“I’m supposed to pass on greetings from Basir Balik,” said Petrovic. “I hear you’ve done a few jobs together?”
If Jack Kluger had worked for Balik, that decided things for Petrovic; the man could be trusted.
“The job involves flying at night, at a low altitude,” the Yugoslavian said.
“Heard that. I’ve done it before.” Kluger nodded with a wide smile, showing off his white teeth. “Thousands of hours in the Afghan mountains and ravines. I can do it.”
“Shit, the entire meaning of life has to be flying low and landing softly,” Petrovic said, looking out over the bay.
The waves foamed as they rolled in toward the building and broke against the jetties.
“Could be,” Kluger admitted. “Could be.”
This was the reason he was still in Sweden. One job kept leading to another. Nothing big or well paid, but he had enough money to get by.
It was a long time since he had last been behind the controls of a helicopter, and he was longing to get up in the air again.
“It’s also about being able to keep your mouth shut and be loyal,” Petrovic added.
Kluger’s face turned red again. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?” he asked.
The broad-shouldered man leaned forward and, in a single breath, reeled off a list of qualifications including far more than just the jobs he had done for Basir Balik. Some of what he said would be easy enough to check out. If what he said was true, there was no doubt that Jack Kluger had the experience.
They agreed on the terms of payment, and since there was so little time left, there was no point setting out smoke screens. Petrovic was straight with him, told him everything, and Kluger said he would be ready.
What the pilot failed to mention was the moments of confusion that struck him several times a week, and which had so far stopped him from setting foot in a helicopter ever since he left Afghanistan. Because he couldn’t predict or ward off these periods of confusion, he hadn’t been sure he could trust himself. But it had been so long now.
And from a purely technical point of view, the job was simple.
“I want half the payment up front,” he said.
Petrovic nodded. “No problem.”
They shook hands. Petrovic swayed as he got to his feet.
“Christ, this is high,” he said, trying not to look down toward the water.
“It’s not you I’m flying, right?” Kluger said.
Petrovic laughed. “You get changed first,” he said. “I’ll wait till you’re done and gone.”
Kluger nodded and headed down the stairs in his white bathrobe. Petrovic allowed fifteen minutes to pass before he went to get dressed himself. On the way back to Upplandsgatan, to his police tail and bugs, he felt lighter than he had in a long while.
Michel Maloof had a pilot once more.
39
National Police Commissioner Therese Olsson was sitting in a big, beautifully decorated office with views out onto the park. As yet, there was still no sign of any red or yellow in the dense green treetops outside her window. She looked up from her desk as Thurn and Berggren came into the room.
“Caroline. Mats. Come in. Sit down. Lars is on his way.”
One of Olsson’s many qualities was her surprising capacity for remembering names. She was a politician, a careerist. At some point, Thurn thought, she must have been a good police officer. But that was a long time ago, and being a good boss was now enough.
It was down to Thurn’s initiative that Hertz would be involved in the meeting. The prosecutor may have been inexperienced, but he had shown a certain sharpness. Thurn knew that he wouldn’t show any initiative himself, but she was no longer afraid he would sabotage the operation.
While they waited for the prosecutor, they made small talk about the ambassadors, the brothel on Karlavägen and how the minister for foreign affairs would react when the time for prosecution finally came around. Hertz appeared ten minutes later, and breathlessly sat down on one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Well,” said the police commissioner, “now I’m obviously curious what you have to say.”
Thurn concisely summed up what they had found out about Panaxia in Bromma. When she finished, the prosecutor made his first request, as Thurn had instructed him to do that morning.
“We would like to move the police helicopter from the base in Myttinge,” Hertz said.
“Move it?”
“It’s cheaper to move it than to increase our surveillance out there,” Mats Berggren explained.
He knew which arguments would be most effective.
“But do you really think—” Olsson began.
“The robbery is going to take place on the fifteenth,” said Thurn, “and we have information suggesting the robbers will try to destroy the only active helicopter in the Stockholm area. Why wouldn’t we move it?”
“And where should it go?”
“Our suggestion,” Hertz took over, “is that we leave it with the National Task Force in Sörentorp until further notice.”
It wasn’t a big decision, but the police commissioner had learned to gain points whenever she could. As a result, she looked hesitant at first, and jotted down a few words on a pad of paper on her desk. Then she nodded her approval.
“We had a similar thought,” she eventually said, studying Thurn thoughtfully. “I was planning to talk to you about the National Task Force.”
No one replied, despite the fact that Olsson had left a clear pause for them to say something.
“Yes, well,” she continued, “as you know, the preliminary investigation has, as of lunchtime, been upgraded to an extraordinary event.”
Berggren nodded.
“On my initiative,” Prosecutor Hertz pointed out, annoyed not to have been given credit. “It was my suggestion to upgrade it to an extraordinary event.”
Within the National Criminal Police, an “extraordinary event” meant that the case was now being given highest priority, with increased preparedness a result. An “extraordinary event” could be anything from the attempted murder of a high-ranking politician to an acute terror threat.
“And so,” Therese Olsson said, not paying any attention to the prosecutor’s territorial thinking, “we have come to the conclusion that we should call in the Task Force.”
A silence settled over the room. Thurn looked down at her hand, seemingly studying her nails. Mats Berggren had more difficulty being quite so subtle.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” he said. “Why bring in that pretend army to mess about in this? Don’t you think we can handle the situation?”
“It’s a decision we came to jointly,” the police commissioner said deliberately.
“Jointly?” asked Berggren.
“Within command,” Olsson clarified. “Even Carlbrink was involved.”
“Command?” asked Thurn. “Because that’s not good. The more who know about this, the greater the chance of leaks.”
“Are you suggesting that Carlbrink… that the head of the National Task Force can’t keep a secret?” Olsson snapped.
“I don’t mean anything other than that the more people who know, the greater the chance of leaks,” Caroline repeated.
She could no longer hide her irritation. She looked up, straight into the commissioner’s eyes.
“This is our case, Therese. We have it under control. Don’t you think we can manage without their army boots and rocket launchers? You’re our boss. Don’t you have any faith in your own staff?”
“Are we talking about the entire Task Force?” asked Berggren.
“Fully armed,” Olsson confirmed. “And with orders to shoot down a helicopter, if necessary.”
“This is a robbery we’re talking about,” Thurn pointed out. “It might be spectacular, possibly better planned than anything we’ve ever seen on Swedish soil. But it’s still just a robbery, not a coup. The police force has the resources to be able to handle this. We don’t need help from—”