Jonas Bonnier - The Helicopter Heist - A Novel Based on True Events

Two hundred feet of chain would cost money.

Exactly where they would be able to fix the chains on either side of the road would be down to the creativity of the person setting them out. Doing any kind of reconnaissance in advance was far too risky.

It was three o’clock when Sami finally felt happy with his afternoon’s work. He pushed the phone book back onto the shelf, confident that no one would see the pencil lines that, just to be on the safe side, he had rubbed out. He returned to the kitchen and was met by fantastic aromas and chaotic mess.

He took a deep breath and turned on the radio on the windowsill. It was playing nonstop music he didn’t recognize, and he started cleaning. He had just managed to wipe the table and most of the counter when the local news came on. It made him stop in his tracks.

“Just before midnight yesterday, thieves struck Täby Racecourse in a robbery linked to the Diana Race…” said the news reporter.

Sami’s jaw dropped.

That madman. He had done it.

“…but after a failed escape attempt on horseback, the thieves were apprehended before they reached the gates. We head now to our reporter at the scene…”

And failed.

Zoran Petrovic was early.

He moved on foot through the streets of Podgorica as dusk fell over the valley and the lights of the city replaced the overcast day with a warm, yellow glow in the sky. Petrovic was heading west. He turned right onto the wide Svetog Petra Cetinjskog Boulevard, which skirted the edge of Kraljev Park. The trees were in full bloom, as though they didn’t dare believe in a long summer and thought it would be best to give everything they had before June was out. Spring and early summer had been unusually cold in Montenegro, and the short, thin navy coat Petrovic had had tailor-made at Götrich in Stockholm wasn’t enough to keep out the chill. As a result, his long stride was even longer than usual.

Podgorica was a city that had been given many names over the years. It was somewhere that had always attracted settlers, the point at which two great rivers met on their way through Europe toward the Mediterranean.

Petrovic walked over the ugly new highway bridge spanning the Moraça River. From there, he could see the remains of the old stone bridge over the Ribnica, one of the few historic structures that had survived the bombs of the Second World War. The Hotel Podgorica, where he was now heading, was on the other side. In the bar, just beyond the front desk, one of the capital’s best bartenders was hard at work.

Petrovic took a table by a window that looked out onto the lush riverbed, and he ordered olives and glass of lukewarm water.

It was only a quarter to eight, and he was fifteen minutes early. He took out the phone he used whenever he was in Montenegro. It was two weeks since he had last been there, and he had forty-three new messages. He scrolled through all of them before going back to the top of the list to reply to those worth replying to. His more important business contacts would use his Swedish number if they needed to get ahold of him, so these were really the dregs of his acquaintances.

Though he came down to Montenegro no more than once or twice a month, he felt as comfortable there as he did in Sweden. Generations of Petrovics had left their mark in Podgorica, making him part of their shared history. Those relatives who had survived centuries of war and ruin had done so thanks to their deep roots. You could always find a family connection if you looked far enough back in time.

He had created his own universe in Stockholm. Everyone seemed to be a new arrival there, whether from the north of Sweden, Finland or Istanbul. The suburbs buzzed with energy, a suspicious nervousness that stemmed from efforts to fit in or stay on the outside.

He didn’t want to live without either of his two cities.

The bar and restaurant slowly started to fill with guests. Compared with Stockholm, things were done late in Podgorica; the rhythm of daily life in the countries around the Mediterranean was suited to a different climate. Through the huge windows out onto the river, he watched as the deep gray sky turned dark above the line of mountains. He usually waited like this only for beautiful women or rich men.

Filip Zivic belonged to neither category.

This was all for Michel Maloof’s sake.

Petrovic felt like he was both Maloof’s protector and admirer. It had been an oddly mixed feeling to see little Michel grow up and take the blows that had made him into the man he was. Petrovic no longer had any reason to take such a protective attitude, but after so many years it was hard not to.

In this particular case, there were two reasons he thought it was especially important to help out his younger friend. Partly because he knew how long Maloof had been eyeing the cash depot in Västberga. This was a chance for him to realize a lifelong dream. And also because Petrovic felt guilty for having wasted Maloof’s time on the blue security bags.

It had taken him a while to find Manne Lagerström, but that there would be helicopter pilots in Montenegro had seemed obvious from the outset.

The ugly civil war in the Balkans had raged for the whole of the nineties. Historical injustices had been atoned for or deepened, and the wider world had been taken by surprise by the hate that these former neighbors held for one another. Early on, one of Zoran Petrovic’s uncles had advised him to “ignore the politics as long as you live,” and that was precisely how Petrovic had handled the war. For as long as possible, he had tried to avoid taking any side in questions that had no answers. He continued to refer to himself as “Yugoslavian” and with time became a skilled diplomat in a conflict that demanded that everyone pick a side.

It was during the war in the nineties that he had come into contact with those people who now held high office in both Serbia and Montenegro. People who, back then, had run wild in Bosnian forests were now in charge of infrastructure spending, approving construction permits and dealing out taxes. Back then, dressed in ragged uniforms, they had mined bridge abutments against the enemy. Today, they wore suits and ties, surrounded themselves with lawyers and economists, and set political traps for their opponents.

Zoran Petrovic had called several of these people to ask for help, which was how he had come to hear about Filip Zivic—a man who, at that moment, at the very stroke of eight, had just entered the room.

Petrovic immediately knew it was him.

Zivic was a short man with thick hair and a dense, dark beard. He was wearing a well-made suit, and nothing about him screamed pilot or former soldier. Petrovic’s uncle had known Zivic’s father, and Petrovic thought that he had a childhood friend who had married one of Zivic’s sisters.

There was a calm presence to the man as he took a few steps toward the bar and glanced around. Petrovic raised a hand, Zivic nodded, came over to the table and sat down. He looked at Petrovic’s glass.

“Water or vodka?” he asked.

“Water,” Petrovic replied. “Lukewarm.”

Zivic laughed. “Your trademark, so I hear.”

“You’ve been checking me out?” Petrovic asked.

“Of course.” Zivic nodded with a smile. “And I’m assuming you’ve done the same for me.”

Petrovic nodded.

“I got the brief,” Zivic continued, “and I think it sounds exciting. You can count on me.”

Petrovic felt an immediate trust for the helicopter pilot, who also ordered a glass of water, this time carbonated, with ice and lime.

“But I do have a couple of questions,” Zivic continued.

It ended up being a long night, and Zoran Petrovic reluctantly said more than he had been planning to. Filip Zivic had survived the Balkan wars by not leaving anything to chance. He asked questions and then follow-up questions—both expected and unexpected. Petrovic answered as best he could.