Life Deluxe (67 page)

Hägerström sat down. His cell phone was switched on in his pocket.

He thought of his brother. Bert T. Skogwall looked different. Carl always wore a dark suit and muted ties. The attorney sitting across from Hägerström and Jorge obviously didn’t believe in
less is more
.

Instead, Skogwall was wearing a pink shirt, yellow slacks, and a green tie. His cufflinks were enormous, and the diamond on his tie clip looked like it had been taken from Tin-Tin’s engagement ring. In other words, at least two carats.

Hägerström thought:
This attorney looks like Pravat’s box of paints
.

Jorge said, “Do you know who I am?”

Bert T. Skogwall spoke with an indeterminate dialect. “Naturally. You are Jorge Salinas Barrio. Known for your latest escape over Stockholm’s rooftops. You are arrested in absentia. You are coaccused with my client, Javier.”

Jorge nodded in time with the attorney’s words.

“And now I’m wondering what it is you want.”

“I just want you to convey one thing to Javier. Just two sentences.”

“You know that he has communication restrictions.”

“Yes, I know. Is that a problem?”

The attorney was twirling a pen. It looked like it was made of gold.

“That depends. Bringing information in and out is very risky. I would risk losing my license to practice.”

“I know. But I’m not the kind of guy who creates problems. If you help me, I will help your client.”

“That sounds good. But I need to know that it will benefit me too.”

Jorge slid an envelope across the table. The lawyer picked it up.

Opened it carefully, looked inside. Counted the bills that Jorge had slipped inside.

He put the envelope into the inner pocket of his blazer.

“Okay, what do you want me to pass on?”

“He has to get himself transferred to Huddinge’s closed psychiatric ward. And you have to inform me exactly when it’s going to happen.”

Hägerström’s ears were larger than a lop-eared rabbit’s. The wire he was wearing felt warm.

The lawyer raised his eyebrows. “That last bit, about me informing you, was not part of our agreement.”

“Maybe not,” Jorge said. “But we’ve recorded this conversation on a cell phone. So now it is part of our agreement.”

Ivan Hasdic’d gone back home. His final words: “I want you to know that you are always welcome to come down to us if things don’t work out the way you want them to up here. We’ll take care of you, until things’ve calmed down.”

Natalie kissed him on the cheeks. In her head: another image. A glimmer of hope. Everything would calm down quickly, after she’d done what had to be done. Stefanovic’s honchos would lay down their arms. Her finances would return to their normal state, or better. Her men could focus on their regular jobs again—smuggling, amphetamine sales, run-of-the-mill racketeering.

Today JW was supposed to have pushed his buttons, made his phone calls, sent his e-mails. Faxed the monkeys—that’s what he called the men managing the assets down there. Hopefully, he would’ve succeeded in hauling over all eight million euros to accounts that were connected to other accounts that were connected to accounts. Ones and zeros that were transferred far beyond what could be controlled. The money would’ve been moved through so many banks, exchange offices, trusts, and jurisdictions that it would be harder to find than a dropped contact lens on the floor of a nightclub on a Saturday night. And what was more, all the trails would point to that Gustaf Hansén guy. His name was on countless documents connected to the first accounts in the chain. Many of the powers of attorney that’d been faxed out today looked as though they were signed by him. A large part of the online controls today: verified by security tokens that’d been issued to him. Not everyone would fall for it—but Natalie’d have to deal with the rest.

And for that, she wanted 10 percent.

But most important of all: tomorrow they were going to see the Russians and Stefanovic.

JW’d managed to arrange a meeting. That was when Natalie was planning on dealing with the traitor. She knew how.

She was lying in the safe room tonight.

She couldn’t sleep. The room was around two hundred square feet large. Just barely fit a pullout couch, two chairs, and a small table. The couch was pulled out: the mattress was hard and uncomfortable. She turned the bedside lamp on, looked around.

There were four monitors on one wall. One monitor showed what the camera above the front door captured: the gravel path, the gate farther in the distance. The second one showed the view from the camera above the kitchen entrance: the deck, a section of the garden, the illuminated lawn. The third one showed the set of stairs that led down to the rec room. She glimpsed Mom’s paintings of the king and the brass railing. The final screen showed what the camera just outside the safe room captured—the rec room with the couch, the projection screen in the ceiling, and the treadmill. The windows up by the ceiling were barred. Adam was sitting in an armchair with his cell phone in hand. He was awake.

A phone was hanging beside the monitors, and next to it was a laminated piece of paper with important telephone numbers: SOS, the police, Adam, Sascha, Patrik, Goran, Thomas. Stefanovic’s name was at the very top, but had been crossed out. There was an alarm button to G4S and other buttons to control the alarm system in the house. There was an extra cell phone on a hanger and a Maglite flashlight. There was a fire extinguisher in one corner. Two gas masks were hanging on one hook. A stun gun was hanging on another.

There was a plastic bin on the floor. She knew what was inside it: four bottles of water, one bag of nuts, Wasa bread with cream cheese, and a few cans of food. There was a first aid kit, a toiletry kit, a packet of wet wipes, a cell phone charger, and a map of Stockholm. There was also a change of clothes for Natalie.

The aim was that you would be able to survive at least twenty-four hours in there.

She remembered what Thomas’d said: “If something happens, you should first try to escape. The safe room should be your absolute last resort—it’s not a bomb-safe bunker. It can stop an intruder only for a certain amount of time, until we or the police arrive.”

Natalie tried to relax. Neither Stefanovic nor the Wolf Averin should be trying anything tonight—they were supposed to meet with Moscow
tomorrow, after all. Eye to eye, just her, Stefanovic, JW, and the Russians.

Nothing should be happening tonight.

Still, she couldn’t sleep.

The house was so quiet. She eyed one of the screens again. Adam was still awake.

There was another bodyguard up there somewhere, Dani. Just to be on the safe side.

Mom was in Germany. Natalie’d sent her off to stay with relatives ten days ago. They hadn’t been in touch since. Was easiest that way.

She thought about Semjon Averin. He’d looked so self-confident and relaxed in the blurry image from the surveillance camera when he was driving the Volvo. He looked even more self-confident in the passport photo in John Johansson’s name. As though nothing in the world could move him. Averin’s attitude reminded her of Dad’s. Would she ever be able to feel the same way? Maybe.

She remembered one time when she’d been to the Solvalla racetrack with Dad. Two old geezers from the municipal environmental and building committee had been there too—Dad wanted to build an addition on their house.

Nice atmosphere in the air. Ads for Agria animal insurance wallpapered the area. Hot dogs, beer, and betting slips in everyone’s hands. The speakers announced the day’s upcoming race. Natalie was seventeen years old.

They were sitting in the Congress Bar and Restaurant: an à la carte restaurant in seven stories, right in front of the finish line. The nicest part of Solvalla: white linen tablecloths, wall-to-wall carpeting, low music playing in the background, flat-screen TVs, and tons of slips on the tables. Most of the people there were men in their fifties and sixties—just like the municipal guys who were shoving their faces with foie gras and sipping champagne across from Dad and Natalie.

The speakers blazoned out the special event of the day. Björn and Olle Goop’s horse was going to run a victory lap for the audience. People applauded. Natalie wasn’t interested. She regarded the men around the table.

They talked about building permits, detailed planning, and God knew what else. She wasn’t really listening, but she remembered that one of the municipal guys’d said, “I think it’s important that Näsbypark
is a living, dynamic place. That we don’t make it too difficult for people to change their houses to suit their needs.”

The other municipal guy’d raised his glass. “Cheers to that.”

Dad’d pushed two envelopes across the table to the men. Raised his own glass. “No one could agree with you more than I do.”

His face was relaxed, confident. Total assurance that he knew what he was doing and that he was doing the right thing. Natalie hadn’t thought about it back then. She’d just accepted that that was the way Dad looked when he did business. But now she wondered—was it perhaps just a mask that he put on when he needed to?

Goran’d called an hour ago.

“Natalie, where are you?”

“I’m in Näsbypark. Sleeping in the bunker tonight.”

“Good. Who’s there with you?”

“Adam and Dani. Adam’s being switched out at three o’clock.”

“Natalie”—Goran was breathing heavily—“I heard that you’re going to meet with Stefanovic and try to make up.”

Maybe there was worry in his voice. Maybe it was irritation.

She said, “Yes, that’s true. I think it’s best that we end this war.”

“You’re right. That’s probably best. But is JW somehow involved in setting this up?”

“Yes.”

Goran was breathing heavily again. “Natalie, listen to me. You have my support, no matter what you do. But be careful with this JW guy. I’ve said it before, don’t trust him. There are things you don’t know about him. Things you don’t want to know.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t talk about that now. But
veruj mi
, be careful.”

Natalie reached for the glass of water on the floor. She picked up a tablet of Xanax. “Tell me now.”

“Natalie, you have to listen to me,” Goran said. “I love you. Now is not a good time to tell you. But I’ll explain soon. Good night.”

They hung up. Natalie popped the pill in her mouth. Gulped water.

Leaned her head back on the pillow.

She turned off the bedside lamp. Thought:
What does Goran have against JW?

* * *