“Sami is already here,” said the old man.
“Sami?” Maloof repeated. “That Sami?”
There was a barely perceptible sharpness to his tone. Other than that, it was impossible to determine what Maloof really meant by his question. His ability to hide what he was thinking and feeling was legendary; no one would voluntarily play poker with Michel Maloof. His expressions were imperturbable, the customary smile not affected by any external circumstances, and his movements were slow, as though well considered and thought out.
He ran a hand through his beard as Sami appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“What a surprise,” the boxer said.
If you wanted to work with Michel Maloof or Sami Farhan, everyone knew that you couldn’t be messing about with drugs at the same time.
Despite this, Maloof’s and Farhan’s paths had never crossed more than fleetingly.
Not before now.
They sat down at the worn kitchen table. Sami and Maloof both had their hands wrapped around their hot coffee cups, and Sami wondered how the man could live somewhere so cold. One of the dogs began to howl outside the kitchen, and it didn’t take long for his relatives to join in. The old man silenced them with a brief command, without even needing to raise his voice.
Sami and Maloof glanced at one another.
They shared the dogs’ respect for the old man, though they couldn’t claim to know or like him. He wasn’t the type of person you felt much affection for. Still, whenever he got in touch, they came. Why wouldn’t they? The old man often had interesting ideas.
“You’re not wearing enough layers,” he said when Sami asked about turning the heat up.
Sami held back from telling him that you could buy battery-powered heaters these days, if the problem was the lack of electricity in the cottage.
“I’ve got a suggestion,” the old man continued. “Or perhaps a question.”
Sami and Maloof were listening. The difference between the two men was particularly clear when they sat next to one another. Sami’s gaze was open and encouraging, it waited eagerly for the next sentence, it was urgent. Maloof sat with his face turned away, tense and seemingly uninterested, lost within himself. When he briefly met the old man’s eye, it was with the cautious curiosity of a watcher.
“There’s a building in Västberga,” the old man said, “I know you’re both familiar with it. A building containing a huge amount of cash. And an opportunity has arisen…”
The dogs growled. They started playing, and it soon sounded like they were tipping the furniture in the next room. But their game came to an end without the man having to say a word.
“I know of a woman,” he continued, “who I think could be… of assistance. There’s a chance, at the very least. She’s looking for… company. She’s registered on those sites? You know, the kind where you make dates?”
Sami and Maloof nodded. If it had been someone else talking, they would have laughed at his choice of words, about “making dates.” But with this old man, there was no joking. With him, you kept your mouth shut and listened.
Instead, they drank the coffee, which was strong and bitter, and waited for him to go on.
“That’s why I asked you here,” he said after a short pause. “I thought it might be something for you. Maybe you’d like to meet the girl? She’s your age. Go out and eat dinner with her. You can say you got her details from the ad.”
Maloof and Sami glanced at one another. Neither of them had ever been lacking for women in their lives.
“I don’t think I can, sadly,” Sami eventually said. “You know we’re having another baby, right?”
“I know.” The old man nodded. “Pretty soon, isn’t it? Your son can’t even be one? What was his name? John? Has he been christened yet?”
“I can’t date a girl,” Sami said without answering his questions.
He stomped his feet in an attempt to warm them up, and explained:
“Not even pretending. You know what I mean? Plus, I’m not doing that kind of thing anymore. I’ve got something else on the go. You know?”
The man nodded, but his expression hadn’t changed. It was as though he hadn’t heard Sami’s objections.
“And what do you say, Michel?” he asked.
“Yeah, I mean,” said Maloof, “I can date anyone. I mean… this girl… there’s a police station two hundred yards from that place in Västberga. She can’t… change that, can she?”
The man didn’t reply.
“No, no,” Maloof continued, both cautious about disagreeing with the old man and keen to share his doubts, “and, yeah… they’ve got guards in reception twenty-four seven. A hundred cameras. One of the most secure vaults in northern Europe? But… maybe she knows all that?”
The man didn’t seem to catch the irony.
“Meet up with her,” he repeated, and turned to Sami. “Listen to her. She might happen to say something of interest.”
Sami pulled at the neck of his sweatshirt as though he needed to get some air.
“No thanks, not for me,” he politely replied, as though he had been offered another biscuit.
The man stared at him with no expression on his face, and then he turned to Maloof.
“Michel?”
“Yeah. Or”—he changed his mind—“I don’t know?”
“If you take her out for dinner, I’ll foot the bill,” the old man said. “And if it leads anywhere, I could imagine helping out financially.”
“Sure, sure.” Maloof nodded. “No.”
“No?”
Maloof made a gesture so vague it was impossible to interpret. He didn’t want to seem negative. He looked at Sami, who shook his head almost imperceptibly as he rubbed his hands to warm them up. Both had a huge amount of respect for the man with the dogs, but this time he seemed to be clutching at straws.
“That disappoints me,” said the old man, getting up from the table. “That really disappoints me.”
A dense silence spread through the kitchen, and both visitors felt uneasy.
The man took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Maloof.
“You could at least take this? The girl’s personal details. And the rest of her contact details. In case you change your mind?”
“Thanks,” Maloof replied, taking the slip and shoving it into his jacket pocket. “You never know. You don’t.”
“I think that you and Sami could achieve something really… interesting if you worked together,” the man added.
FEBRUARY–MAY 2009
2
Michel Maloof had decided to go for a walk through the newly built waterfront area along Hornsbergs Strand. He was wearing a thin black coat over his dark suit, and the smooth soles of his shoes hadn’t been designed for the icy ground. Every now and then he slipped on the path. He was carrying a black briefcase in one hand. It acted as a kind of counterweight, helping him keep his balance when he turned onto the path down toward the canal on the other side of the Ekelund Bridge.
He was early. The meeting wasn’t until two, meaning he still had twenty minutes to kill. He had parked his pale gray Seat Ibiza right outside the entrance to the G4S offices on Warfvinges Väg. The car was the most anonymous he had ever driven; if he left it in a big car park, he might even walk straight past it. But for Maloof, it was often important not to draw any attention to himself, and the Seat Ibiza seemed to have been designed with that very ambition in mind.
Even so, he didn’t have the patience to sit and wait in it for almost half an hour.
He had never come this close before.
It wasn’t nerves he was trying to shake off during his quick walk, it was excitement.