‘If he knows enough. I’m wondering.’
‘I think he does. I think they’re completely right, your colleagues. And I agree with you: they’re damn reliable. I can’t believe I missed them when I was gathering people for the paedophile unit. They’re probably right that the planning took place in Kumla. Three intelligent fascists planning a clever attack: Petrovic, Lindberg, Bergwall. But there was another person to turn to: Kullberg. I don’t think they left him out. The rest were foot soldiers, cannon fodder: Carlstedt, Andersson, Sjöqvist. But not Kullberg. He knows.’
‘Maybe. What do you think Niklas Lindberg is doing now?’
‘The handover will take place soon. He’s buying the explosive from the right-wing organisation. But he’s still pissed off that the ten million got lost. That would’ve been an unforgettable bang. It’ll be pretty good for a million too, don’t get me wrong, but I’m damn sure he wants the ten million.’
‘You mean he’s…?’
‘Yes. I think he’s going to go after Rajko Nedic directly.’
44
HE IS LIGHT, she is dark, and they are sitting in the sunshine, limbs entwined, on the steps of Högalid church. They aren’t alone. Several young couples are sitting there, limbs entwined, enjoying the sunshine. They all look alike.
It’s like a slice of nature thrown into the middle of the city. Greenery in all directions, but only for a short distance. Then the asphalt reappears. The concrete jungle.
They don’t know whether it’s an oasis or a mirage. They’ll find out very soon.
Against the brilliant-blue sky above the waters of Riddarfjärden, small slivers of cloud dance. Constantly changing, they take on new, equally fleeting shapes.
A dance of metamorphosis.
He looks down at his four-year-old size 7 Reebok shoes; they’re starting to feel mouldy. They’ve gone too far. She looks down at her new white sandals, size 7, and then up again, gazing at him until his eyes reach hers. Their mouths meet in a kiss. The light touch of tongues. The spark through their bodies.
They can’t stop touching one another. They won’t ever be alone again. Whatever happens now, they won’t ever be alone again. They’re planning to die together, to let ‘th’ incroaching rinds their closing lips invade’.
But they will be old by then.
They will follow the gods up to the top of the mountain.
They stand up and wander through the greenery of Högalidsparken. On the church steps, a copy of Expressen has been left behind, from 24 June. The headline, ringed in felt pen shouts: THE SISTERS THAT VANISHED INTO THIN AIR.
But he pushes Ovid’s Metamorphoses into his pocket. The paperback edition.
A large tree looms over them. It places a protective arm around their shoulders. It’s still there as they come out onto Hornbruksgatan, turn down the short stretch of Lignagatan and out onto Hornsgatan. There they turn to the right, down towards Hornstull.
They stop outside the bank.
She casts a quick, furtive, shy glance over the street. Four floors up in the building opposite. She assumes that the black figure she catches sight of through the window is in her head.
They go into the bank.
The great man stands looking out of the window. It’s unbearably warm. A shimmering green bluebottle has developed a liking for his sweat, and nosedives repeatedly towards his forehead. He doesn’t bother swatting it away. Considerably bigger flies are nosediving towards his forehead. From within.
They can’t be swatted away.
Leaks. Only a few weeks ago, the word had been unknown. It hadn’t been in Rajko Nedic’s Swedish vocabulary. Now it was popping up time after time after time.
First that difficult policeman Ludvig Johnsson, who had found the thing which absolutely couldn’t be found. He would pay anything to deal with that problem. He knew all too well what happened to paedophiles in prison. Then came Risto Petrovic’s betrayal. Crown witness. How would he deal with that? Maybe the damage could be limited. His workers didn’t know enough to sink him, especially not those imported directly from the Balkans. Ljubomir’s betrayal was worse. Though he didn’t know a great deal about the business, either. Lordan was meant to shoulder that burden. But then he died. That was his only betrayal. And then those phones missing from the restaurant. He knew instinctively that it was no normal robbery.
It was a leak, too. Somehow.
And then he sees – he can’t comprehend what it is he’s seeing, the connections between his brain cells can’t stretch to it. He sees his daughter. He sees Sonja outside the bank, together with a young man. It doesn’t fit. It’s an impossible equation. He’s standing in the room with the soundproof walls, understanding nothing. He’s utterly cold.
Two mobile phones stolen from the Thanatos restaurant.
He doesn’t have time to react. He doesn’t have time to give the sign to his men. Doesn’t have time to give them the order to storm the bank. The door flies open. A volley of silenced bullets spreads death through the flat. It’s silent as they fall. Three of five. He looks at his body. No holes. No sneaky, belated gunshot wounds; the kind you notice only when it’s too late.
His two surviving men raise their hands to the ceiling. Their expressionless faces haven’t changed much. When he sees that, he understands what war damage is.
He can’t see the man’s face. It is covered by a golden balaclava. Smoke is rising from the sub-machine gun’s silencer. He speaks crystal-clear English with a Swedish lilt.
‘I know about those devices in your sleeves. Please don’t use them. Then you’ll live. Take the hidden pistols out. Carefully.’
The two of them do as they’re told. The man turns to Rajko Nedic. It’s the first time in his life he’s had a weapon pointed at him.
‘Stay calm, Mr Nedic,’ the man says in well-mannered Swedish. A dialect, the great man thinks in confusion. Bohuslän or Västergötland. Uddevalla, Trollhättan.
There’s a body sitting on the sofa. As though he had fallen asleep at his post – unthinkable. The others are lying on the floor. It’s unbelievable. It can’t have happened. He looks over his shoulder, out through the window. Sonja and the boy are going into the bank. He smiles. Awry. Suddenly, it’s all so clear.
‘Sit,’ the man says, pointing to the sofa. The two of them sit down beside the body, handing their pistols over to the man. He quickly and routinely wraps them in strong tape. The two men look like silver mummies.
Rajko Nedic can feel the time passing. He counts how much each second is costing. Sonja will still be waiting to get into the safe-deposit box. There’s still time. Ten million kronor.
Ten million or a daughter.
The man turns to him. His eyes are icy blue behind the gold.
‘How did you find us?’ asks Rajko Nedic. He has to buy some time. He has to think while he talks; think about something else.
The man laughs. His gaze is steady.
‘I followed you from Danderyd,’ he says with disgust, adding, more distinctly: ‘I need that ten million.’
‘So do I,’ says Rajko Nedic. ‘I can’t get at it myself. But I don’t understand – didn’t you get hold of the key?’
‘There’s a lot you don’t understand. Where’s the money? In which bank? And what’s the number of the box?’
The great man doesn’t feel so great. He can imagine the scenario before him, can imagine him saying to the man: ‘The bank opposite. There are a boy and girl in there taking the money out right now.’ And he can imagine the man running over. The great man freeing his two men. They would follow after him. A firefight would break out in the bank. His war-damaged heroes would shoot the man. Rajko Nedic would get his ten million.