Never Fuck Up: A Novel (61 page)

Again: he was weird. Used military terminology like a crazy commando or something. Rattled off a bunch of abbreviations, tactical terminology, weapon vocab that totally blindsided Mahmud. At the same time: he was perfect.

They ended their last meeting with homework. Mahmud was gonna get weapons and bolt cutters and talk to some guys he trusted, see if they wanted in. Niklas was responsible for clothes, bulletproof vests, night-vision goggles, grenades, and caltrops.

As Niklas said: It was gonna be a killing zone.

Mad
Call of Duty
shit.

It was as though Niklas was in a trance. His thoughts wouldn’t stop spinning. His sleep was reduced to brief moments of rest between planning sessions on the computer, time spent in the woods around the house on Smådalarö or in front of the tapes from the surveillance cameras he’d mounted in the trees around the house. His mantra rhymed: don’t loiter, reconnoiter.

Patric Ngono was on hold—the whore parties were so much bigger. Abusive men in action at a high level. Society’s absolute deterioration in relief. The filth that invaded society would be dealt with, cleaned up, driven out.

Benjamin’d stopped calling. That was a relief. When Niklas was done with this, he would teach that traitor a lesson. Mahmud’d done him a big favor by talking to the guy. Benjamin must understand that Niklas wasn’t alone.

He couldn’t bring himself to answer Mom’s calls or texts. She wouldn’t understand, anyway. The same thought kept coming back: He was doing all of this for her.

He didn’t go running. Didn’t even train with the knife.

This was the last stretch, the finish, the final sprint.

The surveillance cameras did provide some interesting information. The security company visited the house a few times every week. Neither Sven Bolinder—the guy who lived in the house—or his wife seemed to be home too often. But Niklas had a feeling that there’d be a whole lot more security on D-Day. The question was how it would be handled.

Mahmud’d also gotten hold of certain information. The Yugos usually ran the security operation with their own men. But it was unclear what that meant. He didn’t know if they were armed. If they wore bulletproof vests. If they were trained for war.

And: Mahmud’d started to understand how this so-called luxury event went down. There was going to be a big party; a couple of party planners took care of the food, bartenders, a dance floor. Spruced up the women. Niklas studied the blueprints of the house. Came to some conclusions. Guessed: party ground zero ought to be the big living room along one of the house’s short ends, on the ground floor.

Everything was going according to plan. But it would take time for the Arab to get weapons. As long as he didn’t mess that stuff up. Maybe Niklas should take care of that himself? At the same time: Mahmud’d assured him that his contacts were legit. And Niklas didn’t like dealing with the chick at the Black & White Inn.

He took care of his own homework right away. Ordered equipment online. Now all he had to do was wait—like an Advent calendar: count down, day by day. Four weeks, then it was time. Bolinder’s event was being held on New Year’s Eve. Operation Magnum would reach a crescendo.

A few snowflakes’d fallen during the night, but they soon melted. Niklas thought about tears on a bone-hard cheek. A face that’d been forced into resilience. Like the black tarmac when it gleamed in the winter darkness.

Niklas was on his way home from the mansion. Eighth time he’d been out there. He knew the area now. The terrain felt like the patches of grass in Axelsberg where he’d grown up. He’d identified the ultimate way in. There needed to be four to six people for the attack, depending on the number of security personnel. The question was if Mahmud would be able to scrounge up that many boots.

He thought back on his time in Sweden since his return. The whole world was at war. The trick was to see where the front lines were drawn. People abroad thought that Sweden was so peaceful, happy, perfect. It was actually worse than that—even people in Sweden thought harmony reigned. That was bullshit. If you scratched the surface, it was rat shit through and through.

He got on the highway at Handen. Not a lot of cars out. Maybe he should call Mom after all? Images flashed through his mind. Claes Rantzell. Mats Strömberg. Roger Jonsson. Sometimes the opposition was victorious after all.

Nynäsvägen. Down to Södra Länken, the highway. Toward Årsta. There was some kind of artwork around the entrance to the tunnel.
It almost felt magical. Like a blue light that lit up the entire upper part of the tunnel. Between the two entrances to the tunnel: lots of small lights, like stars with a large orb in the center. Maybe a celestial body. He thought, Yet another hole in life. He fell into his usual line of thought. The basic pillar of civilization was its cavities, the holes. It was strange. Society was dependent on its tunnels, pipes, garbage chutes, cables, holes. But all that just underscored the reality. No matter how good something looked on the surface, the truth was to be found in the holes.

Niklas drove through Årsta. Turned on Hägerstensvägen. Almost home. He felt tired. But still not. His thoughts kept him awake. Like constant adrenaline kicks.

He couldn’t find a parking spot near his building, had to park four blocks away. Left the duffel with the equipment in the car; he could leave it there until the next time he went out to Smådalarö. It would be soon.

He slammed the car door shut. Walked toward his building.

The glow from the streetlights made the tarmac glitter again. His breath was billowing like smoke.

He pushed in the key code. Opened the door.

Stepped inside. Flipped the light switch.

He stared into the barrels of four MP5s.

Someone yelled, “Hands up, Brogren! You’re under arrest!”

Four cops from the SWAT team. Suited up like they were on the front line: black clothes, vests, helmets, visors—the whole shebang. Smaller-model police assault rifles, pointed at him. Behind him, more cops were pouring in. Snapped handcuffs on him. Pushed him to the ground. It was too late. Too late to think. He was arrested.

He wondered what for.

*  *  *

Three weeks’d passed since the attack in the parking garage—still, the thoughts revisited him at least once an hour. Not just because the attack itself’d been so scary—he’d experienced worse violence before—but because of how big this snowball he’d started’d grown. This wasn’t just about a threat against him, it wasn’t even just about Sweden’s most famous murder—it was about a goddamned conspiracy in the middle of his own home: the National Police. And he had no idea how to stop it.

Months ago, when someone’d been standing outside his house that night, he’d been able to push his fear away into some corner of himself. Reacted like he always reacted: let the worry dissolve into cynicism and denial. His goals were more important. He was driven by anger. He was driven by the thought that reflection equaled capitulation. And when he’d begun to understand the connections to the Palme murder, he was also driven by a strange feeling—some kind of duty to his old man and to Sweden. But now, after the assault, and after Hägerström’s phone call about Adamsson, he no longer knew if he should allow himself to be driven at all.