The Father: Made in Sweden Part I (7 page)

Lindén was slumped down in the driver’s seat, blood running down his neck.

The hand, the hand that belonged to that self-controlled face, searched through the pockets of Samuelson’s trousers, jacket and shirt, searching for and then finding his keys.

And the desperate one screamed and shoved the gun against his chest.

‘
Start engine!
’

The muzzle of the gun moved from his forehead to his mouth. Into it.

‘
You start! Or I shoot!
’

The gun was between his lips and against his tongue, as he leaned against the keypad, four digits, needed to start the engine.

‘
I kill I kill I kill!
’

Samuelson’s hand had lost all feeling, his fingers hard to manoeuvre as he punched in the code, turned the key, and started the truck again.

Jasper drove slowly up the steep loading ramp and across the pavement towards the turning area and the car park exit. No one had noticed five
shots muffled by the walls surrounding the loading bay and then disintegrating into the soundscape of the city.

A few metres up from the loading ramp, life went on as if nothing had happened.

If they continued to drive at normal speed. If they didn’t call attention to themselves, they’d have plenty of time to empty the safe and disappear.

‘Open inner door,’ said Leo, holding up a key chain and handing it to one of the guards. Somewhere on the chain was the key to the security cabinet that hid seven other keys to seven boxes holding seven cash collections, with more than a million in each one.

‘Please, the door is locked. With code. Special code! Can only be opened from headquarter … please please …’

‘
You open. Or I shoot
.’

He glanced quickly through the window. Outside, a Stockholm suburb in motion. In here, one guard lying down, retreating into a world of his own, and another guard with blood on his chin and neck still talking.

‘Understand? Please! Only … only open at headquarter.’

A few minutes left, no more.

Nynäs Road, Örby Highway, Sköndal Road. More blocks of flats, a football pitch, a school. And the crest of a steep hill – if someone were following them, they’d make it there, but no further.

Felix was breathing slowly.

In. Out.

For the last twenty-four minutes he’d been lying in long, wet grass on the top of a hill they used to run up and roll down as children, right above the outskirts of Sköndal, not far from where their grandparents had once owned a small, white house.

The gun shook,
in, out
, with every breath he lost his rhythm and had to start again,
in, out
, one hand around the grip with his index finger on the trigger, the other in the middle of the barrel, and one eye staring into the gun’s sight.

Nynäs Road lay down below. He almost felt like he could touch it, though it was far away, a blurry streak of headlights melted together, cars on their way home on one of Stockholm’s most congested motorways. And beyond
that stood Farsta, buildings shining in neon light; it was in that direction that he anxiously aimed his gun, that was where Leo would come from.

There. The white van.

No.

That wasn’t it. It was white, and large, but not a security van.

18.06. Two minutes late. Two and a half.

The gun slid, vibrated.

Three minutes. Three and a half.

There. There!

He glimpsed the roof of a white van, over the bridge and past the sharp left turn, searched through the telescopic sight and saw in the driver’s seat a face covered with a black polo neck just like his, then the space behind the car’s two seats, Leo squatting in front of two people lying on the floor, one with his hands over his head.

And then he saw it. Behind the security van. A passenger car, two people in the front seat.

They’ll either be following us in a painted cop car or in a civilian car. Always black, always a Saab 9-5 or a Volvo V70
. This one was black. He saw that when he moved the barrel of the gun. But he couldn’t see the make.
Look at the right side, there should be an extra side mirror, that’s how you know if they’re plainclothes cops. And don’t press too hard, just squeeze the trigger
.

He looked through the sight.

Felix, listen to me. I set up this weapon myself and you can’t miss, and no one will be, or should be, hurt. You put a bullet in their engine and stop their car.

He wasn’t sure, an extra side mirror, he just couldn’t be sure it was there.

And he squeezed just a bit more, while the muzzle pointed at the bonnet of the black car.

Leo looked at the guards, at Jasper driving, and out of the window as they passed the hill. There was a clear shot from up there all the way down to the bridge. Especially with an AK4 with a telescopic sight he’d ordered specially because anyone could hit anything at three hundred metres using it.

If someone was following them, one shot should be enough.

Felix was shaking. The black car was still close. Too close.

Then you wait. Don’t leave or let go of your gun until we’ve gone past and you’re sure no one is following us.

The white security van turned left after the flyover at the intersection. Thirty metres behind, the same car was following them.

In, out.

He let the sight rest towards the front, on his knuckles, and squeezed the trigger. Squeezed.

The black car suddenly veered to the right, heading in the opposite direction. Increased its speed and disappeared.

Felix wasn’t trembling any more, he was shivering, breathing rapidly.

Two people had been sitting in the front seat, on their way home, a single finger tap away from death because they’d been driving on the wrong road at the wrong time.

He got up from the wet grass, put the gun in his bag, and rolled the fabric covering his face into a collar again. And ran. Down the hill, through the woods and the community garden. It was dark and he fell over a low, pointed fence, dropped the bag and stood up, ran until he reached the car parked at the bottom of the hill.

They’d passed the hill. Felix hadn’t fired.

They weren’t being followed.

Leo looked at the locked door. Inside were seven more batches of collected cash – eight, nine, maybe ten million kronor.

They’d had a few seconds to react. They’d needed one more.

The security guard had managed to enter the code, and the steel wall had slid down to protect the safe. They were supposed to open and empty all the compartments before they got to the rendezvous. That was no longer possible. But they still had time to deviate from the plan.

‘Where … please, please … do you take us?’

They could shoot open the door at the rendezvous – but that was too noisy.

‘What … please, I beg you, please … will you do with us?’

They might be able to force someone at headquarters to open it from a distance – but that would take too long.

‘I have … please please please please … I have children!’

The security guard lying on the floor, bleeding a little, put one hand inside his uniform, and Leo struck his shoulder hard with a gun.

‘
You stay put!
’

The movement was interrupted, but the guard continued, put his hand back inside his jacket, held something up.

‘My children! Look! Pictures. Please. Please!’

Two photographs came out of his wallet.

‘My oldest. He is eleven. Look!’

A boy on a gravel football pitch. Thin, pale. A ball under his arm. His hair sweaty, he smiled shyly, his blue and white football socks rolled down.

‘And this … please please look … this is … he is seven. Seven!’

A table in a dining room or living room and what looked like a birthday party; a crowd, every seat taken, everyone dressed up, sitting around a white tablecloth and a big cake. The boy leaning over, about to blow out half the candles, missing two front teeth.

‘My boys, please, two sons, look, look, brothers …’

‘
Turn around
.’

He snatched the two faded photographs and dropped them on the floor.

‘Two boys, my boys … please!’