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

The investigations of the various crime scenes were taking place more or less simultaneously, which meant that on Thursday morning, neither the prosecution authority nor the National Criminal Police had a good overview of what was actually known or expected. Paradoxically, information was also leaking out of police headquarters like a surging spring river. The Swedish media seemed to be completely up to date with the investigation, and by afternoon, Hertz realized that it was quicker to read the online version of the evening papers than it was to wait for internal updates.

The content was identical.

On the morning of Friday, September 25, Detective Chief Inspector Caroline Thurn was called into a meeting at the prosecution authority on Fleminggatan. Since the walls of police headquarters seemed to have ears, they had given up holding meetings there.

Therese Olsson was already waiting when Thurn arrived, as were Berggren and a couple of other colleagues. There was a tangible sense of excitement in the room. Traces of blood had been found at G4S during the previous day. And not in just one place, but several, most clearly by the damaged door into the cash depot. As the computers in the basement raced to find a clear match in the extensive Swedish crime register, bets were currently being made.

Names from the investigation flew through the room.

“One hundred on Zoran Petrovic.”

“I’ll bet two hundred,” said Berggren.

“Three fifty on Michel Maloof,” said the youngster from the Suspect Profile Group.

Maloof was one of hundreds of names in Thurn and Berggren’s list of criminals who had been in contact with Petrovic during August.

Thurn didn’t take part in the betting. It wasn’t how she thought police work should be done.

They spent a few minutes discussing their surveillance options and how the day could best be spent, but everyone fell silent when the phone on Hertz’s desk started to ring. Breathlessly, they stared at the prosecutor as he listened tensely, noted something down and then nodded.

He hung up and said: “Sami Farhan?”

It was a question.

“Sami Farhan?” Caroline Thurn repeated, astonished. “That’s the middle brother.”

“You know who he is?” Hertz asked. He sounded surprised.

But Prosecutor Lars Hertz was the only person in the room with no idea who the Farhan brothers were.

“Farhan?” said Therese Olsson. “But… he doesn’t have anything to do with Zoran Petrovic, does he?”

“He’s not mentioned in the investigation reports or on the tapes,” Berggren confirmed. “He’s not on our lists.”

“Who is Farhan?” Hertz asked in frustration.

“Do you remember the robbery at the National Museum?” Berggren replied. “The art heist? Just before Christmas a few years ago?”

“That was Sami Farhan and his brothers. Among others,” said Thurn.

“But there’s no mention of him anywhere in our investigation,” said Hertz.

Berggren got up.

“OK,” he said. “Let’s go and pick up Farhan.”

“No,” said Hertz.

“No?”

“No.”

Berggren looked dismayed.

“I want to find the money first,” said Hertz.

The room was silent.

“I want to find the money, then we can haul them all in. Without the cash, the media will lynch us.”

“It’s too late,” said Berggren.

“I’m afraid you’ll never find the money, Lars.” Thurn backed up her colleague. “I agree with Mats that it’s better to drop that thought.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Hertz insisted. “Let’s give ourselves twenty-four hours. If we haven’t gotten anywhere by tomorrow morning, we’ll go and pick up Farhan and Petrovic and his entire damn address book. OK?”

“Is that a promise?” asked Berggren.

“That’s a promise,” Hertz replied.

“I’d like to bring in Petrovic personally,” said Caroline.

Thurn’s colleagues turned to look at her, but no one asked why. They all knew the answer would be polite but insignificant.

Michel Maloof had spent Wednesday with Zoran Petrovic, trying to find out exactly what had happened. True to character, he had brushed his anger, disappointment and surprise to one side, and he worked methodically. Who had sent the text message to Petrovic’s phone during the early hours of the morning? How could Maloof’s number have been used without his knowledge? Who was behind the wheel of the boat, and where had it gone? Where was the leak, who had tricked them?

But when evening came around and he was still none the wiser—other than finding out that if someone knew his phone number, it was fairly easy to use the cellular network to make it appear on Petrovic’s display—Maloof was overwhelmed by a weariness that caused him to sleep through the night and well into Thursday.

When he woke, it was late afternoon, and he felt completely crushed.

They had done it, that was sure.

But the money was gone.

Sami and Nordgren still didn’t have a clue. In their respective worlds, everything was as it should be, and Västberga was still the perfect job. The thought of telling them made Maloof feel even more desperate. He knew what Sami would say; he would point to Petrovic and blame him. It was the simplest explanation, but only if you hadn’t seen the surprise in the Yugoslavian’s eyes when he realized what had happened that morning.

Whoever had screwed them over had also screwed over Petrovic.

At eight that evening, Maloof called Alexandra Svensson. He couldn’t bear being alone any longer. He needed the full attention of a sympathetic woman, warm skin for the night ahead.

But Alexandra didn’t answer. Her phone rang, but there was no answering machine linked to the number, there never had been. He tried several times that evening, all without success. Something might have happened to her, but he didn’t have the energy to worry about it. Thoughts of the money, the boat and the phones were still spinning through his mind, and he didn’t have room for anything else. He fell asleep just after midnight, and dreamed he was flying low through the air.

On Friday, the first thing Maloof did was to call Alexandra Svensson, before he had even climbed out of bed. By eight o’clock, when she still hadn’t answered, he was starting to get seriously worried. He decided to find out what had happened. He knew she lived in Hammarby Sjöstad, but he couldn’t remember the exact address. Maloof had never been to her sublet sublet, but she had told him where it was.

Or had she? He usually remembered addresses.

After a cup of black coffee, he called G4S and asked the switchboard if he could speak with the head of HR. He was told that Ingela Planström wouldn’t be in before nine, and so at nine on the dot he called back.

“Planström,” she answered.

“I’m calling about Alexandra Svensson’s father,” Maloof said. “It’s of the utmost importance that we get hold of Alexandra as soon as possible, but she isn’t answering her phone. Do you have an address where we can reach her?”

“Her father?” said the head of HR, sounding nervous. “Is he ill? Just a moment… Here. Sickla Kanalgata Six.”

“Thanks so much,” said Maloof, hanging up.

Just over twenty minutes later, he climbed out of his Seat in Hammarby Sjöstad. There was an intercom in the doorway to Sickla Kanalgata 6, and he pressed the buzzer. He heard a rustling over the speaker, but before he had time to say anything, the door buzzed open, and Maloof stepped inside. There was a list of residents in the entrance hall, and Alexandra’s apartment was on the second floor. He ran up the stairs and knocked.

A young woman Maloof had never seen before opened the door, a slim blond in jeans and a T-shirt.