To the Top of the Mountain (41 page)

‘Only by conspiracy theorists on TV. No, I’m a member because I like shooting. Fine motor skills are fascinating. Precision. And stop calling me Agne.’

‘I promise, Agne. We need two things: the make, colour and registration number of the van, and Niklas Lindberg’s current whereabouts.’

‘I’ve got no idea about any of that.’

‘You don’t know what type of van you were driving in, Agne?’

‘I’ve forgotten, unfortunately.’

‘Niklas Lindberg left just before we arrived at the hotel room. Why?’

Bullet fell quiet. That wasn’t a common occurrence.

‘Well, then,’ said Chavez. ‘The picture’s quite clear. You’re trying your damnedest to make us think that you’re just a normal gang of robbers, interested only in money. Why’s it so important to make us think that? And why can’t you come up with any reasonable explanation as to why Niklas Lindberg wasn’t there when we arrived? Couldn’t he, I don’t know . . . have just gone out to take care of the money you’d left behind in the van?’

‘It was something like that,’ Bullet said apathetically. ‘The situation was under control. Danne and Rogge were going to have a bit of fun with the bird. That wasn’t Nicke’s style. He went out for a while to check everything was all right.’

‘Nice work, Agne,’ said Chavez. ‘So now we’ve got a reasonable explanation for that, too.’

‘Was it your style, Agne?’ asked Hjelm.

‘What?’ asked Bullet.

‘Having “a bit of fun with the bird”? A rape was actually taking place when we arrived.’

‘And you shot Danne in the back, yeah. Very brave. In the back. And then twice in the face while he was lying on the floor. He’d actually already been injured.’

‘I asked if it was your style, Agne.’

‘No, it wasn’t my style. I wasn’t planning on raping her. But someone has to be on guard.’

‘Do you know Risto Petrovic?’

‘No.’

‘That was quick. Don’t you think Agne answered really quickly, Jorge?’

‘Yup, it was an
impressively
quick answer from Agne. You must know that he was the one who leaked information about the Nedic handover to Lindberg in Kumla.’

‘Nicke was looking after all of that. I didn’t have anything to do with the Kumla part.’

‘Petrovic is a war criminal, organised fascist and Nicke’s friend from the Foreign Legion.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, that’s so, Agne. And it tells me that you weren’t a normal robber gang at all, but rather a fascist cadre on a task for some kind of international right-wing organisation, one which probably knows who murdered Olof Palme.’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Yeah, I’m kidding, Agne. Danne Blood Pudding and apartheid South Africa’s still-strong security services don’t really go together.’

‘My name isn’t Agne.’

‘No, Agne. The attack you’re planning – and which Nicke surely hasn’t put on ice – is your own idea. But to get hold of that highly volatile liquid explosive, you need contacts within international groups. The problem is that they want to be paid. Don’t you get it, Agne, that you’re just small fry? They want
money
from you. They’ve got no intention of paying for your stupid little attack.’

Chavez fell silent. They paused and observed Bullet Kullberg. It was
here
his facial expression should change slightly. It should say: ‘Just wait and see, idiots.’

Bullet stared down at the table with a gaze that said: ‘Just wait and see, idiots.’

‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm and Chavez in unison.

‘For what?’ asked Bullet, staring at them with suspicion.

‘For the clue you just gave us, Agne,’ said Hjelm. ‘We’re really most grateful for it.’

‘What’re you up to, pea-brains?’

Worry spread over Bullet’s face. His body began to tremble. Idiot, Chavez thought.

‘Why did you say your name wasn’t Agne, Agne?’

‘Was it because
you
aren’t called Agne, Agne?’

‘Because the person who is called Agne, Agne, is a little runt who was forced down into the dirt in the playground at Östra Real.’

‘And you’ve left Agne long behind you, Agne.’

‘Nerdy little Agne, smallest in the class, is so far away.’

‘So long since Agne got a thrashing from the big boys, Agne.’

‘So long since the girls walked past, one after one, giggling at little Agne’s hairless penis, Agne.’

‘So long since little Agne was throwing up down the barrel of a gun in Skövde, Agne.’

‘So long since Agne couldn’t get it up when he was trying to rape a little foreign bird in a hotel room in Skövde, Agne.’

‘You’re a bloody little shit, Agne.’

‘You’re an absolute zero, Agne. Nobody likes you, everybody hates you, because you’re just a worm.’

‘A devious little worm. Like your dick. A little worm with an even smaller worm. Agne Pagne.’

Abrupt silence.

They didn’t give a damn about Bullet now. Apathetic. Distant.

‘Should we go for a coffee?’ asked Chavez.

‘I don’t know. I’ve got to pick Lotta up from nursery.’

‘Should we just leave this? It’s boring.
He’s
boring. What was he called again? Arne?’

‘Banarne.’

They went to the door, talking among themselves.

‘What do Stockholmers and sperm have in common?’

‘Dunno.’

‘Not many of them ever become people.’

‘Gothenburg joke. Have you got one on Fulham–West Brom?’

‘Like hell I have. But I’ve got to go by the bottle shop. What time is it?’

‘Same as yesterday at the same time.’

‘Fuck off, you wog. Have you tried those new condoms with tees?’

‘Tees? Golf condoms for dense rough.’

‘On the other hand, Dame Edna’s running damn well at the minute. Sure bet in the seven at Valla.’

‘Benny Björn’s a hell of a name for a horse.’

They closed the door after them, and went over to look through the two-way mirror. Bullet looked completely out of balance. He was poking strangely at his forehead.

‘Pick Lotta up from nursery?’ asked Chavez, peeping through the window.

‘Or Benny Björn,’ said Hjelm, peeping. ‘That’s even.’

They opened the door and went back into the room. Hjelm went straight up to Bullet and shouted, ten centimetres from his face: ‘World Police and Fire Games!’

Bullet went stiff. It was utterly obvious.

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said weakly.

‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm and Chavez in unison.

‘“Golf condoms for dense rough”?!’ exclaimed Ludvig Johnsson, reading from his computer screen.

Gunnar Nyberg read his own. He laughed.

‘Jorge never censors his reports,’ he said.

They read on. Once they were done, Johnsson said: ‘What a strange interrogation.’

Nyberg bit into an ice-cold chicken leg, leaning back.

‘They’re damn reliable,’ he said. ‘A little unorthodox, but they know what they’re doing. I normally just heave myself over them like a grizzly bear.’

‘What d’you think?’

‘They seem to have got it right. First they threw him off balance, knocked down the wall, then they gave him the shove. And it makes sense. The opening of the World Police and Fire Games is being held in Stockholm Stadium at three on Saturday. That doesn’t give us much time. I’ll be damned if Niklas Lindberg is going to blow policemen up in Stockholm Stadium!’

They made their way to a little flat in the Stockholm suburb of Tumba, ringing Lars Viksjö from the car to let him know that they were coming. Viksjö, the stout policeman from Närke, had been abruptly transformed into Risto Petrovic’s personal babysitter.

In the hall, three uniformed police assistants were sitting.

‘Afternoon,’ Chavez said smoothly to the porn police. ‘Have you caught any Mediterranean shrimps lately?’

The porn police watched him sulkily.

They entered the living room. Lars Viksjö was smoking a badly rolled cigarette which was spitting glowing flakes of tobacco out over the room, and Risto Petrovic was wolfing down spaghetti in front of the TV. Hjelm thought to himself that it reminded him of a film, but he couldn’t remember which. Several, probably.

They nodded briefly at Viksjö, pulled two chairs over to Petrovic’s table, switched the TV off and sat down.

‘For a possible Crown witness, you’ve said far too little,’ Hjelm said in English. ‘This is your last chance or you’ll be going back to Kumla. And you know what’ll happen then.’

‘Our colleague Gunnar Nyberg gave you a list of the information we need,’ said Chavez. ‘One: the link between you and Niklas Lindberg. Two: all imaginable and unimaginable information on Rajko Nedic’s organisation. Three: the nature of the handover. Four: its recipient. Five: what Lindberg’s going to use it for. Six: where Lindberg and his men are right now. Let’s start from the end and modify number six: where is Niklas Lindberg right now?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Risto Petrovic, a half-kilo of spaghetti twisted around his fork.

‘No possible hideouts?’

‘Sorry. No possible hideouts. I know very little about Sweden. I just came here for a job, but got locked up almost immediately.’

‘Let’s go straight to number five, then. What was Lindberg going to use the money for?’

‘Buying stuff. You buy stuff with money. That’s why everyone wants it.’

‘Thanks for the foundation course in capitalist economics. He wasn’t going to use the money for anything in particular, then?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Four: who was going to receive the money?’

‘You’re just asking the same questions as the others.’

‘Who?’

‘A Swedish policeman. I don’t know anything else. He was blackmailing Nedic for money. Ten million kronor.’

‘We’ve not heard about this sum before. It’s a big one. The policeman must’ve found something valuable, then. Something which could sink the entire Nedic organisation.’

‘Yep,’ said Petrovic, his mouth full of spaghetti. ‘Must’ve done. But I don’t know what.’

‘So that’s three answered, too,’ said Hjelm. ‘And we were going to take half each. The second, then. Rajko Nedic’s organisation.’

Petrovic nodded, chewing away. When he was finished, he fished under the table and retrieved a pile of handwritten papers.

Hjelm took it from him, leafing through the pages. It looked solid. He must have really worked on it. On that, and nothing else. Sinking Nedic.

‘Thanks,’ said Hjelm. ‘Impressive. Now it’s starting to look like something.’

‘Thank you,’ said Risto Petrovic in English, starting to twist spaghetti again. Twist after twist after twist.

‘Let’s try number one, then. What’s your relationship with Niklas Lindberg really like?’

‘We met in the Foreign Legion. Neither of us really fitted in there. We became friends and survived a year together. Then we bumped into one another in the Kumla Bunker. It was a welcome reunion. I was working for Nedic and tipped Nicke off that he was going to hand over ten million kronor to a policeman. Later, Lordan mentioned that meeting would be taking place in Kvarnen. I told Nicke about that, too.’

‘And what did you get out of it?’

‘Nothing. We’re friends. If you’d been through what we went through in the Legion, you’d understand. Otherwise you can’t.’

Hjelm nodded and looked at Chavez. Chavez nodded and looked at Hjelm.

‘Good,’ said Hjelm. ‘So now we know roughly where you stand, then. You want to sink Nedic whatever the cost, and you want to protect Lindberg whatever the cost. You’re united by the tough experience you went through. You’re friends in an almost Arab sense of the word. Friends for life. Thick as thieves.’

It had taken him a moment to express himself in English.

‘Sound familiar? he asked Chavez, still in English.

‘I heard it just recently,’ Chavez answered in English. ‘We’re
just
a normal group of robbers. We’re
just
friends. Same pattern.’

‘Though I don’t think we can talk about tees now.’

‘I don’t think we’d get a bite, no. So let’s do this.’

Jorge Chavez ripped Petrovic’s handwritten stack of papers into pieces.

Petrovic choked. Half-chewed spaghetti flew out into the room, uniting with the gaping Viksjö’s glowing flakes of tobacco.

‘You think that you’re a Crown witness to squeal on Rajko Nedic, but that’s not the case. We don’t give a shit about Rajko Nedic. What we’re interested in is the attack on Stockholm’s Stadium in a few days’ time. The World Police and Fire Games. Everything you know. Otherwise you’re heading straight for Kumla, where you’ll be back up close with Zoran Koco, Petar Klovic and the rest of Nedic’s men.’

Petrovic stopped coughing. The spaghetti was hanging like scraps of meat from his mouth. It looked like the final scenes of the
Jaws
films.

‘What the hell does it say here?’ asked Ludvig Johnsson. ‘In brackets?’

‘
JC rips P’s N mtrl
,’ Gunnar Nyberg read. ‘Apparently Jorge ripped up Petrovic’s papers on Nedic.’

‘How can he justify that?’

‘There’s something fishy about it. He’s bluffing. Presumably they’d already made a copy. But it’s a nice twist. It’ll be interesting to see what happened next.’

‘You were probably an organised right-wing extremist even before the war in Croatia broke out,’ said Hjelm. ‘The descendants of the old, ultra-nationalistic Ustaša. Serb-hate. Then during the war, you really went in for your role as commander of a paramilitary unit. You probably widened your web of international contacts during that time. Got some false papers from them and fled to the Foreign Legion. Took the opportunity to recruit ideological kinsmen in the Legion to this contact web of international fascists. Among these was Niklas Lindberg, who then started to bomb and beat up Kurds, and went to prison. In turn, he scraped together friends to join to the web of contacts inside Kumla: the so-called “Nazi clique”, in which the known right-wing extremist Sven Joakim Bergwall, who died in the Sickla Slaughter, was active. Together, the three of you planned a bigger attack in Stockholm, and what could be more appropriate than this summer’s World Police and Fire Games? Blow up policemen
and
prison guards. What a dream.

‘You knew that there was a suitable kind of explosive available within your big international group of contacts. A highly volatile and reliably explosive liquid which uses a microscopic electronic detonator. The South Africans had developed it for the ANC’s meetings, but apartheid ended before they had time to put it into use. So you smuggled a sample into Kumla and gave it to Lindberg, and you made sure that he would have enough money to get hold of a proper amount of this explosive. The money could be taken from your employer, Rajko Nedic – the Serbian bastard who’d managed to unite former enemies in his drugs organisation. A real peace organisation. Two birds with one stone. You could blow up policemen and Serbs in one go. Nice plan.