“Farhan?” said Therese Olsson. “But… he doesn’t have anything to do with Zoran Petrovic, does he?”
“He’s not mentioned in the investigation reports or on the tapes,” Berggren confirmed. “He’s not on our lists.”
“Who is Farhan?” Hertz asked in frustration.
“Do you remember the robbery at the National Museum?” Berggren replied. “The art heist? Just before Christmas a few years ago?”
“That was Sami Farhan and his brothers. Among others,” said Thurn.
“But there’s no mention of him anywhere in our investigation,” said Hertz.
Berggren got up.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s go and pick up Farhan.”
“No,” said Hertz.
“No?”
“No.”
Berggren looked dismayed.
“I want to find the money first,” said Hertz.
The room was silent.
“I want to find the money, then we can haul them all in. Without the cash, the media will lynch us.”
“It’s too late,” said Berggren.
“I’m afraid you’ll never find the money, Lars.” Thurn backed up her colleague. “I agree with Mats that it’s better to drop that thought.”
“Twenty-four hours,” Hertz insisted. “Let’s give ourselves twenty-four hours. If we haven’t gotten anywhere by tomorrow morning, we’ll go and pick up Farhan and Petrovic and his entire damn address book. OK?”
“Is that a promise?” asked Berggren.
“That’s a promise,” Hertz replied.
“I’d like to bring in Petrovic personally,” said Caroline.
Thurn’s colleagues turned to look at her, but no one asked why. They all knew the answer would be polite but insignificant.
104
Michel Maloof had spent Wednesday with Zoran Petrovic, trying to find out exactly what had happened. True to character, he had brushed his anger, disappointment and surprise to one side, and he worked methodically. Who had sent the text message to Petrovic’s phone during the early hours of the morning? How could Maloof’s number have been used without his knowledge? Who was behind the wheel of the boat, and where had it gone? Where was the leak, who had tricked them?
But when evening came around and he was still none the wiser—other than finding out that if someone knew his phone number, it was fairly easy to use the cellular network to make it appear on Petrovic’s display—Maloof was overwhelmed by a weariness that caused him to sleep through the night and well into Thursday.
When he woke, it was late afternoon, and he felt completely crushed.
They had done it, that was sure.
But the money was gone.
Sami and Nordgren still didn’t have a clue. In their respective worlds, everything was as it should be, and Västberga was still the perfect job. The thought of telling them made Maloof feel even more desperate. He knew what Sami would say; he would point to Petrovic and blame him. It was the simplest explanation, but only if you hadn’t seen the surprise in the Yugoslavian’s eyes when he realized what had happened that morning.
Whoever had screwed them over had also screwed over Petrovic.
At eight that evening, Maloof called Alexandra Svensson. He couldn’t bear being alone any longer. He needed the full attention of a sympathetic woman, warm skin for the night ahead.
But Alexandra didn’t answer. Her phone rang, but there was no answering machine linked to the number, there never had been. He tried several times that evening, all without success. Something might have happened to her, but he didn’t have the energy to worry about it. Thoughts of the money, the boat and the phones were still spinning through his mind, and he didn’t have room for anything else. He fell asleep just after midnight, and dreamed he was flying low through the air.
On Friday, the first thing Maloof did was to call Alexandra Svensson, before he had even climbed out of bed. By eight o’clock, when she still hadn’t answered, he was starting to get seriously worried. He decided to find out what had happened. He knew she lived in Hammarby Sjöstad, but he couldn’t remember the exact address. Maloof had never been to her sublet sublet, but she had told him where it was.
Or had she? He usually remembered addresses.
After a cup of black coffee, he called G4S and asked the switchboard if he could speak with the head of HR. He was told that Ingela Planström wouldn’t be in before nine, and so at nine on the dot he called back.
“Planström,” she answered.
“I’m calling about Alexandra Svensson’s father,” Maloof said. “It’s of the utmost importance that we get hold of Alexandra as soon as possible, but she isn’t answering her phone. Do you have an address where we can reach her?”
“Her father?” said the head of HR, sounding nervous. “Is he ill? Just a moment… Here. Sickla Kanalgata Six.”
“Thanks so much,” said Maloof, hanging up.
Just over twenty minutes later, he climbed out of his Seat in Hammarby Sjöstad. There was an intercom in the doorway to Sickla Kanalgata 6, and he pressed the buzzer. He heard a rustling over the speaker, but before he had time to say anything, the door buzzed open, and Maloof stepped inside. There was a list of residents in the entrance hall, and Alexandra’s apartment was on the second floor. He ran up the stairs and knocked.
A young woman Maloof had never seen before opened the door, a slim blond in jeans and a T-shirt.
“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I didn’t know… I’m looking for Alexandra?”
“Yeah?” the woman in the doorway said.
“Alexandra Svensson?” Maloof clarified.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“No… but… the other Alexandra Svensson,” said Maloof. “Who lives here.”
Alexandra Svensson stared at him. She shook her head, not understanding what he meant.
“I live here. I’m Alexandra Svensson. What do you mean?”
105
There are over one hundred thousand islands in the Stockholm archipelago, and just as many capes and bays.
Lena Hall had spent the summers of her childhood on the island of Utö, and was so used to the archipelago that she would never underestimate the rocks that weren’t marked on the nautical charts. She had learned to sail before she was ten, chugged around in a small dinghy with a five-horsepower outboard motor, fishing for perch in the streams and pike in the reeds by the time she was twelve. Now she was behind the wheel of a motorboat, moving southward through Hårsfjärden at a speed of thirty knots. The morning of Friday, September 25, was cold, and the water lay still and calm. The boat’s metal hull cut through the water like a knife through warm butter, and the wind in her hair was cold as ice. Autumn had arrived.
Lena slowed down as she approached land, and she headed along the coast.
It was one of these bays, she just wasn’t sure which. She always got them confused. He had forbidden her from putting up any markers.
She pulled out a small pair of binoculars, but before she had time to raise them to her eyes, she spotted movement on the island.
A black dog.
It was standing on a rock, its paws in the water, looking out to sea. Lena slowed down again and set a course toward the rocky beach and the dog. When she focused, she spotted two more dogs at the very edge of the woods. She smiled, and knew she had found the right place.
As she slowly drifted toward land, the dogs caught sight of her, and all eight gathered around the boat as she dragged it up onto the pebbles. The old man and his walking stick didn’t appear before Lena had jumped ashore. She was in the process of unloading the mailbags when, suddenly, he was behind her.
“In your element, I see,” he commented.