Jorge looked again.
Something was off.
They came to the crest of the bridge.
The city’s silhouette draped in a dark blue shroud. The narrow bodies of the church spires like needles in his field of vision.
Jorge picked up his cell phone. Called Mehmed. Told him to change route at the end of the bridge.
Jorge kept his eye on the Saab. Saw more movements in the backseat. The people were putting something on. He hit his high beams. Shone straight into the back of the Saab.
The men in the backseat were as visible as on a sunny summer’s day. They were putting something on that looked like heavy vests. Could only be one thing-bulletproof vests.
Cunt.
Jorge slammed on the breaks. His forehead smacked into the windshield.
He looked toward the Saab. It stopped, as well.
Looked toward Mehmed’s car. He’d stopped, too, about thirty yards farther up. Probably hadn’t clocked more than that something was whack.
Jorge looked farther out, over Hornstull.
Blue lights every fucking where.
Mierda.
Quick calculation. The Saab between Jorge and Mehmed’s car was crooked. The enemy, the cops? He had to act now.
The dudes in the Saab stepped out of the car. Three. Two of them ran toward Mehmed’s car.
Someone behind Jorge honked. The natural question in rush-hour traffic: Why’d someone panic-braked in the middle of the bridge?
Jorge leapt out of his car. Ran toward Mehmed’s car.
The guys from the Saab turned around. Ran faster.
Jorge’s luck-the training from his escape still did the trick. He had speed. Reached Mehmed’s car at the same time as the men from the Saab.
Everything went so fast.
One of the men opened the door to Mehmed’s car. One turned to Jorge. Grabbed hold of his hand, tried to get him in some kind of grip. Mehmed yelled to Jorge, “Fuckin’ run. It’s the Five-Oh.”
The third man, who came running from the Saab, threw himself at Mehmed and tried to push him down into the seat. The guy holding Jorge’s arm pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Roared, “Police. You are being arrested on suspicion of possessing illegal drugs. Don’t fuckin’ give us a hard time. The entire force is waiting for you down there at Hornstull.” Jorge panicked. Kicked with all his might at the cop’s cock. The man howled. Only one thought in Jorge’s head: the blow in the trunk. Got a hold of the handle. Opened the trunk. Grabbed the NK bag. The cop standing by the door to Mehmed’s car threw himself at Jorge. Jorge took a step to the side. Remained free. The cop who’d taken the kick to the balls pulled a gun, yelled something. Jorge ran. The cop who’d tried to throw himself at him picked up the chase. Jorge accelerated. The man at his heels was fast. Jorge was faster. Thank God for the time at Osteraker and the little training he’d done lately. The cop behind him hollered.
Jorge: focused. Come on now, pick up the pulse, hombre. Light steps. Long steps.
He ran along the bridge’s railing. People got out of their cars and stared at the mass of flashing lights moving its way up the bridge in the opposite lane.
In Jorge’s head: Run now, J-boy. No Asics DuoMax with super soles. No laps around the blocks at Osteraker in his legs. Hardly any training except for some jump rope in recent months.
Still, he was fast.
His feet rolled with each step.
The pavement pounded.
The Stockholm night screamed blue.
He turned his head. His lead’d increased. The cop faggot was too winded.
Jorge saw Langholmen under the bridge. How far could the jump be? Worse than the twenty-three feet from the Osteraker wall?
He didn’t give a fuck. Did it once. Could do it again.
Jorge, master escape artist. Chain-busting legend. Nothing would stop him.
He gained momentum. Leapt up on the railing. Looked down. Hard to see in the dark. The handle of the NK bag hung in the crook of his arm. He swung himself down, hands gripping the railing. Should reduce the fall by about six feet. Let go.
Fell.
35
JW sat on the bus to the Skavsta Airport, thinking, Two hours of restlessness ahead. God, I regret not flying from Arlanda Airport. So much closer.
He tried to play games on his phone: mini-golf, Chesswizz, Arkanoid. He’d become a master at downloading games. Was even starting to beat the phone at chess. Pride mingled with thrill: How good could he get?
Abdulkarim was flying two days later with British Airways, business class. From Arlanda.
Fahdi was flying SAS. Also from Arlanda. Typical.
He just had to stick it out. Deal. They were spreading their flights out over different carriers, different times, different locations. According to Abdulkarim’s philosophy, caution was a shortcut. JW thought, Shortcut for who? Not for me, that much is for fucking sure-two hours on a bus, at least an hour and a half wait estimated at Skavsta, then from Stansted Airport into central London, at least two hours. Congrats.
He started a new game of chess. Had trouble concentrating, was always sensitive to stress. Started searching for the slip of paper where he’d written down his confirmation number-Ryanair didn’t even do paper tickets.
Skavsta Airport, in JW’s opinion, was an embodiment of the word beige. Broad fluorescent tubing lit up the departure hall. A white propeller plane was suspended from the ceiling, which looked like it was made of thick metal pipes. The floor was made of laminated plastic. The walls were of laminated plastic. The check-in counters were made of green-guess what? — laminated plastic.
A line unfurled itself from two counters. JW set his bags down. One of them was a large Louis Vuitton. Price: twelve thousand kronor. The only problem at a place like Skavsta was that everyone would assume it was a fake. But there was still a risk it’d be stolen by the baggage loaders if they realized it was real.
He kept playing chess. Pushed the bags in front of him with his foot. Focused on his phone. The line took over forty minutes. He thought, Ryanair-go shit yourselves.
After he’d checked in, the only carry-on he had was a black shoulder bag from Prada.
Security was overambitious. He guessed the Brits were scared of Muslim bombers. JW hoped that Abdulkarim traveled without his prayer hat. JW’s Hermes belt set off the metal detector. He had to take it off and run it through the X-ray machine in a blue plastic tray.
After security, JW called Sophie. They chatted. She already knew about his trip and with which friends he was traveling. After a couple of minutes, she repeated her question from earlier: “When do I get to meet them anyway?”
JW changed the subject. “Can you recommend some sweet bars in Mayfair?” Sophie’d been to London more times than JW’d been to Stockholm before he moved there. She listed some places. They talked on: about Jet Set Carl’s latest party, Nippe’s latest chick, Lollo’s latest C trip. Nothing about JW’s buds.
He was hungry. According to the signage, there was a restaurant around here somewhere.
He found it-a supergrimy place. Three dishes on the menu: fish and chips, spaghetti Bolognese, and pork chops with french fries and bearnaise sauce. In front of him in line: two seventeen-year-old girls wearing Palestine scarves and wool hats pulled down low. They complained about the lack of vegetarian options.
The cashier muttered, “You could have french fries with bea.”
