Inside each box is a rock and a dummy car alarm that Niklas Nordgren bought from Teknikmagasinet in Fältöversten.
The dummy alarms consist of a battery-powered bulb for sticking onto the dashboard of a car. Their red blinking lights are meant to trick car thieves into thinking that the vehicle is alarmed. The black toolboxes are plastic, bought online, and they weigh almost nothing. The stones are just ordinary rocks that Nordgren found in the woods, but without them, a strong breeze would be all it took to tip the boxes over.
The boy switches on the two fake alarms and then sticks them to the boxes. Afterward, he places one of the dummy bombs outside each door into the hangar, takes a few steps toward the gate and turns around.
From a distance, the red blinking lights look ominous, and the black boxes are hard to make out; they’re perfect.
“Let’s go,” he says to his friend, and they start walking along the road.
There’s a bus stop about a mile away.
After a hundred or so yards, the first boy hurls the bolt cutters into the woods. They land so softly they don’t make a sound.
66
4:40 a.m.
When Michel Maloof, Zoran Petrovic and Jack Kluger pull the door to the apartment in Norrtälje closed behind them, they leave very few traces of themselves, other than the uneaten remains of their McDonald’s meal. Petrovic has promised to make sure someone goes over to get rid of “every last bit of DNA” the following morning.
The men go down the stairs without talking, and Maloof grabs the door so that it swings shut quietly behind them. The street is deserted.
They take Zoran Petrovic’s car, the dark blue BMW. The moon, which was shining brightly a few hours earlier, is currently hidden behind a cloud. Just an hour earlier, Petrovic had asked the pilot whether the moonlight made much difference to night flying.
“Makes it easier to see, but it also means you’re easier to spot,” came his reply.
Petrovic chose to interpret that as meaning Kluger was indifferent to whether the dawn was light or dark.
The American climbs into the front seat next to Petrovic, and Maloof chooses to jump in the back with the weapons. Not because he doesn’t trust Kluger, but just because it’s a bad idea to let any old stranger sit behind you with a loaded gun.
Petrovic has filled the trunk with cans of helicopter fuel. They’ll pick up everything else down in Stora Skuggan.
For once, Zoran Petrovic is quiet as the car slowly carries them out of the small town. Back in the apartment, the American’s aftershave hadn’t been much more than a faint scent of musk, but in the confined space of the car, the smell is stronger. Maloof cracks open the window to let in some fresh air.
“It’s to the right here, yeah?” Petrovic asks.
Maloof glances around. “Yeah, yeah.”
They turn off onto Kustvägen. From there, it takes less than two minutes to reach the helicopter hangar in Roslagen. They park, leaving the weapons in the backseat, and all three men go over to check that everything is as it should be. There are no other cars anywhere to be seen, the hangar is bathed in darkness, and the stillness is absolute. The pines and firs down by the lake are their only breathless audience.
The American walks over to the hangar door and studies it skeptically.
“These things are solid,” he says in his nasal English. “You can’t pick these. This needs to be blown open.”
“Right, right,” Maloof agrees.
And then he laughs. It’s comical. The door into the hangar is as secure as can be. They probably installed it on the recommendation of the insurance company, in some attempt to lower their premiums. Blowing it open would work, but the charge would also echo across the entire neighborhood.
Maloof takes out the long-bladed knife that he had been wearing in a holster beneath his coat. He goes over to the door.
“That’ll never work,” says the American, as though Maloof had been planning to attack the steel door with his blade.
But instead, he cuts a long slash into the canvas of the hangar, right next to the door. Since the hangar is made from fabric, he doesn’t even have to exert himself. One more cut, and he’s managed to create a flap that can be pushed to one side, and with a welcoming gesture and a grin, he invites Petrovic and the surprised pilot into the hangar.
Petrovic laughs.
“Smart of them to buy an expensive door.”
Maloof’s grin grows wider, and he follows them in.
The helicopter, a white Bell 206 JetRanger, is where it should be, at the end of its row, making it relatively easy to roll out.
So far, everything is just as Manne Lagerström had promised.
The American quickly inspects the machine. The hangar smells of gasoline and electronics, and the huge, empty helicopters are lined up in three rows. Maloof can’t help but liken them to bees. It’s as though they’ve flown in to rest for the night, and come dawn they’ll wake up again, their heavy, drooping rotor blades suddenly starting to spin, panels lighting up and engines roaring.
Kluger walks around the helicopter, occasionally raising his hand to the metal body. He climbs up and inspects the rotor blades and the mechanics. Maloof and Petrovic leave him to it and head back out to carry in the weapons and petrol cans from the car. When they return, the pilot has finished his checks. Everything is as it should be, the tank only partially filled so that they can fly with a heavy load, and he gives them the thumbs-up. They manage to maneuver the helicopter out of the hangar using the small tractor. The wheels on the dolly move smoothly over the flat ground, possibly because Manne gave them an extra oiling ahead of tonight’s events.
The white helicopter glistens in the moonlight. Kluger starts the engine, and the rotor blades slowly come to life. A low whirring, rising to a controlled roar. After ten or so seconds of picking up speed, he can no longer see them; they’re just one great big spinning disc above the body of the helicopter.
“OK!” Petrovic shouts over the roar of the helicopter once they’ve loaded the weapons. “See you in a few hours, hopefully.”
“Right, right,” Maloof shouts back.
Kluger is already in his seat. He’s wearing ear protectors but no headphones. He isn’t planning to turn on the communications system during their flight. His feet are on the pedals and his hands on the levers. Petrovic has bought a pair of goggles, but Kluger doesn’t need them. In his experience, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.
Maloof takes his seat next to the American. The two bowl-shaped seats behind them are empty for now.
A second later, they lift off. The wind from the rotor blades tears at Petrovic’s clothes, and he watches the enormous white bumblebee fly away.
He turns around and rushes back to the car.
It’s almost five in the morning.
67
4:41 a.m.
The dark blue BMW is factory fresh, and the engine more powerful than the car Zoran Petrovic usually drives. He borrowed the vehicle direct from the reseller, a friend of a friend who owed him a favor or two. Petrovic’s part in the events of that early morning isn’t over yet.
He doesn’t have much time. He needs to make it from Norrtälje to Skärholmen in fifty minutes, and he’s going flat out. When they first talked about it, Maloof had said it was too tight, that they would need to find someone else, but Petrovic had insisted. He could do it.