Never Fuck Up: A Novel by Jens Lapidus

insecure? He’s ending every sentence with a stupid question.
    “I don’t really think nothing about it. You seem to know what you’re doing.”
    “Listen, the Belarusian is a three-hundred-pound old man, but he’s got the technique of a two-hundred-pound kid. And speed isn’t the only thing deciding this—timing is even more important. You’ll see. He’s going to let all hell break loose on that Swede. Course, we’ve got a hunch about it, too.”
    Mahmud wondered when Stefanovic was gonna get to the point.
    The fight began up in the ring. Akhramenko tried to land a left uppercut on Ståhl. The Swede blocked good. This was like heavyweight boxing but with low kicks to the legs.
    “Mahmud, we trust you. Do you know what that means?”
    Yet another question. Might be the beginning of the real talk they were supposed to have.
    “You can trust me. Even if I hung out with Mrado, I know he madesome trouble for you guys. And even if I’m not a Serb. You use Arabs. Our people don’t have anything against each other here.”
    “That’s right. Maybe you already know one of them, Abdulkarim. He’s out of the game right now, but you can’t find a better man. Are you like him?”
    “Like I said, you can trust me.”
    “That’s not enough. We need men who are one hundred and fifty percent loyal. It happens that we bet on the wrong fighters, so to speak.”
    Mahmud knew what he was talking about—everyone knew. Lately there’d been a lot of shit going down in Stockholm’s underworld. That kind of thing happened: someone thought they’d be the new king of the hill, someone wanted to challenge the boys at the top, someone’s honor got stepped on. There were plenty of examples. The war between the Albanians and the Original Gangsters, the shoot-out in the Västberga cold-storage facility between different factions within the Yugo mafia, the executions in Vällingby last month.
    Up in the ring, Ståhl was landing a series of kicks to Akhramenko’s calves and quick alternating punches to his head. Maybe the Sven was gonna take it home after all.
    Stefanovic continued, “You could be our man. To see if you make the cut, I’d like to ask you for a little favor. Listen carefully.”
    Mahmud didn’t turn around. Continued to eye the fight. The first round ended. The Swede was bleeding near the eyebrow.
    “Have you heard about the hit against Arlanda Airport? It was going smooth but then it went to hell. We’d planned it just as well as we always do. I think you know what I mean. Had the guards in our pockets. Knew the routines, the surveillance cameras, when the delivery of bills would arrive, the emergency exits, the escape routes, the exchangeable cars, caltrops, everything. There were four guys on the team, two of ours and two from your side of town, North Botkyrka. Three went into the grounds at Arlanda, into the storage area where the gear was stashed. One stayed outside. Everything went according to plan. When they’d pushed the bags out on the pallet to the getaway car, they were met by the guy who’d waited outside, dude number four. With gun in hand. Pointed at them. You follow?”
    “You got done.”
    “We got done right up the ass. Hard. There were bills for more than forty-five million. And that dude, he took it all. Had the other three dump the crap in the car. Then he split.”
    “You’re kidding? Who’s the guy?”
    It took a while for Stefanovic to answer. Ståhl and Akhramenko were dancing around each other slowly. The Belarusian looked tired. Ståhl bounced away as though he knew how Akhramenko was gonna hit. Blocked. Ducked. In the zone, working it. Ståhl almost got a knee in. The ref broke it up. Sent them back to their positions.
    “The guy’s name is Wisam Jibril. Lebanese. Heavy on CIT gigs. You know, cash in transit. Remember him? Something of a guru in your crowd, I think. He’s been missing since the Arlanda hit. Pronounced dead in the tsunami catastrophe a few years ago, just like