The man from the cold buffet breathes in the cool night air and looks out over the beautiful capital. Right below him, Riddarfjärden glitters in the glow of the streetlamps, the water curling like an autostrada from Rålambshovsparken to city hall. In the other direction, to the west, the Traneberg Bridge rises up across the narrow sound, and to the south, he can see red and white dots of light moving along the winding bridges of the Essingeleden highway.
It’s because of the view that the man is on the roof. From the highest building in Marieberg, he’ll be able to see anyone approaching Västberga from the air. He’ll be able to blow their cover in good time, whether they’re on the way from Berga or Uppsala.
He takes out a brand-new cell phone and dials the only number saved in the contact list.
Sami Farhan answers.
“Team Four. I’m in position,” the man from the cold buffet says.
58
11:55 p.m.
Ezra Ray is sitting in a gray 1999 Volvo V70, with all the registration and tax documents in the glove compartment. He doesn’t know who owns the car, but he assumes it belongs to the scrapyard in Lidingö where he picked it up an hour or so earlier. He drives across Lidingö Bridge and decides not to take the route through Lill-Jansskogen Park. It’s the middle of the night, and he imagines that the risk of being pulled over by the police will be greater if he chooses a dark forest road. Instead, he takes Valhallavägen, wide and well lit, full of heavy trucks delivering or picking up goods from the harbors beyond Gärdet.
Ezra Ray doesn’t know exactly what is happening tonight, but by putting together the pieces he has been involved in, the drawings he stole from the town planning office and the ladders he bought from Bauhaus, he could work some of it out. Studying the items beneath the blankets in the roomy trunk of the Volvo, he could probably work out the rest. There’s a circular saw and some mailbags. Ropes and frame charges. Detonators, cables and explosives. Face masks, body armor and headlamps. Two crowbars, an enormous sledgehammer and a smaller toolbox. The ladders. The longer of the two is twelve feet long when folded, Ezra had to push it between the front seats and let it rest on the dashboard. He still couldn’t close the trunk lid properly.
But he doesn’t put the pieces together, he doesn’t draw any conclusions. If he never thinks it, it’ll be easier to deny knowledge later. If he has to deny anything.
It’s not the ladders preventing him from closing the trunk that will be his biggest problem if the police pull him over. If they’ve set up a drunk-driving checkpoint by Roslagstull, if the car’s registration number is in a database of people who haven’t paid parking fines, or the traffic police happen to stop him, it’s all over. Possession of explosives is an offense in Sweden. Ezra knows that he’s aware of only a fraction of the planning that must have gone into this evening. He knows how this type of project is built on hopes and dreams.
And right now, the entire thing hinges on him.
Ezra smiles. He glances at the speedometer. The risk isn’t that he’s driving too fast, it’s that he’s driving too slowly in his attempts to seem law abiding.
The lights are green all the way to Roslagstull, and he drives straight on toward the university and Frescati. They had scoped out the place a few weeks earlier, and since then Ezra has swung by a few times at this time of night. He’d never seen another living soul there, not a single dog owner or taxi driver stopping for a piss.
He passes the turnoff to the university and drives on, via Svante Arrhenius Väg, so that he’s approaching Stora Skuggans Väg from the north. After a thousand feet, he turns onto a small forest road he would never have noticed in the dark. He parks. Kills the engine and immediately starts unloading the car. He runs the items from his trunk into the woods in batches. It’s quite a long way from the car to the meeting place, but that’s how it has to be. Discovering the car can’t be the same as discovering them.
It’s a few minutes after midnight.
Ezra Ray takes out his phone and dials the number saved on it.
Sami answers immediately.
“I’m here,” Ezra says.
59
11:58 p.m.
The phone rings again. It’s the fourth call in an hour.
This time, TEAM 2 flashes on the display.
Team 2 is responsible for moving the huge rock used to block the entrance to the gravel pit in Norsborg. It’s there that the getaway cars will be waiting once it’s all over. It’ll still be dark then, so Team 2 also has to make sure that the helicopter pilot can see where he’s landing.
“Yeah?” Sami answers.
“We’re here,” says the voice on the other end.
“Thanks,” Sami replies, hanging up.
It’s time to get changed.
He goes into the bedroom and takes off his sweatpants and T-shirt. He shoves these, along with his toiletries, into the small bag his sister will pick up tomorrow afternoon. She’s also promised to tidy up after him.
Sami picks up the waist pouch he bought. He fastens it around himself after checking the documents for the tenth time that evening. Inside the small pouch, his passport and a plane ticket to Punta Cana. His plan is to head straight to Arlanda from the gravel pit in Norsborg and then kill some time in one of the cafés in SkyCity. The plane takes off seven hours later, which might seem like a long time, but it’s considerably less than he’s waited already today.
On top of the waist pouch, he pulls on a thin black sweater. Over that, he’ll be wearing a tight black windbreaker. His trousers are a pair of black jeans. They’ve agreed to wear black, all three of them, with one exception. Sami has to be wearing his white sneakers. Adidas. They bring him luck.
Once he’s ready, he goes back out into the living room and waits for the next call. It should have already come in, but maybe they rang at the exact same time as Team 2, maybe they got the busy signal?
The minutes tick away.
By the time the display reaches 12:05, Sami can’t sit still in the armchair any longer. He gets up, grabs the phone and goes into the bedroom. He moves around his bag, which he placed on the floor by the bed, and then goes back out into the living room. He repeats this twice. It’s 12:09, and his phone still hasn’t rung.
Team 3’s number is saved in his phone, but he knows he isn’t meant to make any calls from this SIM card. If they’ve run into trouble, a vibrating phone in their pocket isn’t going to help.
Sami composes himself. Moves behind the armchair and peers out the window. When the living room is dark, the glow from the streetlights on Kocksgatan seems even brighter.
His phone rings. It’s 12:18.
Team 3. They’re in Myttinge on Värmdö. It’s Team 3 that is responsible for keeping the police helicopters on the ground, a prerequisite for being able to carry out the job in Västberga tonight. If any of the chain teams fail, it’s unlucky, but it’s not critical.
Team 3, on the other hand, has to succeed.
Sami answers.
“Hello?” he hears a voice say on the line.
“Yeah?” Sami replies.
“It’s not here,” says the voice.
“What do you mean?”
“The hangar’s empty. The helicopter’s not here.”
60
12:50 a.m.
Michel Maloof sees the car approaching through the kitchen window. It’s the first one to drive down Billborgsgatan, in the heart of Norrtälje, in over half an hour. The nightlife in the town could hardly be called pulsing. The car slows down and finds an empty parking space right outside his door.