Life Deluxe (69 page)

Jorge screamed, “Blow out the wheels!”

Hägerström hesitated.

Jorge repeated, “I said, blow out the wheels!”

Hägerström squeezed the trigger gently.

He fired off a shot. The noise sounded familiar.

The front tires of the transport vehicle deflated.

An hour later: they were sitting at Hägerström’s place.

Hägerström said, “Damn, the sound of the sirens is still ringing in my ears.”

Javier laughed. “Shit, so fucking elegant, man. We were probably making a hundred and ten when you stepped on it.”

They told and retold. Javier had jumped into the Opel. They had driven two hundred yards and then switched to the boosted ambulance. Blared the sirens and the lights. Taken the highway toward the city. Plowed through traffic like a car on Pravat’s toy racetrack. At Årsta they switched to a car that Hägerström had rented.

Jorge had left them there. He was going to call Hägerström’s place as soon as he knew what the deal was. He didn’t mention any details, but Hägerström understood what he meant.

Javier’s teeth glowed white. They were sitting on Hägerström’s couch. It was the first time Javier had ever been to his house. There hadn’t been any alternative. Jorge was homeless, and taking Javier to some relative’s place would be hopeless—that was the first place the police would look. What was more: according to Jorge, they were going
to take care of the thing tonight and then go back to Thailand. It was just a matter of a few hours.

It had taken thirty-five minutes to file, cut, snip, and break apart Javier’s cuffs. But now his hands were free. They had lost all their tan. Hägerström thought his skin looked clean, like milk.

Javier took his hand. Smiled.

Hägerström curled up on the couch.

Javier rested his head on his shoulder.

They were lying in the bedroom. The curtains were pulled. Hägerström knew that the street outside was crawling with UCs. The plan was that they would follow Javier to Jorge who would lead them to the Finn.

But right now he and Javier were an island in time. Hägerström was planning on making the most of these minutes.

They talked. They had had sex about a half hour ago.

Javier told him about the interrogations in jail.

Hägerström told him about the interrogation he had gone through.

It was a strange feeling—he felt like he was twenty-one years old again. The conversations felt so important, so filled with meaning, so honest. They talked about reality. About things that had happened, things that meant something, for real. But what kinds of things? They were talking exclusively about Hägerström’s fake life in the gangster world. It was bizarre.

An hour or so later, his home phone rang. It was Jorge, who wanted to talk to Javier.

Javier went into the kitchen. Hägerström tried to listen in. Only heard mumbling and short responses.

Javier returned to the bedroom.

“We’ve gotta go. It’s payback time for me. Jorge really needs help.”

Hägerström sat up. “He said there was some shit with his sister. What’s going on?”

“Someone’s fucking with him. We gotta bounce. They’re settling the score. He needs our help.”

Hägerström shook his head. “I can’t come.”

“Why not?”

“I’m taking care of my son tonight. I can’t cancel. Sorry, I just can’t come.”

Javier looked at him quickly but didn’t seem to take it very hard. He was still so fucking happy to be free.

Actually, Hägerström was going to see JW in a few hours. Drive him to the meeting with Radovan Kranjic’s daughter and a few others—he didn’t really know who. The only thing he knew was that as soon as Jorge, Javier, and the Finn had been arrested, JW was going to be collared too. And there would be a search of Bladman’s office and all his properties, including the secret one.

Javier dressed and left.

In his mind’s eye, Hägerström saw the caravan of scouts who were trailing him down on the street.

* * *

The Radisson Blu Arlandia Hotel: one point two miles from Arlanda Airport. According to JW: the Russians wanted it that way. They were only staying for a few hours. The good thing: Natalie was apparently meeting the ones who were really in charge. Not some hooligans stationed in Sweden. Not some underlings without any decision-making power.

She stepped into the conference room.

A man approached and ran a metal detector over her body. It crackled—but didn’t beep. He brushed her arms, body, and legs with his hand.

The man’s hand was covered in black tattoos.

Goran, Thomas, and Adam were sitting on the sofas in the hotel lobby. Sascha was sitting in a car outside the entrance.

She’d seen Milorad and a couple of Stefanovic’s men in another sofa group.

Thomas’d also pointed and told her that an old police colleague of his was sitting in the lobby: “He was fired six months ago, but I actually don’t know what he’s doing here.”

But Natalie knew who it was: JW’s driver. The dude who’d been giving her bad vibes. Thomas said, “I think it seems strange.”

Natalie couldn’t blow things off now. If JW trusted that driver, she would have to too.

The agreement: just her and Stefanovic—eye to eye—in the conference room. Plus JW and the Russians as mediators.

She looked around. An oval wooden table with steel legs. White walls with framed photographs of airplanes. Spotlights in the ceiling. Typical midrange-hotel feel—Natalie’d stayed at so many different places over
the past few weeks that she’d become hypersensitive to white walls and Scandinavian design.

It was dark outside. The curtains were pulled closed.

On the table: five glasses and a bottle of Absolut Vodka.

At the table: JW and two middle-aged men. The Russians.

Natalie didn’t know much about the people she was meeting. But Thomas and Goran’d told her the little that they knew. And JW’d said a few words too.

Solntsevskaya Bratva: one of the most powerful syndicates. Possibly the biggest mafia in the world. Almost certainly: the most influential organization in Russia—with a global focus. Probably the most dangerous people in the world.

Goran’d told her that her dad’d maintained close relations with
avtoritety
. But it wasn’t as Natalie’d originally thought—that the Russians’d contacted Dad to get help with something. It was the other way around. Dad’d contacted them many years ago with the following message:
“I’ve got holds on people in Sweden who may be of interest to you. I am happy to sell you information when you need it.”

That made her proud. She felt like an equal. Her dad hadn’t just been some errand boy for
avtoritety
. He’d taken the initiative, offered them something they were willing to pay for.

They introduced themselves as Vladimir Michailov and Sergey Barsykov. Responsible for Scandinavia.

They shook her hand. JW’s eyes flashed.

The man who’d patted her down acted as interpreter.

Vladimir Michailov said, “Welcome. I hope vodka is all right?”

Natalie responded in Russian,
“Da.”

They were properly dressed. But differently from JW or Gabriel Hanna—the suits the Russians wore were probably expensive, but they rocked a different style: shinier fabrics, broader shoulders, wider pants. She thought of Semjon the Wolf Averin.

Goran’d advised her to wear jewelry—a two-carat diamond in a simple setting around her neck—it’d been a twentieth birthday present from Dad. In her ears: her Tiffany’s studs. On her finger: a signet ring with the Kranjic family crest engraved in it.

She hung up her coat. Under: a silk top with a dark blazer.

In the inner pocket was the comb. Thomas’d given it to her this morning. It was made of carbon fiber and was sealed inside a leather
case. The thing: the handle’d been sharpened to a point. Natalie’d tested it out on a piece of paper at home—it cut like a warm knife through hair gel.

The door opened. Stefanovic walked in.

The same procedure: the interpreter guy swept the metal detector over him. Ran his hands over his body. He appeared clean: not even a cell phone.

They were beyond time and space now. They were on Russian territory. Maybe.

Vladimir Michailov welcomed Stefanovic.

He poured vodka into the glasses.

The other Russian was sitting silently, chewing gum.

Vladimir raised his glass.
“Na zdorovje.”

They threw back the vodka.

“First of all,” Vladimir said, “I want to thank Mr. J. Westlund who was able to arrange this meeting.”

JW looked at Natalie. Then he looked at Stefanovic.

Vladimir went on. “Look each other in the eyes now. Because we don’t want any more fighting.”

Natalie looked straight across the table, met Stefanovic’s gaze. It was like staring straight into the eyes of a shark.

“There are one million people I would rather look at right now,” she said. “But I am doing it for your sake.”

Stefanovic snorted.

In the corner of her eye: she saw Sergey Barsykov flash a quick smile, then go right on with his gum chewing.

Vladimir said, “Calm down. Let us talk instead. We’re here to do business. We have cooperated with your father for years. Our cooperation has been profitable for all parties. I truly regret his fate.”

He lowered his head in a respectful gesture, then said, “But life goes on. And business goes on. Our interest in the Nordic countries grows with every year. Russian industry is expanding. Our export balances are increasing. But there are a lot of prejudices against us out in the world. So we often need help in order to get a fair business relationship on its feet.”

He explained for a few minutes. Told them about Nordic Pipe. The aim was to facilitate the energy supply to Central and Eastern Europe. To avoid the recurring fights with Ukraine about gas prices, fights that made the price of electricity higher for all consumers. About building
two thousand miles of double pipes from Russian Viborg to German Greifswald. It was a question of nearly eight hundred miles of gas pipe running at the bottom of the Baltic Sea in order to pump more than 1,700 billion cubic feet of natural gas per year.

The numbers didn’t mean much to Natalie. But one thing was clear: what they were discussing was high-level business.

“We’re doing something for this country too, but not a lot of people seem to understand that. For instance, when we lay down the pipe, we’re also cleaning up old mines. We’ve picked up more than eleven mines from the bottom of the ocean. But no one has thanked us for that.”

Natalie and Stefanovic were both nodding. They hadn’t come here for a lecture about the politics of natural gas.

“In order to do this,” Vladimir said, “we need help. We have already passed and will need to pass through many obstacles.”

The interpreter listed Swedish words. Natalie was unsure whether he knew what he was saying. Expert studies, descriptions of environmental consequences, official hearings. The Espoo Convention, county boards, the Swedish EPA, the Swedish Defense Research Institute, the Swedish Maritime Administration, and the Swedish Department of Transportation.

But this much was certain: what they had on their hands was an extremely complicated decision-making process. Many people had to be influenced and nudged in the right direction.

Natalie thought of the people she’d met over the past few months. The weapons dealer Gabriel Hanna and the woman at the Black & White Inn. Her allies, Goran, Thomas, Ivan Hasdic, and the others. She thought of the women, Melissa Cherkasova and Martina Kjellsson. And now the Russians.