Never Fuck Up: A Novel (71 page)

“Tell Ratko, Bogdan, or whoever else you’ve got in there right now that I’m supposed to work tonight.”

A rustling sound in the microphone, then a different voice. “Hey there, Thomas. I didn’t know you were working. No one informed me.” It was Bogdan, a guy who usually helped out at the club.

The gates opened.

He drove through.

Outdoor lights were hidden in the bushes along the road and illuminated the snow on the branches of the trees. A hundred or so yards, maybe, then the forest opened up. An enormous three-story house, big windows, pillars by the entrance. Probably twenty cars parked outside. The limousine was turning around. A few of the rooms were lit up. He could hear faint sounds. Thomas parked next to a black Audi Q7. Walked up to the house. Thought, What is this insane thing I’ve gotten myself into?

He didn’t have time to ring the doorbell. The door slid open. A guy he recognized but didn’t know the name of opened it. Huge Yugo. Had
been down at the club with Ratko once or twice. Smiled. “Hey there, copper. I didn’t know you were working tonight. Ratko and Bogdan are around here somewhere. Do you need to talk to them?”

Thomas responded politely that he was there to work. He didn’t need to see Ratko or Bogdan. He knew the drill.

He walked in. A hallway. There was a real Persian carpet on the floor. Yards and yards of sconces, paintings, and tapestries along the walls. The room was bigger than the entire downstairs of his and Åsa’s house in Tallkrogen. At the other end of the entrance hall: a number of men—they must’ve come in limousines. They were all dressed in tuxes. Loud, hungry for a ho-down. In front of them—it looked like a cloakroom. Coats were hanging in rows. A girl was in the process of taking them. Thomas should’ve been able to guess what this would all be like, but he was still surprised. Mini-mini-miniskirt, the lower part of her ass cheeks visible. Thigh-high stockings that ended in an edge of lace a ways up on her leg, a provocative show of skin, taut corset, black high-heeled shoes. Her top didn’t look cheap, but it was low cut enough for her breasts to be a perfect target for the men’s eyes. Like the strippers at the club, but even more spruced up somehow.

He needed to act quickly. He picked up his cell phone, fired off a text to Hägerström:
Inside.
Then he looked around again. There were three doors in front of him. The men who’d checked their coats disappeared through one. Thomas heard noise coming from in there. Not the right choice for him. He turned back around to the guard. “Hey, actually, where did you say Ratko was?”

The beefcake laughed, nodded toward one of the doors. “Where he always is during these events, in the kitchen of course.” Thomas was a fucking genius. Process of elimination must be as old as the job these chicks were working. He walked over to the last door. Opened it. Didn’t worry about whether or not the beefy Yugo wondered what he was doing.

It was almost completely dark in there. A table: probably thirty feet long. Rococo chairs in pale wood, a crystal chandelier, candelabras on the table, parquet floor. A dining room. Two doors. Both were half open. From one, he saw lights and heard the sound of men talking. That must be the kitchen. He walked through the other door.

Another type of room. Sparsely furnished: a narrow sofa against one wall. On the walls: paintings, paintings, and more paintings. Spotlights placed everywhere, like little islands of light. He didn’t know
anything about art—what he saw looked mostly like pastel-colored lines on fuzzy backgrounds. On the other hand: difficult apparently equaled expensive.

He walked into the next room. The sound of music and laughter increased. If what he was looking for was in there or in the kitchen, he could forget about it. He looked around. The room was small. Again, paintings on the walls. Garish wallpaper. And one more thing: a railing wrapped in leather, a staircase. Leading down. It was too good to be true. Where do you store archive material? Not where you entertain. Not in your private quarters. In the basement. He hoped.

Walked down.

The staircase ended in a door. He tried the handle—locked. Bolinder wasn’t that stupid after all. But neither was Thomas Andrén. He fished out the electronic skeleton key. For a real cop like him, it was the most important tool, after his baton. He inserted it into the lock. Thought about the basement door at Gösta Ekman Road. How he’d found Rantzell in pieces. He was nearing the end of the story.

Down on the basement level: a spa section, a sauna, a swimming pool. A laundry room, a room filled with paintings that apparently weren’t suitable enough to hang on the walls upstairs, a smaller room with a stationary bike, a treadmill, and a weight machine. Narrow windows high up near the ceiling. Farthest in: the archive. Metal storage shelves. What looked like a hundred binders of material. Bingo.

He checked the time on his phone: eleven o’clock. He didn’t have any service down here. It was time to start searching.

Almost midnight: he hadn’t found jack shit. Still, he was familiar with the material. Recognized the company names, the names of the board members, the banks that provided accounts, the businesses. He only looked through the binders that had to do with Dolphin Leasing AB, Intelligal AB, and Roaming GI AB.

He couldn’t stay here forever. Sooner or later the guard or one of the others would wonder where he’d gone. If he was supposed to work tonight—then why wasn’t he working? He looked at his cell phone again. Three minutes to midnight. He had the feeling he was going to find something soon. He stopped briefly. Considered: Had he done the right thing? Ditched Åsa, gotten himself into this situation. He refused to think the thought: Maybe he wouldn’t come out of here alive tonight.

The sounds from upstairs seemed to be dying down.

And then: the explosions. The men cheered. Thomas climbed up on a stool and looked out through a small window. The sky was illuminated by the crackle of fireworks. The moon was like a pale disk beside the play of colors in the sky. It was beautiful.

The partygoers were making even more noise. Thomas didn’t see anyone outside. Maybe they’d walked outside but were standing somewhere where he couldn’t see them. Maybe they were still inside.

Then he heard another explosion. It was definitely closer. Harder. Sounded like something crashing. He was certain: that wasn’t the sound of fireworks.

It was the biggest bang Mahmud’d ever heard. Niklas’d pulled the ski mask down over his face—reminded Mahmud of the images of militiamen in his dad’s Iraqi newspapers. He’d moved forward crouching in the dark. Planted the grenade by the back door. Crawled back ten yards. It exploded. Incredible sound. The blast wave was like a kick to the chest. A screaming inside him. A beeping in his ears. Niklas hollered, “Game time!” The night was lit up by fireworks. Crackling sounds across the sky. It felt like a dream. Maybe it was just the effect of the roofies.

Niklas rushed forward. Like in slow motion.

Mahmud gasped for air. Ran after him, toward the house. The Glock in his right hand. Shit, it was cold. He could hardly feel his feet: cold, wet, stiff.

A hole gaped where the back door’d been. Gunpowder was splashed along the wall. Wood, bricks, plaster—in pieces. The light from the kitchen glowed out into the backyard. The night in color—painted green, red, and blue.

Niklas was approaching the hole. Then him. Last, Babak.

Agitated voices. Rapid gunfire in the background. It had to be Rob and Javier letting the Swedish Army’s AK4s loose on the house. Ha-ha-ha—the
blattes
were fighting back. Jorge the Latino’s plan was gonna kick some fat ass.

They stepped in through the hole.

The kitchen was gigantic. Felt old-fashioned. Fancy cabinets, marble countertops, clinker floor. Spotlights in the ceiling. Two sinks, two ovens, two tables, two microwaves. Two of fucking everything. Even two shocked-looking dudes. They rose. Tall. Broad. Steaming Yugos.

One of them was Ratko. Who’d humiliated Mahmud. What’s more: one of the guys Jorge’d talked about as being Radovan’s man. Who was part of the mission. Whom he needed to pop.

Mahmud stopped. Looked at Niklas. The soldier dude knew where he was going, was already about to disappear through a door. Yelled, in English, “Take that motherfucker out!”

Mahmud was tripped up by the English for a second. Double emotions: confused, at the same time, riled up. The dudes in front of him started screaming in Serbian. That’s when he reacted. He was holding the Glock out in front of him. Now he aimed it at Ratko. The Yugo was wearing jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Testosterone-squared jaw, his thin blond hair parted to the side, surprise in his eyes. Mahmud saw Wisam Jibril in front of him. Images in his head: how they’d picked up the Lebanese outside the grill joint in Tumba. How Stefanovic’d taken him to dinner at Gondolen and explained the situation: we snuff out anyone who messes with us. How Ratko’d laughed in his the face when he’d wanted to quit dealing. He felt the effects of the roofies pumping through his blood. The Yugos were gonna eat shit tonight.

Mahmud raised the gat toward Ratko’s head. Ratko stopped. Fell silent. Babak behind him. “Come on.” He didn’t see Niklas. The Yugo dude’s face: contorted. Panicked. Mortal terror.

Mahmud walked closer. Slowly squeezed the trigger with his finger. Ratko saw what was about to happen.

Images in his head. Like the din of the fireworks outside. In the forest clearing with Gürhan’s piece in his mouth. In the Bentley store with the scared sales kid before him. Finally: Beshar. Dad. His voice in serene Arabic: “Do you know what the prophet—peace be upon him—says about killing the innocent?”

The handle of the Glock felt sweaty. The white of the kitchen was hurting his eyes. Fucking pigs.

Ratko was not an innocent.

He fired.

Bam-bam-bam.

For Dad.

First POC—point of contact—with the enemy. They were inside the house. Niklas scanned the room: white, white, white. Two whore guards. Ordered Mahmud to SBF—support by fire. Pop that fucker. Woman user, abuser, enemy combatant.

Niklas felt at home with the situation at hand. The adrenaline was pumping like in the good old days. He took a deep breath in through the nose, breathed out through the mouth. He was mentally prepared. At war again. Not just man to man—but with soldiers, a battalion, a battle.

Continued through the door toward where the men must be. FEBA—forward edge of battle area. A dining room. Wrong. He walked up to another door. Opened, looked in. A hallway. Turned around. Saw Babak taping up the remaining guard in the kitchen. Nice. Ordered him and Mahmud to follow him.

Outside: Javier and Robert’d stopped shooting at the house. But everyone inside must’ve gotten the message: area controlled. If anyone were to walk outside the house, they’d have to start firing again like madmen. Pepper everything that moved.

Through the hall. The Beretta safe in his hand. A large man who seemed to understand that something was happening. Probably the guy who let people in the front door.

“What the fuck are you doing? Who are you?”

Niklas landed a bullet in the guy’s knee. He crumpled like a dead man but he howled like a wild dog.

Niklas gave Mahmud an order: “Put some tape on that asshole.”

They taped the bouncer’s wrists and mouth. Niklas kept advancing. Alone.

Got in touch with Robert over the radio. A few rapid comments: “We’ve neutralized three combatants in here, and that’s most of the ones we believe may be dangerous. But maintain eyes on the big room that I pointed out. I’m making contact now.”

A gigantic room. Red wallpaper. Crystal chandeliers and spotlights in
the ceiling. Large windows along one long end of the room. A fifteen-foot bar in the other end. Probably fifty people in there: half girls, half old guys. But they weren’t just any old guys. The ones Niklas’d spied on at the pizzeria’d been middle-class Svens, Eastern Bloc pimps, and dudes from the kind of countries where he’d been at war. These johns: thriving Swedish men in black tie. They were here to party and to get something more. Mahmud’d told him earlier what he’d been told by their employer: these weren’t your everyday horndogs—these were the leaders of the Swedish business world. Industry men, finance moguls, majority shareholders. Sweden’s head honchos. Here to taste fresh young pussy.