To the Top of the Mountain (42 page)

‘Lindberg’s still out there, and he’s got money – if not ten million then at least almost one – and he’ll be able to carry out the plan despite all the trouble. All while you, protected by four fine policemen, chew spaghetti, sink Nedic and are given a nice new identity by the Swedish state. Well planned, again. But you forgot the A-Unit.’

‘
What
did I forget?’ Risto Petrovic exclaimed.

‘Nothing,’ Hjelm continued. ‘Nothing at all. A parenthesis.’

‘What? When? How?’ asked Chavez. ‘Otherwise, we’re sending you back to Rajko Nedic. It’s that simple.
Where
will the bomb be? Where will Lindberg be when he detonates it?
When
will the bomb be put in place? When will it be set off? And
how
is it all going to pan out?’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Risto Petrovic, wiping his mouth. ‘It’s
not
so simple.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because some things are bigger than any individual.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Send me back to Nedic if you want. This is bigger than me. I’m a dispensable cog in a big machine.’

Hjelm and Chavez looked at one another. It had been going so well. And now, to be stopped in their tracks by something as unexpected as . . . idealism.

Sick, black idealism.

The most dangerous kind.

‘Did they send him back?’ asked Ludvig Johnsson.

Nyberg looked at him as he nibbled on yet another ice-cold chicken leg.

‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘He might still be valuable.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Johnsson. ‘He’s not going to talk. He’s well versed in his warped idealism. He really believes in ethnic cleansing and ethnic purity. The weak link is Kullberg. There’s still a chance there.’

‘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.

Then he would have to give up his daughter.

Then he would have to kill his daughter for a second time.

And in that moment, the screams break free from the walls. The clear, piercing screams which had been stored in the porous walls, clad with gold-coloured foam. They screech right into Rajko Nedic’s ears, bursting his eardrums.

He says: ‘You’ll never find out.’

And for the first time in his life, the great man feels great.

The man looks over his shoulder. Out through the window. He doesn’t like that gaze. He might catch sight of Sonja when she comes out of the bank. Maybe he’ll recognise her.

But all the man sees is a fleeting glimpse of eight unmistakable figures, led by a young, short-haired woman. They’re creeping along Hornsgatan, nearing the door.

The man sighs, binds Rajko Nedic’s hands behind him using the silver tape, and takes a small metal box from his pocket. He pushes it into Nedic’s mouth and tapes his jaws shut. He winds the tape around his jaws like a corpse. The great man can feel the little box on his tongue. It tastes of steel. He can’t spit it out.

‘An old promise,’ says the golden one, disappearing.

Sara Svenhagen is following her men. In the stairwell, they meet a well-built man with cropped hair and clear blue eyes. He nods to them. As though to colleagues, she thinks to herself. They wave him past and continue up the stairs.

On the fourth floor, they take out their service weapons. They find the door marked Ahlström. They gather around it.

Then they see that it has been kicked open. It isn’t closed. It only looks like it’s closed.

They press up against the wall. Pistols raised. Close to their bodies. They kick the door open.

They see blood. Lots of blood. Three bodies. And two silver mummies on a sofa.

And a man on his knees by the window. Sara recognises Rajko Nedic. As soon as the room has been secured, she goes over to him. He’s deathly pale behind the silver tape. He’s nodding his head strangely. A gesture. She reaches for the tape. He shakes his head frantically and continues to make the nodding gesture.

Then she understands.

The gesture is telling her:
get out, for Christ’s sake.

She reacts like lightning. Gets her men out into the stairwell.

Once they’ve gone, the great man feels great for the second time in his life. Then his head explodes.

Sara Svenhagen hears the blast from out in the stairwell. She both understands and doesn’t understand it. They return. Cautiously.

Rajko Nedic is lying by the window. The silver tape has split over his mouth. Blood is trickling out. Sara forgets all her caution. She runs over and unwinds the tape.

His tongue falls out. A bloody lump.

Someone has blown the tongue out of Rajko Nedic’s mouth.

She stands up. Takes several staggering steps over to the window. She has to get some fresh air. It doesn’t work; she can’t open the window. There isn’t any fresh air to get.

A shimmering green bluebottle nosedives towards her forehead.

She throws up on the windowpane in the flat with the soundproofed walls.

They leave the bank, each clasping the other’s hand. Hard, hard. A full-to-bursting bag dangles between them.

She casts a quick, furtive, shy glance over the street. Four floors up in the building opposite. She sees vomit running down the window.

She smiles. It’s an appropriate farewell.

45

SARA SVENHAGEN WAS
pale and worn out. She was sitting at the front, on Hultin’s desk, swinging her legs. He thought it was charming. But then, he was also an old chauvinist.

What she had just told them wasn’t quite as charming. But it was illuminating. Horribly illuminating.

Aside from Gunnar Nyberg and Kerstin Holm, everyone was there. The World Police and Fire Games were getting off to a false start with a few events. At 3 p.m. the following day, the opening ceremony would take place. Even if there wouldn’t be as many competitors as planned, and even if the organisers had mismanaged it to the point of being put on trial, Stockholm Stadium would be full of policemen and women from all corners of the earth.

‘So you met Niklas Lindberg on the stairs on the way up?’ asked Arto Söderstedt.

‘Yeah,’ said Sara Svenhagen. ‘Though we didn’t know that there
was
a Niklas Lindberg. The walls between us have been much too high.’

She cast a glance at Jorge Chavez. He was pale and worn out, but met her eyes. He looked deeply sorry.

‘Has Rajko Nedic said anything?’ asked Viggo Norlander.

Sara Svenhagen smiled grimly. It wasn’t a smile, it just looked like one.