Life Deluxe (7 page)

Hägerström was familiar with the police’s undercover routines. But the UC course he had taken on the subject hadn’t really given him much. It was just like everything else within the police force—you learned to do the work in real time, in the field.

Torsfjäll had given the operation the name Operation Tide. It was supposed to focus on laundry, he said. Money laundering on a high level. For Hägerström, the work would be different from regular undercover work. First of all, it was for a limited period of time—the plan wasn’t that he infiltrate and live like a criminal for several years or that he even hit up some corner and pretend to be a user for a few weeks before switching corners a few weeks later. He would take on the role as a corrections officer and make a connection with someone in the underworld—JW—who, in turn, would hopefully lead him to the people who used JW’s services. Torsfjäll said it was unique for a police officer to go in and assume the role of a screw.

Actually, the inspector claimed, it was the first operation of its kind in Sweden. It was important that his colleagues didn’t run into him as a CO and wonder if he was working extra or was just being weird. So Hägerström had to be fired officially from the police force, preferably with a certain amount of publicity involved. Only one person in a special unit within the Department of Corrections was informed about the project—all to minimize the risk of leaks. But Torsfjäll said the only people who actually knew that the operation involved Martin Hägerström specifically were his direct superior at the Stockholm County Police, Superintendent Leif Hammarskiöld, and himself.

The advantage of the setup was that since Hägerström would be playing a corrections officer, there was less risk of suspicion. It would’ve been another thing entirely if his mission had been to play a criminal. Few criminals would trust a former cop who suddenly tried to be like them—but things were different with a screw. Torsfjäll also didn’t want
to give him a new identity—it would be too easy to bust. All it would take was for a police colleague to come to the penitentiary and recognize Hägerström.

Some might think it strange that a fired police officer would choose to become a corrections officer. But honestly, there weren’t that many other potential jobs for a former cop.

It ought to be watertight.

Torsfjäll and Hägerström had met once more after their meeting last week. Hägerström wanted additional information in order to make up his mind.

Torsfjäll explained the motives behind the operation. JW was very likely one of those responsible for a huge money-laundering system. Several hundred Swedes might be involved. But unfortunately, the police didn’t know much more than that. JW apparently ran a smooth operation.

Torsfjäll went over how Hägerström would be prepped for the assignment: what he had to research and study, who else worked on the staff at the penitentiary, how he should play the game, how the dismissal would take place. The latter: the fact that Hägerström had been fired had to be known widely enough that JW learned about it.

Hägerström wondered if he wanted to do this thing at all. It was exciting. It was definitely a challenge. But it was undoubtedly very risky. Torsfjäll had been clear during their previous meeting: the fact that it wasn’t listed anywhere that Hägerström had a child was a good thing. Still: to get away from the Police Department for a bit was enormously tempting. What was more, he was certain that he would do well as a double agent.

Torsfjäll finished his run-through. “Just so you know: You are not a police officer anymore. You are a corrections officer with an assignment. You have to act on your own without immunity. Is there anything about that that doesn’t feel right to you?”

Hägerström thought it over briefly. He would still be a cop, after all, but in secret, and Torsfjäll promised that he wouldn’t take a hit financially. He went over the different challenges that might come up. It would probably be a matter of smuggling in a cell phone or two and bringing out information. Maybe bringing in a few ounces of weed or a few grams of amphetamines. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be a matter of bringing weapons in.

“I assume that’s part of the standard procedure?”

Torsfjäll smiled. His teeth were unnaturally white. “The standard procedure? There isn’t any such thing for this situation, I’m afraid. But I want you to start tomorrow. You have to learn everything there is to know about this JW guy.”

Once again the big question: Should he really do this? Hägerström thought it over. He had wanted to be a police officer his entire life. Had even chosen the health care track in high school because it was the focus that was best suited for becoming a cop afterward. His mother, Lottie, and Father were already upset by that, even if Mother never really showed that kind of thing. His results in the army evaluation and the military, however—they were nothing but positive about that. Especially Mother, who thought, “Maybe you can become an officer in the reserves like Gucke. Wouldn’t that be great? And anyway, wearing a uniform when everyone else is in white tie looks so good.” Gucke’s name was actually Gustaf, and he was Hägerström’s cousin on his mother’s side—the men in her family had gone through officer training for generations. It’s what the landowning gentry did. But Hägerström had enrolled in the Police Academy instead. Mother’s dismay was so great that she never mentioned the officer thing again.

“Martin, aren’t you wasting your talent this way?” Father asked.

“Martin, aren’t there more interesting jobs out there for you?” Carl said.

“Martin, isn’t it dangerous?” his sister, Tin-Tin, said.

Dangerous.

He had worked on patrol, on the streets, for the first few years. It was physically demanding—it was not uncommon that you were forced to get a little rough sometimes, maybe had to take a hit or two. You ran into boozehounds who spat in your face, indignant citizens who thought the police didn’t do their job, and young punks who wanted to be superman and tried MMA grips, even though they always had to taste the tarmac in the end. But dangerous? He had never really felt at risk. Always had good support from his colleagues.

But Operation Tide was dangerous.

And he could just imagine what Mother would say when she found out that he had been fired from the police.

Maybe he should decline after all. Keep doing what he was good
at: investigating crime, arresting suspects, building investigations. Now was his last chance to blow this off.

*

I needed a new handgun. I wrapped the one I’d used on the cleaning lady in a plastic bag and threw it into the Baltic. The new hotel I was staying at was near the water
.

Fortunately, I got the contacts I needed from my employer, who I suspect is from Sweden. A bar in an area in central Stockholm: the Black & White Inn
.

I went there. The pub was closed, it said, but the front door was open. I stepped inside and looked around. The woman was standing behind the bar drying glasses. I handed her a slip of paper with a name on it. She looked down, then looked up. Maybe she recognized me, but she didn’t give anything away
.

She gestured for me to follow her. We walked back behind the kitchen. It smelled faintly of cleaning detergent. The wall paint in the hallways was peeling, and a fluorescent light hung crookedly from the ceiling. It could have been anywhere in Europe. The feeling was familiar, the dankness the same. The woman was silent, but she straightened up as soon as she’d understood what I was here to get. She was pretty, and her mouse-colored hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She reminded me of my first—and only—wife
.

She opened a door and told me to stand still—in my own language. I extended my arms, and she patted me down along my back, arms, and sides. She felt around my shoes and in my pockets. Finally she brought her hands up along my legs and groin. I felt a tickling sensation down there. Just for a microsecond. Then I turned myself off. She nodded. I was clean. She must have known that before
.

The woman opened a sheet-metal cabinet and brought out two metal bags. She set them on the table, turned the coded locks, and opened them. I saw dark-colored foam rubber and cutouts where objects rested, wrapped in fabric. Four in one bag and five in the other. She unwrapped the fabric. Laid the weapons down on the table
.

I weighed them, inspected them, made sure they had the right feel to them. Finally, I bought a Glock 17, second generation. It is reliable, can take most kinds of ammunition. And then she had a Stechkin APS with a Makarov magazine. Not everyone would choose that weapon, but I know it better than I know my own cock. The fact is that I got a little nostalgic in a way that suited the mission
.

I would finish the job when the opportunity arose. I knew that it could take weeks, but now I was prepared materially once again. And I wasn’t planning on taking more risks like the one with the cleaning lady
.

In my business, we don’t think like other people. We act according to our own set of rules. I think that’s how we’re made. We are solitary authorities. We can’t change. That is our strength. Like Alexander Solonik—may he rest in peace—used to say,
“Eto vasja sudba”—
“It is your fate.”

I was ready now
.

I would eliminate Radovan Kranjic
.

Natalie was sitting in the passenger seat next to Stefanovic. New car smell, tan seats in luxury leather, built-in media system in the middle console, and a crucifix dangling in the rearview mirror.

Dad was riding in a different car. That’s how he wanted it. Dad’s business didn’t always exactly conform to Swedish government regulations. And sometimes he was forced to get tough with people who tried to pull a fast one on him—so there were people out there who didn’t like him at all. But all this about riding in different cars seemed over the top.

Stefanovic was driving in a relaxed manner, one hand in his lap and the other resting lightly on the steering wheel. Natalie and Stefanovic used to sit the opposite way—her behind the wheel and him beside her. Stefanovic’d been one of the people who taught her to drive a year and a half ago, when she’d slaved away to get her license. Total: more than seventy classes at the driving school, and probably more than a hundred with Stefanovic. Lollo laughed her ass off every time they talked about it. But then Natalie passed the test on her first try—Louise had to try four times before she nailed it.

They were on their way to an MMA gala at the Globe Arena: Extreme Affliction Heroes. Natalie’d been to a few other K1 and boxing events, but never MMA.

“Before, everyone talked about K1, but now the UFC hysteria’s hit Sweden,” Stefanovic said. “We’re in on twenty-five percent of this gala and twenty-five percent of one of the gyms. There are UFC-signed fighters here today. But our guys kick ass.”

It was hilarious when Stefanovic tried to use expressions that he thought were young and hip. Like
kick ass
—seriously, it sounded just as funny as when Mom said her new Chloé shoes were “to die for.”

“It’s the first time,” he went on, “that Extreme Affliction Heroes
are up in an arena as big as the Globe. It’s the next big sport in this country.”

They drove over the bridge from Södermalm to Gullmarsplan. Natalie gazed out the window. The water looked like gray sheet metal. It was raining. Again. A spring almost entirely without sun.

Natalie’s rabbit fur vest was in the backseat. She was wearing a Swarovski necklace and a white ruffled shirt from Marc Jacobs that she’d borrowed from Louise. She was wearing jeans that she’d bought at Artilleri2, a pair of Victoria Beckham Wide Leg in dark indigo blue. She was relaxed enough to fit in at the gala. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She examined herself in the rearview mirror—met her own brown eyes and long lashes.

The Globe Arena was glowing in the distance—purple and blue spotlights were supposed to make it nicer than it actually was. Natalie remembered the outdoor lighting in Paris. The French knew how to illuminate a city at night—spotlights aimed at majestic facades.

They drew closer, looked for the parking signs. Drove in under the Globe. A massive parking garage. A green Volvo pulled in after them. A common color these days?

Viktor’d wanted to come along to the gala. But Dad’d deemed it not appropriate. That was all right with Natalie.

The gala was crawling with men. The atmosphere in the air: excitement mixed with expectation mixed with insanely high testosterone levels.

They stepped in through entrance A. The arena opened up below them. A dark sea of people and, in the middle, a thirty-foot high metal frame with spotlights in different colors. The spectators, the TV cameras, the spotlights—all with the same focus: the ring. On one side, where the stage was usually built when they had concerts here, giant flags from the competing countries were suspended from the wall. Sweden, USA, the Netherlands, Russia, Japan, Romania, Germany, Morocco, Serbia. On the other side hung a huge banderol, the official flag: Extreme Affliction Heroes.