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

“Turn on the lights!” he shouts.

Now that he has given the instructions three times, he feels satisfied. They’ve been waiting for his call, and he knows it went through. That’s enough.

Sami unbuckles his seat belt and turns around. Maloof is diagonally behind him. He nods, pulls his balaclava up over his nose, scratches his beard and grins.

Sami turns again and glances at Niklas Nordgren. His black balaclava doesn’t reveal any expression, but he nods too.

Sami turns back to face forward.

He can no longer hear the noise of the rotor blades.

They did it.

They did it.

Thoughts of how his brothers will react when he throws the bundles of cash at them fill his mind. Payback. He can already feel people’s eyes on him in town, everyone knowing that he has fulfilled his promises. He can just see them coming over to say hello without looking him in the eye as he’s eating a meal at some fancy restaurant. And Karin. She’s in front of him, with John clinging onto one leg and the baby on her hip at the other side. He won’t need to say a word. Their eyes will meet and she will know it’s all over. He’s the man who kept his word.

Jack Kluger is flying low, no more than 100 or 120 feet above the treetops. He assumes they have six or seven minutes of fuel left. As the forest comes to an end and the water begins, the blinking fuel light is replaced by a steady red glow. He flies straight above the treetops on the south side of Lake Alby and continues north, toward the glittering lights of the E4 road.

5:51 a.m.

Detective Chief Inspector Caroline Thurn drives out of the industrial area in Västberga, leaving the sea of blue flashing lights behind her. She isn’t responsible for the fact that Central Command seems to have directed all the patrol cars in the county to G4S. Thurn’s initial order not to shoot at the helicopter has now become the official line—meaning that the only thing the fifty or so frustrated and slightly bored officers at the scene have done is to stand and watch as the robbers lifted off and flew away.

Thurn is still experiencing an adrenaline rush when she reaches the entrance ramp to the highway. She brakes and hesitates. She still hasn’t heard from the riot squad and has to guess where the helicopter might be heading.

The question is whether she should go north or head south on the E20. There are plenty of exits and on-ramps around Västberga, so whatever she decides, she can quickly change her mind.

No Swedish police officers have experience chasing helicopters at night. But after all the years Caroline Thurn has spent hunting robbers, she has developed a keen sense of intuition. And the minute her hands grip the wheel as hard as she can, swinging up the on-ramp heading north, back into Stockholm, her intuition tells her that it’s too late. It’s just a vague feeling, she hasn’t even formulated the thought, but there’s no ignoring the emptiness burning in her stomach.

She hears a ringing sound in her ear, and accepts the call.

“Thurn?” It’s Berggren. “I have Olsson here. She wants to talk to you.”

Before she has time to protest, the national police commissioner’s voice comes on the line.

“Have we lost them, Caroline?”

At first, she doesn’t reply.

“We’ve got a riot squad chasing them,” she eventually says.

The line is silent.

“Is that a flying riot squad, Caroline?”

Thurn hates sarcasm. She passes the turnoff to Årsta and blindly continues along the Essingeleden. The helicopter full of robbers could just as easily be heading south, toward Södertälje.

“Caroline, I have Ekblad ringing me every third minute. The papers have already published pictures of the helicopter, and it’s not just our own damn broadcasters we’ve got camped out there in Västberga, we’ve got people from all over the world. Der Spiegel, the BBC. We’re not going to get away from this one, Caroline. It reeks of official statements and press conferences.”

Thurn dislikes press conferences even more than sarcasm. The traffic into Stockholm is still sparse, but in just a few hours’ time it’ll be at a standstill.

“Ekblad will explain that the police made a unique effort, as always,” Olsson continues, “which is something people should remember when we need increased funding for the police force in general and Stockholm in particular in the next budget. You know the script.”

Thurn isn’t listening. She isn’t stupid. She knows that Olsson is asking her to prepare for the inevitable questions. How much they knew in advance, why they didn’t manage to stop it.

“Caroline?”

Berggren is back on the line. Olsson falls silent. She can hear him too.

“I have the riot squad leader on the line. Want to take it?”

A second later, the call with Olsson has been ended and reality fills Caroline’s ears.

“Thurn here,” she says when she hears the static of the riot van’s communication equipment. “Give me an update.”

“We’ve lost it.”

The detective swings into the right lane and pulls in behind a slow truck with Estonian plates. She passes the exit for Gröndal.

“What happened?” she asks.

“We were following it toward Årsta,” the voice replies. “Then it turned across the park. We couldn’t follow, so we lost it.”

“Which direction did it turn?”

“South. Down toward Älvsjö.”

Thurn nods. She swings back into the left-hand lane and steps on the accelerator. It isn’t far to the next exit. But as she reaches ninety miles an hour and her knuckles turn white, she can’t fool herself any longer.

It’s over.

“Caroline? Are you still there?” Therese Olsson’s voice has reappeared in her ear. “What’s happening?”

5:51 a.m.

Kluger holds up a finger.

They are less than one minute away from the first meeting place, he signals. He has a GPS unit in his hand.

Sami brushes his fantasies to one side. He turns around. Nordgren and Maloof have already managed to tie the mailbags to the rope. There are five bags in total, but there’s no way of knowing how much money they grabbed. Didn’t they haul more than five bags out of Counting?

Sami doesn’t have time to think any further than that before the pilot slows down and allows the helicopter to move even closer to the ground. They are now flying lower than the treetops around them, across the north end of Lake Alby. Along Masmovägen, running parallel to the beach, there is a row of simple wooden cottages. Summer houses to some, something to be torn down to others.

Zoran Petrovic had docked the boat by the jetty, as agreed, a few days earlier.

It wasn’t a particularly spectacular vehicle. A typical metal archipelago motorboat with a cabin at the front, big enough to hide ten or so mailbags full of money. The two outboard motors at the stern would be able to keep anyone following them at a distance, if necessary. Going at a speed of ten knots, no more, you passed through two narrow straits, first beneath the Botkyrkaleden Bridge and then beneath the E20, and that would bring you out in the Vårbyfjärden Strait. From there, you could either choose to go northward, toward Stockholm, or turn south, toward Södertälje. It would all depend on the movements of the police.

Maloof opens the side door of the helicopter, and the cold wind forces its way into the cabin. The helicopter is hovering directly above the boat.

Together, Nordgren and Maloof lower the mailbags with the rope they just used on the roof in Västberga. Once they are sure that the first has landed in the middle of boat, they let go and allow the remainder of the money to fall from the heavens.