Never Fuck Up: A Novel (55 page)

Jorge kept talking. “You’re not a big talker, but I think you’re curious and want to meet up. Do you know who I am? Does Västberga Cold Storage facility ring any bells? Abdulkarim? Mrado Slovovic? Do you know who those guys were?”

Mahmud remembered. He knew. And he admitted to himself: he really wanted to meet this Latino.

Jorge suggested a place. A day. A time. They hung up.

After the call a thought in his mind, crystal clear: This might be an opening.

Niklas sat up within a microsecond. A crackling sound’d woken him. Was there someone in the room? He reached for the knife on the floor next to the bed. Listened again.

Silence.

Stillness.

Darkness.

He held the knife in front of him, combat grip. Crawled out of bed. Crouched. He could make out vague outlines in the room. There was some light coming from the kitchen. There were no shades in there.

The crackling again. No big movement in the room that he could see. He made his way along the length of one wall. Every muscle tense. Every step a practice in stealthfight.

The apartment only consisted of one room and a kitchen. So the room was a quick check. It appeared empty. Of people, at least. But there was always the risk that
they
’d gotten in. Like they always succeeded in doing, in the end.

He went into the kitchen. Significantly brighter in there. The light from the streetlamps farther down the street were shining in through the window. The kitchen wasn’t bigger than fifty square feet. He could see right away that there were no humans in there. But what about the others? He had to search more carefully: his empty cupboard, under the sink, the shelves where he kept granola and bread. Under the pizza cartons, the yogurt packages, the plastic bags. He didn’t find them. The apartment was secured.

It must’ve been his dream that woke him. It’d been stronger than before. First, the mosque over there. Glass shards from the windows and torn prayer mats. The typical Iraq smell from fermenting trash and sewers. Then: scene change. Back in Sweden, except twenty years ago. Claes shoving Mom into the wall. A painting came tumbling down. She fell. Headfirst. Remained. Niklas bent down, grabbed her
arm. Pulled, tugged. He screamed. Yelled. But not a single word came out.

Niklas dressed. He peeked through the blinds. The darkness outside was complete. It was seven-thirty in the morning. Today would be a hectic day.

He ate yogurt. Boiled two eggs. Four minutes, exactly. Soft-boiled, but not too soft-boiled.

He sat down in the room. Inspected the Beretta. Tonight he was going to use the silencer. Picked up the black metal cylinder that he’d also bought at the Black & White Inn. Screwed it on, screwed it off. Test-aimed at the window. Weighed the weapon in his hand. Put his jacket on. Slipped the gun into his inner pocket. Tore it out and went through a rapid reloading sequence. Repeated. Fast. Faster. Fastest. He would need to shoot at close range, using hollow-point ammunition, to counteract the limiting effect of the silencer.

He thought about Nina. There was something special between them, that much was obvious. She needed his help. She’d suddenly emerged while he’d been sitting outside her door. Completely alone. Niklas’s first thought’d been, Where is the child? He got out of the car. Looked at her. Fifty feet away. She didn’t seem to see him.

Nina: dressed in a white coat with a black belt. Collar popped like some badass agent. Tight blue pants and black leather boots with a low heel. On her head: a red knit hat that wasn’t pulled down properly. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. Whatever it was she radiated, it hit him like a sandstorm down there.

She walked toward him, but didn’t seem to recognize him. Then it struck him: she didn’t want anything to do with him. Of course. She knew that he’d seen through her. Looked into her sorrowful eyes and unveiled the truth of how she was feeling. How she was treated. Humiliated.

Niklas remained motionless. Nina’s gaze was fixed straight ahead. Purposeful steps. A faint smile on her lips.

Ten feet. Her purse swung in time with her steps.

Six feet. He remained motionless. His breath billowed out in small clouds.

Three feet. He had to say something, grab her. She passed him. A whiff of her perfume. They almost touched. Almost.

He called out, “Nina!” At the same time he thought, What am I going to say now?

Nina turned around. Three feet away. Surprised, quizzical. She clearly didn’t recognize him. But she still smiled sweetly.

“Don’t you recognize me? I’m the one who bought your Audi.”

Nina’s smile broadened. “Right, of course. And we saw each other at the gas station, too.” She glanced at his car. “You don’t have it anymore?”

Niklas didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to disappoint her.

“I do, but I have several cars.” He tried to laugh, but it felt like the chuckle got caught somewhere in his throat.

Nina didn’t seem to notice anything.

“Oh. Do you live in the area?”

Yet another question he couldn’t answer.

“No, I was just passing through.” What an answer. It sounded dumb as hell. “Passing through,” what did that even mean?

“Oh, okay. Well, nice to see you again. We seem to bump into each other now and then, so I bet we’ll be seeing each other again.” She turned to resume walking. But Niklas glimpsed it again. Her look. The sorrow that came over her. The feelings of powerlessness. Repression. Torturous humiliation. He had to help her. She was so beautiful.

“Nina, wait a minute.”

She turned around again. This time: her smile was more uncertain. “Yes?”

“Where are you going?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.”

“I’m going to the stables with a friend. You have to make the most of having a babysitter. But I have to hurry. She’s waiting for me.”

“Can’t we get together sometime? And talk through it all.”

Nina’s smile was even more uncertain. But her eyes: he saw that she was asking him for help. Wanted him close.

“What do you mean?”

“Talk about how you’re doing and stuff.”

“I don’t know what you mean. We don’t know each other that way, you just bought a car from me. That’s all. But it was nice bumping into you. See you.” Her steps were faster. Away from him.

Niklas remained standing, watching her. Her butt swayed rhythmically. And he’d seen it clearly when she said, “See you”—she wanted
to see him again. To tell him. Make him understand. She needed him. How could she know that he already understood, all too well.

The run felt extra good today. His thoughts were clear. Nina’s perfect face. Tonight’s mission was planned in such detail that even Collin would’ve been jealous. Ready for Operation Magnum’s second offensive. What bothered him: that Benjamin fucker. But Niklas knew what he would do about it.

After the push-ups and sit-ups, he did practice exercises with the knife. In order to relax, mostly. He needed peace of mind. He took a shower. Ate lunch. Went through the tapes from the surveillance cameras. He knew the routines of his targets better than they did.

At two o’clock, he made the call that he’d been planning to make for a few days now. To Mahmud, Jamila’s brother. He hoped it would lead to results.

Niklas went down to the car. Drove to Alby. Mahmud’d said he’d be home now.

Back home. An hour since his meeting with Mahmud. Niklas was pleased. The conversation’d gone well. Mahmud wasn’t a warrior of his caliber, but the Arab was okay. And the best part: he owed Niklas a favor. What Mahmud’d promised to do for him solved some of his problems. Sure, it stretched his finances even more, but that was inevitable. Too many risks hanging over you wouldn’t do.

He packed his bag with the usual stuff. The binoculars, concealable transmitters, tapes and memory cards for the surveillance cameras, the computer, the knife, the gloves. And: the Beretta and the silencer.

Took two tablets of Nitrazepam. Sat down on the couch. Turned the TV and DVD on. The taxi drivers talking over coffee at night. Travis was bare-chested. Tested his Magnum. Later: the child whore, Jodie Foster, met Travis.

Niklas remembered who he’d met a few days ago. He’d shadowed Roger Jonsson one night. Seen him drive to downtown Fruängen. Park the car outside the bus station. Niklas saw the guy walk past the subway station. He got out of the car, too. Remained sixty feet or so behind him. Roger: walked leaning forward as if he were constantly about to grab something.

Niklas’d weighed his options. It wasn’t time for the offensive yet, but if things got messy, he had no problem doing what was going to happen to Roger Jonsson anyway. It was late at night, hardly any people out except for a group of half-trashed teens who were hanging out inside the glass doors of the subway station. Probably trying to find warmth while they waited for something to happen.

Roger, that asshole, kept walking for a while. Went into Fruängen’s Pizzeria. Niklas stopped. Didn’t, under any circumstances, want to raise suspicion. Inside the pizzeria: dimly lit. Something was weird.

He got an idea. Ran back to the car. Rummaged through the bag. Got out the equipment. Ran back. Approached the pizzeria carefully. He snuck along one wall. When he was right outside the window of the place, he bent down. Pretended to tie his shoes. Actually, taped a bug outside the window, right at the edge of the concrete.

He didn’t know if it’d work. The bug he’d stuck there was meant to be used in the same room as the object under surveillance. The question was how much he would be able to hear now. But maybe, with luck.

Ten minutes later: two other men walked into the pizzeria. Niklas at a proper distance. Sitting on a bench. A bottle in hand. Pretended to be drinking.

The earpiece was in place. The rest of the equipment fit in his jacket pocket. It was cold out. He was already shivering.

So far, he hadn’t heard anything from inside the place, but now things started happening. First, two men who spoke some other language. Sounded like Serbian. Then they switched to Swedish. More men. A low crackle, almost like he was listening through a pillow. Some words were muffled, sometimes entire sentences. But he got the gist: they were waiting. Yearning. Lusting. Soon there’d be a display. Of women.

A few minutes passed. The conversation seemed to dry up. The men in the pizzeria sat in silence. Sometimes the Serbian-speaking dudes exchanged a few remarks.

For a short while, Niklas considered storming the place. Make it quick, put those assholes out of their misery. But alone against five men—could get difficult.

Yeah, not now.

Then he heard a gravelly new voice. First Serbian. Then Swedish with a heavy accent. He was able to pick out enough words to understand what was going on.

The gravelly voice said, “Six fine things. Very fine.”

“Is one styled the way I like it?”

“Absolutely. I always keep my word.”

Then a brief exchange followed that he couldn’t hear properly. But he picked up how it was concluded: “They are your very own white slaves.”

The man with the accented Swedish went on, “They’re back here. As usual. Gentlemen. Have your pick.”

The voices disappeared.

Niklas remained sitting for a few minutes. His mind was exploding with thoughts. Maybe the chance of slaughtering the pigs’d increased now that their attention was so obviously directed elsewhere. Maybe it’d be enough if he took down two or three of them and then split? But no, now wasn’t the time. He needed to plan.

They must’ve brought the women in through a back door or else they’d been there long before Roger arrived. He looked around. Deserted. The streetlights were illuminating small islands of asphalt. He walked up to the pizzeria again. It was empty in there. He peeled off the bug. Walked around the building. It was connected to the indoor mall. Seemed like there were offices on the second story. The street level contained restaurants, hair salons, a shoe shop, a bank. He walked in the other direction. The building ended after two hundred feet. In the back, he saw metal doors, loading docks, garage doors. Now he just had to figure out which door belonged to the pizzeria.

He waited. A man and a woman came out from the door Niklas’d been betting on. It wasn’t Roger. Darker appearance, maybe Indian or Pakistani. The man was dressed in a brown leather jacket and baggy jeans. Almost looked like a bum. Worn down, unkempt hair, stubble. The girl looked young. Much too thinly dressed, she hugged herself as soon as they stepped outside.

The man was holding an arm around her back. Niklas thought: As if they were a real couple. What a lie.

They walked toward some parked cars. Niklas made up his mind: it wasn’t worth waiting for Roger. He was going to find out more about this guy. Now.

He ran back to his car again. Panted so hard his lungs hurt. He
couldn’t lose them. His pants were tight over the knees, his shoes felt heavy compared with his running gear. He didn’t give a shit about anything. Increased his pace. Jumped into the Ford. Stepped on the gas, drove to where he’d seen them. He just had time to spot a yellow Volvo driving off. He glimpsed the john’s curly hair in the driver’s seat.