there. Then through the hallway. There he was, Patrik. Waiting, watching. She walked past the TV room. She peered down the stars into the rec and safe rooms. Goran was standing at a window, looking out.
She walked toward the kitchen. Wanted to talk to Mom. Wanted to drink a cup of tea. Wanted to find out where Viktor’d disappeared to.
She opened the door. Stefanovic was sitting in there, talking to a man she’d seen before. Big build, mouse-colored hair, Swedish. According to Dad, he was a former cop. The man got up, offered her his hand.
“Good morning, Natalie. Do you recognize me? My name is Thomas Andrén. I’m sorry that we had to drive your boyfriend home.”
His grip was firm—but not in that exaggerated way that many of Dad’s employees used.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “I thought there’d been enough people in this house lately.” The comment was directed at Stefanovic.
Thomas Andrén smiled. Said, “Your dad is coming home in an hour.”
*
Those who are best in my domain are the ones who are able to discern patterns the quickest. I thought I was one of them
.
Humans are creatures of habit. A creature that functions in accordance with structures. Every person’s way of moving and living their life becomes a pattern, a structure that must be dissected and analyzed
.
It was a failure. I acted like an amateur, a rookie, a B-player who tried to
go through with the attack without proper insight. I didn’t even get in touch with my employer. I was ashamed, like a child who gets his knuckles rapped
.
I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events in the days that followed. Why did things end up the way they did? I went through my notes. Looked at my surveillance photos, cleaned and checked my weapons. Reached the same conclusion over and over again. First of all: I know that he almost always wears a protective vest. Still, I chose a distance that demanded shots to the body. Second of all: I know he usually has a bodyguard. Still, I chose a location where it was easy to protect him
.
What’s more, when he’d exited the elevator and was about to step into the line of fire, Radovan’d veered to the right instead of to the left, where his car was parked. He’d arrived in one car but decided to leave in another. I should have aborted the mission at that point
.
I thought about the hit that I executed against Puljev in 2004, at that discothèque in St. Petersburg. I made my way past four bodyguards and shot him at a distance of sixteen feet. I knew he wore a bulletproof vest. One shot to the forehead was all it took, I could handle it at that distance
.
But Radovan wasn’t stupid
.
I admit to myself that I underestimated him. I thought that little Serb would be more naïve and less vigilant than his peers out in Europe just because he was the king of peaceful Sweden. But I was the one who was naïve. I was the one who was unvigilant
.
My client obviously knew that I’d failed. The Swedish newspapers apparently loved to hate Radovan Kranjic. I saw pictures on news bills, understood fragments of headlines, flipped through page-long special features
.
But I knew an opening would arise somewhere
.
All I had to do was wait. In the end, my client would get what he wanted
.
10
Jorge was sitting at one of the surf computers at a 7-Eleven.
7-Eleven: colorful signs about special deals. Coffee and a bun for only fifteen kronor—these were the kinds of places that seriously tripped up real café owners. J-boy drank a Red Bull instead.
His duffel bag was at his feet. In the duffel: a gat. Walther PPK. The police’s old model. Plus four full magazines. The thought that was burning in his head:
What if something happened?
At the same time: nothing could happen. He was just sitting here, surfing—chill, nothing suspicious. Drop the paranoia,
huevon
.
He needed to concentrate. Repeated one of the Finn’s rules to himself: no surfing on your own computer. Always left a trail. IP addresses,
She walked toward the kitchen. Wanted to talk to Mom. Wanted to drink a cup of tea. Wanted to find out where Viktor’d disappeared to.
She opened the door. Stefanovic was sitting in there, talking to a man she’d seen before. Big build, mouse-colored hair, Swedish. According to Dad, he was a former cop. The man got up, offered her his hand.
“Good morning, Natalie. Do you recognize me? My name is Thomas Andrén. I’m sorry that we had to drive your boyfriend home.”
His grip was firm—but not in that exaggerated way that many of Dad’s employees used.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “I thought there’d been enough people in this house lately.” The comment was directed at Stefanovic.
Thomas Andrén smiled. Said, “Your dad is coming home in an hour.”
*
Those who are best in my domain are the ones who are able to discern patterns the quickest. I thought I was one of them
.
Humans are creatures of habit. A creature that functions in accordance with structures. Every person’s way of moving and living their life becomes a pattern, a structure that must be dissected and analyzed
.
It was a failure. I acted like an amateur, a rookie, a B-player who tried to
go through with the attack without proper insight. I didn’t even get in touch with my employer. I was ashamed, like a child who gets his knuckles rapped
.
I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events in the days that followed. Why did things end up the way they did? I went through my notes. Looked at my surveillance photos, cleaned and checked my weapons. Reached the same conclusion over and over again. First of all: I know that he almost always wears a protective vest. Still, I chose a distance that demanded shots to the body. Second of all: I know he usually has a bodyguard. Still, I chose a location where it was easy to protect him
.
What’s more, when he’d exited the elevator and was about to step into the line of fire, Radovan’d veered to the right instead of to the left, where his car was parked. He’d arrived in one car but decided to leave in another. I should have aborted the mission at that point
.
I thought about the hit that I executed against Puljev in 2004, at that discothèque in St. Petersburg. I made my way past four bodyguards and shot him at a distance of sixteen feet. I knew he wore a bulletproof vest. One shot to the forehead was all it took, I could handle it at that distance
.
But Radovan wasn’t stupid
.
I admit to myself that I underestimated him. I thought that little Serb would be more naïve and less vigilant than his peers out in Europe just because he was the king of peaceful Sweden. But I was the one who was naïve. I was the one who was unvigilant
.
My client obviously knew that I’d failed. The Swedish newspapers apparently loved to hate Radovan Kranjic. I saw pictures on news bills, understood fragments of headlines, flipped through page-long special features
.
But I knew an opening would arise somewhere
.
All I had to do was wait. In the end, my client would get what he wanted
.
10
Jorge was sitting at one of the surf computers at a 7-Eleven.
7-Eleven: colorful signs about special deals. Coffee and a bun for only fifteen kronor—these were the kinds of places that seriously tripped up real café owners. J-boy drank a Red Bull instead.
His duffel bag was at his feet. In the duffel: a gat. Walther PPK. The police’s old model. Plus four full magazines. The thought that was burning in his head:
What if something happened?
At the same time: nothing could happen. He was just sitting here, surfing—chill, nothing suspicious. Drop the paranoia,
huevon
.
He needed to concentrate. Repeated one of the Finn’s rules to himself: no surfing on your own computer. Always left a trail. IP addresses,
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