Petrovic looks at him. At first, he doesn’t seem to understand. “What?”
“If you’re here, who’s driving the boat?” Maloof repeats. “Someone drove off with the money. If it wasn’t you…?”
SEPTEMBER 23–25
97
Stenson’s ordinary working hours ended one hour after the first publication, the one he alone was responsible for: images of the white helicopter lifting off from the roof in Västberga. By seven, people had started pouring into the office, and Stenson knew he should have gone home after a long night. But it was impossible. There was a sense in the air that something historic had happened, and this was his story, even if the paper’s head start over its main competitor had narrowed. The tabloids, morning papers and Swedish public media were all at the scene out in Västberga, along with a huge number of foreign correspondents—all starved of any internationally interesting news from the Scandinavian backwater where they had been stationed. The scene at the crossroads of Västberga Allé and Vretensborgsvägen was chaotic, and a press conference had been scheduled at police HQ in Kungsholmen for later that day.
Stenson darted between the desks with very little to do, following the foreign coverage of the robbery with the rest of his colleagues. Their European colleagues from the closest time zones were already broadcasting the news by eight, but it took a few hours before the Americans woke up.
On CBS, the focus was on the fact that no one had been hurt. There was talk of the heist being like something from a Hollywood movie, and when they described the skillful robbers, they used an image of Tom Cruise in an action sequence of some kind.
On CNN, they concluded that reality, yet again, had exceeded fiction.
The online headlines from the English papers were, in typical fashion, all humorous plays on words:
“Chopper Heist Is Swede-ly Done,” wrote the Sun. “It was a heist that would have caught the imagination of any Hollywood producer,” wrote the Times. “But not even Danny Ocean—despite having three George Clooney films to play with—thought of using a helicopter.”
The coverage seemed much more focused on reviewing the robbers’ methods, drawing parallels to the world of film, than it was on reporting a crime.
Stenson knew that he wouldn’t be invited to the press conference at police headquarters after lunch; he was just a temp from the recruitment company. But at eleven thirty, the paper’s star reporter—who had won out and been awarded the prestigious job of covering the robbery by the deputy editor—came over to his desk.
“You can come along if you want, Stenson,” he said. “You were first, after all.”
Tor Stenson nodded. His pride swelled like a sponge in a bathtub.
98
The American airlines would have been out of the question. With Sami Farhan’s criminal record, the obligatory tourist visa applications made it impossible for him to fly via the United States.
Both Air France and British Airways flew from Arlanda to the Dominican Republic, via Paris and London respectively. But the flights also left at six thirty in the morning, and such tight margins weren’t acceptable. If everything had gone according to plan, they were meant to have landed in Norsborg at five thirty. Having only an hour to make it up to Arlanda after that would have been too tight.
That left Swiss Air as the only viable alternative. The first leg left at ten in the morning, and he would land—after a change in Zurich, and thanks to the time difference—in Punta Cana early the same evening.
When Sami climbed out of the car at Arlanda and walked into the international terminal, heading for the check-in desks, he felt as though a huge spotlight on the ceiling were following his every move through the departure hall. It seemed to him that everyone was staring, that the police officers talking outside the 7-Eleven were getting ready to pounce.
By the time he handed over his passport to collect his ticket, he could barely talk, his mouth was as dry as sand, and he pulled at the neckband of his T-shirt so hard that it stretched. A few minutes later, standing in the line for Security, his legs were trembling so much that he was shaking all over.
It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet.
Just over an hour earlier, he had been standing on a rooftop in Västberga, about to climb into a helicopter.
He could barely believe it when they let him through Security, and when he sat down to wait by the still-empty gate, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all just a trap. They were giving him false hope, they wouldn’t let him leave the country.
During the brief moments when Sami failed to keep up his cautious nervousness, two opposing feelings rose inside him:
The first was a bubbling feeling of joy, something like letting go of a small plastic ball you’ve been pressing to the bottom of the bath.
They had done it. Shit, they had actually managed to do it.
The second feeling was one of paralyzing anxiety when he thought about Karin and the boys back home on Högbergsgatan.
He closed his eyes and suddenly found himself in Vitabergsparken. It was spring, and the air smelled like grass; Karin was walking alongside him, right by his side, he could make out the scent of her shampoo, she was holding John’s hand. The boy was wearing a denim jacket and a pair of what had once been white Converse, laughing his cackling little laugh when a huge dog suddenly approached them. The dog was white and shaggy and as big as the stroller Sami was pushing ahead of him up the hill. John ran forward, toward the dog, and he hugged it, clinging to its neck. Karin followed him, squatted down and stroked its nose and head. Sami knew she wanted him to take the baby out of the stroller, but he hesitated. He didn’t like dogs. And so Karin got to her feet, picked up the baby and let his tiny hand, no bigger than a tablespoon, stroke the dog’s white fur, so he could see how soft it was.
Suddenly, between him and his family, a crack appeared in the ground. It ran along the path, the gravel falling into the dark opening, and the pang in his heart was followed by a sinking feeling of melancholy that he knew all too well.
Sami stood on one side, looking at them—Karin and the kids next to the huge white dog—on the other. Suddenly, Karin jumped onto the dog’s back, lifted the boys up in front of her and then the dog ran away, away from the perilous opening, up the hill. Sami shouted, he shouted again, but no one could hear him.
His heart was pounding like two bass drums, his veins ready to burst in his temples, the tears streaming down his cheeks, and then he woke with a start. He couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few seconds, but he glanced suspiciously around the room. Everything looked the same as before.
Almost two hours passed before it was finally time to board the plane. To Sami, it felt like an eternity. But afterward, he would look back and remember it as no more than a few seconds. Even as he walked down the windowless tunnel between the terminal and the plane, he couldn’t believe it was true.
They had done it.
By the time he sat down in his seat and fastened his belt, his anxiety had sucked the last of his strength out of him. He fell asleep with his mouth open before the plane even made it onto the runway.
99
The big room that had been put at their disposal for the press conference was far too small. At the very front, standing next to temporary screens bearing the police emblem, were the day’s key figures: the police spokesman, Christer Ade, and behind him, Task Force Leader Caroline Thurn from the National Criminal Police. County Police Commissioner Caisa Ekblad and the National Police Commissioner, Therese Olsson, were also present. Each looked surprised at the size of the assembled media in front of them.