Easy Money (39 page)

Money-laundering schemes were difficult, but JW’d done his homework. New rules and regulations were constantly being instituted—EU directives, commissions, and reports. Collaboration between banks, financial institutions, and credit card companies. Stricter reporting requirements, increased cross-checks, more questions. The EU pressured the Financial Supervisory Authority. The Financial Supervisory Authority pressured the banks. The banks pressured the clients.

Impossible to stay under the mandatory reporting requirement when the amounts got too big. The banks coordinated their systems; a deposit into a certain account at one office showed up everywhere. Electronic registries connected any suspicious transactions.

But JW was a laundry master. He’d made connections, mastered trust, manufactured solutions. His Swedish companies each had point persons at different banks and their own accounts with credit. Smiles and explanations about a cash-heavy industry in English antique furniture ought to do it. As long as they believed he was conducting credible business, it was all good.

A hundred grand was packed in his Prada bag when he was on his way to see his two contacts, one at Handelsbanken, the other at the SEB bank.

It’d been a week since he’d gotten back. The system was pure genius. Dirty cash in and two ways to get it out to the island. The first way—through invoices to British companies for phony marketing costs, all payable to his island company’s bank account. JW’d gotten the idea from the 2005 Ericsson bribery scandals. The smart thing was, of course, that he wasn’t messing with shady deposits, but payments. It looked better, didn’t raise eyebrows—an English furniture buyer needs to be marketed in England. His bank contacts would consider it completely natural. And, the second way, in order to diversify his methods—by packing thousand-kronor bills and snail-mailing them to the Isle of Man. Then he had someone there collect the package and deposit the money in the island company’s account. It was more dangerous, but you couldn’t travel on your own with that much cash. The metal detectors’d react right away to the metal threads in the bills.

The Swedish banks wouldn’t suspect deposits that were payments for something. He’d made the invoices himself. Not even a full-time graphic designer could’ve made more authentic-looking logos for a British marketing agency. He was so damn pleased.

The hard cash turned electronic through the payments made in Sweden or the deposits on the island. The accounts on the island were controlled by his companies. Confidentiality cut off all search routes to the companies. The money was his, undetectable to anyone here. And then, the island companies lent money to his company in Sweden. That was how his finances were actually replenished. Totally clean, white cash. Because the glory of it all was that anyone could be rich on borrowed money. Big Brother wouldn’t wonder. The interest rates and repayment requirements were set at market standard. Were even deductible.

At Handelsbanken, he took a queue number, then stood reading the text rolling on the screens. The market was going up. JW’d already bought some shares: Ericsson, H&M, and SCA. A good mix. Ericsson, the telecom stock that’d risen over 300 percent. H&M, the company that soared even during times of recession. And SCA, the serene security of timber. Spiced it up with two smaller companies, one IT company that manufactured routers, one biotech company that developed anti-Alzheimer’s medicine. Stocks were another filter to purify filthy change. Capital gains from the stock market were taxed, considered normal, weren’t questioned. Incorporated into the system. A future step in the money-laundering carousel—maybe he’d get in touch with a broker to tumble dry even bigger sums.

What’s more, the stock market gave him good talking points with his buds. The boyz and stocks, like Abdulkarim and coke. The bigger the money, the greater the buzz.

JW eyed the line; it was worse than at the Skavsta Airport check-in. The fifty thousand kronor he’d taken from the Prada bag burned in the pocket of his Dior coat. JW thought, If anyone stabs me, the wad of bills will catch the blade and save my life.

He thought about the packaging farm in the English countryside. Chris, the guy who ran the place, was still just an underling of the soccer hooligans who were really in charge. He’d been a part of something really big for the first time in his life. It felt so incredibly good and so ridiculously difficult not to tell Sophie anything.

It was JW’s turn at the counter.

He stepped up.

Became aware of his hand sweat.

Tried to smile.

“Is Annika Westermark available?”

The cashier smiled back. “Sure. Would you like me to get her for you?”

A miscalculation by JW. He’d hoped to go into Annika Westermark’s private office in order to give her the cash there. Not have to heap it up on the counter.

Annika Westermark appeared behind the glass dressed in a dark suit in conservative banker style, just like the last time he’d met her and told her about his furniture business.

JW leaned forward. “Hi, Annika. How are you today?”

“Fine, thank you. How are you?”

JW piled on the entrepreneurial small-business-owner style. “Hell yeah, things’re rolling. This month has been very successful, which is really awesome. I’ve had three interior designers buying a scary number of sofa groups.” He laughed.

Annika expressed polite interest.

JW’d already explained to her previously that the payments were for marketing costs in England. Prepared her—his whole business with English antique furniture was built on the right purchases being made in Great Britain, which is why heavy marketing was necessary. She seemed to get it.

He handed over the bills, fifty grand in a plastic folder, while he held the fake invoice in the other hand. Slipped it under the protective glass.

Annika took out the bills. Licked her finger—gross—and counted them. One hundred five-hundred-kronor bills. She looked at the invoice.

Was she suspicious?

She mmm’ed.

JW tried to chitchat. “It doesn’t feel all too good walking around with a whole month’s worth of earnings in your pocket.”

She pushed him a slip of paper.

“There you go, your receipt.”

All was cool. She didn’t care, gobbled his story right up. A fifty-thousand-kronor cash deposit—nothing strange about that. What she didn’t know was that he was planning on depositing another fifty at SEB, and he’d snail-mailed fifty more. In two days, his island company would be 150 grand richer.

He thought, Will she react next month when I come with 250 in payment? Time would tell if it would work.

He thanked her and left.

Norrmalmstorg square, flanked by law firms, felt like an arena. Everyone just had to see how he radiated—what a winner he was.

He started walking toward SEB and hit play on his MP3 player: the Swedish band Kent. Bitter Swedish security: “I am going to steal a treasure. The one hidden at the end of the rainbow. It is mine, it is you.” He thought about his parents. How would they react if they found out about the Jan Brunéus business? Would they keep doing nothing? Drown in self-pity and tedium? Maybe they’d act. Do something about the whole situation. The ball was really in their court. To put pressure on the police. To find out what’d actually happened.

He walked up Nybrogatan. A new boutique’d opened where the hairdresser’s used to be. JW thought, This has to be the city’s most bankruptcy-dense street. No store survived more than a year.

It was noon. He should study and was vacillating about wanting to see Sophie later that night or not, couldn’t decide.

Thought, Really, I’m a social genius.
The Talented Mr. Ripley,
Swedish-style. Fit in with the boyz—studied the mannerisms of the upper class, played along, laughed at the right beats, volleyed with their slang. But he also fit in with Abdulkarim and the dealer collective, their ghetto jargon, fist romance, drug finance. Tight with Fahdi—a soft, lethal gorilla. He was smooth with Petter and the other dealers. And he had a special thing with Jorge.

The other day, it’d crystallized. JW and Jorge were hanging out at Fahdi’s, as usual. The kitchen table was laden with scales, Red Line baggies, manila envelopes. They were measuring out, scraping into baggies, lacing with granulated fructose—easy way to increase the margins by 10 to 20 percent—while they discussed Jorge’s success in the boroughs and JW’s London trip.

After a while, Jorge said, “I’ve never been saved by anyone before. I would’ve died out there if you hadn’t come.”

JW thought, It’s true. If I hadn’t picked Jorge up in the woods—beaten to smithereens, crushed—the Chilean would’ve died. He didn’t recognize himself, sentimental about having done something that was actually good.

JW grinned. “It’s cool. We do everything on orders from Abdul, right?”

“Honestly,
hombre,
you saved my life. I’ll never forget it.” Jorge looked up. His gaze steady, serious, solemn. He said, “I’ll do anything for you, JW. Always. Never forget that.”

JW hadn’t thought a lot about it at the time. But today, on his way to the bank on Nybrogatan, it came back to him. It made him feel good, somehow, that there was someone in the world who’d do anything for him. It was security. Maybe even true friendship.

He decided to grab something to eat before his visit to the bank. Stepped into Café Cream on Nybrogatan and ordered a ciabatta sandwich with salami and Brie, plus a Coke.

He sat alone on a high stool by the window, looking out. The world of high society was small. He recognized more than every third passing Östermalms chick in the age range of nineteen to twenty-four. Same deal with the Yuppie players around twenty-five—men in suits he usually bumped into at Kharma or Laroy, but then they’d be wearing jeans, open button-down shirts, jackets, sporting coke-craving in their eyes. The only thing that remained the same now—the backslicks. He thought, What world’d Camilla lived in? Stureplan by day or by night?

His sandwich was brought over. JW opened it and discovered his bad luck. Usually, he was an omnivore. When he moved away from home, he quickly learned to like most things, stuff that lots of people nixed: herring, sushi, caviar, pickled onions. Now there were just two things he couldn’t handle: capers and celery. Inside the ciabatta: salad and capers. In the salad, celery bits.

Damn it.

He spent ten minutes picking the crap out.

Then he ate quickly while he played a game of chess on his phone.

He drained the Coke, left half the ciabatta, and walked out.

Hi’ed two guys walking in the opposite direction. Club buds.

He continued up Nybrogatan. Saluhallen, the indoor luxury food market, was on his left. JW shopped there more and more these days.

The revolving doors leading into SEB’s offices were not automatic. Had to push your way in.

As soon as he was inside, JW groped in his bag for the other plastic folder, another fifty grand.

He took a queue number. The place was almost empty, even though there were ATMs and change machines on the premises.

The stock market feeds on the screens were being updated. JW eyed them.

Then it was his turn.

He glanced around. There could be police or other suspicious types there, but it all looked okay.

The cashier had henna-red hair.

JW asked for his contact person, a woman in this office, as well.

The cashier informed him that his contact wasn’t there but that he could pay her instead. It wasn’t great, but it’d have to do.

“What’s up?” said a voice behind him.

JW turned around. Saw Nippe with some chick. Nippe looked down at the wad of cash that JW’d just handed over to the cashier.

Fuck.

JW checked himself. Put on the calm, unaffected veneer. In his head: Holy fuck, how embarrassing. Nippe saw the stash in the cashier’s hands. What was he going to do?

“Hey, Nippe.” Looked at the chick.

Nippe introduced her. “This is Emma.”

JW sighed heavily.

Nippe looked quizzically at him.

“
Emma only exists in fantasy, but she’s looo-oovely
.”

They looked like question marks.

JW gave it another go. “You don’t remember that TV show,
Kalle’s Climbing Tree,
from when we were kids?” He hummed and ended with another deep sigh.

JW grinned, regretted it right away, was ashamed—he was such a tool.

A loser, a nerd.

Nippe said, “I haven’t heard that song before. But hey, so, I have to deal with this stuff. Take care. See ya.”

Nippe reached the cashier he’d been in line for.

JW got his receipt of payment from the lady behind the glass.

He started walking out.

Nippe didn’t nod when JW stepped out of the revolving doors.

Was a new cold front moving in?

On the way home, he thought about what’d been most embarrassing: that Nippe’d seen the wad of cash or his lame joke?

Nenad called from a new number—apparently, he’d also begun making security changes in his life. Mrado and he made small talk; then they discussed the murders of the pimp and the brothel madam. What the fuck’d happened? Shot to bits. The perp unknown. Nenad was jumpy. Before Radovan’d cut him off, Zlakto and Jelena were some of his best pimps. The questions bounced between Nenad and Mrado. Radovan wanted to purge his ranks? A john who didn’t want marital problems? Someone else?

Mrado’s suspicion: Either a panicked john or, worst-case scenario, a competing stable. Could also be the Russians. Could be the HA. In that case, the shots were unmistakable acts of war.

Nenad’s problem: What did this mean for him? If it wasn’t Radovan’s doing, would the shadow fall over him?

Made it even more important to keep moving on their own plans.

Nenad explained his idea: It was like Serbian folk music to Mrado’s ears. “You know, I’ve got a guy under me, an Arab, Abdulkarim. He basically serves up the whole blow banquet on his own. Has reported to me at steady intervals. I’ve negotiated all the bigger deals, drawn up the guidelines and done the top-down organizing. Right now, we’ve got an expansion plan that’s been a huge hit so far. To deal to the boroughs at cut prices. The others can keep selling one gram at a time at the inner-city clubs or the millionaire parties. A thousand kronor a gram. But we, we sell twenty grams at a time. Seven hundred a gram. Volume. That’s what’s up.”

“You told me that the day before yesterday. What’s happening with it now?”

“Good question. How do I maintain control over Abdulkarim now that Radovan’s demoted me? Abdul is loyal to Rado and won’t listen to me. Won’t take orders. Keeps truckin’ like I don’t exist. But listen to this. I usually don’t know what guys the Arab’s using, but in London, Abdul sent a special guy, a real brat actually, to help me with negotiations. Superb guy. Sharp. Has worked for Abdul for less than a year. Knows the C biz well. Reliable. Talkin’ to the Arab, says the guy’s a wannabe. A bumpkin who wants up. Hungry as hell. Drove a gypsy cab for Abdul just so he could rage with his buds and booze the extra cash in bubbly. Party at Kharma, Köket, joints like that. The boy’s playin’ two hands. According to Abdul, his friends don’t even know who he really is. The whole thing sounds kinda tragic, but good for us.”

Mrado sometimes tired of Nenad. So much damn jaw. He pinned the phone between his head and shoulder. Tied his shoes. Realized he didn’t have a hands-free.

He didn’t want to be at home during these kinds of conversations. Went out.

“Get to the point, Nenad.”

“Chill. JW—that’s the guy’s name—knows everything about the deal I made in London. Calculated every pound and krona. Went over freight routes, useful people, pushers. We can use him.”

“Now it’s getting interesting.”

“He wants the same thing as everyone else—dough. But more. According to Abdulkarim, he’s even rigged accounts on some Channel Island. Get this. The dude thinks he’s gonna be a multimillionaire. Says something about his ambition.”

“I’m with you. The dude’ll do anything for dough.”

“Bingo! You and me, we lay low. Continue what we talked about at Clarion. Play with the Radovan swine. Pretend to allow ourselves to be humiliated. Abdulkarim’ll take over the wheel, drive the blow. Think I’m outta the game. We keep working for Rado, no matter the shit he has us do. You’re cut off from the coat checks; I’ll be cut off from the blow. When the shipment arrives, Rado’ll already have put someone else in charge of the Arab, probably Goran. But that doesn’t matter. The point is that our man’ll be in the game, the brat boy. Just gotta make sure JW gets an offer he can’t refuse. He’ll be our Trojan horse.”

Mrado walked Ringvägen. Suddenly loved Nenad.

The blow pimp was in ecstasy. “When the shipment arrives—and trust me, it’s big as hell, more pounds than you can bench-press, Sweden’s biggest delivery ever—then we’ll be there. Ready to take back what belongs to us. Ready to roll.”

Mrado got chills.

“You’re amazing. When do we meet up and talk more, today?”

“Sure, meet me tonight at Hirschenkeller. I’m in the mood for some Budapest grill and a dark brew.”

Mrado laughed. Hung up. On the phone’s display: a seventeen-minute-long conversation. His ear: red and warm. Too much cell phone radiation, or excitement over the breakthrough?

Mrado was on his way home from the gym. Was gonna pick up Lovisa and go to a children’s theater on Atlasgatan in Vasastan. He ate a Gainomax Recovery energy bar.

Mrado and Nenad: new dynamic duo. Butch and Sundance. An unbeatable combination.

They’d talked every day; the planning continued. How would they break Rado? The Serbian Godfather wannabe.

Mrado’s headache: Lovisa had to switch schools. Annika hadn’t understood what Mrado was talking about. Thought he wanted to mess with her, as usual. What should he do?

Some days, his insomnia almost crushed him.

When Nenad called, Mrado understood what it was about right away.

He hit speakerphone in the car.

“I talked to him today.”

“And? What he say?”

Nenad—long-winded master. “We met for lunch at Texas Smokehouse. I just called and invited him. He recognized my voice immediately. But he helped me in London, so maybe that wasn’t so strange. I just told him I wanted to talk; maybe he got shook. Thought something’d gone to hell. Anyway, we met up.”

“What he say?”

“The dude’s a brat wannabe—squared. No, hell, he’s cubed. Sure, I could tell in London, but even more now. He said hi to every cute Östermalm tail that sashayed past. Really pretty wild that him and the Arab jive.”

Mrado turned off toward where Lovisa’s after-school program was. She was waiting by the gate. Mrado’s heart skipped a beat. Thought, If anything happens to her, it’s over. Nenad jabbered on.

“Come on. Cut to the chase. I gotta go.”

“Chill. The JW guy’s cool. He’s with us. But it’ll cost. This is the deal. He’ll keep track of the big C shipment. Will report directly to me about any progress. When it’s expected to arrive. Where it’s expected to arrive. How it’ll be shipped. Stored. Who’ll be guarding it. When it’s time, we’ll do the rest. What’s more, he’ll develop sales channels on the side.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“And that’s not all. He can rig big-league laundromats. For real. No shitty video-rental stores. No dry cleaners. Real stuff. Numbered accounts. Shelf companies. Tax paradise. Everything.”

“Sounds totally fucking amazing. What does he want?”

“Twenty-five percent of the pie.”

Mrado almost choked. This JW guy really thought highly of himself. He had to consider.

“Nenad, I gotta go. I’m picking up my daughter. We’ll talk later.”

Mrado had one night and one day with Lovisa.

Life.

Suck on the JW-boy’s offer—candy.

Lovisa opened the gate. Mrado couldn’t stand to talk to the teachers.

She walked toward his car.

Fuck, why did everything have to be so complicated?