Sami ran straight across the road. Cars slammed on their brakes, sounded their horns, people raised their fists. But the boxer saw none of this, he was running as though his life were at stake.
Sitting at a table outside one of the park’s busy cafés was Hassan Kaya, the Turk who had conned Sami out of his money in the shellfish business. The man who had gone underground without a trace. He was here. In the flesh.
Sami wasn’t thinking, couldn’t think; how many nights had he dreamed about finding Hassan Kaya? And finally, here he was.
“YOU BASTARD!” he shouted, running straight toward him with his fists clenched and his eyes black with hate.
As he reached the line of tables closest to the road, Kaya finally realized what was happening. He stared in terror at the furious, sprinting Sami Farhan, and got to his feet with a start. The table he had been sitting at tipped and fell, his plate of food shattering on the gravel, and then Kaya fled, as fast as he could, knocking over several other tables on the way. He ran toward Hamngatan, away from the danger.
Sami’s bulky frame plowed its way between the tables. Rather than taking a detour on the paved footpath where he would have had no trouble running past the office workers, he transformed into a homing missile. He shoved tables to the side, pushed people who got up to protest out of the way. It was like watching a huge combine harvester make its way across an unplowed field, leaving a path of overturned tables and chairs, crying children and confused diners in his wake.
Kaya ran faster than his heavy old body could really manage.
“Stop, you bastard!” Sami shouted.
But his words only made the Turk change gear. He turned right, around the corner of the café with the outdoor seating area, and crossed the road.
Maloof was still waiting by the sidewalk with his engine running. Kaya came charging past. He was only five, six yards away, and if Maloof had wanted to, he could have put the car into gear and rammed straight into the Turk.
But that was the last thing he wanted.
No.
After weeks of searching, he had finally found the police helicopter. Drawing attention to himself was the last thing he needed. And Sami should be thinking the same thing. But as Maloof saw the furious boxer come running after the Turk, who had continued down Arsenalsgatan, he realized it wasn’t consideration controlling the big man’s movements.
Hassan Kaya had reached the entrance to Kungsträdgården subway station, and Sami was hot on his heels. He had realized that the Turk was getting tired. That the burst of explosive energy awoken by his fear had been used up.
Sami was gaining on him.
Inside the subway station, there were a number of short escalators down to the ticket hall. Kaya took the stairs to the right instead, and then leaped over the high ticket barrier. He almost managed to clear it, but one of his feet got caught, and he stumbled and fell to the floor on the other side. He scrambled back up and hurried toward the escalators down to the platforms. It was clear that his strength was failing him.
That gave Sami a renewed burst of energy. The station was the last stop on the blue line, and in the middle of the day it was practically deserted. Sami had time to use his card to get through the barriers, and then he continued to run.
Now, you bastard.
Kaya had already reached the escalators, but if there was one thing Sami was good at, it was running down stairs. Kungsträdgården was the city’s deepest metro station, almost one hundred feet belowground, and the escalators were endlessly long and steep. Sami felt his confidence grow. The prawn bastard was screwed. Sami ran as though he were a bull and Kaya his red flag, and the distance between them grew smaller.
To Sami’s surprise, Kaya passed the first set of escalators and continued toward the one farthest away. He was so close now that Sami could almost touch him.
Kaya awkwardly reached the top of the escalator. Along the far wall, which was made of red mesh, there were a number of advertising boards, and Kaya desperately tore one of them loose, a poster encouraging people to drink juice.
Sami couldn’t work out what the Turk was playing at. He didn’t care. He lunged at him just as Kaya threw himself forward, the sign beneath him like some kind of sled, and started to slide downward on the metal surface between the escalators. Not even the ridges, which stuck up at regular intervals, could stop him; they made distinct clicking sounds as he passed, but the Turk quickly gained speed.
“What the hell…?”
Sami rushed down the escalator without letting the Turk out of his sight. The metal sled picked up speed as though it had been shot from a catapult. Kaya flew toward the platform. Soon enough, there would be no way for the Turk to slow down. He was going too fast.
“Shit,” Sami swore, not knowing exactly what he meant. “Shit!”
His legs pumped away like two sewing machine needles as he raced down the escalator.
“Shit!”
And below him, at the very bottom, Kaya disappeared from view.
Had Sami lost him again?
But when he made it down to the empty platform a minute or two later, he found Hassan Kaya in a bloody heap on the concrete floor. He was several yards away from the escalator, beneath a replica of an ancient Greek statue. There was no sign of the metal sled, which spoke volumes about the journey through the air that must have ended his ride.
Sami stopped. Glanced around. There was no one else about. Slowly, he walked forward, squatted down and carefully turned over the Turk.
“I don’t have it,” Kaya mumbled.
Those were his first words. His face was covered in blood, his eyes closed. When he opened his mouth, blood trickled down his chin.
“You lost five, but I lost ten mill,” he groaned. “The fucking captain bought his fucking freezers and then vanished. He screwed us all.”
The Turk’s voice grew fainter and fainter. Sami leaned in so that he could hear his final words, which came out as a faint whisper.
“I didn’t dare… I thought you’d kill me… I’m sorry…”
And then he lost consciousness.
As Sami took the escalator back upstairs, he could still see Kaya’s chest rising and falling. He would live.
Up on Kungsträdgården, Maloof was waiting in the car. Sami jumped in.
“And that was really necessary, was it?” Maloof asked. “Today, of all days?”
30
“You look worried,” Zoran Petrovic said mockingly.
Michel Maloof’s smile was as wide as usual, but Petrovic had detected a rare flash of uncertainty in the eye of his short friend.
“Right, right,” Maloof replied, quickly running his hand over his beard. “No… it’s just… don’t worry. Course we’re going to do this. And your pilot…”
“Zivic.”
“Zivic. He’s good. Right?”
Petrovic smiled.
They were standing next to the launchpad at the helicopter hangar in Roslagen, just south of Norrtälje. Maloof hadn’t told Petrovic about Sami and the way he chased Hassan Kaya. The impulsivity of it still bothered him; it wasn’t something Petrovic needed to know.
It was a beautiful Sunday. The breeze was making the waters of Lake Limmaren glitter temptingly, the sky was pale blue and the bank of white clouds was keeping to a reasonable distance, far out over the Baltic. Still, the difference between today and when they had last been there at night, with Manne Lagerström, was smaller than you might imagine. There was an entire summer between the two occasions, but there was still a beauty and tranquility to the place.
As long as you stood with your back to the industrial area on the other side of the road.