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

“What the hell are you playing at?” the police officer shouts.

But when they see what Petrovic is doing, they keep their distance.

“I’ve got such a fucking stomachache,” Petrovic whines pathetically. “I panicked. I had to.”

“You can’t just sit here and…”

“What a damn creep,” says the other.

“You’ll have to find a real toilet,” the first police officer says firmly.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” Petrovic moans, still not getting up.

“Did you hear what I said?” the first officer asks, in a considerably gruffer tone this time. “This is disorderly conduct. You could go to prison for this.”

It’s a threat the police are sure will work and, with a despairing sigh, more like a howl, Petrovic reluctantly stands up.

“There’s a toilet at the Statoil station,” the police officer’s colleague says nonchalantly, trying to be just helpful enough.

“Shit,” Petrovic whines. “How far’s that? I don’t know if I—”

“Get going!” the first officer says. “Right now. And make sure you stick to the damn speed limit, even if you do have a stomachache.”

Petrovic has no intention of tempting fate. He buttons his trousers as he moves around the car, and climbs in behind the wheel before the police officers have time to change their minds. He drives off. In the rearview mirror, he can see them standing there.

They’re probably finding the whole incident hilarious.

The minute they are out of sight, Petrovic puts his foot down again, back up to ninety miles an hour. His cell phone flashes in the seat next to him. A message from ZLATAN JR. One of his many names for Michel Maloof. Without lifting his foot from the accelerator, he grabs the phone from the seat to read the message.

5:13 a.m.

They’re approaching from the north.

The helicopter’s rotor blades cut a path through the calm air.

The rhythmic pounding of the engine shatters the silence.

Two hundred and fifty feet below them, the black water races past at sixty miles an hour, as do the huge, forest-covered islands where the occasional light reveals a cluster of houses or a farm. Tonight, the outlines of the islands look like ominous gray Rorschach inkblots.

Inside the helicopter, the four silent, black-clad men are strapped into their seats. Each of them is completely still, staring straight ahead, lost in himself and his thoughts.

Down on the ground, the lights of the cars and streetlamps glitter, illuminated facades and bulbs that have been burning all night in the low office buildings along the edge of the highway. But the four men don’t see any of that. Their eyes are fixed straight ahead.

The brightest light ahead of the helicopter’s curved windshield is shining up from the roof of the G4S cash depot in Västberga. It’s like a beacon lighting up the building, like a revelation.

From this point on in the robbers’ lives, there will always be a before and an after these few seconds, this morning of September 23.

Sami’s grip tightens around the machine gun in his lap.

Nordgren closes his eyes for a moment.

Maloof catches a flash of stars through a quick gap in the clouds.

That’s a good sign.

Kluger gets into position directly above the building. He allows the helicopter to sink slowly but deliberately through the air.

They land feather-light on the roof. Kluger turns to Maloof with a grin and then nods.

It’s almost a quarter past five in the morning; the journey took just as long as planned.

Everyone knows what he needs to do. Each has his own role.

They have to work quickly now.

Maloof is first out of the helicopter. Nordgren stays inside and begins to pass the equipment out to him.

Sami grabs the handle of the heavy sledgehammer and jumps out of the cabin. As he runs toward the glowing, pyramid-shaped skylight, Nordgren climbs out of the helicopter and helps Maloof unfasten the ladders from the helicopter’s landing skids. They work in time with the dull thudding of the rotor blades. And just as they finish and carry the ladders away, Kluger lifts off.

The white helicopter pulls up into the dark night sky. The wind from the rotor blades tears at the mailbags full of equipment still lying on the roof.

Sami has made it to the skylight.

He lowers the heavy end of the sledgehammer to the roof and gets a good grip on the wooden handle. Then he gets ready. Bends his knees; finds a low, stable position. He raises the sledgehammer and, in one fluid motion, swings it in an arc above his head. He can feel the weight of it in every inch of his body, can feel the power of the movement take over and help him follow through.

The hammer crashes down in the middle of one of the square, three-foot-wide windows. The vibration travels up the handle and into Sami’s hands. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

He stares at the glass.

There doesn’t seem to be a scratch on it.

5:14 a.m.

The night has been relatively uneventful so far. Kalle Dahlström, the duty officer on shift at the police force’s regional communication center, has barely had anything to do. Tonight’s night shift is his second of the week, the time sheet has him down for three in a row followed by one day off before he goes back to ordinary hours. The phones are quiet and his colleague Sofi Rosander is sleeping on the uncomfortable couch that some sadistic person brought in to stop the staff from taking naps. When she wakes up, it’ll be with a back that feels like it’s been welded straight.

Kalle is playing Tetris on his phone. He’s secretly proud of how good he is, but he won’t share his high score. Despite the hours, weeks and days he has spent with those blocks and squares, he’s still an amateur compared with the real pros.

When one of the phones suddenly starts to ring, Dahlström jumps. He answers by pressing a button in front of him. He doesn’t even need to look up from his smartphone.

It’s 5:14. The man on the other end of the line is a security guard, and he’s speaking in broken, almost incomprehensible Swedish.

Eventually, Dahlström manages to work out that he’s talking about a robbery on a cash service in Västberga.

“Secure transit robbery?” he replies; he isn’t surprised.

Secure transit vehicles were the new banks. Six out of every ten robberies these days had something to do with guards either carrying or transporting cash. All that surprises Dahlström is the time. Who could be out collecting money at this time of night?

“It’s the G4S cash depot,” the guard says down the line. “They came in a helicopter.”

Dahlström looks up from the blocks and squares. He stares blankly at his computer’s blue home screen as though it might give him the answers, and then he asks the guard to repeat what he just said.

“It’s a helicopter,” the guard insists.

“A helicopter?” says Dahlström.

“It’s taken off again. It’s hovering above now.”

Dahlström can’t believe what he’s hearing. A helicopter attacking a cash depot in Västberga? He knows the area, the Söderort district station is on Västberga Gårdsväg, less than a quarter of a mile from the secure transport company’s offices. He’s been to the station himself, as recently as a month ago.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

“Are you stupid?” the guard replies.

Sofi Rosander has woken up on the sofa. She’s heard the conversation, their phone calls play automatically over the loudspeaker.

“We need to call someone,” she whispers.

“Stay on the line,” Dahlström orders the guard, ending the call.