Life Deluxe (24 page)

Second of all: the helicopter thing. When Jorge thought about it: surprising. There were only six ghetto birds in all of Swedeland. Eurocopter EC135—their model. Parked in helicopter airports around the country. What was Sven Sweden thinking, exactly? Only six pig choppers in an entire country—
loco
. And they really should’ve learned their lesson after the helicopter robbery a few years ago. But the Swedish State had only themselves to blame: CIT
capo
, Jorge—the heist guru—would school them. Without blades in the air—no hunt. Without blades in the air—a cakewalk. The Finn’d thought the whole thing through. And Jorge’d figured out his own version of it all.

Three questions. Two solved.

The final one: the vault.

The Finn still hadn’t been able to get his hands on blueprints or other information about what it looked like. How the walls were constructed. The lock mechanisms in the vault doors or how thick they were.

He was clear: “I need to know more in order to blow that shit up. But the insider claims he can’t get anything.”

Probable: they wouldn’t be able to get into the vault.

Question: Should he put Tom on this too?

The BIG question: How would he keep as much as possible from the Finn?

A night out in the bush: cottages, farms, and animals in half-light. Trees, fields, and more trees. The concrete inverted: the real Sweden for the kind of people Jorge didn’t know.

The feeling: tense. His stomach: in knots. Irritated that the familiar anxiety was sneaking up on him right now. Mahmud on the other hand: seemed mad chill. Was playing Arab music as usual. Haifa Wehbe, Ragheb Alama—authentic Middle Eastern groove, as he said. Soundtrack for the scene outside the window where the blue sky cut across the yellow fields: the Swedish national anthem.

The feeling: shit, this is it. It was go time. Couldn’t go belly up. Couldn’t blow this thing. Never fuck up—a motto to live by.

’Cause some people fucked up: that Viktor fag’d messed shit up with his fagginess. They needed to be at least eight people. But Jorge was never gonna let that V-fag be in on this after he’d fagged out at Jimmy’s mom’s place. Started messing around, making a scene. So: only seven men left. Wouldn’t be enough.

Fucking fag.

Tom said the guy was yellow. That he was in the shit, couldn’t take the pressure. Was apparently anxious over everything that could happen since Radovan was bumped off. But what the fuck—why couldn’t he get it together? But now it was over, the guy was off the squad.

And the snitch risk? Zero. Jorge let Javier and Sergio have a little talk with Viktor. Explain in detail how it’d feel to get a pipe shoved up the anus, then plug the end up after a rat was put inside it. The rat only had one way out.

Mahmud’d brought it up one night when they were sitting at the café. Beatrice’d gone home for the day—she ran the place herself now, like a fucking business executive.

Mahmud’d lost weight over the past few months. Usually: the Arab worked out often. Not like before their café days—back then he was a juice junkie—but still a lot. Now: he was only training for the job—that was what you called a professional criminal.

Jorge tried to think of replacements. Kept a running list in his head. Old homies: Märsta
muchachos
, prison pals, coke criminals. Eddie’d been locked up. Elliot and his brothers, who Jorge used to run Sunny Sunday with’d been kicked out of Swedeland—residency permits were apparently not their strong suit. Vadim and Ashur—buds from way back—couldn’t be trusted: they’d gone from safe blow to trashy amphetamine. From ghetto classy to basement ashy.

He thought of other boys from Chillentuna. There were a few that he thought could handle it—but they were hard-asses: would demand too large a cut.

He thought of Rolando: the
blatte
from the Österåker pen who’d taught him more about blow than a gaucho knows about horseshit. Nowadays: the C-Latino’d straightened out. Gotten a family. Bought a
row house. Sold insurance over the phone. Lived like a Ken doll without a cock between his legs.

The Finn was at him: “Get someone else. You need to be eight.”

Jorge had to find another guy.

The Arab brought up the issue. “So, whatta we do about that Viktor guy?”

“He’s out. Plus, Radovan was offed.”

“Yeah, that’s huge, man. Honest, it means a lot, that the Yugo boss is gone. Maybe we should stay in Sweden after the gig?”

“Who’s taking over, who’s taking over. That’s all anyone ever talks about.”

“But who we gonna bring on instead of Viktor? We need somebody else.”

“Yeah, that’s what the Finn says too. One of the pig pens’s got too many garage exits. Two people can’t pull it off. Trust me, I’ve tried to think of someone.”

Jorge was drinking coffee. Mahmud was drinking juice.

He held up the bottle. “It says this shit is a hundred percent fruit. But this juice tastes like apples. Not oranges. Then you look who made it—the Coca-Cola Company, man.
Click
—aha! Those Jews are always pulling a fast one on you.”

“What’re you talking about? Coca-Cola ain’t Jews, and we’ve got to solve this Viktor shit now.”

Mahmud took another sip of the juice. “I’ve asked Babak.”

Jorge slammed his mug down. Black coffee all over the table. Drops over the table edge.

Mahmud pushed his chair back. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

Jorge tried to say something.

Nothing came out.

It was so obvious: Babak—Mahmud’s best bro. ’Course the Arab’d asked that fucker. For Mahmud, it was a simple, obvious thing to do. But Jorge didn’t want the Iranian in on this—that
blatte
was on J-boy’s back like a bully in grade school.

At the same time: he understood why Mahmud’d asked. Babak was deep in the coke game. Definitely not a snitch. Someone to trust, Jorge couldn’t deny that.

Fuck.

All he felt like doing was screaming. Still, he kept his mouth shut.

Finally he said, “What the fuck’s
your
problem. Why didn’t you ask me first?”

Mahmud slurped up the last of the juice in the bottle. “What? We can trust Babak. He’s solid.”

“You know the rules, bro. Don’t talk to outsiders. No matter what.”

“Listen. To me, Babak is no outsider.”

Mahmud’s mouth: a straight line.

Jorge’s mouth: a grimace.

Felt like shit.

Back in the bush. In front of them: Myttinge landing strip. Tom and Sergio’d gotten out of their car. Were waiting in the twilight.

The stars were hardly visible—the sky was summer bright. Jorge and Mahmud parked next to Tom’s car. Got out.

Farther off, the helicopter hangar towered. Like a round, gray mountain in the middle of the field. A short distance behind the hangar were blue lights that indicated the placement of the helipads.

They approached Tom and Sergio.

“Nice. So far so good. Sergio, you can take Tom’s car back.”

Sergio nodded. Everyone knew what had to get done.

“Tom,” Jorge continued, “you go down to the water and get things tied up there.”

Tom half-jogged down the road. Disappeared into the darkness.

Sergio climbed into the first car. Started the engine. Pulled out slowly.

Drove back to the city.

Jorge and Mahmud were the only ones left. They walked back to the boosted car. Both of them were wearing overalls. They popped the trunk.

Everything was calm. The woods around them were silent like a sleeping rock. Jorge thought about the times in his life he’d been in the woods. During field trips with school—he was sent home. As an adult—that’s when he’d been worked over by the Yugos. To him: woods equaled bad vibes. Woods belonged to another world. A scary jungle for someone who hadn’t been there before. For someone who wasn’t born to be comfortable in the woods. But now Jorge was confident: he’d finally navigated correctly. The forest was his friend today. He was finally close to getting his ultimate break.

His stomachache released its grip. Now it was just full speed ahead.

They put their gloves on. Got two black garbage bags from the trunk of the car. Unrolled them. A Kalashnikov each. Mahmud also pulled out a bag, put the rifle in it. Jorge kept his in his hand. Inspected it: AK-47. Dark metal that looked black. The handle, the piston, the grip under the pipe felt cool—the wooden parts matched his skin. They’d gotten hold of two of them, as luck would have it.

A real gangsta gun. A gun for a ghetto boss.

The adrenaline started pumping, but J-boy still felt calm. He thought:
For Svens, adrenaline equals stress. But people like me—we grow calm
.

They crossed the road. High grass. Damp against their thighs.

The fence was hardly seven feet high. They’d been here last week and done some reconnaissance. Knew everything already. Mahmud got out the bolt cutter. Jorge held the flashlight.

Chop, chop. The Arab cut the fence as if it were his toenails.

They climbed in through the hole.

Maybe an alarm’d gone off somewhere already, but so far they didn’t hear anything.

Sixty-five feet to the hangar.

Cameras: two of them placed in every corner, each pointing in a different direction. No one could approach the outer walls without showing up on the surveillance tapes. The hangar manufacturer’s logo was visible on the wall: DeBeur. Sounded Dutch.

They pulled their ski masks down.

Thirty more feet.

Still deathly silent all around.

Ten feet.

Then: spotlights switched on. Illuminated the grass in a thirty-foot radius around the hangar.

That was to be expected. The surveillance cameras needed light.

What was unexpected: Jorge heard sounds. Yapping, growling sounds.

Two German shepherds came bounding toward them. Jorge barely turned around in time. Stared straight into drool and lunging jaws. Six feet away.

Barking monsters.

He hated dogs.

Mahmud screamed, “Shoot the fuckers!”

Jorge took a step back. Raised the AK-47.

Tried to aim.

Bam-bam-bam
. The beast of a
perro
made a whinnying sound. Collapsed on the ground.

Jorge turned to Mahmud. He was running. Fifty or so feet farther off. The other dog was chasing him. Jorge sprinted in that direction.

He couldn’t shoot in the dark.

“Mahmud!” he yelled. “Come here!”

He heard Mahmud. He heard the dog.

Then: the Arab with panic in his eyes. Running in a circle. Getting closer to Jorge. To the light.

The dog was three feet behind him. Jorge raised the gun. Followed the pooch in his sight.

Aimed. The sight. The groove. The fucking dog’s open jaws.

Poof
. It howled.

Poof
again.

Game over.

Mahmud was panting. Leaned over, hands on his knees.

Jorge laughed, “You were pretty scared, huh?”

Mahmud looked up. Spit in the grass. “
Kaleb
, I hate dogs. They’re unclean animals.”

They didn’t have time to talk, they had to keep going now. Ran over to the hangar. Not many seconds left to do this.

Mahmud rummaged through the bag. Was holding something in his hand. Gripped it like a tennis ball. Jorge didn’t need to use the flashlight. The spotlights by the surveillance cameras were doing the job for him now.

He knew what Mahmud was holding. A real apple: grenade, M52 P3. Mahmud rolled it in under the metal that jutted out at the very base of the wall. A quick motion with his hand. Jorge’d moved away a good distance. Mahmud took long steps backward. Thirty feet.

BANG
.

A pressure wave from the explosion. Ringing in their ears.

Abbou—what an explosion!

The metal of the wall was torn open three feet to the side.

They rushed forward. Crazy adrenaline now.

Jorge used the flashlight to shine inside the opening. He glimpsed two helicopters in the dark of the hangar. The rotor blades were as long as the wings on an insect.

They poked the AK-47s through the hole. Set to automatic.

Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta
. Jorge was a pro now—had practiced on the dogs.

The smattering echoed through the hangar. Sounded different than it had outside.

The magazine was empty.

Mahmud dug through the bag. Two apples in each hand.

He pulled out the pins. Rolled them in toward the helicopters.

They ran back toward the hole in the fence.

The sky was dark blue. The day after tomorrow they were gonna be multimillionaires.

They heard the explosions almost immediately.

Boom
.

Boom
.

Hägerström was on his way to see Inspector Lennart Torsfjäll. To brief him about the latest developments in the case. The road from Sala to Stockholm was backed up all the way to Enköping. He had left late enough to escape the worst of the traffic on the E18 highway, but so far none of the slower summer pace appeared to have kicked in yet. Still, he liked this road. The landscape all around was very rustic. Tender potato plants were poking up in rows, the grain fields were a light green color, harvest was still a long ways away. Hägerström wasn’t a country kind of guy, but he wasn’t totally clueless either. Mother Lottie loved the countryside. If it weren’t for the fact that Idlingstad Manor operated under the rules of primogeniture, she would have loved to take it over from her parents. And these days Carl lived year-round at Avesjö, the place on Värmdö Island that Mother and Father had bought in 1972. Hägerström had spent his summers there as a child, had seen the tenant farmer’s cows plod around in the pastures, had come with the same farmer to see the chickens slaughtered and help Mother with the rhubarb plants in the vegetable garden. One day maybe he would want to buy a house somewhere too. The only question was who he would share the pleasure with.