Last week, they had discussed the risk that the robbers might open fire and came to the conclusion that if they hovered above the robbers’ helicopter, only an idiot would risk bringing down a police chopper on top of himself.
And, as Jakob understands it, the robbers are far from idiots.
He pulls up by the fence in the darkness, a short walk from the entrance. They climb out into the dark night and move quickly toward the gate. With just a few yards to go, and Jakob already fumbling with the key for the padlock, Larsson shouts. A second later, Jakob spots the same thing.
On the other side of the fence, just outside the doors into the hangar, there are two square, black boxes with blinking red lights on top of them.
Bombs.
“Stop, for God’s sake!” Larsson shouts.
But Jakob is already still. “What the hell are those?”
The two on-duty pilots stare at the bombs. It feels so strange, to be in such a familiar place, radiating a sense of peaceful stillness, and to be staring at something straight out of an American action film.
“This was what they meant,” Larsson says as he slowly backs away from the fence.
“What?”
“It’s why we were moved to Solna last week. It’s a way of making sure we can’t get into the air. Those damn things are probably on a timer. They’ll go off any moment.”
The pilots continue backing up toward the car.
“What the hell do we do?”
89
5:43 a.m.
“Are you in the air?”
Thurn is standing next to the gas station with Dag Månsson and the G4S security chief, Palle Lindahl. The riot vans are making their way toward the cash depot. For the first time since she got into the car that morning, Thurn feels in control. In just a couple of minutes, the riot squad will storm the building and the helicopter from Myttinge will arrive to block the robbers’ getaway.
But that isn’t what Jakob Walker has to tell her.
“We’re not in the air, we’re still on the ground,” the pilot says into Thurn’s earpiece.
Thurn is listening, but she doesn’t understand. “Could you repeat that?”
“There are two bombs outside the doors into the hangar,” the helicopter pilot continues. “We don’t know how they’ve been constructed. We’re waiting by the gates until help arrives.”
“Bombs?” Thurn says. “Is it—”
“My colleague is just calling it in to Control,” Jakob interrupts, glancing at Larsson, who, sure enough, has the control center on the line. “They’ll have to send someone who knows how to handle this. We need to wait until the danger is over. If it happens quickly, maybe we can—”
Thurn rips the headphone from her ear and starts running. Straight over the grass toward the riot vans and the G4S depot. Her hands cut through the air like knives, her long legs pound the ground. She runs quickly.
She shouts out as the riot vans draw closer and closer to the building.
“Abort! The buildings might be booby-trapped!”
90
5:43 a.m.
Nordgren is climbing the longer of the two ladders, up toward the roof. He’s carrying a thick rope that loops back down to the balcony on the fifth floor. The first thing he sees when he steps out into the dark dawn is the sea of blinking blue lights on the ground below.
The second thing he sees is the helicopter hovering above him.
It feels like hours have passed since he was sitting in it.
He starts pulling on the rope. Maloof has hooked one of the full mailbags to it. Nordgren backs up, backs up, backs up. It’s not quite as heavy as he expected. When he stops to catch his breath, he turns around to check where he is.
He’s an inch from the edge of the roof.
No time to get scared or to think about that now.
With the mailbag acting as a counterweight, he moves back over to the broken window and quickly hauls it up the last part of the way.
Behind him, the helicopter lands.
While Maloof holds the ladder, Sami climbs up to the roof to help Nordgren with the bags. Maloof stays behind on the balcony on the fifth floor, fastening a couple of bags at a time to the rope, to make things go more quickly. He feels exposed on the tiny ledge. He knows that the police could storm the building at any moment, if they aren’t already inside. He’s visible from every floor below, and the ladder is his only escape route, making him an even easier target.
He glances at his watch.
The fifteen minutes they had planned have turned into thirty.
It can’t take any longer. He decides to leave the last few bags they still haven’t managed to haul up and starts climbing.
Up on the roof, Sami runs over to the helicopter to throw the money into the cabin. When he opens the door, he’s met by a furious pilot.
Jack Kluger is shouting loud enough to overpower the sound of the engine.
“You said fifteen minutes! Where the hell have you been? We’re out of juice!”
The fuel warning is still blinking away with its ominous red light.
91
5:44 a.m.
If the robbers had placed bombs outside the helicopter hangar in Myttinge, the chances of their having done the same at the cash depot in Västberga were high. And Caroline Thurn didn’t want to be responsible for ordering a police officer to open a door that then exploded in his or her face.
Shouting and gesturing wildly, she manages to get the riot squad to stop before they make it to the entrance. The enormous commanding officer climbs out of the first van. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest and a helmet, and he is furious. He strides toward Thurn and stops dead right in front of her. He’s standing so close that he is actually looking down at her. The muscles in his neck are taut.
“It’s probably best if you back off,” he hisses. “We’re going in now.”
The sound of the helicopter hovering directly overhead is now so loud that they have to raise their voices.
“It might be booby-trapped!” Thurn shouts.
She imagines she can smell gasoline. It could be coming from anywhere: the helicopter, the riot vans, the gas station.
The heavily armed commanding officer looks suspicious, and then he turns to look at the entrance. One floor up, in the CCTV room, the guards are sitting in front of screens showing the same images that Palle Lindahl has on his laptop. Could they have missed someone planting bombs in the building?
“Booby-trapped?” the aggressive officer repeats, sounding like he doesn’t believe it. “I can’t see anything.”
“We have reason to believe so.”
“You do? Meaning we shouldn’t go in?” he asks, sounding incredibly disappointed.
“We need to make sure that—”
But before Thurn has time to finish her sentence, the sound of the helicopter becomes deafening, and a second later they see it lift off.
“They’re leaving!” Thurn shouts, feeling the panic rise. “They’re getting away.”
Two police officers carrying rocket launchers throw themselves out of the van. They run onto the grass, squat down with the weapons on their shoulders, and point them up at the helicopter.
The commanding officer stares at Thurn. “Give the order!” he hisses.
Thurn looks up at the helicopter.
“The order!” the riot squad leader barks. “Give me the order!”
Other than the robbers, she has no idea who is inside the helicopter. Is the pilot being forced, or is he complicit in the robbery? Do they have hostages on board?
“Give the order!” the officer screams at her. His face is red, a vein bulging on his neck.