Life Deluxe (45 page)

The minutes passed.

Hanna looked up. “I’ve been in this business long enough.”

Goran turned to him. Natalie was listening.

“You can never be a hundred percent certain of anything,” he said. “But I think I know where this ammunition, grenade, and putty come from.”

One day later: Natalie climbed out of her Golf in the Lill Jansskogen forest. As usual: Goran in tow. She felt alone without him these days.

A strange place. It seemed hostile to her now, even though she’d been there plenty of times with Dad.

In front of her was a ski-jumping tower. Dad used to just call it the Tower. He’d bought the place a couple of years ago through a front man. A dilapidated old tower with a ski-jumping ramp attached to it, leading out over a slope in a clearing in the woods below. The actual
ramp hadn’t been used in thirty years. A mountain biking club used to hang out in the Tower. Dad had renovated the place. Torn down walls, built new stairs, fixed the floors. Installed a restaurant kitchen on the ground level. Brought in a chef and staff. It was perfect for conferences and corporate events.

And now Stefanovic’d turned it into his Batcave. The front man’d aligned himself with him—formally, there wasn’t much that Natalie could do.

She felt the heat rise inside her with every step she took. Stefanovic: a fucking clown. Stefanovic: an asshole. An
izdajnik
.

She had to calm down. Play her cards right. Take three deep breaths.

She had to handle the situation like a pro.

At the top of the Tower: a large room. Windows facing in all directions. A view over the Lill Jansskogen forest. Over toward Östermalm. In the distance, you could see the town hall, church spires, and the high-rises around Hötorget. Farthest in the distance: a glimpse of the Globe Arena. Stockholm spread out before her. Her city. Her territory. Not the traitor’s territory.

A sofa group, a table with six chairs around it, a minibar filled with bottles against the one windowless wall.

In the sofa group: Stefanovic.

Marko, Stefanovic’s muscleman, was sitting on one of the chairs.

Stefanovic stood up. Kiss-kiss-kissed. Made some polite small talk, no heart in it.

Natalie thought his eyes looked more watery than usual. He was still wearing a Bluetooth earpiece in one ear.

Natalie sat down at the table. Goran remained standing by the door.

“We don’t need an audience, do we?” Stefanovic asked.

He gestured toward his gorilla, Marko. The dude rose, walked out. Natalie nodded. Goran also left the room.

Her and Stefanovic.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve been here,” she said.

“It’s a good place,” he said.

“It’s Dad’s place.”

“No, we both know that Christer Lindberg owns it.”

She didn’t care. Cut right to the chase: “Stefanovic, you were my father’s right-hand man. I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

Stefanovic responded in Serbian, “I think you’re going to need to be more precise. I’ve never hidden anything from you, sweetie. I promise.”

He put his hand over his heart, as though he had one.

There was no reason to hide anything anymore.

“Okay, then I want you to explain to me who Melissa Cherkasova is.”

Stefanovic didn’t move a muscle. Total poker face.

“Natalie, honey, your father ran several businesses. Some lucrative, others less so, but you know that. Some were completely legal, some not. Some were geared toward everyone, some were just for men.”

“I know what you’re talking about.”

“Good. Sometimes girls are needed to lighten the mood, make things nice. Especially international clients want beautiful women to be present at night, when you have dinner or go out to clubs. So: Melissa Cherkasova was a so-called escort. There’s nothing strange about that. Why are you asking about her?”

“What else do you know about her?”

“Aren’t you going to answer my question first?”

Natalie wasn’t going to let herself be pushed around. “No,” she said. “I want to know what else you know about Cherkasova.”

“Okay, but then you’re going to have to answer my question. And I don’t know much, I can tell you that. I know that she stopped working for us several years ago. Your father might’ve had occasional contact with her after that. But now it’s your turn to start answering.”

Natalie didn’t say anything. She thought about JW—the guy radiated something. And he’d helped her father and now Stefanovic with something beyond customary tax evasion.

She reviewed what she knew. She’d seen a green Volvo in the parking garage where Dad’d been shot, and a green Volvo’d been driving around on her street in the days before the murder. It could be the same vehicle. A man wearing gloves’d been driving the fucking car. Thomas’d tried to get the parking garage under the Globe Arena to produce images from its surveillance cameras—unfortunately they’d been deleted long ago. Natalie thought of Cherkasova, the whore who’d met the politician Bengt Svelander, who in turn had met Stefanovic at a restaurant downtown, who in turn had met JW. The former whore, Martina Kjellson, who claimed that Dad’s people had been the ones who ordered Cherkasova to record her encounters with the politician. Thomas’d done more research on Svelander—the politician was serving on the Foreign Affairs Committee for Baltic Concessions.

Thomas’d explained, “They’re the ones who decide over Sweden’s economic zone in the Baltic Sea. And more important, who decide if the Russians are going to be allowed to build that enormous pipeline, Nordic Pipe, on the bottom of the ocean.”

And now Stefanovic was sitting here, lying straight to her freshly made-up face.

Natalie finally spoke. “Stefanovic, let me say this. I know that something is going on that involves Cherkasova. But since you don’t plan on telling me, I think we’re done here for today. But I expect that, from now on, you will report to me about anything concerning a business that was started by my father. I don’t mind if you do business of your own. But what’s mine is mine.”

This was the end—this was the beginning. She’d taken the step. Made her position clear. Stefanovic would have to get into line or disappear. Now she was waiting for his answer. She could feel her heart beating like a small bird’s.

What would he respond?

She thought about Dad. His journey: rise and fall. How he’d beaten his way into Swedish society. Created a position for himself. Helped so many of his countrymen. Broken through the segregation: been accepted by the Swedes as a neighbor in the leafy suburb, as a power player in the city.

Stefanovic opened his mouth slowly. He smiled.

“Natalie, you have been like a daughter to me. And I considered Kum a real brother. You can be assured that I will honor him in everything that I do. But he would’ve had a good laugh today if he’d heard what you just said. You’re a pretty girl. You’re a sweet person. But not more than that. This business isn’t for women.”

Natalie waited for him to say more.

“Kum knew that,” Stefanovic said. “And I know it. So I’m asking you now for the last time: stop acting like you’re your father. Take Goran with you and leave—it’s enough now. I’ve already told you not to get involved with that investigation. So listen to what I’m saying: Never come back here. Let go of what happened to your father. Never demand anything from me again. I don’t want to be your enemy.”

Natalie rose. Shook her head.

Stefanovic followed her with his eyes.

She opened the door.

Goran was standing outside. Maybe he understood what’d happened.

They walked down the stairs.

In her head: How would she do this?

She had no idea. But there was one thing she knew—Dad wouldn’t have laughed at her today.

She heard his voice in her head:
“Little frog. You will take over.”

*

Less than six months after I was in Stockholm last, I was back in a taxi, on my way from Arlanda Airport to the hotel. On my way to a job
.

And it wasn’t just the fact that I was back in Sweden again, in the same city as my last assignment. I was here for the same people as last time
.

The same family
.

It was improbable. But that’s how it was
.

I asked myself if it could really be a coincidence
.

But this time I was planning on doing a cleaner job than the last time. The maid and the parking garage were two embarrassing memories
.

In some languages we’re called
clean-up men.
A job should be clean when we finish, that’s part of the nature of it all. The fact is that the failure in the garage during the martial arts gala was still bothering me tremendously. My lack of professionalism was eating away at me, my sloppy execution reminded me of the complexity of my operations. But there were more important problems too. The Swedish police were probably not done with their investigation yet. They should not have anything that pointed to me. But who knew—someone might’ve snapped a photo of me when I fired those shots. Someone could’ve happened to see me in the car outside Kranjic’s home when I was scouting the area. Someone could’ve noted the license plate on the rental car, contacted the rental company, found the car, and searched for DNA in it. The car’d obviously been rented under another name, but still
.

The taxi driver’d posted some kind of taxi ID in a holder in front of the passenger seat. I read his name: Vassilij Rasztadovic, obviously from the former Yugoslavia. I didn’t like the look of him. He reminded me of the judge who’d sentenced me to the gulag
.

I addressed him in English, hid my accent as well as I could. It didn’t really
matter, anyway. I was traveling under a new name, with new documents and a new credit card. But I wanted to avoid unnecessary questions
.

I was feeling relaxed when I stepped out of the car. The months I’d spent on Zanzibar’d done me good. I always stayed in the same bungalow, less than fifty yards from the beach. I always ate breakfast at the same hotel. I always jogged the same loop along the beach and up into the village. I had a woman there who, for some reason, agreed to wait for me. Or else I was the one waiting for her. She probably had others when I was gone
.

I was rested
.

I was concentrated
.

I was excited for this job
.

My assignment this time was to kill Natalie Kranjic
.

Jorge and Javier were eating breakfast. Two pieces of toast slathered in a thick layer of Nutella.

This hotel: danker than the one in Pattaya.

Jorge’s paper was burning up for real—Mahmud’s hospital bills were eating away at his assets worse than Javier’s hooker banging. Still, he was happy that Javier’d chosen to come with him.

The time: ten-thirty.

They were waiting for the new dude—his name was Martin. Last name: Hägerström. A real Sven name. The guy was a pure Sven—not like Jimmy and Tom, who were Svens but acted like they were children of the concrete. Martin Hägerström—how could you even have a name that was that Sven-like?

Right now Hägerström was still snoozing. He slept a lot, that dude.

Javier was talking about how tired he was, even though he’d had three cans of Krating Daeng, Thai Red Bull.

“So when you think Mahmud’s gonna get out?”

“Last I was there, they said they didn’t know. The screws in his arm’ve gotten twisted up somehow. And now he’s got a hospital infection too. Know what that is?”

“Aren’t you supposed to get well at hospitals?”

“Yeah, but diseases spread there too, smartass. A hospital infection, that’s some bacteria called staph, that’s what they told me. It’s not good, man. And he’s sharing a room now, ’cause it’s too expensive with private. So he really wants to get out.”

“
Comprendo
. Who he splitting with?”

“Different people. They come and go.”

Javier took a sip of his fourth can. “Chicks?”

Jorge knew what was coming next—some joke about how Mahmud could get his dick wet. Jorge: really fucking tired of Javier’s obsession.

Javier didn’t wait for Jorge to respond: “ ’Cause if there’re chicks, maybe he can get a quickie in now and then. When they’re sleeping?”

“Mmm … but you, you little fairy, wouldn’t bang if some she-male was in the room either, would you?”

Javier took a deliberately loud sip. “I love Thailand.”

“Mahmud’ll get out soon,” Jorge said. “But I wanna have a place by then. So we can get started right away. And this Hägerström guy’s gonna help me. You know, he got booted from the force. And he’s helped my buddy with a bunch of stuff in Sweden. My buddy says we can trust him, but I don’t trust some
ex-paco
.”

“Never trust an
ex-paco
. But I don’t know why you’d wanna run a place down here. I know the
dinero
is running out. But there are other, better things than working some joint.”

“
Eres loco, huevon?
You saw what happened to Mahmud. We might have to stay here for a while, and I don’t wanna do something that’ll attract attention.”