Easy Money (42 page)

A week’d passed since the night at Smådalarö. Jorge was lying low. The cops were still on high alert because of the Brothel Murders, as the evening press’d dubbed them. What bullshit—who the hell cared about some übercriminal Serbs?

Jorge hung out at home. Sometimes he had to go out on the street to deal with immediate concerns regarding sales and distribution, but not often. He’d been outside a total of three times.

Abdulkarim was happy as long as the plan panned out—to spread the white gold in the boroughs. Lower the prices. Set the bar. Instead of: “Wanna grab a few beers?” make it: “Wanna snort a few lines?”

It worked. Jorge dealt to eight different contacts in the northern boroughs—from Solna to Märsta. Dudes who knew their turf. Knew the right people. Sold at pubs, pizza joints, discotheques, billiard halls, malls, parks, outside Social Services. And he also distributed to some of the city’s southern boroughs.

Jorge: a mini Abdul in his own territory. But he still wanted to avoid being seen.

Petter, the soccer hooligan, was his main man. Kept track of the dealers. Dealt with logistics. Drove around all day with baggies. Called himself “Mr. Icee.” The only thing missing was a catchy jingle as he drove past.

Peddled K–12. At house and apartment parties, outside hot dog stands and after-school programs. In common rooms, commuter rail stations, housing-project basements.

A competently cold-blooded coke invasion of the boroughs.

The money rolled in. Abdulkarim was generous. So far, Jorge’d collected over 400,000. Stored half the cash at home in six DVD cases on his bookshelf. Rolled the thousand-kronor bills side by side, like cigars. The rest he buried in a wooded area outside Helenelund—pirate-style.

He consumed some but saved most of it.

Couldn’t find peace. Woke up at least once an hour on the hour every night.

Disturbing images from his dreams: couches covered in brain matter, Österåker’s walls from the inside, old guys with tongues like erect penises.

Didn’t need Freud to interpret that.

Jorge was scared.

If he was put away again, it’d probably be for life.

That wouldn’t fly now that he was gonna be an uncle.

He needed to act.

Exploit the positive sides of the situation.

Södermalm, Stockholm’s south side. On the way to Lundagatan. Unknown territory for Jorge. The subway stop was Zinkensdamm.

Jorge got off the subway. A forceful wind struck him in the face as he walked up the stairs to the exit.

The weather outside, milder. Spring was on its way.

Lundagatan up. The Skinnarvik Park was snow-free. Jorge knew the rumor: Gay Central Station.

Street number: fifty-five.

He entered the key code he’d been given: 1914. Jorge thought, People have poor imaginations. Almost all building key codes begin with nineteen. Like dates.

Checked the list of tenants in the entry. Ahl—three flights. Jorge was in the right place.

He took the elevator up.

Heard music in the foyer.

Rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

Rang again. He heard the music stop.

Someone turned the lock from the inside.

A guy in sweatpants and a wifebeater opened. He had bedhead, round glasses, and mad acne issues. The caricature of a computer geek.

Jorge introduced himself. Was let in.

They’d spoken two days earlier. Arranged a time and place.

Richard Ahl: a twenty-one-year-old kid who studied film at Södertörn College and worked nights at Windows XP tech support. According to him: a crack shot who spent at least eight hours a day in the world of Counter-Strike with a gun in his hand. Richard: online gaming’s unknown guru. “You gotta practice if you wanna be a pro. You know how much dough is in this industry?” he asked Jorge after he’d explained what he did.

Jorge couldn’t have cared less. He played Game Boy, Max; more advanced stuff wasn’t part of his repertoire.

Richard explained, “Counter-Strike, it’s the cash cow of the online gaming world. You know, that industry has a bigger turnover than Hollywood.” He buzzed on.

Jorge’d found Richard through Petter. According to Petter, the dude was a computer genius. Too bad he wasted his talent on games. The guy could easily hack into the Swedish Security Service, the CIA, or the Pentagon, if he’d only give it a whirl.

The apartment: a studio with a sleeping nook. Hardly any furniture save for a bed. Clothes and magazines all over the floor. Most striking, against one wall: the computer desk, completely cluttered. Two screens, one flat screen and one older model. Floppy discs, CDs and DVDs, cases, manuals, joysticks, controllers, keyboards, magazines, three mouse pads, each with a different pattern, one with a water-lily pond by Monet, two different mice, a laptop slightly ajar, cords, a Web camera, empty Coca-Cola cans, and empty pizza cartons.

A computer geek’s natural habitat.

Richard sat down on the chair by the computer desk. “Petter said you wanted some help. Spruce up some pics and get into a computer?”

Jorge wasn’t totally sure he’d understood. He remained standing in the middle of the room.

“First and foremost, I need to get into this laptop. I don’t have the user name or password, and there’s info on it that’s very important. Then I need your help to up the quality of a couple of pictures I took with a cell phone camera.”

“Right. Wasn’t that what I just said?” The dude rocked a cocky style. Knew he was smart. But not smart enough to be humble.

Jorge handed over the laptop that he’d swiped from Hallonbergen.

Richard leaned back in his desk chair. Rolled forward. Opened the laptop. Turned it on.

The computer asked for user name and password.

Richard typed something in.

The computer responded with a text message:
You were not logged in. The user name or password you entered is incorrect. Please try again or contact customer service.

Richard sighed. Tried new letter combinations.

Nothing happened.

He restarted the computer. Inserted a CD.

Started writing in DOS format.

Nothing happened.

He continued to pound the keyboard frenetically.

Jorge pushed aside a pile of dirty laundry and sat down on the bed. Didn’t even try to understand what the computer geek was doing. As long as he could hack into the computer. Looked around. On the walls: posters from the first
Star Wars
movies. Might be originals. Luke Skywalker in a messianic pose, with the light saber pointed to the universe’s sky. Yoda with a cane and wrinkled face. Probably artsy pictures. Jorge’d never understood science fiction.

He thought about the girls at Smådalarö. Many of Eastern European origin. Like Nadja. Some’d spoken fluent Swedish. Other were regular Swedish chicks. The mix: Svens,
blattes,
Asians. He understood the imported Eastern women. They were living in the country illegally. Were on drugs. Lived under constant threat from their pimps. They didn’t have much choice. But the others? How’d they ended up in the shit?

Richard started explaining. “I can’t do it. The info you want is on the hard drive. I’ve tried to reinstall Windows XP, which is the operating system on this computer, from my own CD. The user name and password are just parts of the operating system, so if I installed a new one, those would disappear, I thought. The problem is that the system’s somehow encrypted the info on the hard drive. Installing Windows won’t cut it. I have to decrypt. Could take a while.”

“How long?”

“Well, I don’t have the programs to do it here at home. I have to download them. Play around a little. Need three, four weeks maybe.”

“You really can’t get it any faster?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got a lot do in school right now.”

Jorge thought, Might as well kiss this computer geek’s ass a little. He said, “Do the best you can. I’ll pay good.”

Richard closed the laptop.

“You were gonna look at some pictures, too,” Jorge said.

They surfed up Jorge’s Hotmail account. Downloaded the photos.

Richard opened an Adobe imaging system.

Chose File/Open.

Five pictures popped up on the screen.

The first: Sven Bolinder in an armchair with a young girl on his lap. In profile.

The second: a man in another armchair. A girl sat on the armrest. They were kissing.

Third photo: the back of a man making out with a girl against the wall. No face. Fuck.

Fourth: same man against the wall. His face peeked out from behind the girl’s shoulder. Broad smile.

Last one: a fourth man next to an armchair. A girl on her knees in the armchair, one hand over the man’s pants, over his cock. He was smiling.

All the photos: terrible quality. Looked like Jorge’d photographed fuzzy ghosts.

Richard zoomed in on the pictures. “What the hell is this?”

Jorge wasn’t sure—did the computer geek mean he couldn’t tell what the pictures were of, or was he shocked because he did see what the pictures were of?

“Pictures that I need to make clearer. I guess I’m the only one who can see what’s going on in them now, huh?”

“Jorge. What’re you doing, exactly?” Richard’s eyes were wide.

“Relax. I’m no private eye, if that’s what you think. I don’t even know who these old guys are. It’s nothing bad. Just help me out.”

Richard muttered. Turned back to the screen. Started clicking on the program’s icons and the images.

He fiddled. Changed the exposure. Tested different resolutions, pixel qualities, rendering, contrasts. Enlarged the pictures, changed the color tone, retouched blurred bits.

Worked keenly.

An hour passed.

Jorge wondered how long it would take.

Richard didn’t seem to understand. “This? This’ll take all night. Once I’ve started, I don’t stop.”

Jorge got the hint. Thanked him, excused himself.

They were gonna be in touch the next day at lunchtime.

He left.

Walked down Lundagatan.

In the subway on the way home: thoughts. The nasty, fancy gold guys weren’t satisfied with their lives. Had to fuck teenage whores to feel good. Sven hypocrisy demasked. The
blatte
world was more honest. Immigrant Sweden was better. That night, for some reason, he slept okay.

The next day at twelve-thirty, the computer geek called.

“Did you fix the photos?”

“Hell yeah. Looks like they were taken with a three-megapixel camera with flash, at least.”

“And.”

“I’ve run the pictures though some databases. Thought you might like that.”

“Databases?”

“Yup. Don’t you wanna know who the old guys are?”

More than Jorge’d expected. He felt goose bumps rise on his skin.

This was big.

Richard went on: “The guy with the chick in his lap, that’s Sven Bolinder, the chairman of the board and CEO of one of Sweden’s biggest publicly traded companies. The guy kissing, that’s the heir to a company. Don’t think you’d know it, but it’s huge. The oldie against the wall with that nerdy-ass smile is buds with the king and a real high roller. Finally, the guy getting his dick massaged, he was the easiest. That’s a Wallström.”

Jorge had no idea about the companies Richard’d listed. Big business wasn’t his specialty, at least not the legal kind.

But he clocked the basics—they were big-timers.

He and Richard made arrangements. Jorge was gonna go there and pick up the photos in altered form.

He threw himself out of the apartment. Ran toward the commuter rail station.

J-boy: like he’d always said—king of kings. Finance men/brokers/CEOs—beware. Jorgelito:
blatte
of
blattes
you’ll wish you’d never met.

Some sort of victory was within reach.

Two months later.

Princess Madeleine’s birthday celebration at the Solliden Palace on June 10 was the natural early-summer high point for the city’s glamorous set. The party was, of course, arranged by Stureplan’s new favorite, Carl Malmer, known to his friends as “Jet Set Carl,” party planner and personal friend of the princess. Dad, the king, and Mom, the queen, were there, as well as the young crème de la crème of Stockholm’s high society. The guests enjoyed champagne and an Italian buffet, after which they danced up a storm to E-Type, who played a special birthday concert. The princess was radiant in her early-summer and perpetually even “Saint-Tropez tan,” with boyfriend Jonas at her side. Crown Princess Victoria offered congratulations and bestowed her gift upon little sis—a custom-embossed doghouse, model Mini One, designed by artist Ernst Billgren. All the princess’s friends spent a long night together, and at the stroke of midnight a snack was served, the classic national specialty, Jansson’s Temptation. After that, the baby princess and her entourage continued to have fun all night long!

The princess’s friends Sophie Pihl and Anna Rosensvärd were, as always, in high party spirits.

Carl Malmer, Jet Set Carl, was accompanied by (girl?)friend Charlotta “Lollo” Nordlander. Carl planned the party.

The boyz club, Baron Fredrik Gyllenbielke, Niklas “Nippe” Creutz, and Johan “JW” Westlund, threw down on the dance floor.

The birthday girl, Princess Madeleine, was embraced by her Jonas.

JW lived Life. And all the while, Nenad kept in touch regularly. Almost three months’d passed since JW’d made up his mind—he wanted to play in the big leagues, with the big boys. Didn’t really understand why the equation demanded his participation, but apparently it was important to Nenad. He’d get his cut of the pie. After some bartering back and forth, they’d landed on 15 percent. If all went well, if the whole shipment made it safely into the country, if sales went off without a hitch at good prices, it would be more than six million. Jesus.

The money-laundering system was the great problem solver. Everything’d fallen into place a little over three months ago. The companies and accounts on the Isle of Man, the companies in Sweden, the invoices, the promissory notes, and the hiring contract. Damn nicely done.

JW dug the system he’d engineered for himself—the placement when JW’s C cash was transferred as payment for fantasy marketing costs in England. He designed the invoices for the made-up English advertising and marketing companies himself. They all had the same account number—his own company’s account with the Central Union Bank. Nothing strange about that—on paper, his fake business was dealing British antiques. His two point persons at the Swedish banks loved him. Every time they saw each other, JW doled out compliments, made them laugh and listen to his stories about leather armchairs or glass tables with marble legs. Top-shelf trust. Phase one of moving the money—transforming the cash into electronic records—went smoothly. The next phase—concealment—consisted of transferring the money to JW’s island company. The company’d acquired a name, C Solutions, Ltd. He liked the catchy C in the name. The money was protected, hidden, secure. No one but JW had the right to know how much and where it was.

The last phase—the actual washing—was genius. C Solutions, Ltd., loaned money to JW’s third Swedish company, JW Consulting, Ltd. Promissory notes had been drawn up by JW’s own banker, who, in turn, documented the transactions. Interest and payments were regulated. Advanced legal clauses were in place: Event of Default, Governing Law, Termination—everything according to the Isle of Man’s legislation. From the perspective of the Swedish authorities, JW’s Swedish company got loans from a foreign company. Nothing shady about that. The contracts were completely in order. Carefully calculated circuit: JW paid invoices to his own company, which, in turn, loaned out the money; then he paid himself interest. JW Consulting, Ltd., was stocking up; there was already half a million kronor in the bank, totally legit. If anyone wondered what the company was using the money for, the answer was a given: It was to cover the initial start-up costs, like a company car and cell phone for JW. In addition, there was the possibility of fake-investing the money and earning profits that would become the company’s own capital. Best of all, the interest being paid back to the island company was tax-deductible.

The Swedish company bought the BMW JW’d been coveting for 200,000 kronor, cash—the rest to be paid in installments. Formally, it was owned by the company, but it was at JW’s full disposal. The day he picked it up from the dealer was one of the best of his life, even better than the day at the luxury department store in London.

To buy an apartment was trickier. It was rare that a legal person was permitted to own a co-op in Sweden. JW’s company couldn’t formally pay for it. The solution was that JW Consulting, Ltd., called a board meeting. Signed off on the agenda, decided that three hundred grand would be granted to JW personally.

The effect of all the legal stuff was that, last week, he’d put a 300,000-kronor down payment on a luxuriously renovated one-bedroom on Kommendörsgatan. Six hundred and forty-five square feet. Total price: 3.2 million. It was worth every penny—sure, the apartment wasn’t huge, but it was enough. Hardwood floors, high ceilings, moldings, deep windows, and a tiled woodstove gave the right feel. He didn’t have money left over to buy sweet furniture, but that wasn’t a problem—when the big delivery’d been made, and the dealing was well on its way, JW would go wild at Nordiska Galleriet, Stockholm’s premier luxury design destination. Become high-class. Become in line with his image of himself.

It’d all gone so fast. In just a few months, he was living under the same circumstances as Nippe, Putte, Fredrik, and the others. Owned a car and an apartment in the golden rectangle.

It could only get better. Since the spring, he’d averaged 200,000 a month. He and Jet Set Carl were an unbeatable team. Carl planned the parties, invited the people, ran the PR parade. JW guaranteed a full rager and full noses. The money in Sweden was transferred to C Solutions, Ltd.’s account on the Isle of Man, then back to JW Consulting, Ltd. It was a complicated, time-consuming, and expensive process. But when the big C delivery’d been made, it would be worth every penny.

He’d tried to explain the system to Abdulkarim. The Arab understood the magnitude vaguely and wanted in. JW praised himself. He was the man who’d thought to plan ahead—after all, he’d bought yet another company on the island and opened accounts for it. Now that Abdulkarim was interested, there was a possibility of running his business, too. Easy enough to activate the other company and start up an even bigger money circuit. Nenad praised him, too, pronounced the situation first-rate. Demanded an in. JW was happy to oblige. Opened accounts. Fixed contracts. Within a month, the Arab, the Serb, and whoever else who wanted would be able buy their way into JW’s system. In: pitch-black cash. Out: pure white fleece.

JW’d always known that Sophie knew Princess Madeleine. But the feeling of being invited, and even seeing himself in the back pages of the royal gossip rag, was a joy comparable to the car purchase.

And Sophie’d stopped asking about Jorge and the others. Maybe it’d been enough for her to meet the Chilean that one time. JW was insecure; sometimes it felt like she was letting him go. Was it because she felt like he was hiding too much? His constant source of insecurity. Should he let her meet his dealer friends? That was impossible. A live gun against JW’s temple. Sure, she’d met Jorge and everything was peachy keen, but the Arab’s rough manner and Fahdi’s crude jokes—never. JW pushed the thought aside. It was a relief that Sophie’d stopped asking. At the same time, his fear that the whole thing would go to hell kept growing. No way it could fall apart now. Not when he was so close to self-realization.

He was waiting to hear from the police regarding new findings about Camilla, but nothing happened. At the end of June, almost six months after he’d given them all he knew, he decided to call the investigator.

He got the cold shoulder. The police explained that he didn’t have any actual right to information about the investigation regarding Camilla’s disappearance. “Confidentiality, you know.” If the police chose to communicate with anyone, it would be with the parents, Margareta and Bengt Westlund, not JW. “Also, in the case in question, no breakthrough has been made, therefore, there is nothing to report.”

He remained sitting with the receiver in hand for half an hour, just staring into space. Couldn’t believe it. What the hell were they doing? He’d served them the Komvux teacher’s head on a platter. Of course, Jan Brunéus had something to do with Camilla’s disappearance.

Sometimes he considered sending Fahdi to take care of Brunéus. Exert some pressure of his own to make the teacher talk.

JW ran his C business irreproachably. But as long as Camilla’s face was the first thing on his retina every morning, he couldn’t find peace.

The following day, he called his mom. He hadn’t spoken to her in two months.

“Johan, you never call and you don’t pick up when I try to call.” The first thing she did was guilt-trip him. No wonder he didn’t call more often.

“I know, Mom, I’m sorry. How are you guys?”

“As usual. Nothing changes up here.” JW understood. Grief still lay like a lid over her voice.

“I heard from a girlfriend yesterday that there’d been a picture of you in
Svensk Damtidning.
I ran right away and bought the magazine. I was going to call you today. How fun, Johan. At the princess’s party and all. Did you see the king?”

“I did, actually. He was happy and seemed nice.”

“I had no idea you knew those people.”

“They’re friends from school. Nice people.”

“Dad won one of those lottery things you scrape yesterday. Can you imagine? He scraped three one thousands. We didn’t see it at first. We scraped it together. The most we’d won before was three hundred kronor.”

“Well, that’s great. So, did you buy more tickets?”

“No. We went out for dinner in Robertsfors.”

The story made JW happy. As far as he knew, they hadn’t gone out to eat, not even to Robertsfors’s only decent restaurant, since Camilla’d disappeared.

“Mom, there’s something I want to tell you.”

Margareta was silent. Could tell by JW’s voice what it was about.

“The police have new information about Camilla.”

He heard her breathing on the other end of the line.

He kept talking. Told her the whole Jan Brunéus story. When he was finished, Margareta asked how he knew.

He avoided answering.

“Mom, you have to call the police. I know you don’t like doing it, but you have to. Find out if they know anything else. Put pressure on them to keep the investigation open. We have the right to know what happened.”

“I can’t do it. Dad’ll have to call.”

JW spoke to Bengt. His dad was in a bad mood. JW explained again. It was as if his father didn’t want to understand. He asked stupid questions. “Why did she cut so many classes? She must’ve known that bad attendance would mean lower grades.”

The frustration grew. Finally, JW almost yelled, “If you don’t call the police, I won’t talk to you anymore!”

An ugly threat. Low. But what was he supposed to do?

He apologized.

Bengt promised to call the police.

JW sat on the bed in his beautiful new apartment. He pulled his legs up and hugged them to his chest.

Thought about calling Sophie. Telling her everything about his parents. About Camilla.

No, he couldn’t do it.

The next day, he busied himself with the regular: Abdulkarim’s project, the C business, expansion plans, the collaboration with Jorge. Preparations with Abdulkarim and Jorge for the big C delivery. The Arab’d deliberately dried up the market. Wanted to press up the prices before the shipment’s arrival. It meant more time to study for JW, which he needed. He leaked information to Nenad like a sieve. Called him a few times a week with reports. It was starting to feel normal.

And then, on a day in June, the message arrived: The cabbages in England’d finished growing. They were big and dense enough. In a week, they would arrive, packed in containers.

JW and Abdulkarim’d contracted a real transportation company, Schenker Vegetables, Ltd. They’d booked storage spaces around town where the shit would be stored, conferred with the Brits about price guarantees and quality control, made sure the right drivers handled the load. Organized and planned to the max.

Soon they’d flood Stockholm’s boroughs with massive quantities of C.

JW and Jorge’d calculated, contemplated. Organized the dealers in accordance with the new quantities that would be available.

The early summer air was thick with excitement.

Within a few months, if all went according to plan, JW would be a multimillionaire.

***

Stockholm’s Video Specialist, Ltd., 556987-2265
The Video Buddy, Ltd., 55655-6897
Registered location: Stockholm

Member of the Board Christer Lindberg
Ekholmsvägen 35
127 48 SKÄRHOLMEN

Deputy Eva Gröberg (deceased)
Portholmsgången 47
127 48 SKÄRHOLMEN

Mikhael Stoianovic

100,000 kronor

June 10 of this year

Göran Grundberg

The bankruptcy estate inventory deed shows the following:

(Primarily assets from cash registers, inventories, and current assets in the form of VHS and DVD films): 11,124.00

Prioritized debts (tax claims)
: 174,612.00
FLR § 11
Nonprioritized debts
: 43,268.00
Estate’s deficit
:
206,756.00

The estate inventory has been approved by the company’s registered representative.

Since a while back, I have been investigating a number of companies that are suspected of being a part of a so-called money-laundering scheme. The debtors in question, Stockholm Video Specialist, Ltd. (referred to below as Video Specialist), and the Video Buddy, Ltd. (referred to below as Video Buddy), are suspected of being a part of a group of companies with connection to the so-called Yugoslavian Mafia in Stockholm. Other companies included in the same sphere are Clara’s Kitchen & Bar, Ltd., Diamond Catering, Ltd., and the Demolition Experts in Nälsta, Ltd. The companies are involved in varying fields of business, but the so-called shadow owners are probably the same.

Christer Lindberg acquired Video Specialist in September of last year from Ali Köyglu, who previously operated a dry-cleaning business on the premises. According to Christer Lindberg, the purchase price was 130,000 kronor. We have been unable to confirm that figure with Ali Köyglu. Christer Lindberg acquired Video Buddy in the course of the same month from Öz Izdan, who previously operated a video-rental business on the premises, under the company name Karlaplans Video, Ltd. Christer Lindberg has informed us that he is unable to recall the purchase price. Öz Izdan has refused to answer questions regarding the sale. According to Christer Lindberg, no written documents were drawn up over the sale.