Zoran Petrovic had lost count of how many bags he had sacrificed so far in his quest to open them without setting off the explosives.
He slowly went over to each of the young workers and exchanged a few words with them. Petrovic found talking to a nineteen-year-old emo kid as easy as talking to the infrastructure minister of Montenegro. That was how it had always been.
“Good, good,” he said to a girl in her twenties. She was busy using the welding flame to burn a hole in the bottom right-hand corner of the bag.
Petrovic stretched out a long arm and, with a lazy elegance, drew a pattern in the air above the metal of the bag.
“That’s how to do it, that’s right. It’s like painting a picture, you move the flame back and forward, like Monet. Or Manet. I have an acquaintance, he’s the head of a museum in Lyon, obsessed with brushstrokes, he’s filled his yard with sand and bought a special rake that’s finer than a normal rake, so he can drag it across the sand and…”
“Zoran?”
It was Svenne Gustafsson’s assistant who had stuck his head around the door. The Yugoslavian turned around, annoyed.
“What?”
“You’ve got a visitor. Maloof’s here.”
“OK.” Petrovic nodded. “OK. I’ll finish the story later. Just keep going. And remember, we’re not in a hurry. We’re never in a hurry, nothing good will come of that.”
His statement was met with a certain gratitude, but Zoran Petrovic had made it only halfway back through the scrapyard labyrinth to Gustafsson’s office when he heard a dull thud, a sound so familiar that he didn’t even jump. Yet another bag had been triggered, and they would be forced to burn yet another stack of dyed notes. They had tried cleaning the dye from the notes in every way possible, but not even boiling them, putting them into the washing machine with chlorine or scrubbing them by hand had brought the color out. It simply couldn’t be done.
Petrovic stooped to avoid hitting his head as he stepped into the building through the back door. Michel Maloof was waiting on a chair in the kitchen behind Svenne Gustafsson’s office. Gustafsson was currently out, something he always made sure to be whenever Maloof stopped by.
“Just a glass of lukewarm water,” said Petrovic.
“What?”
“I don’t want anything else.”
Maloof stared at his tall friend in amazement as he sat down at the table. “Water? You want me to get your water?” he asked.
Petrovic made a gesture that showed it was clear that Maloof should be serving him the water. Maloof laughed and shook his head.
“Right, right,” he said, getting up. “Yeah, well, it is your… lukewarm water.”
Maloof went over to the counter and filled a glass from the tap. Overly casually, he returned to the table and placed it in front of Zoran Petrovic, who nodded indulgently.
The two men had known one another a long time, but their relationship would always be shaped by the fact that Petrovic had been leader of the playground where Maloof had hung out during his school years. Zoran Petrovic became the only role model that Maloof had who didn’t play soccer. And since Petrovic had known how to spend money even back then—his wardrobe had been full of nothing but Armani, and he had never left home on a Friday evening without his American Express card—that had helped Maloof define his own life goals.
“I’m going to be a millionaire,” the young Maloof had said, and Petrovic had laughed.
“A million’s what I make in a month,” he had replied.
“Through the roof?”
“Right, right,” Maloof explained with a smile, “through the roof.”
It was two thirty in the afternoon. The stack of plates and mugs in the sink had been there for months. Svenne Gustafsson wasn’t the pedantic type, and both Maloof and Petrovic did their best to pretend that the broken drain in the toilet didn’t stink. They never usually had this type of conversation unless they were out walking somewhere, but the heavens had suddenly opened and neither of them wanted to get wet. They had been talking about all the money they would earn from the black security bags when Maloof mentioned Alexandra Svensson.
“Talk about an old dream,” said Petrovic. “You’ve been going on about Västberga for years.”
Maloof smiled and nodded.
“OK,” said Petrovic, “But how the hell do you get onto the roof?”
“There must be a way.”
“Jumping shoes?” Petrovic sneered. “Or what’s it called… a jet pack? With a jet pack, like in the opening ceremony of the Olympics. Is that what you’ve got planned?”
“Right, right.” Maloof smiled. “Like the Olympics. Exactly. No.”
“Maybe you could use a cherry picker? I’ve got a friend with a company in Monaco. He cleans windows, you know, thirty floors up. Monaco’s one great big window. He sends people up in a box. It’s big enough for five, six people. I sat in one of his cherry pickers once during the Formula One. You know, fifteen floors up, right above the track. The cars were driving past under our feet. We were drinking fizz and the girl dropped a sandal. I thought I’d shit myself. You know? A sandal straight onto the track. Jesus.”
“A cherry picker?” Maloof asked. “Is it on a flatbed?”
Petrovic nodded. “He has them mounted on cars.”
“Right,” Maloof replied, thinking aloud. “A crane? On the front? A building crane. One you could drive up at night.”
Petrovic reached for the glass of water on the table and took a sip.
“Could work,” he said thoughtfully. “Could work. Getting hold of a crane’s not exactly hard…”
“Or… a hot air balloon.”
“Are you serious?”
“A helicopter?”
“Is there room for a helicopter to land on the roof? Have you ever flown a helicopter, Michel? Damn noisy.”
“No… But you’d be able to get away in a helicopter too.”
“I prefer the crane,” said Petrovic.
Maloof nodded and grinned.
“Exactly. Sounds most plausible, maybe? But… how would you get away then?”
They heard the outer door open and close. Gustafsson had returned from his made-up errand, and Maloof got to his feet. It was time to leave.
“OK. Well… think about it,” he said.
“A crane,” said Petrovic. “I’ll think about it.”
“How’s it going in the container out there? Getting anywhere soon? Or not?”
Petrovic twisted self-consciously.
“Just take it easy,” he said in a superior tone. “It’ll work out.”
“You think?”
“You don’t want to wait fifteen years, I don’t want to wait fifteen years. So it’ll work out because it has to work out.”
“Right, right.” Maloof nodded.
“I’ve got something on the go,” said Petrovic. “I ordered something from France. It’s coming next week. A crazy thing, but it’ll solve the problem. I’m not even going to tell you how much it cost.”
They heard yet another faint boom from out in the container. Petrovic got up.
“I’m going to tell them to stop,” he said, sounding annoyed. “I don’t want to have to find more bags. It’ll work out. Next week. Finally.”
Maloof grinned. “What kind of thing?” he asked as Petrovic was on his way out.
The rain had eased up, but it was still coming down.
“You’ll see,” the Yugoslavian said over his shoulder. “All you need to know for now is that it’s going to make you a rich man.”