They float through the sky. From time to time, the helicopter lurches suddenly, and it comes as a surprise every time. An unexpected gust as they’re landing would flip this little steel bubble, Sami thinks. He knows it won’t happen, he’s gone through the statistics, flying a helicopter is relatively safe. But the sudden lurches mean he can’t relax; it feels as though they’re at the end of a rubber band that someone keeps erratically pulling on.
His thoughts turn to John, to how much he would be laughing through the pockets of air that occasionally make them bounce sideways.
Sami doesn’t fantasize about what will be awaiting them when they arrive. He knows what he has to do, from the second the helicopter lands on the roof in Västberga until the moment they climb into the cars that will take them away from Norsborg. His own run-throughs and preparations over the past week have been so frequent and intense that, in a way, it almost feels as though he has done this before, like the robbery has already taken place.
Instead, as he stares down at the lights on the highway, the headlights rushing toward Södertälje like a string of white pearls, his thoughts are on his two families; his parents and siblings, Karin and the boys. Deep down, he knows that he can’t win over both of them. What he will be able to tell his brothers tomorrow would win back their respect and recognition, but it’s also the very same thing that could cause Karin to pack up the kids and leave him.
It’s a catch-22. If he can never tell anyone where the money came from, then how will his brothers ever know that it was more than just words, more than empty promises? And if he tells the truth, if the rumors about who was responsible for this robbery spread across town, then how will he explain to Karin that he had no choice, for their sake?
The helicopter suddenly veers to the right, and Sami falls to one side. It’s the wake-up call he needs. He empties his mind. Ignore all that, all those thoughts and speculations. He’s here now, and it’s time to get to work.
69
5:02 a.m.
Zoran Petrovic veers off from the highway. He drives down the exit ramp at just over ninety miles an hour. In the rearview mirror, he can see that the police car has moved considerably closer. Petrovic turns off the radio and hears the police siren.
He doesn’t have a plan.
He’s improvising.
The exit takes him onto a small country road leading into a forest. He slams on the brakes just before he reaches a crossroads and throws himself out of the BMW. The police car is still several hundred feet away, and the sound of its sudden braking cuts through the darkness.
Petrovic runs around the car to the edge of the road. He unbuckles his belt, unbuttons his trousers and drops them to the ground, along with his underwear. As the police pull up behind him, he squats down.
He’s not pretending. He loudly tries to take a real shit.
The police jump out of their car. One of them is holding a flashlight, and he shines it straight at the crouching Yugoslavian.
“What the hell are you playing at?” the police officer shouts.
But when they see what Petrovic is doing, they keep their distance.
“I’ve got such a fucking stomachache,” Petrovic whines pathetically. “I panicked. I had to.”
“You can’t just sit here and…”
“What a damn creep,” says the other.
“You’ll have to find a real toilet,” the first police officer says firmly.
“I’m lactose intolerant,” Petrovic moans, still not getting up.
“Did you hear what I said?” the first officer asks, in a considerably gruffer tone this time. “This is disorderly conduct. You could go to prison for this.”
It’s a threat the police are sure will work and, with a despairing sigh, more like a howl, Petrovic reluctantly stands up.
“There’s a toilet at the Statoil station,” the police officer’s colleague says nonchalantly, trying to be just helpful enough.
“Shit,” Petrovic whines. “How far’s that? I don’t know if I—”
“Get going!” the first officer says. “Right now. And make sure you stick to the damn speed limit, even if you do have a stomachache.”
Petrovic has no intention of tempting fate. He buttons his trousers as he moves around the car, and climbs in behind the wheel before the police officers have time to change their minds. He drives off. In the rearview mirror, he can see them standing there.
They’re probably finding the whole incident hilarious.
The minute they are out of sight, Petrovic puts his foot down again, back up to ninety miles an hour. His cell phone flashes in the seat next to him. A message from ZLATAN JR. One of his many names for Michel Maloof. Without lifting his foot from the accelerator, he grabs the phone from the seat to read the message.
70
5:13 a.m.
They’re approaching from the north.
The helicopter’s rotor blades cut a path through the calm air.
The rhythmic pounding of the engine shatters the silence.
Two hundred and fifty feet below them, the black water races past at sixty miles an hour, as do the huge, forest-covered islands where the occasional light reveals a cluster of houses or a farm. Tonight, the outlines of the islands look like ominous gray Rorschach inkblots.
Inside the helicopter, the four silent, black-clad men are strapped into their seats. Each of them is completely still, staring straight ahead, lost in himself and his thoughts.
Down on the ground, the lights of the cars and streetlamps glitter, illuminated facades and bulbs that have been burning all night in the low office buildings along the edge of the highway. But the four men don’t see any of that. Their eyes are fixed straight ahead.
The brightest light ahead of the helicopter’s curved windshield is shining up from the roof of the G4S cash depot in Västberga. It’s like a beacon lighting up the building, like a revelation.
From this point on in the robbers’ lives, there will always be a before and an after these few seconds, this morning of September 23.
Sami’s grip tightens around the machine gun in his lap.
Nordgren closes his eyes for a moment.
Maloof catches a flash of stars through a quick gap in the clouds.
That’s a good sign.
Kluger gets into position directly above the building. He allows the helicopter to sink slowly but deliberately through the air.
They land feather-light on the roof. Kluger turns to Maloof with a grin and then nods.
It’s almost a quarter past five in the morning; the journey took just as long as planned.
Everyone knows what he needs to do. Each has his own role.
They have to work quickly now.
Maloof is first out of the helicopter. Nordgren stays inside and begins to pass the equipment out to him.
Sami grabs the handle of the heavy sledgehammer and jumps out of the cabin. As he runs toward the glowing, pyramid-shaped skylight, Nordgren climbs out of the helicopter and helps Maloof unfasten the ladders from the helicopter’s landing skids. They work in time with the dull thudding of the rotor blades. And just as they finish and carry the ladders away, Kluger lifts off.