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

The Kaknäs tower flashed away in the distance.

A large boat covered in colorful lanterns was on its way through the channel between Lilla Värtan and Saltsjön.

But the fact they might run out of time wasn’t the thing worrying him most.

He went back to his desk and plugged in the soldering iron. The plan was to prepare four phone bombs. Two would be placed in the police helicopter on Värmdö and two would be kept as backups. The risk of the Stockholm police’s other helicopter turning up, the one currently on loan to Gothenburg, wasn’t particularly high, but neither was it impossible. Meaning they would also need to be able to place two phones in that one, if necessary.

But as Nordgren moved the tip of the iron to solder the casing together, he realized that it was this that was causing him to hesitate.

The idea of putting the phones in the police helicopter and then, while they were heading toward Västberga, blowing the thing to pieces by activating the charge.

Would there be a pilot behind the controls?

Would there be anyone else in the hangar?

Would this plan, meant to prevent anyone from following them, turn into a bloody massacre?

There was no way to ensure it didn’t happen.

Through the living room wall, he heard “The Time of My Life” from Dirty Dancing, probably being used as the soundtrack to Patrick Swayze’s life for the customary retrospective of his career.

Nordgren nodded to himself. In the documentary of his life, no one would be able to say that he had killed anyone. That line was as clear as it was unwavering. He was a criminal, he was a robber, but he wasn’t a killer.

He looked down at his explosive phones.

Hjorthagen sports complex was just behind the gas tanks in the neighborhood tucked away beyond Östermalm and Lidingö, built at one time to give guest laborers somewhere to live. It was thanks to soccer that Michel Maloof had first gone there, and he had realized just how perfect Hjorthagen was for meetings that needed to stay secret. Though the area had its own subway station, it was still one of the city’s most forgotten neighborhoods. A professional soccer team used the sports complex to train, but at one in the morning, it was guaranteed to be empty.

On his way to the meeting, Maloof had changed trains several times before he felt confident enough to sit down on the red line toward Ropsten.

Walking toward Hjorthagen from the station, he thought about how quickly the bright summer nights had turned into something more like autumn. Though the trees were still green and the lawns looked as though they thought it was midsummer, the darkness had returned at night. It wouldn’t be long before it was time to dig out the hats and gloves, he thought.

Or maybe six months in Thailand would be preferable to winter in Sweden.

If everything went according to plan, that wouldn’t be unthinkable, and he was sure Alexandra Svensson wouldn’t have anything against going with him.

Maloof crossed the parking lot and kept to the edge of the woods as he moved around the fence surrounding the soccer field. Someone had cut a hole near the very middle, and it had gone ten years without being fixed. He pushed the fence to one side, squatted down and sneaked in, then he hid in the shadow of the changing rooms, right next to the entrance.

Sami Farhan appeared on Artemisgatan five minutes later. Maloof saw him from a distance and shouted gently. Sami took the same route via the woods and the hole in the fence.

“Tell me everything’s sorted,” was the first thing he said.

Maloof recognized the tone of voice.

That aggressive and expectant tone.

“I don’t give a shit what this is all about,” Sami said. “Let’s go. I can’t wait any longer.”

“Wait till Nick gets here.”

Nordgren appeared from the long shadows of the trees. Maloof saw the movement before he saw the person, and he jumped.

“Sorry,” said Nordgren. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I got here a bit early. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t being followed.”

Maloof nodded. He liked Nordgren’s caution, he always had. Sami, on the other hand, was annoyed.

“What the hell is this?”

“Can’t be too careful,” said Nordgren.

They walked toward the northern end of the field, by Gasverksvägen. The trees were tight around them. All three men were wearing dark clothes and talking quietly. It would be impossible to see them unless you got very close.

“I don’t get why we always have to meet on soccer fields,” Sami muttered grumpily, gesturing to the eerie, empty field.

Maloof laughed. “Soccer’s… a team sport, Sami,” he said. “Maybe you could try it sometime.”

They stopped on the goal line. It was a cool, clear night, and Maloof knew that it was one he would remember.

It was time to make a decision.

“We’ve got a pilot,” he said.

The relief of the others was greater than their joy. Sami did a quick pirouette.

“Finally!” he shouted. “Let’s do this!”

Maloof told them what he knew about the American, what his qualifications and references were. He added, “But it was Zoran they were tailing, not me, and not by mistake. They’re on him twenty-four seven. They put microphones in his apartment, in the restaurants. And a couple in the car.”

His words dampened the mood.

“OK,” Sami eventually said. “So they suspect your friend? What’s that got to do with us? You know? Nothing.”

“Lay off,” Nordgren mumbled.

“I’m serious,” Sami continued. “It’s his business.”

“Right, right,” said Maloof. “Except… Zoran knows everything. Him and us… we’re doing this together.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sami said, unable to stand still any longer. “But he hasn’t been involved in any of the details. You know what I mean? He must have a tail for some other reason. We’ve been working round the clock for months. He’s… done a load of other stuff. You know? He’s got his business, we’ve got ours.”

“You think he’s said anything?” Nordgren asked. “That they’ve heard?”

It was the question they had to consider. The reason Petrovic was being watched and listened to so intently had to be because of something else, or had the police heard something about Västberga on one of their microphones over these past few weeks?

Maloof shook his head.

“Don’t worry. He’d never name names. Never say anything which…”

“So why’s he got a tail?” asked Nordgren. “That kind of surveillance. Sounds really fucking weird.”

Maloof shook his head again. He didn’t know.

“Can’t be a leak,” said Sami, “because no one knows. No one. It’s us four and only us.”

“The pilot knows now too,” said Maloof. “Zoran had to tell him. There’s no time left.”

“But when did that happen?” Sami asked. “Yesterday? A few days ago? It’s not him.”

Maloof shook his head. He didn’t know any more than that.

“So… what do we do?” he asked, his calm smile making his face impossible to read, like always.

No one replied. Nordgren’s cap was casting a dark shadow over his face. Sami was digging the toe of his shoe into the grass. His mind was on his brothers, his investors. But above all, he was thinking about Karin. And the boys. He wasn’t planning to let them grow up with a dad who was away every night, doing the occasional job and being sent away at regular intervals. A dad they would be embarrassed of, one they would never get to know. He needed this to work.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What do we do? We do it.”

His words were followed by a long silence.