Easy Money (36 page)

But he knew one thing: His dignity would never be shat on again by the Yugos or any of their allies.

The blow-flow he was in—deadly.

Jorge wouldn’t give up.

This night belonged to him.

This night belonged to the Project.

The Radovan fag was gonna get it. Jet Set Carl or no Jet Set Carl. Fuck him. Jorge would get his hands on enough info anyway.

He just needed to talk more with Nadja.

Had gotten Zlatko Petrovic’s number from Fahdi. Jorge’d tried to reach him several times, without success.

He stood in the middle of Stureplan. In the background: hot-dog hawkers, trashed teenagers, shivering brats, boozy forty-year-olds.

Picked up his phone. No new texts from Fahdi, which meant he’d gotten an away game.

He dialed the number to the pimp, Zlatko.

The signal went through.

Finally, for the first time on this number, someone picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, I wanna have some fun tonight.”

“Then I’m your man. Got a name?”

Jorge gave Fahdi’s alias.

Zlatko replied, “All right. Course we can arrange something.”

“Great. I wanna see Nadja.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

Jorge said, “Did you hear me, or what? I like that Nadja girl.”

“I don’t know what you want. But she’s not with us anymore. Sorry.” The chill in Zlatko’s voice was colder than freezer-kept vodka.

“So then where can I see her? She was so good.”

“Yo, listen up. Never ask about Nadja ever again. She’s not with us. I know who you are. One more word about that fucking Nadja and we’ll crush you.”

The call was cut off—Zlatko’d indexed red.

Jorge was in a cab on his way to Fahdi’s apartment. Racked with angst. Racked with blow.

On his retina: Paola and Nadja. And the others: Mrado, Ratko, Radovan. He was gonna burn them. Avenge himself. Avenge Nadja. Radovan was gonna have to pay with bullet holes in his eyes. Assault in a forest. Paola’s contorted face.

Chaotic fragments of reality.

Hate.

Paola.

Hate.

The Radovan fucker.

Pendejo.

The cabbie looked anxiously at him. “Want me to walk you upstairs, buddy?”

Jorge said no thanks. Asked the guy to wait.

Up to Fahdi’s. Jorge always carried a set of keys to his apartment—needed to be able to get at the stash, Red Line baggies, and scales they kept there. Opened. Called out. No one home. Fahdi was probably getting what he wanted most.

To the closet.

Jorge knew what he was looking for. Fahdi’d proudly exhibited his gear to him and JW a month earlier. He leaned in.

Rummaged around.

Got hold of the shotgun. Opened it by pressing the safety on the side. Put in two red shells the size of rolls of Life Savers. Stuffed a fistful of shells in the front pocket of his jeans. It bulged.

Tucked the shotgun inside his jacket. Wasn’t visible at all. Sawed-off barrels were good.

The taxi was purring on the street.

The blow flowed through his veins in a pulsating beat.

He vacuumed up the last white milligrams as the taxi drove off. Unclear if the driver noticed anything.

The cab accelerated on the freeway.

Hallonbergen.

A cold wind blew along the external hallway. He accidentally knocked over a kid’s sled that was leaning against the wall. Apparently, there were ordinary families as brothel neighbors.

He rang the doorbell.

Someone pulled aside the cover for the peephole. A voice from inside: “What’s your name?”

Sounded like the brothel madam. Jorge hoped that the Zlatko dude hadn’t told her anything about his call fifty minutes ago. Fahdi’s alias again. There was a password, too. He knew both.

She unlocked the door. It was her, the brothel madam in her strange outfit—the blazer with the slit in the back. Clown-painted. Scary.

Jorge slammed the door shut behind him. Cut right to the chase. “I wanna see Nadja.”

The brothel madam stiffened. On her guard 100 percent.

She said in her shitty Eastern Bloc Swedish, “Listen, she not here anymore. If you the one call me hundred million time, you can piss off.”

Unanticipated aggression. Determined menace.

J-boy felt close to the breaking point. Pent-up waves of explosive blow-temper crashed against the inside of his skull. This’d be the last time a Serb fucked with him.

Took a step toward the brothel madam. “You fucking cunt. Either you tell me where Nadja is or I’ll take you out.”

The brothel madam cranked up her volume fiercely. “Who the fuck you think you are?”

The effect of the raised voice: From the shadows, from the hallway, Zlatko appeared.

The brothel madam freaked. Kept yelling at Jorge to scram. That he’d regret his behavior.

Zlatko positioned himself a foot from Jorge. His breath smelled like hell. He said in a calm voice, “What did I tell you on the phone just now? Are you slow? Stop digging around in this thing. Just leave.”

Super Serbian–style. Reminded him of Mrado.

He could feel the abuse in his back. Legs. Arms.

Jorge tore out the shotgun.

One shot at Zlatko.

Guts gone. Replaced with a gaping hole.

Ground tripe on the wall behind him.

The brothel madam screamed.

Another shot—her head disappeared. Brain matter on the velvet couches.

The recoil slammed into Jorge’s shoulder. Hurt.

Jorge opened the weapon. Stuck his hand in his pocket. Reloaded, two new shells.

From the hall came a man. Sheet-white face. Bare chest. Unbuttoned pants. In shock.

Jorge shot. Missed. Forty-square-inch hole in the plaster wall. A cloud of dust.

He ran toward him. The man stumbled on his sagging pants.

Cried. Begged.

Jorge stood over him. The double barrel against his head.

Checked his pockets. Found a wallet. Pulled out a driver’s license.

Read aloud, “Torsten Johansson. You’ve never seen me.”

The old trick remained where he was, sobbing on the floor.

Other than that, the apartment was quiet.

“Give me your cell phone. Get on your stomach. Hold your hands above your head. I’ve got some stuff to take care of.”

The man didn’t move. He lay with his head folded between his arms, his knees pulled up in a fetal position.

“Don’t you understand Swedish, or what? Do what I told you. Now.”

The man stretched out. Fumbled in his pants pocket. Brought out a cell phone. Gave it to Jorge. Put his hands on his head.

Jorge, again: “You’ve never seen me.”

He checked the whore rooms. In one of them was a girl, crouching against the wall, her head between her knees. It wasn’t Nadja.

Jorge walked out into the hall. Didn’t look at the bodies. Stepped right through the chaos. Into the kitchen.

It was dirty in there. A little table of white wood and a chair with a steel frame and a soft seat cushion. Coffee stains everywhere. Ads from Hallonbergen’s pizza joints were pinned on the fridge with free Social Democratic party handout magnets from the 2002 election.

On the table was a laptop. Pretty much what Jorge’d suspected.

Best of all: It was turned on. Jorge sat down on the chair. The computer was plugged into the wall. Question: If he pulled the plug, would the battery kick in or would it die? Jorge wasn’t exactly a computer geek. But he did know one thing: If the computer died, there was a risk that it’d demand some sort of password in order to start back up. Could fuck the whole thing up if he couldn’t get into it again.

Cocaine-lit assessments: He couldn’t stay in the apartment many more seconds. Had he touched anything?

No.

He took the risk—pulled the power cord.

Checked the screen.

God loved Jorge.

The computer was still on.

He ran toward the front door. Through the hall. Was about to grab the door handle, when a phone rang. Sony Ericsson’s “Old Phone” ringtone—sounded like an ancient spin-dial telephone. Someone’s cell was ringing. Probably the john’s, the madam’s, the pimp’s, or one of the prostitutes’. He checked the john’s. Wasn’t the one making the noise. Jorge listened. Saw the blood. The clotty substance on the ceiling and floors. Finally heard. It was coming from the pimp’s pocket.

He was holding the shotgun in one hand, the computer in the other. Difficult to maneuver. He put the computer down. Groped in the pimp’s jacket pocket. The vibrations, unmistakable.

Got hold of the phone. A letter combination on the display: JSC. Only one person it could be—the Carl fucker.

Jorge picked up. “Yes.”

“Yo, it’s me. Could you put the one with the big tits in a cab to my house?”

Jorge, perplexed. The dude sounded trashed. What to say? Try to imitate Zlatko?

Instead, he mumbled as much as he could. “Sorry, she’s not here.”

“Damn, that’s too bad.”

A single thought: Have to say something smart. Something that will lead somewhere.

“Eh, so when is the next big thing happening again?”

“You ought to know, Mr. Fix. The twenty-ninth, in two weeks. The one with the tits really isn’t there?” Jet Set Carl was slurring worse than a heavyweight postknockout.

Jorge got a lightning rod–hot idea. “Sorry, no. Hey, one more thing. Had a guy here today who definitely has to come on the twenty-ninth.”

“Come on, get real. Not possible.”

“Fuck it is. Nenad okayed him. Just wanted to let you know, too. His alias is Daniel Cabrera.”

“All right, fine. You need a password?”

“Yeah, that’d be dope. Would you forward it to me?”

“I’ll forward it to you. You’re talking like a fucking lawyer. I’ll text you a word right now. Later.”

Jorge put the phone in his pocket. The shotgun under his jacket. The computer in his hand.

Threw a quick glance at the bodies. Felt sick.

Thought he’d be immune after all the video gore he’d watched as a kid. Really, it was just the opposite. He felt worse because of all the shit he’d seen on TV. Or it was just the effect of the blow-rush.

Pulled the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand in order to grip the handle to the front door. Nope, no CSI team would find his thumbprint.

He walked out. Felt Zlatko’s cell vibrate in his pocket—the text from Jet Set Carl.

It was dark out.

Hallonbergen by night.

Deserted.

JW was on his way to the Isle of Man. Manx Airways flew six times a day. It took a little over an hour from Heathrow to the airport outside Douglas, the main town on the island. As opposed to flying with Ryanair, it was smooth, speedy, stylish.

He was still walking around in a dream state—the quantities that could be shipped from Warwickshire. Pricing and upward curves. The C cycle—a sunny future for the trade. The Arab’s ideas would be realized. JW would be a wealthy man.

Two days ago, he’d met Nenad at a hotel in London. The man who was Abdul’s superior rocked a totally different style than the Arab. Felt good to meet the mythic/shadowy boss. To get closer to the top.

The negotiations with Nenad and the Brits’d gone well. They sat in one of the hotel’s conference rooms. Nenad’d booked a room first, but the Brits asked to switch it as soon as they got there. Nenad ate it up—higher security awareness than Abdulkarim.

The conference room was decorated with rococo furniture. An elliptical table of walnut wood in the middle of the room. Crystal wall lamps spread subdued lighting. Pretty different from Abdulkarim’s living room.

The Brits looked like soccer hooligans. Nothing like the style they’d seen on Chris, the guy who’d met JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi at the packaging plant. The guy in charge was in his fifties, with gray hair combed back and casual clothes: Paul & Shark polo shirt, Burberry jacket, and Prada shoes. Pockmarked face and calm demeanor. He oozed confident power. The other guy was overweight but hadn’t compensated for his size by wearing baggy clothes—gave a slightly ridiculous impression when the Pringle pullover stretched taut over the man’s spare tires. But after the initial pleasantries, that impression was wiped right out—the fatso was a bone-hard brainiac. JW sat with his notebook and calculator in front of him. The fatso did all the counting in his head.

They negotiated the price of the wares, different grades, shipping methods, payment systems. They went over the risks versus the proceeds. Customs, narcs, competing networks, companies that could be used as fronts. Ways to guarantee that neither side got ripped off. What would happen if pounds disappeared along the way. Transportation was ultimately at whose risk, exactly?

The Brits were cautious. Their routine felt calculated. After two hours, Nenad asked for a break.

They went up to Nenad’s room. Compared their negotiation position with their calculations. The deal Nenad was after consisted of 90 percent pure coke in cabbage for under 350 kronor a gram. Would probably total two containers, with five tons of cabbage per container. The five hundred outermost cabbages would go without C as a safety measure, in case of crap customs and sanitation department checks. Sum: two thousand cabbages filled with ice. Fifty grams per veggie, which is to say: one hundred kilos—220 twenty pounds—of cocaine to be transported by trailer and ferry. Some bribing of the shipping company would be necessary in order to separate the containers from those with only regular cabbages inside, and to keep a special eye on them when the situation demanded, including some bribes to actual cabbage suppliers. In Sweden, they had to cover the costs for driving, for reduced checks of the containers, plus fixed sales and distribution costs. Price tag from the Brits: between thirty and forty million. Price on the street in Stockholm after discounting price pressure: seventy to eighty million. Iiiiiill income.

After an hour and a half in the room, Nenad’d made up his mind. The deal was definitely worth going for. He set a bar for the lowest-possible price, plus a level of security, the highest imaginable.

They went down.

Continued negotiating with the Brits. The mood was good. Beneath the surface, the Brits’ attitude glared: You know you can’t get a better deal anywhere else. Gave them psychological advantage. Gave them mental strength.

The negotiations dragged on; they kept at it for another two hours. JW got exhausted by all the numbers, appraisals, and calculations. At the same time, he loved the whole thing.

By two o’clock, the two parties’d reached a preliminary agreement. The tension eased up. Nenad shook hands with the older Brit. They looked deeply into each other’s eyes—the code of honor sealed the deal.

They would reconvene the next day at noon to confirm that the sale was finalized.

Nenad and JW had a seat in the piano bar at the hotel.

The Yugo ordered in two cognacs.

“JW, thank you for your help. I will convey my praise to Abdulkarim.”

“Thank you for letting me take part. It was very interesting. I think we got a good deal in the end.”

“Me, too. After our drink here, I’m going to run some numbers by Stockholm and hopefully get the whole deal approved.”

“By who?”

“JW, sometimes it’s best not to ask.”

JW didn’t answer. He’d seen the same stiff facial expression on Abdulkarim when his boss’d come up in conversation—the Arab’d never mentioned Nenad, even though JW’d nagged. The layers between the levels in the dealing hierarchy were airtight.

“One more thing. You’ve never met me. Don’t recognize me. Won’t call out to me at a bar. Will never mention my name to anyone.”

JW got it. Nodded.

“It might get really sad if you do,” Nenad said gravely.

“It’s cool. I understand. Really. I understand.”

The plane was small; each row was only one chair wide.

JW was forced to keep his phone turned off. The restlessness gnawed. He thought about what the police were doing. Were they getting anywhere? Maybe they’d called while he was away. If not, should he call Mom and tell her everything? She felt so remote. Bengt felt even more remote, on his way out of the picture altogether.

Outside, gray British weather. He couldn’t even see the ocean beneath the plane, despite the fact that they were flying low.

The pilot reported: fifty-three degrees on the ground.

Gearing up to land, the plane passed through the haze.

It was drizzling.

The island appeared down below. Rolling hills dressed in trees sprouting new leaves.

JW on the Isle of Man. He was going to do this thing.

Douglas was situated on the water. The feeling was fiercely British. The place was crawling with hotels, banks, and financial institutions. But few people—winter was off-season, only bankers and finance sharks on the streets. They were well dressed, well situated, and well informed about the rules on the Isle of Man—bank-privacy paradise.

Of course there were other spots in Europe that were as good: Luxembourg, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Channel Isles. But the downside was that those places aroused suspicion. The tax man and the financial-crime investigators immediately raised their eyebrows when they saw accounts registered in those types of places. The Isle of Man was more discreet, but the regulations were just as advantageous.

The basic idea of offshore jurisdiction: easy to create companies, strong company privacy, even stronger bank privacy, and tax-free, obviously.

JW checked into a small hotel overnight. Top-of-the-line service, every single staff person welcomed him by name. Impressive.

He walked along the beachfront boardwalk on the way to Central Union Bank’s headquarters. A meeting’d been booked a month back with Darren Bell, a senior associate. According to trusty sources, Darren Bell was an exceedingly reliable person.

The building he was on his way into was ultraspruced. You could tell from ten yards away. The bottom section was made all of glass. The escalators up to the second level, a couple of enormous ficuses, and the gray Ligne Roset couches could be seen plainly from outside. JW walked through ten-foot-high revolving doors. Announced his arrival at the reception desk.

He looked around. Complex light fixtures of glass and chrome were hanging from thin cables. Marble floor. The Ligne Roset couches—empty. He thought, Does anyone ever sit on them?

No time to ponder. A man emerged from an elevator and introduced himself to JW. It was Darren Bell.

He was impeccably dressed in a gray suit with two buttons, a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, blue tailored shirt with white stripes, and gold cuff links. The tie had a diagonal striped pattern in red, gray, and blue and was knotted with a tiny super-British knot. The Church shoes were brogues. JW dug his style—it was, simply put, corporate to the max.

JW was less formally dressed. The new club blazer with a white tailored shirt underneath, no tie. Pressed black cotton slacks. Correct but light and totally right—the client should be underdressed in relation to his adviser.

They took the elevator up. Made some small talk. Darren Bell had an Irish accent, flawless manners, and discerning eyes.

The conference room was small, with a view over the bay. Two impressionistic paintings on the wall. It was a foggy day. Darren Bell joked, “Welcome to the typical Isle of Man soup.”

Darren asked JW to tell him about his needs.

He explained what he needed. It was impossible for JW to tell him everything about certain things. But the most important stuff he could explain. First, he needed a private account to which he could easily transfer money. Preferably from Internet deposits. Or from cash sent directly to Central Union Bank’s office in London. Furthermore, he needed two companies on location on the Isle of Man. The main business of the first company was financial solutions for small and large companies. The other one would lie dormant for now, but it had to be ready to be activated at short notice. Both companies’ owner had to be protected by privacy regulations. The companies needed privacy-protected accounts with the bank. Finally, the financial-services company needed to be able to provide documentation regarding loans to a joint-stock company in Sweden. Darren Bell took notes. Nodded. Everything was possible. The island’s rules permitted most things; he would work on a proposal. Asked JW to come back the following day.

The next day, JW was sitting with Darren Bell again. The banker was in the same outfit as the day before, except for the shirt. Sank the impression. JW wondered, Why didn’t he at least change his tie?

Darren spread out a number of PowerPoint printouts on the table. Numbers, graphic explanations of transfer possibilities, depots, transaction costs. Explained what he’d done over the past twenty-four hours. Two companies in place, with accounts already connected. Complete privacy with regard to ownership, in accordance with the island’s legislation. Yet another account, owned by JW, that could only be accessed with the correct number combination. Finally, he presented drafts of financing contracts, loan contracts, deposit contracts, privacy contracts, proxy and brokerage contracts, ready to be filled out. The cost of the accounts: 0.5 percent of the total sum deposited per year, with a minimum charge of one thousand pounds a year. The companies: a one-time fee of four thousand pounds each. Three thousand in rolling fees annually. The loan documentation: four thousand pounds. In total: at least 200,000 kronor for JW to cough up.

JW thought, Darren Bell’s got a damn sweet job.

Darren looked pleased. “I think everything’s in order, sir. The only thing we need are name suggestions for your companies.”

JW stewed in his own glory. John Grisham—you can hit the sack. This was for real. JW’d soon be the owner of his own money-laundering system. Fantastic.