“Miss?”
Takes her sweet time looking my way. Giving me suburban sass. A proper Swede, physically, if a bit too much makeup. The suburban influence. A tragedy.
“Might I pay?”
“What did you have?” she asks as if unbearably put upon, stepping to the register.
“Two coffees. Two, what, Americanos.”
Her fingers are poised over the keyboard, tickling the air. “A coffee or an Americano?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Was it a regular coffee or an Americano?”
Jesus fuck. I can’t help it, I throw a glance back toward Filippa K... I don’t like that I can’t see directly into the store, and in order to speak to this pure-blooded yet stupid cooze I have my back to the shop.
Gentle now.
“Two Americanos. I was told you didn’t have regular coffee.”
The blonde raises her eyebrows, taps twice on the keyboard. “Forty-eight kronor.”
Just a moment. A hot flash of red momentarily obscures my vision, and fuck, I can’t help it, I find myself saying, God I can’t stop it, “Well for fu... How much is a cup of regular, just regular coffee?”
“Oh, twelve kronor.”
Steady now. I hear myself say, “But that’s what I asked for in the first place. That’s what I wanted to begin with. I didn’t ask...”
The blonde believes that I do not see her roll her eyes, but I see it. I have to be careful here. I cast a furtive glance back out the window.
“Sahrish,” she calls.
No credit cards on an op, not ever. I’m fumbling with cash. Coins, bills... gotta get out of this fucking place.
“It’s, ah, quite all right, I’ll just pay for the—” In my ear: “They’re moving. They’re moving.”
“Sahrish,” she calls again.
The gypsy pokes her head out of the kitchen. I should walk out of here but I must not be memorable to these gashes.
“Did the gentleman have two Americanos or regular drip?”
Sahrish or whatever the fuck her name is indicates a coffee machine with long red glitter nails, hooker nails. The machine is wrapped in its power card.
“S’broken. Still.”
“Oh, right,” says the blonde. “So yeah, forty-eight.”
I can’t help it, I slam a fifty-kronor note on the counter. Both girls jump. I try to counterbalance this action, saying reasonably, “Yes, thank you. Keep the change. Keep the change. Thank you.” And I’m up and through the door before I fuck up this whole job by gutting these two irrelevant cunts.
Striding across the square diagonally, my back to the shop and the target...
“To you,” says Carl-Erik.
“Where they headed?” I ask, not turning around.
“Subject attempted to buy jacket—”
“Fuck the details, please...”
“... salesgirl directed her to NK outlet as they didn’t have her size at the store. Seems to be destination as expected. Getting in the van with our friend.”
So all as planned.
Our friend being the “crazy” Serb... who is about to be one busy little Slav.
09/09/03
Connect with “crazy” Serb kid at the Kungsträdgården tube.
Kid has been out of the institution for about five days. We’ve got him stashed in one of our flats and thus far he’s just been shuffling around, not seeming to take an interest in anything. Except for Grand Theft Auto and the DVD player, which we have stocked with nothing but his favorites: Mission Impossible I, Mission Impossible II, and a compilation of our target’s greatest hits, especially her comments with respect to support for the military action in Bosnia, etc., etc.
As promised, the boy is about to meet Tom Cruise, the man who sprung him — and be given his mission orders.
Yes, we’ve been given the intel that this boy has some sort of illusion that Tom Cruise is communicating with him. All we’re doing really is indulging his fantasy. How can there be harm in that?
Down in the dank tube station... watching him at a good distance for about fifteen minutes, concerned for a bit as he seems to get crafty, skulking around the station trying perhaps to figure out where I might be... After all, how thrilling to be meeting with Tom Cruise himself.
I can sense his twitchy nervousness from across the station, me thinking, Fuck, we’re gonna have to reassess.
But now here he is, seated on the number 11, as instructed, which is being cleaned before it reverses course and heads back in the direction of Akalla.
I enter the empty train to his back, slide into the seat behind him in a black hooded sweatshirt. Saying, “Obviously don’t turn around or I fucking kill you. Your apartment satisfactory?”
Kid stiffens, then nods. I speak Serbian, with what I hope is an American accent.
“You ready to do this?”
Kid nods eagerly.
“Have you got the weapon?”
Kid nods again. Simple fuck.
Me saying, “Make it bloody. Make it ugly. This is yours. Gut her. Do it like she’s a dirty fucking Croat. She might as well be. Do it street style.”
Another head-wag.
“You won’t see me, kid, but I’ll be there, so no fucking around. I won’t step in and bail you out should you fuck up. Others will direct you to her. Wear that stupid hat you’ve got on, and a shirt with a recognizable logo.”
“I have a Nike sweatsh—”
“That’s fine. Listen to me. When you’ve finished, walk directly out. Ditch your hat and switch jackets, you’ll be handed a fresh one.”
“What about the—”
“Shut the fuck up. You don’t speak until I say it’s okay. The weapon you drop with your clothing. Do you understand?”
“I can’t believe...” He trails off.
Jesus. I can’t have an actual conversation with this mouth-breather. Even from behind I can tell the kid is smiling.
“I want to turn around.”
“To look into my eyes is to die, kid. You know that. I’ll destroy you with my mind.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just... I can’t believe I’m talking to Tom Cruise,” he mumbles, dreamy. “You’re fucking wicked, man. You’re like a genius. You can speak Serbian, that’s fucking wicked, man.”
“That’s right. I do this using Scientologist technology. Now when the police take you, because they will, what do you say?”
“Deny it, deny it.”
“They show you the video. They smack you around. Looking bad for you, kid. What then, genius?”
“Confess.”
“To what, now?”
“To... to the crime. Shit, am I saying the wrong things?”
“No. But speak properly. Don’t stutter. You say nothing of Leijonborg. Nor that he brought in Tom Cruise. Nothing of this, nothing of the Impossible Missions Force. Nothing of your mission. Yes?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“You confess as a lone actor. We’re watching your mother. Do you understand?”
Nods, laughing. Kid thinks it’s a gas.
“On behalf of the IMF I deputize you, Mijailo Mijailovic, for a period of forty-eight hours. Boom.”
“Fucking wicked...” says the kid, dazed.
“The IMF will admit no involvement. We have agents everywhere.”
“... best day of my life,” breathes the greasy Slav.
Eyeroll. In English I say, “I don’t doubt it. You have your orders.”
And I’m gone the way I came in.
Carl-Erik and I, in the lobby at Berns ten minutes later. He reads Expressen and drinks a mineral water.