home from the mansion. Eighth time he’d been out there. He knew the area now. The terrain felt like the patches of grass in Axelsberg where he’d grown up. He’d identified the ultimate way in. There needed to be four to six people for the attack, depending on the number of security personnel. The question was if Mahmud would be able to scrounge up that many boots.

He thought back on his time in Sweden since his return. The whole world was at war. The trick was to see where the front lines were drawn. People abroad thought that Sweden was so peaceful, happy, perfect. It was actually worse than that—even people in Sweden thought harmony reigned. That was bullshit. If you scratched the surface, it was rat shit through and through.

He got on the highway at Handen. Not a lot of cars out. Maybe he should call Mom after all? Images flashed through his mind. Claes Rantzell. Mats Strömberg. Roger Jonsson. Sometimes the opposition was victorious after all.

Nynäsvägen. Down to Södra Länken, the highway. Toward Årsta. There was some kind of artwork around the entrance to the tunnel. It almost felt magical. Like a blue light that lit up the entire upper part of the tunnel. Between the two entrances to the tunnel: lots of small lights, like stars with a large orb in the center. Maybe a celestial body. He thought, Yet another hole in life. He fell into his usual line of thought. The basic pillar of civilization was its cavities, the holes. It was strange. Society was dependent on its tunnels, pipes, garbage chutes, cables, holes. But all that just underscored the reality. No matter how good something looked on the surface, the truth was to be found in the holes.

Niklas drove through Årsta. Turned on Hägerstensvägen. Almost home. He felt tired. But still not. His thoughts kept him awake. Like constant adrenaline kicks.

He couldn’t find a parking spot near his building, had to park four blocks away. Left the duffel with the equipment in the car; he could leave it there until the next time he went out to Smådalarö. It would be soon.

He slammed the car door shut. Walked toward his building.

The glow from the streetlights made the tarmac glitter again. His breath was billowing like smoke.

He pushed in the key code. Opened the door.

Stepped inside. Flipped the light switch.

He stared into the barrels of four MP5s.

Someone yelled, “Hands up, Brogren! You’re under arrest!”

Four cops from the SWAT team. Suited up like they were on the front line: black clothes, vests, helmets, visors—the whole shebang. Smaller-model police assault rifles, pointed at him. Behind him, more cops were pouring in. Snapped handcuffs on him. Pushed him to the ground. It was too late. Too late to think. He was arrested.

He wondered what for.