Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All (18 page)

O
ne of the few who didn't drink a drop during the second Saturday service was a middle-aged woman who wore a blonde wig and glasses she didn't need. She sat in the eighteenth row of pews and placed twenty kronor in the bucket every time it went by, no matter how much it pained her soul to do so. It was important not to stick out. She was there for reconnaissance.

No one in the building knew her name. Not many people outside it did either, as it happens. In the circles where she spent her time, she was simply called “the countess.”

Another seven rows back sat two men who emptied one of the Moldovan boxes all on their own. In contrast to the above-named, they did not put a single krona into the collection plate. Anyone in their immediate vicinity who happened to share an opinion about this was offered a thrashing.

The men were there on the same errand. One was named Olofsson. The other was too. And no matter how much they wished to cut the pastor into ribbons, their assignment was the opposite: to analyze his chances of survival up there in the pulpit. To put it simply, Hitman Anders must not die. Especially not before the count and countess happened to do so.

The first thing that Olofsson and Olofsson encountered was a metal detector at the entrance, which led them to make an extra cir
cuit around the lot to hide two revolvers in a bush they were unable to find later because they were too drunk.

While their eyes were still sharp enough, they had time to take note of a considerable security team. Olofsson was the first to discover the two snipers in the bell tower. He asked his brother discreetly to confirm his discovery, so Olofsson did.

Later that evening, the brothers made a report to the other fifteen members of the group, who had unanimously decided that the count and the countess must be taken out. The fact that the informants were drunk made the meeting a muddle, but the others at least succeeded in getting out of Olofsson and Olofsson that Hitman Anders seemed reasonably safe for the time being. It would take a good deal of cogitation and initiative for anyone to get near him.

Unfortunately, cogitation followed by initiative perfectly described the count and the countess. The latter informed her count that, luckily, it would not be as simple as stepping into the church and blasting Hitman Anders's skull to pieces: security was too tight for that. By “luckily,” she meant that such a procedure would not cause the hitman as much suffering as he deserved.

So, Saturdays were not the best time to strike. But, unfortunately, Hitman Anders existed on the other six days of the week as well, and it seemed he always had one bodyguard at his side.

“
One
bodyguard?” said the count, with a smile. “You mean that with one well-aimed shot from a distance, he would be standing there alone, a headless bodyguard at his feet?”

“More or less,” said the countess. “I saw at least one sniper up in the bell tower as well, but I can't imagine he sits there all week long.”

“That's it?”

“We should probably count on more of them, spread out around the church. It has at least four entrances. One was recently built, and I would guess that all four are under guard.”

“So five or six security guards, one of whom never leaves Hitman Anders's side?”

“Yes. I can't be more precise than that. Not yet.”

“Then I suggest that, for our first step, you keep your wig on and stick around the area to see if our soon-to-be-dead killer dares to stick his nose out of the church. When we know a little more about his daily patterns, I'll take out first the bodyguard, if necessary, from five hundred feet away, and put the next bullet square in the middle of Hitman Anders's stomach. We can't be too particular when it comes to how painful it has to be. Bleeding out internally with your intestines in shreds isn't as awful as we'd hoped but, given the circumstances, it's awful enough.”

The countess gave a disappointed nod. But it would have to do. Anyway, “intestines in shreds” sounded lovely. The count was the same as ever, she thought, feeling a rare warmth inside.

S
o Olofsson and Olofsson had been involuntarily saddled with the task of taking out the count and the countess. By pooling their resources, the other fifteen had managed to produce the money that had been promised to the intended perpetrators. However, it was “look but don't touch” until such time as results were achieved.

So, the unholy alliance of seventeen had money. Ideas were not as forthcoming. The head hoodlum was just as confounded as the Olofsson brothers. But then it occurred to thief number nine in the group that he had cleared out the electronics chain Teknikmagasinet's central warehouse in Järfälla just a few nights ago, and for the second time. It had housed every sort of electronic equipment one could imagine, and all he'd had to do to kill the company's alarm system was snip one yellow and one green wire in an electrical box. Was that the cobbler's son going barefoot or what? There were at least five hundred surveillance cameras in the building, all neatly packaged in boxes on a pallet, just waiting to be rolled out to the thieves' amply sized van without a single shot needing to be fired.

In addition, thief number nine had come into possession of more than two hundred sets of bathroom scales (a bit of a disappointment), a large number of cell phones (smash success!), various GPS units, forty pairs of binoculars, and approximately twice as
many gumball machines, which in the dim light of the warehouse had looked like amplifiers.

“If anyone wants a gumball machine, just let me know.”

No one did. With that, number nine turned the conversation to the GPS units that had come in with everything else. “If I've understood correctly, we can attach something to the count and countess's car, for example. Then you can watch where the car goes on your very own cell phone. I'm thinking it isn't such a bad idea for the people who wish them harm to know where they are.”

“And who were you thinking would just crawl up and attach that ‘something' to the count and countess's car?” Olofsson wondered, immediately regretting his question.

“How about you or your brother?” said the head hoodlum. “Considering our agreement and all the money that you've only been allowed to look at so far.”

“We don't even know what kind of car they drive around in,” his brother Olofsson attempted.

“A white Audi Q7,” said well-informed hoodlum number nine. “They park it outside their house at night. Right next to an identical car. They each have one. Doesn't that make things nice and fair? Each of you can crawl up to one. Would you like the address? And another GPS to show you the way?”

Number nine might have been the star pupil, right up there with the head hoodlum. Olofsson and Olofsson could object no further. Which frightened them. Meeting the count and the countess in the manner they had just been tasked with might be the same as meeting their Maker. Or his opposite.

And yet: a million kronor was a million kronor.

T
he count had an impressive arsenal of weapons. He never stole them himself, but he had bought one thing and another throughout the years. And he had spent quite a bit of time practicing out at the country home the countess had nagged her way to ten years previously. Target practice had been both fun and useful. You never knew when all-out war might break out in the world of car dealerships.

The most unusual item in the collection, in an ironic twist of fate, came from the gun safe of a legitimate count, who resided north of the capital. It was a so-called double rifle, of 9.3 x 62 caliber. And it had a telescopic sight. The weapon was most useful when one encountered an elephant, and that was a rare occurrence in the Stockholm area. And even if it did happen, the telescopic sight wouldn't be much help unless the robbed count was almost blind, thought the fake count.

Be that as it may, the weapon was about to be put to use. A quick trip to the countryside and back to zero in on the target. The plan was to load one barrel with a half-jacketed bullet and the other with a full metal jacket in preparation for the critical moment. This would allow the option of two shots fired in a single second. The first between the eyes of Hitman Anders's bodyguard. The half-jacket would take the whole skull with it.

And then a rapid shift in aim, just a fraction of an inch, before
the second shot was fired to end up somewhere in the vicinity of Hitman Anders's navel. The full metal jacket would go right through his body and out the other side, causing irreparable damage in between. The hitman, however, would not kick the bucket immediately: first, he would experience terrible pain plus a good dose of mortal fear. Then he would slowly fall unconscious, bleed out, and die. A bit too quickly, but as slowly as the circumstances would allow.

“If we can just find the perfect spot to shoot from, we can reload in peace and quiet and fire another round in case he lies there floundering a little too long.”

In all his masculinity, the count had previously happened to toss out a shooting distance of five hundred feet, but presently he admitted that it wouldn't be a big deal if the firing spot were a bit closer.

A powerful weapon that could discharge two shots in one second, from two different barrels with two different targets. With a telescopic sight and everything. The count thanked his presumably half-blind elephant-hunting colleague for not having the good sense to lock his gun safe.

O
ne million, one hundred and twenty-four thousand three hundred kronor. Plus the contents of the puked-upon bucket, but the priest and the receptionist never got an exact amount from that one. After a visual inspection, on his knees, as he held his nose, the student representative from Mälar Upper Secondary School estimated that the bucket contained more money than the group otherwise would have been given, and thus he chose said bucket over the agreed-upon hundred-krona bill per person.

“Great,” said the priest. “Stand up, take your bucket, and go.”

“See you on Saturday,” the student responded, picked up the bucket and left.

The priest opened the newly installed double door of the sacristy to air the room (Jerry the Knife had gone all out to make sure that the extra escape route in case of war could be used as a loading dock in peacetime). She was a bit wary of exposing herself, the receptionist, and the pastor to the outside world simultaneously, but in this case she assessed the risks as low. There was a guard at the door, and Jerry the Knife was in the room, as always in Hitman Anders's immediate vicinity. Furthermore, there was only grass and open space in the hundred yards between the church and the highway that passed it, and on the other side of that road a small patch of forest. Even if there were someone there, it would take a sniper with a telescopic sight to have time to shoot even one of them.

***

The Sunday follow-up meeting began with finances, quite simply because Hitman Anders apparently hadn't woken up yet. Otherwise they would have postponed that item.

This time, they had grossed about 625 kronor per visitor; the net was just under 600.

“I think we found a good balance between degree of intoxication and generosity,” the priest said, pleased.

At that moment, the hitman stumbled in. He'd heard the priest's last comment and said he'd been wondering if they should put barf buckets beside the pews to be safe. The advantage would be that they could dial up the communion mood a notch or two.

The priest and the receptionist weren't as enthusiastic about this idea as Hitman Anders had expected. Barf buckets might detract from the spiritual atmosphere. However you look at it, there's nothing heavenly about a barf bucket. No matter how passed out Noah might have been in that tent of his.

“And naked,” Hitman Anders added, to emphasize the degree of how very badly things had probably gone for him.

The hitman vanished again. The pub and relaxation awaited, since his weekly five hundred kronor hadn't been completely used up on Saturday evening. Plus, follow-up meetings were so boring. Or, really, meetings in general. If it weren't for the fact that he'd wanted to share his bucket idea, he would probably have been enjoying his first glass.

The priest and the receptionist were perfectly happy to do without the pastor in any meeting, no matter the type. When they were alone once more, they began to discuss that blasted churchwarden, a threat to their entire operation. Their conversation with him the next day would be crucial. As the priest saw it, they had two options. Either scare the pants off him, and surely Jerry the Knife could manage that. Or get him on board . . .

“By ‘get him on board' you mean bribe him?” the receptionist wondered.

“Something along those lines. We can praise him for his beautiful raking and offer him twenty thousand a week to continue.”

“What if he doesn't accept?”

The priest sighed. “Then I suppose we'll have to bring the head of security in on the conversation. With his knife and everything.”

The priest and the receptionist were perfectly justified in being concerned about the churchwarden. Börje Ekman felt that the archbishop needed to know what was going on. But she was both a woman and a foreigner. To be sure, she was German, and the Germans liked order even if they might sometimes devote themselves to alcohol-related excesses. But they didn't do it in the name of the Church, and that was an important difference. But she was still a foreigner. And a woman. What was more, the Church of Anders was probably not under the control of the archbishop; it was a schism of the most vulgar sort.

But, still, he had to do something. Call the police? To what end? Or the Tax Authority? Yes, an anonymous tip about financial irregularities might be just the ticket.

Oh, well, it was almost Monday—time for raking followed by a meeting with the godless priest and her crew. He would put his foot down. If that didn't help, the Tax Authority would be the next step. And plans B and C. He just had to think them up.