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

The two police officers in front of him seemed difficult to place in a particular category. They seemed to be opposites; the tall woman, who was more beautiful than she pretended to be, was still smiling encouragingly. He had never come across such charming condescension before. And by her side, the fat, sweaty man no one would ever call beautiful, jotting down every word and seeming so at ease in his subordinate role.

“The information came from the Serbian police,” Hertz began. “We don’t have the name of their source, but it’s someone who has sought and been granted witness protection in Serbia.”

Hertz pushed his fringe, a serious tangle of hair, to one side.

“Witness protection?” Thurn repeated. “In Serbia? That’s a bit like hiding behind a lamppost.”

“No, it’s not,” Hertz objected, wounded on behalf of the law-abiding European state. “We’re talking about our colleagues here, correct, Detective Chief Inspector. Besides, it’s in Europe’s interests that our witness protection systems really do work.”

“You said the original source was granted witness protection,” Berggren interjected. “Does that mean there are others?”

The prosecutor nodded. “After the original tip, the Serbs tapped several phones. One of them, the most active, has been in regular contact with an individual in Sweden.”

“Who? Do we have a name?” asked Berggren. “You need to tell us what we know.”

“We know that they are planning a robbery on a cash depot in Stockholm,” said Hertz. “Not a secure transport vehicle, not a courier, the depot itself. The original source was one of the people who would be carrying out the robbery. He’s considered entirely trustworthy, an experienced helicopter pilot from the civil war down there.”

“A helicopter pilot?” Berggren repeated, looking up from his notebook. “The robbers are going to fly helicopters?”

Berggren laughed as though he had told a joke, but he fell silent when he saw the prosecutor’s face.

“Yes,” Hertz said. “According to the information we have, the robbers are planning to fly a helicopter to a cash depot in the Stockholm area. The depot is apparently in a four-story building. They’re going to blow a hole in the roof. They’re also planning to sabotage and neutralize the police helicopter so that they can make their getaway undisturbed.”

The room was silent. Not even Caroline Thurn knew what to say. This kind of detailed information from a reliable source wasn’t something they often had access to.

Hertz smiled. He knew he had won a partial victory. He pushed his fringe to one side again.

“Which cash depots in Stockholm—” Berggren began, but he didn’t have time to finish his sentence before Hertz started speaking again.

The prosecutor knew how to ration information. He had more to reveal.

“Through our unique channels,” he continued, sounding more like he was talking to a large audience than two police officers, “we have also been able to confirm the informant’s information. As a result, we know that the robbery will take place on the fifteenth of September.”

“That’s just over three weeks away!” Berggren panted.

“Yes, correct. Slightly over three weeks. This information is fresh, but it also leaves us with time to prepare.”

“Incredible,” said Thurn.

She was willing to admit that this tip really could be described as sensational. But Hertz wasn’t done yet. He continued, amazing the officers further:

“We know that the helicopter the robbers will use to get to and from the cash depot is likely to be a Bell 206 JetRanger—”

“Surely it can’t be that hard to find one of those?” Thurn interrupted. “What do you think, Mats? There must be some kind of register of helicopters in Sweden?”

But before Berggren had time to reply, Hertz raised his voice a few notches to answer the question and finish off his monologue:

“The register won’t help. That type of helicopter is very common, and buying a helicopter for private use has never required any particular license. Plus, the helicopter they’re planning to use could just as easily have been brought over from one of our neighboring countries, or flown in from Germany. Because this robbery is big. We believe that there are already around twenty people involved in the preparations, and the haul is estimated to be at least ten million euros.”

Thurn and Berggren stared at the prosecutor.

“OK, that’s all.” Hertz nodded.

A new silence descended over the anonymous office of prosecutor Lars Hertz. Mats Berggren’s mouth was open. Thurn was grinning.

“You’re in luck, Lars,” she said.

“Yes. Or rather, what do you mean?”

“The chances of you succeeding in your first criminal case seem pretty good.”

She got up, and Berggren followed her lead.

“We know what the robbers are going to do,” she summed up. “We know when they’re going to do it. So all that’s left is to find out where they’re going to do it. There aren’t all that many options. How long have you been sitting on this information?”

“Since the evening before last,” Hertz replied. “The Serbian police approached us in Belgrade, but there was some delay after the ministers’ meeting.”

“We’ve lost several days?” asked Thurn.

“The Serbian police have been keeping the pressure on,” Hertz reassured her.

“And our Swedish suspect?” said Berggren. “You said the Serbs had been listening to a Swede?”

“Correct,” Hertz confirmed.

“Do we have a name?” asked Thurn.

“Zoran Petrovic. He’s the one who will carry out the robbery,” Prosecutor Lars Hertz replied.

“We’ll have eyes on Petrovic within the hour,” Thurn said, speaking clearly as she stood in front of the prosecutor’s huge desk. “Twenty-four seven. I’d like to bug him too. I want to be able to hear everything he says. I want microphones in his car, wherever he works, in his bedroom. Do you understand, Lars? I want to know who he’s calling, where his mother is from, who he went to school with. Everything. OK, Lars?”

Lars Hertz nodded. He understood. What he didn’t mention was that he had already requested the relevant background information, but that Zoran Petrovic wasn’t in the police crime database, or in any other register. He didn’t say that. He was keen for their first meeting to end on a positive note.

“I’ll sort it out,” he said. “You can have everything I’ve got.”

Michel Maloof pulled over to the side of the road and, from his seat behind the wheel, watched the disturbance unfolding on the southern edge of Kungsträdgården.

Sami ran straight across the road. Cars slammed on their brakes, sounded their horns, people raised their fists. But the boxer saw none of this, he was running as though his life were at stake.

Sitting at a table outside one of the park’s busy cafés was Hassan Kaya, the Turk who had conned Sami out of his money in the shellfish business. The man who had gone underground without a trace. He was here. In the flesh.

Sami wasn’t thinking, couldn’t think; how many nights had he dreamed about finding Hassan Kaya? And finally, here he was.

“YOU BASTARD!” he shouted, running straight toward him with his fists clenched and his eyes black with hate.

As he reached the line of tables closest to the road, Kaya finally realized what was happening. He stared in terror at the furious, sprinting Sami Farhan, and got to his feet with a start. The table he had been sitting at tipped and fell, his plate of food shattering on the gravel, and then Kaya fled, as fast as he could, knocking over several other tables on the way. He ran toward Hamngatan, away from the danger.