Life Deluxe (54 page)

“Good, very good. They’ve identified and arrested another two suspects in EU countries. Significantly easier to bring home than from that damn gook country. A guy named Sergio Salinas Morena, Jorge’s cousin, in Spain. And a guy named Robert Progat in Serbia. They’re going to be extradited into the country in a few days. Does Javier know that?”

“I don’t think so. He hasn’t said anything about it, anyway.”

“Good. Do you know where he is now?”

Hägerström took his time answering. Thought back to the days with Javier in Bangkok. He already missed him. Less than two days had passed since they had parted ways at Arlanda.

He answered honestly, “I don’t know where he is. But I’m seeing him tonight.”

Torsfjäll propped one leg on top of the other.

They watched the film for a few seconds. The Hollywood actor in the lead was playing tennis.

Torsfjäll whispered, “Do you have any idea where Jorge is?”

“No. But I’m sure he’s in Stockholm. Javier said Jorge probably has money hidden away somewhere.”

“Can you get Javier to lead me to Jorge? Maybe tonight, when you’re seeing him? I don’t want to arrest Javier without being able to arrest
Jorge at the same time, because then we risk him disappearing across the border.”

“I can try. But what kind of evidence do they have on these guys about Tomteboda? Am I going to have to be a witness, or do we have enough?”

“I’m under the impression that you’re not going to have to be a witness. I mean, I want us to proceed with Operation Tide against JW and that Bladman guy. But I’m not the one in charge of the robbery investigation.”

Hägerström envisioned the scenario. A price on his head. Jorge, Javier, JW—everyone would want to see him dead if his role in all this came to light. Maybe it was too late to think about that now, but the plan had always been for him to get hold of information that would suffice in and of itself. And as long as Inspector Torsfjäll was in charge of the operation, it shouldn’t be a problem. But now the situation was different. The Tomteboda investigation was beyond Torsfjäll’s control. The trip to Thailand might turn out to be the biggest mistake of his life.

He thought about Pravat.

Torsfjäll went on, as if it didn’t matter: “The wire at Bladman’s place has started to yield good results.”

“What?”

“Two things. First of all, it’s come to light that they have a storage location or an office somewhere other than at MB Accounting Consultant AB, just as I thought. They don’t mention the address, but it’s obvious that it exists somewhere. Did you take note of the addresses where you drove JW before you went to Thailand?”

Hägerström was lost in his own thoughts. Anonymous witnesses were not permitted in Sweden, but he might be able to testify under an assumed name—it depended on how complex his protective identity was. He had to think for a few seconds before he was able to respond to Torsfjäll’s question. Of course he knew every single address he had driven JW to. Torsfjäll was going to look them up as soon as possible.

The inspector shifted in his seat. He whispered, “Second of all, a war has broken out within the Yugo mafia. After Radovan was murdered, one of his men, Stefanovic Rudjman, took over a segment of his business. Meanwhile, it seems that Radovan’s daughter, Natalie Kranjic, also wants to take control of the empire. We’ve managed to pick up that this means JW and Bladman now have to decide who they’re going
to work for. It could get interesting. As I like to say: out of chaos, good police operations are born.”

Hägerström was listening. He wasn’t even watching the movie.

“We’ve got to tie this all up and finish the operation soon. They’re making some major transfers. The economic-crimes guy is seeing patterns, and it appears to be as you and I observed earlier. They’re moving large sums of money now. From countries that are about to give up on bank secrecy after pressure from the European Union and the United States, to nations that are still included on the blacklist. Countries where they can continue doing their business. We have to strike soon—there isn’t much time left.”

Torsfjäll kept talking. They discussed the operation. The prosecutor had been drawn in, and an investigatory group of five cops were spending all their time analyzing who was buying JW and Bladman’s services. Nippe Creutz had a big network within his social stratum. Bladman had one that was equally large within his. Hansén was taking care of business on location. JW was the brain who controlled everything.

After a few minutes, Torsfjäll rose.

They had reached an agreement. Hägerström would inform him as soon as he knew where Javier and Jorge were. Preferably, he would be on site with them. All to guarantee that the arrest proceeded as smoothly as possible.

Torsfjäll repeated, “We’ve got to find out where they keep their second set of books.”

Hägerström met up with Javier that night in a small studio in Alby that he had borrowed from a friend.
Scarface
posters on the walls and a collection of replicas of revolvers and guns that would have put any weapons-horny teenager into ecstasy.

They had sex in the narrow bed.

In Bangkok, they had made love several times a day. They had talked and hung out during the rest of the time. Sure, Hägerström had withheld a lot of things for security reasons, and Javier probably hadn’t told him everything either, but still—they had been
close
down there.

This felt more rushed. Hägerström had nothing against fucking Javier or being fucked. But the contrast with their time in Thailand was weird. Or maybe it was understandable. They were home now: being openly together wasn’t an option, either for Hägerström or for Javier.

They were lying in bed. Javier was smoking a cigarette. Hägerström was feeling low.

He said, “Do you know where Jorge is?”

Javier was blowing smoke rings. “Not a clue. Let him do whatever he came here to do and then go back. I’m gonna go back soon too. I’m just here to take a break, you know? What about you?”

“I did what I went to Thailand to do. I’m staying here.”

“But can’t you come, just for a week?”

“We’ll see. It’s not exactly free. But hey, do you have Jorge’s number?”

“No. My boy’s security-obsessed. I doubt he even has a phone now. Why you wanna talk to him?”

Hägerström had expected that question. “I’m not the one who wants to get in touch with him,” he said. “It’s the Thai guys down there—they’re whining about the café deal. They’ve already pulled out once, but I got them to go back in. Now they want out again. Can’t you ask around?”

The next day Hägerström went to Lidingö. He had called his lawyer first thing when he got back from Thailand, asked him to try to arrange a visitation time. Anna was unusually accommodating. Maybe that was her way of paying him back for keeping it cool for over four weeks. Over the past few years, angry legal letters, investigative meetings, and court dates had been legion. Not to mention all the angry texts and e-mails Hägerström and Anna exchanged every time they had to decide on times for pick-up and drop-off.

He picked his son up at school. They went to Pravat’s favorite park. It was only thirty-five degrees outside. They played cowboys and Indians. Hägerström wished they were in Thailand playing instead.

Pravat told him about school. He was reading. He was drawing. He was writing letters.

They discussed how long snakes can get and whether Spiderman can fly or if he is just unusually good at jumping.

After the park, they went home to Hägerström’s house. They ordered pizza and ate dinner in front of the TV. Hägerström tried to teach the boy not to chew with his mouth open, to cough into the nook of his arm, and not to put his elbows on the table. He felt like his mother.

The next day he got a text from Javier.
I got a hookup
.

Hägerström called him. “It’s me.”

“I’ve hit up so many homies for this, man—you wouldn’t believe.”

“Dope.”

“His mom, his sis who had her panties all in a bunch—yikes. I talked to Rolando, an
amigo
of his from way back who’s living real fucking nine-to-five. I’ve even talked to an old boy of J’s from the inside, Peppe.”

“And?”

“I got a number.”

“You’re an angel, in more ways than one. Would you call him and tell him I want to see him as soon as possible? The Thai guys want out of the deal. We have to talk.”

Hägerström considered ending the call with some words of affection but changed his mind. Not because he had any indication that Javier’s phone was tapped, but if it was, it could get complicated.

The following night. A cabbie hangout, the Mug, on Roslagsgatan. Open every day of the week, every hour of the day. Rumor had it the pea soup and pancakes on Thursdays were outstanding—a good old Swedish classic. Apparently the interior had not been changed since 1962. The Jack Vegas machines were supposed to bring luck to tired cabbies who had had trouble getting rides. The staff allowed smoking after midnight.

It was twelve-thirty at night. The place was half empty. Two men wearing leather taxi driver jackets were sitting on high chairs in front of one-armed bandits. Standing behind the counter was a fat man with a hairnet and his mouth half-open. His facial expression didn’t exactly exude intelligence.

The café guy might be South American. Maybe that was why Jorge had picked this place for their meet-up.

Hägerström ordered an ordinary black coffee and sat down at one of the tables.

Outside, around the corner, in cars throughout the area and in the apartment across the street: cops. Heavy artillery was on the scene, ready to collar two of the country’s most wanted men of the moment. Hägerström had informed Torsfjäll as soon as he had found out where they were meeting.

At least they would accomplish something, no matter what happened
with Operation Tide. Arrest two professional criminals who had carried out the worst robbery of the year and wounded a guard for life. It would send a clear signal to the rabble, and to all the kids in the projects who wanted to become the rabble.
It’s not worth it. The police always win in the end
.

At the same time, Hägerström had a bad feeling in his gut. Coming home had not made him any less confused. It was seven times worse now. He would make sure Javier got arrested and most likely sentenced to a long time in prison. Hägerström would personally ensure that he never saw him again.

It was insane.

The door opened. It was raining outside. Javier walked into the café. His hair was wet. Drops of water were running down his face and light stubble. He looked up at Hägerström and winked.

Hägerström closed his eyes for a few seconds—this was just too much.

When he opened his eyes again, Javier was by the counter, paying for a bottle of Coke Zero.

He turned around, “H, you been here before? You gotta say hi to Andrés here. A countryman.”

Hägerström had been right. The man who worked at the café was from South America. Javier seemed high—he would be an easy snatch.

Five minutes later Jorge walked in through the door. He was wearing a black windbreaker and dark track pants. He had a backpack on his back, and all of him was dripping with rain.

Jorge walked straight over to Hägerström and Javier’s table, without ordering anything at the counter.

Hägerström didn’t need to inform anyone that Jorge had arrived. There were at least five officers on street corners all around, wearing concealed radios. By now, they would have communicated that the eagle had landed.

Jorge and Hägerström shook hands the regular way. Jorge swung his arm and slapped his hand into Javier’s, concrete style.

Javier grinned. “Wazzup, bro?”

Jorge sat down. “Why the fuck d’you come home?”

Javier didn’t seem to care. He really was stoned. “You went home. So. Why couldn’t I fly home?”

“You know why.”

“But Mahmud’s been checked out of the hospital. I didn’t need to be
his nanny no more. He can take care of himself now. Know how hungry he was for anything but nurses?”

“Listen, you do what you want. But I’m gonna go back in a few days. I’m not taking any responsibility for you anymore. If you’re wanted and you stay here, they’ll pick you up sooner or later. You follow?”

Hägerström was surprised. They had never before been this open about their problems in front of him.

Jorge turned to Hägerström. “Screw, you wanna talk biz with me?”

“The buyers have been in touch again, complaining. You have the money now?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Sweet. In that case it’ll all work out.”

“There’s just one little problem,” Jorge said. “But JW’s gonna straighten it out for me.”

They chatted for a few seconds.

There were screams in the doorway.

Hägerström knew roughly what was going to happen next.

A four-strong SWAT team rushing in, dressed in black. Balaclavas and helmets on their heads. The illest bulletproof-vest model strapped on their bodies. MP5s with laser sights trigger-ready in their hands.

They roared, “You’re under arrest! Get down on the floor!”