The Father: Made in Sweden Part I (25 page)

He’d had seventeen hits, convicted and released, criminals and ex-criminals. He had checked them out and written them off one by one. This had been the last one. And he believed him. Ivan Dûvnjac hit people, but he wasn’t a thief.

Jafar and Gobakk were elsewhere.

The stairs always creaked when he walked up, but never for some reason when he went down. The newspapers lay on a stool next to the stove, a couple of days old, and Ivan picked them up, and the stack in the cabinet under the sink, and headed to the recycling.

The bastard had stood outside his door. Jeans and a black leather jacket. Some idiot cop talking about petty criminals sneaking into other people’s homes like rats.

He went downstairs again and put the Keno tickets and bottles to one side as he flipped through two weeks’ worth of national and local newspapers. Not so much as a note about any break-ins in the area.

He would have punched that little cop cunt in the jaw if he hadn’t decided never to do that again. He’d discovered something else: there were other ways to terrify people without ending up in prison. If he raised his voice and stared into their eyes, people in this fucking country backed down. It was like punching someone in the face while just standing there. They lowered their guard and their eyes, and gave up.

Not a single punch in ten years.

Still he was treated like that by some damn cop, accused as if no time had passed, as if a man couldn’t change.

The hill down to Ösmo Square was muddy and slippery, and his worn-out loafers got no grip. He walked past shops, banks and cafés. The bell above the door to Jönsson’s tobacco shop gave an aggravating ring – how the hell could he stand it, that sharp clang every time a customer needed a smoke?

Ivan looked around, the tobacco shelves next to the sweet shelves next to the newspaper stand. No one behind the counter. Then came the sound of flushing from the back of the shop, a small toilet that had leaked last summer and that he’d helped the owner change in exchange for a lot of tobacco.

‘Ivan.’

The curtain was pulled to the side, and Jönsson ran his hands through his thin hair, as if using it like a towel.

‘The evening papers. Both of them.’

‘There’s no gambling section today, Ivan. You know that’s only on Tuesdays.’

‘The evening papers.’

He took a folded and crumpled envelope out of the breast pocket of his shirt. He flipped through the 500-kronor notes and put one down on the counter.

‘I don’t have anything smaller.’

The shopkeeper wiped off the glasses he rarely wore, and then picked up the note, held it up towards the ceiling lamp.

‘Well, I’ll be damned.’

‘Lotsa work right now.’

‘You made all that on painting and woodwork? I’m in the wrong business. You’ve got a whole envelope, and I barely have enough to give you change for one note. Who can afford to pay that much?’

‘I sometimes wonder the same thing. But then you just have to figure it out.’

Jönsson put the change down on the worn countertop, 100s, 50s, 20-kronor notes. Ivan counted them and then, over near the lotto counter, leafed through the papers.

‘Not one fucking word.’

‘About what?’

‘Burglaries.’

‘Burglaries?’

‘In the area. Several of them. Houses.’

‘I haven’t heard anything. And everyone comes in here to talk. I’d know about it.’

Ivan rolled up the newspapers and pushed one down into each jacket pocket.

That bastard hadn’t been to the neighbours before ringing the bell, and he’d come alone. If he’d really been knocking on doors in the neighbourhood, he would have left his car at the square and walked around, not parked outside his window. And there would have been at least two cops wanting to talk to an ex-con with a record of beating up policemen – they always went in pairs, like hyenas. He was there accusing him for some other reason.

‘Have you finished reading?’

‘There was nothing to read.’

‘Put them back then. You don’t have to pay. Take a pack of tobacco instead.’

He refolded the two tabloids, smoothing them out as best he could, and took the packet of tobacco from the bottom shelf. He turned to leave.

‘Your son was here.’

Ivan stopped.

‘He’s big. He looks like you, Ivan, except for the blond hair. Are you working together again?’

Jönsson wanted an answer. He wasn’t going to get one. Because Ivan’s oldest son had his own business now, together with his brothers.

He almost smiled.

He’d at least taught his sons one thing: to stick together against everyone – even him.

Anneli lay on her stomach across the double bed, asleep with her clothes on. She’d been sleeping a lot lately. Leo caressed her cheek lightly with the back of his hand to wake her up.

‘What … time is it?’

Her eyes were small and she averted her gaze from the light.

‘Six thirty.’

‘That early? Then I want to go back to sleep.’

‘In the evening.’

He took her hand and pulled gently on it.

‘Come on.’

She looked at him, but didn’t move.

‘Now. We’re going to meet the Phantom.’

Anneli stood up, her arms still too soft and legs unresponsive, and followed him without understanding, down the stairs towards the room opposite the kitchen where they’d been spending so much time.

‘Just imagine, Anneli, that someone’s on the run and is hiding here, in this house, and the cops come looking.’

An ordinary room. Floor, walls, ceiling. The tang of fresh paint hit the back of Anneli’s throat. They were all there, together, Leo and Felix and Vincent and Jasper, watching her, looking pleased with themselves.

‘I don’t understand. What are you talking about?’

The floor’s uppermost layer was made up of black and white vinyl squares that lay under the thick rug they were standing on. The squares looked shiny, new. Leo let go of her hand and crouched down.

‘This is your room, Anneli, and Sebastian’s.’

She allowed herself the shadow of a smile. He glanced at her, still as pleased with himself, as he rolled up the carpet and pointed to four of the squares, and then uncovered two iron pull rings.

‘The cops are here searching. And for some damn reason, they find a couple of floor tiles that are a little loose. And then these, iron rings, that you can grab onto and lift up.’

He took hold of the circular loops and jerked upward. A block of cement came up with it.

‘They’ve figured it out too, discovered this loose piece. Then they see this. A safe. Solidly cast into the floor. Oh what a fucking joy for the cops. Now they’ve got us!’

He gently gripped the combination lock on the safe.

‘And then, with a hell of a lot of luck, they figure out the combination. Let’s imagine that, they work out the combination.’

He twisted and turned the knob, and opened the steel door. Inside was a safe with black velvet edges and no seams, sealed tight. It contained a small plastic bag filled with 500-kronor notes. A camera. Some loose cartridges. A heap of papers that looked like certificates and contracts. Leo picked it up and laid it on the floor next to the opening.

‘And then they see – this. Nothing at all. The end of the line. And so they move on to another room, glad that they found a hidden stash of
cash and documents that seem important and some rifle cartridges to do useless tests on.’

Leo went to the room’s only window and to the junction box attached to the wall above it. He unscrewed the cover and lifted it off. Two electrical cables, one red and one blue. He looked at her and smiled like before, touched the two cable ends together and closed the circuit.

‘Go over to the safe. And look down.’

A droning sound. And then … the back of the safe slowly disappeared while they were looking …
down
.

‘The cops have left. And they missed it all. Everything was underneath the safe.’

A quick kiss on her cheek as he walked over to the hole and crouched, put his feet on the aluminium ladder, climbed down and turned on the light. Suddenly, there was a room where there had been no room before. Two rows of wooden shelves along the walls. Guns standing up: submachine guns on the top shelf, AK4s on the lower.

‘The Phantom and his Skull Cave.’

And five machine guns right on the floor, behind the ladder.

‘Don’t you see? The Phantom’s safe. Where he leaves messages for the Jungle Patrol.’

Her bare feet climbed down the narrow rungs of the ladder. She wobbled, regained her balance and stepped down onto the cold floor.

‘You know, the safe in the police station, the Phantom had a secret tunnel into it, he was able to open the bottom of the safe and put in his messages for the headquarters of the Jungle Patrol. And every time the Phantom or the Chief went there a new message was waiting from one of them, that’s how they communicated.’

A room containing automatic weapons, almost as big as the bunker they had come from. Anneli looked at the ladder she’d just climbed down.

‘Feel this.’

Leo took her hand, held it against the concrete wall.

‘It’s dry, right? No moisture, no water.’

He got down on his knees and lifted a hatch on the floor: a large cement pipe, a sump with a pump installed inside.

‘The house is built on a lake bed. So you can’t build a basement. But with this, we’ll be able to control the water level. When the water reaches here, the maximum limit, the pump will start running.’

Leo and Anneli stood and held each other, in a secret underground
chamber with cold floors and an opening in the ceiling. And two hundred and twenty-one automatic weapons in two rows. Everything they needed for the next robbery, and the next robbery, and the next, and the next.

WHEN HE TRIED
to see through the black ski mask, it was like looking through a pair of binoculars in an old movie – the dark edges that surrounded his vision concentrated reality; the colours were brighter.

‘Sixty seconds to go,’ he said.

The first thing he saw were blue jumpsuit sleeves and hands holding a long, greyish, heavy submachine gun.

‘Fifty seconds to go.’

Like the others, Blue One was squatting on the floor of a used Dodge van they’d taken apart and that now lacked seats. They were all carrying automatic weapons, all had empty backpacks, all were dressed in blue jumpsuits and boots with masks over their faces. He could almost see the silence.

‘Forty seconds to go.’

Blue Two was the driver – he was totally calm and knew what to do no matter what the situation.

‘Thirty seconds.’

Blue Three, sitting opposite him, was to shoot down the rear surveillance camera – he hadn’t been able to sleep for several days from eagerness and impatience.

‘Twenty seconds.’

Blue Four, sitting next to him, was to jump on the counter, squeeze through the cashier’s window and grab the keys – he was trying to hide his trembling, not sure if he’d be able to walk like a man.

‘Ten seconds.’

He looked at them through the round holes in the fabric; all were hugging guns, just like him, wondering if someone inside that bank was going to die – if someone forced them to shoot, it would be just a matter of consequences. They would decide their own fate.

‘Five seconds. Four, three, two, one …
Now
.’

The side door opened. Eight steps to the bank. Into the entrance;
diagonally above him sat the front surveillance camera, and he swivelled his body and fired. There was no sound. So he shouted,
bam! bam! bam!

Blue Three continued in and raised his weapon, his body weight behind the butt of the gun as he leant forward and took aim at the second camera. His shots were inaudible as well, and his voice was intense as he started screaming,
BANG! BANG! BANG!

And Blue Four, who was right behind him, stepped over two women lying on the floor and ran towards the counter, just as they had planned.

‘The cashier’s locked the window.’

Blue Four stopped suddenly. Blue One continued shouting into his mic.

‘Blue Four, act now! React! The window is closed!’