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

“What a hero,” Ann-Marie mumbles.

A low giggle can be heard as Tavernier leaves the room.

He comes out into a corridor, the elevators and stairs to his right. He turns the other way, to the left, and passes a couple of locked doors that he opens with his key card. He’s heading for the break room, where there is a window out onto the atrium. His plan is to take a quick look at the lower floors, to see whether anyone down there has noticed the noise.

But as he steps into the break room, the first thing he sees is two black-clad men climbing down a ladder from the roof with bags on their backs.

It takes a few seconds for Tavernier to process what he is seeing.

He runs back to his department, but not so fast that he doesn’t have time to make sure that every door he opens is locked properly behind him.

His leadership qualities are about to be put to the test. It’s time for him to prove that he’s capable, that he’s strong.

When he reaches his department, everyone falls silent and turns toward him. The man that has just stepped through the door isn’t the same one who left a few minutes earlier. Tavernier’s pale face and wide eyes reveal that something serious has happened, he doesn’t need to ask for their attention. From Ann-Marie’s radio, a deep male voice is singing quietly.

“Secure the cash,” Claude Tavernier says.

No one protests or asks any questions, not even Ann-Marie. Time after time over the years, they’ve practiced this very drill. It’s a case of moving the bundles of notes to the lockable, bar-covered cages in the middle of the room as quickly as possible. There’s probably over 100 million kronor in Counting that morning. Most of it in 500-kroner notes, but also in lower denominations.

Tavernier makes a point of moving as slowly as he can. Adrenaline is pumping through his veins, and he would rather be running between stations, making sure that everyone is doing his or her job quickly and effectively. But he knows that if he shows any sign of panic, it will spread through the room like an echo.

He moves over to his desk and tries to find the number for Skövde. His instructions are crystal clear. There are procedures, a well-thought-out plan that he is expected to follow. Every fourth month, Palle Lindahl, the G4S security chief, stages a run-through with all the company’s middle managers.

The first thing to do in situations like this is to call the alarm center in Skövde.

But Skövde changed its number a few weeks earlier, and Tavernier can’t find the piece of paper with the new details. He knows it’s on his desk somewhere, and while his staff assiduously and silently continues to secure the money, Claude Tavernier feels the panic rising. He has only one job to do, one call to make, but he doesn’t seem to be able to manage even that.

He resists the urge to tear the drawers from his desk and throw them to the floor. Eventually, he is forced to accept that the number for Skövde isn’t where it’s meant to be. He picks up the phone and calls down to Valter, on the ground floor.

“Valter?” he says. “Claude up in Cash. There are people in the building.”

He doesn’t want to say too much, because all around him, the others have their ears pricked. He strains to speak without any hint of his French accent.

“Reported,” Valter replies. “I’ve already called Skövde.”

Tavernier nods. He breathes out. That’s better. Skövde has already been informed. No one can blame him for not having done it.

5:19 a.m.

It’s just turned twenty past five in the morning when County Police Commissioner Caisa Ekblad is woken by the angry sound of the phone. She is no stranger to being woken in the middle of the night, and when she picks up, her voice is clear and steady, as though she had been sitting by the phone waiting for the call. Only last spring, Caisa Ekblad was Dag Månsson’s colleague; he was one of the district chiefs behind her nomination.

“We’ve got an unusual alert,” Månsson says.

He’s panting into the phone. He is just leaving home, on the way down the stairs in his building.

“A possible robbery ongoing in Västberga. We’ve got reports of a helicopter landing on the G4S cash depot roof.”

“A helicopter?” Ekblad repeats.

“The building’s practically next door to the police station.”

Månsson has reached the garage, and he climbs into his car.

“The robbers arrived in a helicopter?” Ekblad repeats. She doesn’t want any misunderstandings.

“Apparently. This is no ordinary alarm.”

“I’ll call Olsson,” the county police commissioner says, instinctively sensing that robbers in helicopters aren’t something that should be handled by the local police force.

“Do it,” Månsson agrees.

“I’ll call you again as soon as I can,” Ekblad says.

“Same.”

Månsson ends the call as he pulls out onto the Essingeleden highway.

The relationship between the chief commissioner for Stockholm County and the national police commissioner operated as the circumstances demanded. They kept their distance from one another. Two female police officers in a male-dominated environment, two careerists surrounded by bureaucrats, two experienced officers now in primarily administrative roles, the women did actually have quite a lot to learn from one another. But Ekblad’s and Olsson’s fields of power weren’t compatible. It was more a case of personal chemistry than it was of women competing more with one another than with the men on the force.

“Shit,” is the national police commissioner’s first reaction.

The county commissioner notices the complete lack of surprise in Therese Olsson’s tone; she detects only anger.

“You knew about this?” she asks.

“This is ours, Caisa,” Olsson says, dodging the question. “We’ll take it from here. Ask your people to cut off the exits. Get a couple of patrol cars out there, with the lights on, and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Sorry, but I don’t know… This is happening now, and it’s happening practically on the doorstep of Söderort station. It’ll probably be quicker if we carry on than if you try to take over.”

“We’ve been working on this for a month, Caisa. It’s too big for you.”

“A month?” the county commissioner exclaims, sounding surprised. “Without informing me?”

Olsson is silent for a moment, and then she says: “It had nothing to do with you.”

Ekblad explodes. With suppressed rage, and with a level of clarity she would usually reserve for talking to a five-year-old, she explains that a robbery being planned in the Stockholm area is very much to do with the Stockholm County commissioner. If Olsson can’t understand that, then perhaps the Police Authority should be made aware at the next meeting that its commissioner is illiterate.

“Caisa, I—” Olsson begins.

But Ekblad ends the call without listening to Olsson’s excuses. She is still in bed, but she angrily tears back the covers and heads into the bathroom. That’s when she hears her cell phone ring, followed shortly afterward by the house phone. She doesn’t answer. By the time she makes a quick trip to the bathroom and heads down to the garage, the worst of her anger has abated.

She calls Månsson for an update from the car. He confirms what the guard reported; the robbers are still in the building. He has set up a liaison unit in a police van by the Statoil gas station opposite G4S.

“We’ve already got enough people here. Should we go in?” Månsson asks.

It’s a good question.

The display on her phone flashes, indicating an incoming call. Ekblad realizes she has to take it.