So, the unholy alliance of seventeen had money. Ideas were not as forthcoming. The head hoodlum was just as confounded as the Olofsson brothers. But then it occurred to thief number nine in the group that he had cleared out the electronics chain Teknikmagasinet’s central warehouse in Järfälla just a few nights ago, and for the second time. It had housed every sort of electronic equipment one could imagine, and all he’d had to do to kill the company’s alarm system was snip one yellow and one green wire in an electrical box. Was that the cobbler’s son going barefoot or what? There were at least five hundred surveillance cameras in the building, all neatly packaged in boxes on a pallet, just waiting to be rolled out to the thieves’ amply sized van without a single shot needing to be fired.
In addition, thief number nine had come into possession of more than two hundred sets of bathroom scales (a bit of a disappointment), a large number of cell phones (smash success!), various GPS units, forty pairs of binoculars, and approximately twice as many gumball machines, which in the dim light of the warehouse had looked like amplifiers.
“If anyone wants a gumball machine, just let me know.”
No one did. With that, number nine turned the conversation to the GPS units that had come in with everything else. “If I’ve understood correctly, we can attach something to the count and countess’s car, for example. Then you can watch where the car goes on your very own cell phone. I’m thinking it isn’t such a bad idea for the people who wish them harm to know where they are.”
“And who were you thinking would just crawl up and attach that ‘something’ to the count and countess’s car?” Olofsson wondered, immediately regretting his question.
“How about you or your brother?” said the head hoodlum. “Considering our agreement and all the money that you’ve only been allowed to look at so far.”
“We don’t even know what kind of car they drive around in,” his brother Olofsson attempted.
“A white Audi Q7,” said well-informed hoodlum number nine. “They park it outside their house at night. Right next to an identical car. They each have one. Doesn’t that make things nice and fair? Each of you can crawl up to one. Would you like the address? And another GPS to show you the way?”
Number nine might have been the star pupil, right up there with the head hoodlum. Olofsson and Olofsson could object no further. Which frightened them. Meeting the count and the countess in the manner they had just been tasked with might be the same as meeting their Maker. Or his opposite.
And yet: a million kronor was a million kronor.
CHAPTER 47
The count had an impressive arsenal of weapons. He never stole them himself, but he had bought one thing and another throughout the years. And he had spent quite a bit of time practicing out at the country home the countess had nagged her way to ten years previously. Target practice had been both fun and useful. You never knew when all-out war might break out in the world of car dealerships.
The most unusual item in the collection, in an ironic twist of fate, came from the gun safe of a legitimate count, who resided north of the capital. It was a so-called double rifle, of 9.3 x 62 caliber. And it had a telescopic sight. The weapon was most useful when one encountered an elephant, and that was a rare occurrence in the Stockholm area. And even if it did happen, the telescopic sight wouldn’t be much help unless the robbed count was almost blind, thought the fake count.
Be that as it may, the weapon was about to be put to use. A quick trip to the countryside and back to zero in on the target. The plan was to load one barrel with a half-jacketed bullet and the other with a full metal jacket in preparation for the critical moment. This would allow the option of two shots fired in a single second. The first between the eyes of Hitman Anders’s bodyguard. The half-jacket would take the whole skull with it.
And then a rapid shift in aim, just a fraction of an inch, before the second shot was fired to end up somewhere in the vicinity of Hitman Anders’s navel. The full metal jacket would go right through his body and out the other side, causing irreparable damage in between. The hitman, however, would not kick the bucket immediately: first, he would experience terrible pain plus a good dose of mortal fear. Then he would slowly fall unconscious, bleed out, and die. A bit too quickly, but as slowly as the circumstances would allow.
“If we can just find the perfect spot to shoot from, we can reload in peace and quiet and fire another round in case he lies there floundering a little too long.”
In all his masculinity, the count had previously happened to toss out a shooting distance of five hundred feet, but presently he admitted that it wouldn’t be a big deal if the firing spot were a bit closer.
A powerful weapon that could discharge two shots in one second, from two different barrels with two different targets. With a telescopic sight and everything. The count thanked his presumably half-blind elephant-hunting colleague for not having the good sense to lock his gun safe.
CHAPTER 48
One million, one hundred and twenty-four thousand three hundred kronor. Plus the contents of the puked-upon bucket, but the priest and the receptionist never got an exact amount from that one. After a visual inspection, on his knees, as he held his nose, the student representative from Mälar Upper Secondary School estimated that the bucket contained more money than the group otherwise would have been given, and thus he chose said bucket over the agreed-upon hundred-krona bill per person.
“Great,” said the priest. “Stand up, take your bucket, and go.”
“See you on Saturday,” the student responded, picked up the bucket and left.
The priest opened the newly installed double door of the sacristy to air the room (Jerry the Knife had gone all out to make sure that the extra escape route in case of war could be used as a loading dock in peacetime). She was a bit wary of exposing herself, the receptionist, and the pastor to the outside world simultaneously, but in this case she assessed the risks as low. There was a guard at the door, and Jerry the Knife was in the room, as always in Hitman Anders’s immediate vicinity. Furthermore, there was only grass and open space in the hundred yards between the church and the highway that passed it, and on the other side of that road a small patch of forest. Even if there were someone there, it would take a sniper with a telescopic sight to have time to shoot even one of them.
***
The Sunday follow-up meeting began with finances, quite simply because Hitman Anders apparently hadn’t woken up yet. Otherwise they would have postponed that item.
This time, they had grossed about 625 kronor per visitor; the net was just under 600.
“I think we found a good balance between degree of intoxication and generosity,” the priest said, pleased.
At that moment, the hitman stumbled in. He’d heard the priest’s last comment and said he’d been wondering if they should put barf buckets beside the pews to be safe. The advantage would be that they could dial up the communion mood a notch or two.
The priest and the receptionist weren’t as enthusiastic about this idea as Hitman Anders had expected. Barf buckets might detract from the spiritual atmosphere. However you look at it, there’s nothing heavenly about a barf bucket. No matter how passed out Noah might have been in that tent of his.
“And naked,” Hitman Anders added, to emphasize the degree of how very badly things had probably gone for him.
The hitman vanished again. The pub and relaxation awaited, since his weekly five hundred kronor hadn’t been completely used up on Saturday evening. Plus, follow-up meetings were so boring. Or, really, meetings in general. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d wanted to share his bucket idea, he would probably have been enjoying his first glass.
The priest and the receptionist were perfectly happy to do without the pastor in any meeting, no matter the type. When they were alone once more, they began to discuss that blasted churchwarden, a threat to their entire operation. Their conversation with him the next day would be crucial. As the priest saw it, they had two options. Ei
ther scare the pants off him, and surely Jerry the Knife could manage that. Or get him on board . . .
“By ‘get him on board’ you mean bribe him?” the receptionist wondered.
“Something along those lines. We can praise him for his beautiful raking and offer him twenty thousand a week to continue.”
“What if he doesn’t accept?”
The priest sighed. “Then I suppose we’ll have to bring the head of security in on the conversation. With his knife and everything.”
The priest and the receptionist were perfectly justified in being concerned about the churchwarden. Börje Ekman felt that the archbishop needed to know what was going on. But she was both a woman and a foreigner. To be sure, she was German, and the Germans liked order even if they might sometimes devote themselves to alcohol-related excesses. But they didn’t do it in the name of the Church, and that was an important difference. But she was still a foreigner. And a woman. What was more, the Church of Anders was probably not under the control of the archbishop; it was a schism of the most vulgar sort.
But, still, he had to do something. Call the police? To what end? Or the Tax Authority? Yes, an anonymous tip about financial irregularities might be just the ticket.
Oh, well, it was almost Monday—time for raking followed by a meeting with the godless priest and her crew. He would put his foot down. If that didn’t help, the Tax Authority would be the next step. And plans B and C. He just had to think them up.
CHAPTER 49
While the priest and the receptionist spent Sunday afternoon on worrying thoughts about Börje Ekman, Hitman Anders made another appearance, this time in excellent spirits. He’d been downtown and back again. At Stureplan, there were a pub and a bathhouse next door to each other; together, they comprised chicken soup for a hitman’s body and soul.
“Heigh-ho,” he said. “I see we’re grumpy today.”
He was freshly showered, freshly shaven, and was wearing a new short-sleeved shirt. Both arms were covered with tattoos, including knives, a skull, and two winding snakes. The priest realized she must remember never to allow him to preach without a jacket on.
“I said, I see we’re grumpy today,” Hitman Anders repeated. “Shouldn’t we go through next Saturday’s sermon soon? I have some ideas.”
“We’re thinking, so it would be nice if you didn’t bother us too much at the moment,” said the receptionist.
“All this thinking,” said Hitman Anders. “What if you just stopped now and then to enjoy life for a second? Or, as it says in Psalm Thirty-seven: ‘The meek shall inherit the land and delight in abundant prosperity.’”
How much must he browse through that confounded book? thought the priest. But she didn’t say it. Instead, she looked him up and down and said, “And according to Leviticus nineteen, you’re not supposed to shave or tattoo your arms, so shut your trap, if you please.”
“Nice one.” The receptionist smiled as Hitman Anders slunk off, freshly shaved, with his skulls, winding snakes, and all the rest.
Sunday became Monday, but no solution to the Börje Ekman problem presented itself. That was, no solution other than the either/or version they had already reasoned their way to: either Börje Ekman would voluntarily get on board or he would be forced on board by Jerry and his knife. Might the two-thirty meeting go well: they didn’t need any complications right now.
* * *
On Monday morning, the churchwarden began his work before the clock had struck nine. There was a lot to be done. First the gravel path, of course. Then wash selected areas of the parking lot and clear up all the loose parts left by the cars that had backed into each other as a result of what had to have been Sweden’s record-breaking drunk-driving event two days earlier. As the Stockholm police prioritized sobriety checks during the times of day and week when everyone was sober (including the police themselves), no one suffered any consequences.
At eleven o’clock or thereabouts, Börje Ekman took a short break. He sat on one of the benches along the path to the church and took out his sausage sandwich and a small bottle of milk. He gazed emptily straight ahead, sighing for the umpteenth time when he caught sight of something in the rosebushes, which otherwise quite serviceably blocked the view of the parking lot west of the church. Was there no limit to how much litter those drunkards could leave?
But what was that thing? Börje put aside his sandwich and milk and went over for a closer look.
A . . . revolver? Two revolvers!
His mind boggled. Had he found himself in the midst of some criminal matter?
And then he remembered the response when he’d asked how much the collection brought in. Five thousand? God in Heaven, how naïve he had been! That was why they plied the churchgoers with alcohol! So that they would put more and then more in the buckets, and, where appropriate, top it all with a pile of vomit under which, one might suspect, rested more money than they claimed made up their entire takings for the week before.
A former hitman, a priest who apparently didn’t believe in God, and a . . . well, whatever the other fellow was. The one who said his name was Per Persson. A made-up name, clearly.
What else? He’d heard the name only once. It was probably the pastor himself who’d said it, who called the head of “security,” the man who never left his side, “Jerry the Knife”! They aren’t thinking of the Lord, they aren’t thinking of any starving children, they’re only thinking of themselves! thought Börje Ekman, who had essentially spent his entire life doing the very same thing.
In that exact moment, the Lord spoke to him for the first time, after Börje Ekman had spent his entire earthly life in his service. “It is you, Börje, and no one else, who can save this, my house. It is only you who have seen the madness that is going on. You are the only one who understands. It is you who must do what you must do. Do it, Börje. Do it!”!”
“Yes, Lord,” answered Börje Ekman. “Just tell me: what is it I must do? Tell me and I will do it. Lead me on the right path, Lord.”
But God was just like Jesus: he spoke only when he had the time or the inclination. He did not answer his subject, not then and not later. The fact is, God would never reveal himself again as long as Börje Ekman lived.
CHAPTER 50
The churchwarden cancelled the two-thirty meeting, citing a migraine and adding that it wasn’t very urgent after all to sort out what needed to be sorted out. The priest was surprised to hear that the bushes were no longer burning, but she had plenty of other matters to worry about. She was satisfied to think that what had been about to be either/or might land somewhere in between.
Oh, how she did deceive herself.
The churchwarden just needed to gather his thoughts. He rode his bicycle home to his studio apartment. “Sodom and Gomorrah,” he said to himself. Biblical cities where sin had reigned beyond all limits, but only until the Lord had put a stop to it. “Sodom, Gomorrah, and the Church of Anders,” said Börje Ekman.
Maybe the situation had to get worse before it could get better.
That had been President Nixon’s analysis of the situation in Vietnam, which had ended up getting worse before it had got even more worse. In the end, Nixon’s career had perished (albeit for reasons other than Vietnam).
History does tend to have the unfortunate habit of repeating itself. A plan began to form in the mind of the churchwarden. Plus there was always the Tax Authority: he could count that as a plan in and of itself. First worse, then better (was his plan, anyway).
The end result? First worse, then even more worse. At which point Börje Ekman perished too.
* * *
The countess was currently crouching, deep in meticulous reconnaissance, in a patch of forest with a view of the newly constructed double side doors, which were opened and closed now and again. The doors were no more than four hundred feet away, although they were on the other side of the road. It was Wednesday and wine was being delivered; a truck had backed in, the doors were wide open, and box after box was bein
g carried into the church. Between the car and the door stood a guard armed with a poorly concealed machine gun.
Just inside, the countess could see people who must be Johanna Kjellander and Per . . . something . . . Jansson? And beside them: Hitman Anders and his goddamned bodyguard.
The countess had binoculars, and when she used them she found she didn’t recognize the guard—it was some hoodlum from outside her circle of acquaintances. It didn’t much matter what his name was. If she and the count grew curious later on, they could always find his grave and see what it said on the headstone.
What was important was that if they had been ready there and then, they could have taken out both Hitman Anders and his bodyguard. The only remaining problem would have been the man with the machine gun outside the door. If worst came to worst, he would come for them, and they would need time to reload. On the plus side: the road between the church and the woods.
With this positive thinking, she could dispense with her recce for now. There was no rush: the most important thing was to get it right.
The countess returned to her white Audi and took off.
“Let her go,” said Olofsson. “She’s just going home to report back to the fucking count.”
“Mm-hm,” Olofsson responded. “We’d better go up to those trees and find out what she was looking at.”
* * *
The mood was once again merry among the leadership of the Church of Anders. A fresh delivery of wine had arrived, along with crackers, grapes, and the ripe pastor cheese.
“We’ll do the same snacks again,” said the priest. “They went down well. But maybe we should branch out for next week. We mustn’t get stuck in a rut.”
“Burgers and fries?” Hitman Anders suggested.
“Or something else,” said the priest, adding that they had a sermon to prepare.