She hears a ringing sound in her ear, and accepts the call.
“Thurn?” It’s Berggren. “I have Olsson here. She wants to talk to you.”
Before she has time to protest, the national police commissioner’s voice comes on the line.
“Have we lost them, Caroline?”
At first, she doesn’t reply.
“We’ve got a riot squad chasing them,” she eventually says.
The line is silent.
“Is that a flying riot squad, Caroline?”
Thurn hates sarcasm. She passes the turnoff to Årsta and blindly continues along the Essingeleden. The helicopter full of robbers could just as easily be heading south, toward Södertälje.
“Caroline, I have Ekblad ringing me every third minute. The papers have already published pictures of the helicopter, and it’s not just our own damn broadcasters we’ve got camped out there in Västberga, we’ve got people from all over the world. Der Spiegel, the BBC. We’re not going to get away from this one, Caroline. It reeks of official statements and press conferences.”
Thurn dislikes press conferences even more than sarcasm. The traffic into Stockholm is still sparse, but in just a few hours’ time it’ll be at a standstill.
“Ekblad will explain that the police made a unique effort, as always,” Olsson continues, “which is something people should remember when we need increased funding for the police force in general and Stockholm in particular in the next budget. You know the script.”
Thurn isn’t listening. She isn’t stupid. She knows that Olsson is asking her to prepare for the inevitable questions. How much they knew in advance, why they didn’t manage to stop it.
“Caroline?”
Berggren is back on the line. Olsson falls silent. She can hear him too.
“I have the riot squad leader on the line. Want to take it?”
A second later, the call with Olsson has been ended and reality fills Caroline’s ears.
“Thurn here,” she says when she hears the static of the riot van’s communication equipment. “Give me an update.”
“We’ve lost it.”
The detective swings into the right lane and pulls in behind a slow truck with Estonian plates. She passes the exit for Gröndal.
“What happened?” she asks.
“We were following it toward Årsta,” the voice replies. “Then it turned across the park. We couldn’t follow, so we lost it.”
“Which direction did it turn?”
“South. Down toward Älvsjö.”
Thurn nods. She swings back into the left-hand lane and steps on the accelerator. It isn’t far to the next exit. But as she reaches ninety miles an hour and her knuckles turn white, she can’t fool herself any longer.
It’s over.
“Caroline? Are you still there?” Therese Olsson’s voice has reappeared in her ear. “What’s happening?”
95
5:51 a.m.
Kluger holds up a finger.
They are less than one minute away from the first meeting place, he signals. He has a GPS unit in his hand.
Sami brushes his fantasies to one side. He turns around. Nordgren and Maloof have already managed to tie the mailbags to the rope. There are five bags in total, but there’s no way of knowing how much money they grabbed. Didn’t they haul more than five bags out of Counting?
Sami doesn’t have time to think any further than that before the pilot slows down and allows the helicopter to move even closer to the ground. They are now flying lower than the treetops around them, across the north end of Lake Alby. Along Masmovägen, running parallel to the beach, there is a row of simple wooden cottages. Summer houses to some, something to be torn down to others.
Zoran Petrovic had docked the boat by the jetty, as agreed, a few days earlier.
It wasn’t a particularly spectacular vehicle. A typical metal archipelago motorboat with a cabin at the front, big enough to hide ten or so mailbags full of money. The two outboard motors at the stern would be able to keep anyone following them at a distance, if necessary. Going at a speed of ten knots, no more, you passed through two narrow straits, first beneath the Botkyrkaleden Bridge and then beneath the E20, and that would bring you out in the Vårbyfjärden Strait. From there, you could either choose to go northward, toward Stockholm, or turn south, toward Södertälje. It would all depend on the movements of the police.
Maloof opens the side door of the helicopter, and the cold wind forces its way into the cabin. The helicopter is hovering directly above the boat.
Together, Nordgren and Maloof lower the mailbags with the rope they just used on the roof in Västberga. Once they are sure that the first has landed in the middle of boat, they let go and allow the remainder of the money to fall from the heavens.
Before Maloof has even closed the cabin door, the boat has pushed off from the jetty and started its journey north. Kluger quickly guides the helicopter higher, and they continue toward Norsborg.
96
5:53 a.m.
It’s barely two minutes from Lake Alby to the gravel pit in Norsborg. They are still flying low, and now the American is checking his GPS every ten or so seconds. Sami, sitting next to him, doesn’t need to ask about the red light.
After about a minute, they spot the lights of the cars. They’re arranged in a triangle, just like the flashlights at the takeoff site in Stora Skuggan a few hours earlier.
Sami points and the American nods.
The landing happens quickly, without any drama.
Ezra comes running from one of the cars with a couple of gas cans. He puts them down next to the helicopter, whose engine has just been turned off, and Sami then runs back to the car with him.
They drive away without saying goodbye to anyone.
Nordgren quickly hugs Maloof. The feeling of having succeeded has started to creep through his body, no matter how much he tries to fight it. He isn’t back in Lidingö yet, he’s still not out of the woods.
But he’s close.
He runs over to the car where Jonas Wallmark, one of his childhood friends, is waiting. It’s not the first time Wallmark has been the driver in this kind of situation.
Maloof and Kluger are left alone by the helicopter. The American is busy refueling from one of the cans, and he nods. He’s calmer now.
“It felt good to be up in the air again,” he says.
Maloof nods. He doesn’t know what the pilot means, but he doesn’t care. When Kluger lifts off in the white helicopter a few minutes later, disappearing toward a horizon that is slowly turning blue, Maloof knows he will never see or hear of the man again.
He goes over to the lone car left at the gravel pit in Norsborg. He glances at his watch. It’s just turned six. They’re almost half an hour behind schedule. He’ll probably get stuck in the morning traffic heading for Södertälje.
He opens the passenger’s side door of the BMW and climbs in.
The shock renders him speechless.
Petrovic is sitting behind the wheel.
“But…” Maloof stammers. “What the hell… are you doing here?”
“You texted me and told me to come.”
Petrovic had been confused when he got the message after tricking the police to the north of Täby.
Up until that point, the plan had been for him to drive the boat and the money.
“Texted?” Maloof asks. He can’t believe this is happening. “Wait… so who the hell’s driving the boat?”