Never Fuck Up: A Novel (51 page)

Thomas waited awhile. There was no welcome desk. He thought about Runeby. The final thing the inspector’d told him was that he’d been the one to hold the lecture that time in Gamla Stan. Really, it wasn’t as strange as it sounded—the guy’d served two years in some kind of private army in South Africa in the late seventies. “For the battle’s sake,” as he’d said. “Not because I was a racist.” Thomas didn’t really care what his reasons were—but he had to watch out. How mixed up was Runeby really in that Gamla Stan organization?

After a few minutes, a nurse came walking out through a glass door.

“Is Leif Carlsson here?” Thomas asked.

The nurse led him up one flight of stairs. Flowers in the windows, framed prints with Swedish art classics: Zorn, Carl Larsson, Jirlow. A TV room, a cafeteria, plenty of staff. The nurse knocked on a door. Never even asked who Thomas was.

Leif Carlsson didn’t look as frail as Thomas’d imagined. Neatly combed side part. Blond hair that was going gray at the temples. A
crooked smile, a glimmer of challenge in his blue eyes. Did he really have Alzheimer’s? Leif Carlsson was tall. Thomas could picture what he’d looked like thirty years ago, probably significantly bigger: a terrifying vision to the rabble on the street.

The TV in the room was switched on. Carlsson seemed to have been sitting in a chair in front of it. He’d stood up when Thomas came in. The nurse left them alone. Closed the door.

“Good morning. My name is Thomas Andersson, inspector, the Palme Group.”

Carlsson dropped his hand. “So, you’re coming now?”

Thomas couldn’t judge if it was an accusation or a fateful declaration.

The old man sat down. It looked as though he was constantly tasting something in his mouth with his tongue. Probably a tic.

Thomas sat down on a chair by a small desk. The assisted-living apartment was small: a bedroom with the door ajar and a living room, where they were sitting now. Carlsson’d furnished it like a real home. A Persian carpet on the floor, a couple of paintings on the walls, an armchair and a desk in rococo style.

“I just want to ask you some questions. I hope that’s all right.”

Apparently, Carlsson’d been seriously ill for five years. His resistance to an interrogation ought to be weaker than a kid’s.

Carlsson nodded. “I have nothing to hide.”

Thomas pressed record on an audio recorder he had in his pocket.

“Tell me about the Troop.”

“You mean the A-route?”

“Yes, that’s the only group that’s ever been called the Troop, isn’t it?”

“That’s right, I think that’s what we called it.”

“Who were ‘we’?”

“Who are you, anyway?”

Thomas responded calmly, “Thomas Andersson, the Palme Commission.” Well, the geezer sure had Alzheimer’s.

Carlsson moved his tongue around in his mouth again. Repeated, “So, you’re coming now.”

Thomas went on, “Tell me about the Troop, the A-route. Who was in it with you?”

“In the Troop? It was Malmström, of course. Then it was Jägerström, Adamsson, Nilsson, Wallén. A couple more. I don’t remember.”

“And Malmström, he was the boss?”

“Oh yeah. Malmström. He was a real officer. The kind we need in the police force. But he quit. He lives out by Nykvarn nowadays.”

“Malmström is dead.”

“Really? That’s too bad. I haven’t seen him since I retired.”

Thomas started thinking about ending the interrogation. Carlsson was obviously too confused. But the question was if his memory from the eighties was better than his memory from the present.

“Who used to go to those meetings in Gamla Stan, in the EAP offices?”

Leif Carlsson looked disoriented. “I was never there.”

Thomas felt his surprise grow. The old guy wouldn’t lie, would he?

“Is that true?”

“Yes, it’s true. The guys who organized it, Ålander and Sjöqvist, didn’t invite me. Not because I had anything against them, or that they had anything against me. That wasn’t it. I shared their patriotism and worry in the face of the Red infiltration. But I was never invited. Maybe it wasn’t so strange, though. My father worked at one of the companies that Bolinder owned. So he was afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

“What did you say?”

“They were afraid to get me mixed up in it.”

“But why?”

“Dad worked at Bolinder’s company.”

“And who was this Bolinder?”

“The financier.”

“The financier of what?”

Suddenly Carlsson got that gleam in his eye again, tasted the roof of his mouth with his tongue. Then he said, “Bolinder. He was the one who funded those meetings, the organization, the project. All of it. But I think I was the only one who knew that.”

“Why were you the only one who knew that?”

Leif Carlsson started giggling. “Just because I’m sitting here talking a load of crap doesn’t mean I didn’t do my part for Sweden.”

“I understand. But tell me more about Bolinder.”

“I don’t remember Bolinder. But Bohman, he was too weak.”

“Bohman who?”

“Gösta Bohman, I mean. The head of the right-wing party. Are you too young to remember him?”

Carlsson looked pleased.

Gösta Bohman was the Moderate Party leader in the seventies. Leif
Carlsson was confused. The Alzheimer’s made it difficult to know what was relevant and what wasn’t. Thomas tried to ask a few more questions, but was just given confused answers in response.

He needed someone else.

On his way home. Thomas’s thoughts were spinning. Bolinder—where’d he heard that name before? It didn’t fit. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t one of the security-service people that Runeby’d mentioned. Who was Bolinder?

Then it clicked: he’d heard Ratko talking about planning “higher-class events” at some Bolinder’s place. Thomas’d even instructed a couple of gorillas how a set of walkie-talkies worked because they might be needed at one of those events—was it the same person?

He stayed in bed. His thoughts were churning around, around. In the same old tracks. He thought about the narc who’d approached him about a week ago. Maybe they tried that on others, too. Who could be trusted? Robert felt safe. Tom and Javier, too. But Babak? Fuck, man—he missed Babak.

At around two o’clock, he got up. Made coffee. Dumped sugar into it. Perked up a little. Popped a Diazepam. Later, he’d need an upper to make it to the gym. Pressed play on a porno. Tried to jack off. He thought about the honey from last weekend. Gabrielle. The porno felt lame in comparison.

Ratko called at three o’clock. Mahmud’d almost managed to forget his order. He got dressed. Jeans, a hoodie. Baseball jacket. Fall—the worst season. The weather needed to make up its mind. Not shilly-shally like some tranny.

Ratko’d given him directions: “Go to Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace and wait.” Shit, they were really pushing him around. He was their bitch.

A half hour later. Mahmud knew these projects like the back of his hand. Maybe he should check into the university. Honestly. Lecture on Shurgard storage facilities and housing project sociology. He knew why they built areas like this. They created a world where no one would get it into their minds to try to get ahead. Just stay down there in the shit, without getting too worked up about it. Society’d made him into what he was.

The business signs didn’t even try to be sexy around here. State Dentistry, the library, the Coop Konsum grocery store, Swedbank, the accounting firm Håkansson & Hult, a barber, the Pasta House: Extra Much Extra Cheap, Svedin’s Shoes, a pizzeria, a pharmacy. And, finally: Bigge’s Hot Dog Palace. He sat down. Ordered a Diet Sprite.
Tried to call some peeps. First Rob, then Tom, then Javier, then his sis. No one picked up. Time crawled slower than an old lady with a walker. He waited.

After twenty minutes, Dejan walked in. The guy was a sly motherfucker. Rimmed Radovan for pennies. Talked smack about Arabs as soon as he got the chance. They shook hands.

Mahmud climbed into his Benz. Followed Dejan’s car. First the high-rises. Then a couple of single-family homes. Then industrial buildings. A bunch of nature. The road was winding. Away from the concrete. After ten minutes: a sign.
THE VIEW, CAMPGROUND—TRAILER AND RV
.

Set up in the November rain: twenty-odd trailers. Five run-down cars. A sea of mud. Sparse trees all around. Electrical wires led to the trailers from poles.

Dejan parked his car. Mahmud pulled in behind him. What a nasty fucking trailer park.

Dejan walked up to one of the campers. The white paint was gray. A faded sticker on one of the windows said:
Go Gästrikland!

They walked in. The smell of smoke hit Mahmud in the face like an uppercut. Low radio music. First, he didn’t see the girls. It was like they were a part of the furnishings. Gray, beige, brown. Boxes of food, pizza cartons, Coke bottles on the kitchen counter. They were sitting at the doll-sized table. Dark brown hair. Chopstick skinny. One was very pale. Thin lips. Sorrowful eyes. The other: rosier cheeks, but even darker eyes. In front of them on the table: packs of counterfeit Marlboros. The feeling: grody. Dejan said something in Russian or a similar language. The girls seemed disinterested. Didn’t even look up.

Dejan explained in his crap Swedish: “This, Natascha and Juliana. Maybe not juiciest meat we got, but okay.” He grinned. “Here, we got real tasty ones. Promise.”

Mahmud didn’t know what to say.

“Now you know who they are. That’s enough,” Dejan said.

They stepped out. Dejan brought him to seven more campers. Two whores in each. The same bored attitude. The same smoke-saturated rooms. The same empty stares.

On the way back to the car, Mahmud asked, “So, what do you want me to do?”

Dejan stopped. Threw his arms open.

“This our stockpile, yes? You keep track a little of stockpile. Make
sure nothing get lost, transport sometime. If client here—not allowed to hurt stockpile. Days, only. When you not do your other business.”

Mahmud got it: they saw him as some kind of fucking poon-nanny. Man, if his dad found out.

That night, he took care of his usual business. Slung more than sixty grams to a contact who represented an Iraqi family that owned restaurants.

Jamila called around ten o’clock. Wanted help installing a new DVD player. Shit, she was living it up on the bills he slipped her when his business boomed. Just these past few weeks, she’d bought a Gucci bag with a bamboo handle for eight thousand, high-heeled shoes for three G’s, and a silver necklace with fat letters on it:
Dior
. Crazy, but Mahmud couldn’t help but love the glitter in her eyes when she came home with the stuff. He was gonna keep outfitting her and his little sis. The real deal.

He fiddled with the DVD player. Was planning on hitting the town later. Had arranged to meet up with Robert. Piranhasize Stockholm. Maybe that Gabrielle chick would be out tonight. If not, he was gonna find someone else.

Jamila told him about the latest Louis Vuitton bag, the latest Britney gossip, and her plans for the future: start her own tanning salon. Mahmud thought, Don’t let the Yugos fuck it up for her. She told him about nasty texts she’d gotten from her ex.

“He doesn’t dare do shit,” Mahmud said. “That loser.”

Jamila sighed. “I don’t know, Mahmud. He’s crazy. And that Niklas guy moved away, too. He was so sweet.”

“Yeah, he was tight. Where’d he move?”

“Not far.” He’d given her the address.

“Okay, he like you, or what? You know what Dad would say about him.”

“He doesn’t feel like that kind of guy. I think he just wants to help me. Honestly, you know?”

“Maybe.”

Mahmud had a thought. Niklas seemed like a good Sven. What’s more: like a real commando, special-ops style. Maybe he should get to know him better. And another thing: the soldier guy could keep an eye on Jamila now and then.

Jamila dug the idea. And she was the one who usually screamed and sulked as soon as Dad said she needed to be controlled more. Mahmud grinned at her. “Come on, sis, you’re a little sweet for that Sven. Admit it.”

They decided to pay him a visit. Niklas didn’t live far away.

They rang the doorbell.

Niklas opened the door. In his face: both surprise and joy. He began to speak with Jamila in his half-assed Arabic. Mahmud eyed the guy properly for the first time. Dressed in a T-shirt with
DynCorp
written on it; it was tight over his pecs and biceps. The guy looked built. Not like Mahmud—built like a safe—but tougher, more sinewy, endurance muscles. He wondered what DynCorp was. The guy looked sweaty. Maybe he was working out at home. Mahmud tried to catch a glimpse of the apartment. Saw a computer, a bed, lots of paperwork, tools, junk. Saw something else too, on the table: a long, shiny knife. Shit, Niklas seemed a little psycho.

They left a short while later. It’d been nice, anyway. Jamila was glowing. Mahmud laughed again.

“Cut that out. You know what Dad would think.”

Jamila turned to him. Her eyes: serious.

“Don’t talk about what Abu would say to me. If he even knew a tenth of all you do, he’d die.”

Mahmud stopped. “What’re you talking about?”