But in addition to that, there were two crucial improvements. First of all, Maloof’s black briefcase was roomier than the blue bags. The security and technology features had been condensed and stored in the lid and the bottom, leaving more space for the valuables requiring transport. The result was a light, discreet bag, when compared with the blue monsters currently being used.
“Incredible,” Mild said once he had allowed himself to be convinced.
“Right, right,” Maloof agreed. “We… that is… manufacture takes place in Slovenia. That’s the reason… for the price.”
He looked the two men straight in the eye. They still hadn’t talked prices; the men hadn’t asked and Maloof hadn’t wanted to bring it up until he was sure they were convinced. But judging by how intensely they had been nodding during his presentation, he was cautiously optimistic. The Englishman was harder to read, but toward the end he had even allowed a quick smile.
Now the older of the two cleared his throat and spoke directly to Anders Mild.
“This was a surprise,” he said. “Truly.”
Almanza’s English was the kind Maloof had grown up with on TV during the late seventies, from programs based in rural English castles and country manors, with men in green tweed clothing who hunted foxes at weekends and employed an army of servants.
The Englishman turned to Maloof.
“I’m in Sweden for a conference, not flying home until tomorrow evening,” he explained. “Anders asked whether I would like to join him for this meeting, and I answered yes mostly because I had nothing urgent to attend to. I’m glad I did.”
Maloof tried to hold back a satisfied smile, but he only half-managed it. He stroked his beard and looked proudly at his black security bag, as though it had performed particularly well.
“Naturally, there are a number of questions we will have to return to,” Almanza continued. “Among them the security in the Slovenian factories.”
“Of course,” Maloof replied.
“And then there’s the question of exclusivity.”
Maloof nodded.
“Exclusivity. If G4S makes an order… then obviously none of your competitors would be able to buy our product.”
He gave a wide smile. The Englishman nodded with satisfaction. Maloof realized that the price was clearly a minor detail in this context. They still hadn’t asked about it. He had gone into the meeting with the intention of asking for 20,000 kronor per bag, but he now realized he could just as easily say 30,000. It would make absolutely no difference. He hardly dared think about how much money that would mean within the Swedish market, but imagine if they were talking about a Europe-wide deal?
According to Zoran Petrovic, each bag cost 5,000 kronor to produce. The number of security bags used in the Swedish market was somewhere around ten thousand.
The amount was dizzying.
“And there will have to be some discussion in London,” Almanza added drily, “but I’m fairly sure my enthusiasm will rub off onto our colleagues there.”
He raised a confident eyebrow to show that this was just a formality, and Anders Mild nodded in agreement.
“And you could fly over to London to repeat this presentation?”
Maloof smiled and sat down. “Of course, of course. Just give me a few hours… I’ll be there.”
Almanza looked pleased.
When Michel Maloof and his family had landed at Arlanda almost thirty years earlier, he had torn up his Lebanese passport and flushed it down the toilet before they even reached passport control. That was what you did back then, that was the advice they had been given from relatives already in Sweden. Without a passport, refugees were registered as stateless, which minimized the risk of being sent back. Where could they be sent back to? But that early morning in a toilet cubicle at the airport was something Maloof had come to regret over the years. He and his family had been permitted to stay in Sweden, but getting ahold of a Swedish passport without a foreign one to swap it for had proved almost impossible. And by the time Maloof had waited long enough for it to finally be a possibility, he had been arrested for the first time.
That meant he had ended up at the back of the line. The same thing would go on to happen again and again. Michel Maloof was now thirty-two, but he still didn’t have a passport, neither Lebanese nor Swedish. And since England was outside the Schengen zone, there was no way he could make the trip to London. He would have to send someone else. Petrovic could go. It wasn’t a big problem.
Rick Almanza stood up, and Mild did the same.
“Thank you so much, Michel,” the Englishman said. “It’ll be a pleasure to do business with you.”
Maloof got to his feet. He felt dazed and confused. He shook hands with the two men on the other side of the table.
He had just earned more money than he ever could have dreamed of. Millions. Tens of millions.
“Thank you. And as for the price… the quantity… and the delivery date…?”
Almanza laughed.
“We’ll have plenty of time to get back to you about that,” the older of the men said. “The contract on our current security bags doesn’t expire until 2024. That gives us fifteen years to negotiate.”
Maloof’s smile faded. Had he heard him right? Had he misunderstood?
“As I’m sure you can understand,” Anders Mild explained in Swedish, “we can’t do much as long as we’re tied into our current contract. But we plan ahead within G4S, and I hope you can do the same.”
2024?
Were they pulling his leg?
5
Sami Farhan turned left onto Tegeluddsvägen and drove across the train tracks toward the offices and warehouses in Frihamnen. It was six thirty in the morning, the sky was still dark and expectation made him drum the wheel with his fingers.
Compared with the sleepy inner city, the harbor was a hive of activity. Vans and trucks shuttled along Frihamnsgatan in the glare of the bright spotlights that replaced the streetlights out there, cranes lifted containers from ships and the thought that a metal box just like that would be the starting point for Sami’s new life got him worked up.
Hassan Kaya’s office was in Magasin 6, and Sami pulled up next to the loading dock.
In just under half an hour, the boat would be coming in.
He hadn’t been able to stop himself from coming down to see it with his own eyes. He had agreed to meet Ibrahim Bulut, the one who had originally attracted him to the project, on the dock. It would be a moment to remember.
Four months earlier, Sami had stepped into Hassan Kaya’s cramped, cluttered office off a narrow corridor with no windows on the second floor.
Ibrahim Bulut had taken care of the introductions.
Sami had boxed with Bulut at a club called Linnea during his teens. It hadn’t been for more than a couple of months, but that was all it took for the two to strike up a friendship. They continued to see one another from time to time over the years, and had even done a couple of jobs together in the early 2000s. Since then, Bulut had been busy doing exactly what Sami was about to do. He had changed sides. The Turk had left his criminal life behind him and now ran a successful business importing flowers in Årsta. It was through his import work that he had come into contact with Hassan Kaya last autumn, just as Kaya was about to start a new company. That Sami had been invited to get involved was purely because he had been in the car with Bulut when Kaya called to talk about his plans.
A few days later, they met up in Kaya’s office in Magasin 6. The room smelled damp and had been full of files and papers. Sami had sat down on a wooden chair and listened as Kaya explained the setup.