by Jens Lapidus
Rudjman: But he means a lot to us. Does a good job. Got a hold of that Chilean snitch whore. Puts people in their place. Hookers, bouncers, live wires.
Kranjic: Sure, but he doesn’t know his place anymore. This fall, he demanded a bigger cut of the profits. He can forget about that. After the Kvarnen shit show. Bad and poorly planned. But, most of all, and now I know I’m getting personal, it’s about history. He can’t accept that I’m in charge. We worked on the same level a long time ago. That’s another reason he’s gotta go. His loyalty falters.
The Surveillance Group believes that this is another sign that Project Nova has succeeded in its initial stage: to disrupt the organized crime scene and weaken it.
Measures
The Surveillance Group suggests the following measures to be taken, based on what has been described above:
1. Increased surveillance operations against Mrado Slovovic and Radovan Kranjic, to the extent that permission is granted.
2. Continued attempts to gather information from X.
3. Continued attempts to infiltrate the Organization.
Regarding the budget for the above-listed measures, see attachment 1.
Criminal Investigation Department Superintendent Björn Stavgård
Special Investigator Stefan Krans
31
Jorge had to pee so bad, he could’ve pissed a whole ginger ale bottle full. Funny thought, maybe treat someone. “Here, have some ginger ale.” The color deceptively similar.
It would be weeks before he finally understood a basic ground rule for people in the surveillance business: Always bring a bottle to pee into when you’re staking out in a car. If it’s an empty ginger ale bottle or not doesn’t matter.
The car’s back windows were tinted-it was necessary so no one could see him. Regular windows would be too much of a hassle; he’d have to lie with his seat lowered all the way back. And then there’d be the risk of falling asleep.
Radovan’s house was peaceful. It was the first day he’d spent sitting out here. The first of many days to come.
He’d stolen the car, a Jeep Cherokee, in posh Östermalm at 3:00 a.m. Switched out the license plates. Reduced the risk of being outed by the cops.
Jorge, the Angel of Revenge, was gonna bring Radovan’s empire to its knees. He just had to figure out how.
All he knew right now was that hate went a long way. A vendetta that demanded even more patience than the escape from Österåker. He had to investigate, stake out, add things up. Dig up dirt on Radovan. To start, figure out Mr. R.’s routines. A good start: sitting in the car, thinking, and waiting to see if something shady would happen.
Nothing was happening on the street.
He looked at the house.
There was snow on the roof.
Unclear if anyone was home or not.
He kept staring, as if he’d enrolled at Komvux again-a course in suburban architecture.
Nodded off between five and six o’clock in the afternoon. Not good. Had to stay awake. Tomorrow, he was gonna bring cigarettes, Coca-Cola, maybe a Gameboy.
The day slipped by.
The hate remained.
A few days later, he was staking out the house again.
Forced himself to think about an outlet for his feelings toward Radovan. The ideas’d found their way into his mind a week ago for the first time. Earlier, he’d pushed the thoughts away, into the future. Had only wanted to survive on the run. Get in with Abdulkarim. Do a good job. Make some money. Fix a passport. Skip the country. Now, he enjoyed walking the city streets, being unrecognizable. The thought of leaving Sweden was starting to seem like too much of a hassle. Instead: When he’d made enough money, he’d start some kind of assault on Radovan.
A thought: There was the possibility that he was actually working indirectly for Radovan right now. Jorge knew coke Stockholm inside out. There weren’t many players out there with muscles big enough to deal on Abdulkarim’s massive scale. The Arab seemed ridiculous sometimes, but Jorge knew the dude had an iron grip on cocaine. Knew his shit. Jorge could have cared less either way. It wasn’t probable that Rado actually controlled Abdul-Serbs and Muslims didn’t usually mesh. And, if Radovan really was the boss, the irony was just too perfect.
He needed to plan other projects, his first real job for the Arab. Make sure a coke shipment had a smooth arrival, directly from Brazil.
That was his area of expertise.
Founding principle: An old trick can fly if you play it right. Jorge was prepared. A much bigger load than usual was being delivered. Cocaine acquired through contacts of contacts in Brazil. Priceworthy. Forty American dollars a gram. Heavy phone traffic the last couple of months. The deal was done: The tickets had been bought, a new prepaid cell had been acquired, the necessary people had been informed, customs officers in São Paolo had been bribed, and a hotel room had been booked. Most important of all, the courier had been secured. It was a woman.
Troubleshooting: done. Abdulkarim: double-checked everything.
Again: An old trick can fly if you play it right. The Arlanda airport police/customs were after suspicious couriers worse than baby ballers in the projects were after the gangs they wanted to belong to, like leeches.
Jorge repeated: He would play it right.
He went over his revenge project once again, which led to questions. What did he really know about R.? Some from the time before he was locked up, when he’d pushed powder for the Yugos. Their routines were tight. He’d pick up a key in a storage locker at the Central Station about once a week. Then he’d ride out to a Shurgard storage unit in Kungens Kurva, where he’d measure out ten to twenty grams per visit. Dealt the shit in the northern boroughs, sometimes at bars in the city. Sometimes to other dealers, sometimes directly to the customers. Simple jobs. Still, he’d banked. Been glossy.
He knew so much more about snow now. Österåker’d had its good sides-J-boy was a walking Stockholm coke encyclopedia.
Then: He’d always known Rado, the Yugo king, was behind it all. But he’d also known that nothing led back to Mr. R. The guys that delivered the coke to Jorge had never mentioned his name. He’d never run into them at the Shurgard storage unit. Strange that Mrado hadn’t killed him out there in the woods. The Yugos must’ve been scared that he had so much dirt on Radovan, he’d be able to hurt them for real.
He wished he had as much on the Yugo boss as they thought he did.
Something Jorge had to consider: If he tried to gather info about R. within the field he knew best, coke dealing, didn’t he risk his own skin? Didn’t he risk his buddies: Sergio, Vadim, Ashur? Dudes who’d all been involved in Radovan’s coke pyramid in one way or another. He ought to find out other stuff about the Yugo Mafia.
What else did he know about Radovan from his time at Österåker? First and foremost, what everybody knew: The Yugo boss was involved in a ton of other businesses besides ice. Racketeering, doping, cigarette smuggling. But what did he know of substance? Only a couple things: Radovan’s blow came in via the Balkan route, over the former Yugoslavia, where the shit was refined and packaged. Not like most other blow in Sweden, which came in through the Iberian Peninsula, England, or directly from Colombia and the rest of Latin America. The Balkan route was usually the heroin channel.
Moreover, he knew which restaurants Radovan was said to control and use for laundering. He knew a number of people who’d been threatened or gotten the shit kicked out of them because they’d challenged parts of Radovan’s empire: the blow biz in the inner city, Jack Vegas gambling machines at bars in the western boroughs, moonshine instead of smuggled stuff at restaurants in Sollentuna.
But again, nothing could be linked directly to R. Nothing could be proven.
Jorge figured he should give up. Eat the humiliation. Lots of people got the living daylights beaten out of them by men like Mrado. Who did he think he was? What could he achieve? On the other hand, J-boy, the big-balled Latino, escape artist extraordinaire, was bigger than the regular ghet
to gophers with dreams of bling and expensive rides. He was gonna be somebody. Cash in, for real. If Österåker hadn’t been able to stop him, no flabby Serbo-Croatian would, either.
The sky was darkening.
A crappy day.
The house was the wrong place to start. Jorge had to think. Be systematic.
He drove off. Parked the car in Södermalm. Dangerous to ride around in it for too long.
Couldn’t let go of the thoughts of R. and his connection to the Balkan route. Jorge knew a guy, Steven, at Österåker. The dude was doing time for smuggling horse from Croatia. Might be a starting point. Find out if Steven was out yet. Otherwise, find Steven’s partners. Guys who knew more about the Balkan route.
The next day, he called Österåker from a pay phone. Disguised his voice. Asked if Steven’d been released yet. He was met with a mocking tone on the other end of the line. Jorge didn’t recognize who it was. “Steven Jonsson? He’s got at least three years left. Call back then.”
Pigs.
Jorge called Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Sergio. Everyone he trusted. No one knew much about Steven and H smuggling. Some of them knew his name but had no idea who he’d worked with.
Three days of making calls. No success.
He couldn’t even get in touch with Steven himself in a safe way. Phone calls could be tapped, if they were even allowed. Letters could be opened and read. E-mail wasn’t allowed at the facility.
He staked out the house. Waited for something without knowing what.
Stared at the flat roof, his gaze glued to the snow.
Thought: How do I get in touch with Steven? Learn about heroin via the Balkan route. It was a perfect area. Jorge himself’d never been involved in it. No risk for him or his friends.
It became an obsession. A manic goal with Rado’s and Mrado’s heads as bounty.
Sometimes he saw people at the house. R. himself came home. A woman with a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girl arrived at the house at around six o’clock every night. It had to be R.’s wife and daughter. Home from school and work. Never alone. Always accompanied by a big dude with a Slavic look-obvious capo in the Yugo hierarchy. Later, Jorge learned who the guy was. His name was Stefanovic, private bodyguard and murder machine for the Radovan Kranjic family.
The woman drove a Saab convertible.
Radovan drove a Lexus SUV.
A happy little family.
When Jorge saw the girl, he thought about the picture of Paola that Mrado’d showed him in the woods. They played dirty. Jorge could play dirty, too. Do something to the girl. Still, it didn’t feel right. The girl was innocent. Besides, it seemed too dangerous.
The house was heavily guarded. Every time someone approached it, floodlights automatically lit up the path leading to the door. Sometimes, if Stefanovic was home, he came and opened the door for Radovan. That indicated that some sort of indoor alarm system forewarned him as soon as someone approached the house.
Jorge abandoned the idea that waiting outside the house would yield anything. It seemed half-baked.
Four days later: another idea. He called Österåker again. Asked about Steven. Asked what he’d been convicted of. Asked when he’d been convicted. At which district court.
Thanked Sweden for the law about open access to public records, whatever it was called. Jorge called the district court. Asked them to send him information about Steven Jonsson’s conviction. No problem-they didn’t even ask his name.
A day later, in Fahdi’s mailbox: trial documents. Stockholm’s district court. Aggravated drug possession. Thirteen pounds of heroin. Straight from Croatia, fresh. The defendants were Steven Jonsson, Ilja Randic, Darko Kusovic. Steven’d been sentenced to six years, Ilja to six years, Darko to two years. The last guy should be out by now.
Darko wasn’t difficult to get hold of. His cell was listed in the regular directory.
Jorge called.
“Hey, my name is Jorge. Old buddy of Steven’s from Österåker. I was wondering if it’d be okay if I asked some questions.”
“Who the hell are you?” Darko sounded on edge.
“Chill out, man. I did time with Steven. We were on the same hall. Would like to get together if you’ve got the time.”
Jorge cajoled. Sounded pleasant. Pulled some slammer stories about Steven. Made Darko understand that he’d really been in the cell next to Steven. Jorge giggled. Played like a cob. Harmless tool.
That always worked.
Finally, Darko said, “It’s cool. I’ve kicked that habit. Refurbishing Saabs full-time now. I’ll meet you, but only on one condition. I don’t wanna get pulled into anything. You get me? I quit that shit. I can tell you what Steven and I were up to, but it’s gonna be my way. Nothing more. I’m straight these days.”
Jorge thought: Yeah right, superstraight.
They arranged to meet up.
He was gonna meet Darko in four days. Five hot G’s burned in his pocket. A large part of his income from the job with Abdulkarim went to his hate project: It was both completing and depleting.
They met up at a coffee shop on Kungsgatan. Blueberry muffins and a hundred different types of coffee behind the counter. Place packed with teens and maternity-leave moms. The clientele’s conversation topics recapitulated: guys, girlfriends, stroller models.
After some polite small talk and the three thousand kronor as promised, Darko started talking. His dark voice carried over the shrill cackle as he recounted the preparations the heavy hitters’d made four years ago. Despite all his objections over the phone, he didn’t seem to give a shit if people heard him.
Darko was a Balkan route pro. Was familiar with every single smuggling route between Afghanistan, Turkey, Tajikistan, and the Balkans. He knew the 20 of every customs station along the entire stretch of the former Yugoslavia’s border. Which customs agents would turn a blind eye for dead presidents. Who was expensive, who was cheap.
Jorge was impressed. He asked about Radovan specifically.
Darko shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Can lead to trouble. I’ve got a son, eight years old.”
Again, Jorge thought about the cell phone picture of his sister that Mrado’d held up to his face in the woods that afternoon.
Kept applying pressure.
“Come on. Help me, just a little. Two more G’s for the info?”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Fuck it, man, call and ask Steven if you think I’ll sing. We used to sneak a blaze in the bathroom my whole time on the inside. I’d never jux a friend of Steven’s.”
Darko seemed to relax when he heard Steven’s name.
“You’re stubborn. I’ll tell you the whole story for five.”
No point in haggling. Jorge said, “Agreed. Five.”
Darko kept talking. Told how he and Steven hadn’t really worked for R. except on two occasions. The first time, they smuggled in nine pounds of heroin hidden in a tractor-trailer crammed with timber. Value on the street: over one and a half million. They’d cooked the whole dish from scratch: fixed the dudes who drove, kept their eyes on the dudes who drove, bribed customs agents, landed protection from other organized naughty boys in Belgrade.
The second time, he hadn’t smuggled H, something else. Worse.
Jorge got interested. Poured on the questions.
Darko looked strained. His eyes danced around the room. Downed his coffee. Suggested a walk instead.
They went out.
It was a cold February day. Crispy air and blue sky.
Jorge spewed chatter. Created trust. Babbled on.
“You should’ve been there. In the summer. Steven smuggled in fifteen cannabis seeds hidden in raisins that he planted in the rec yard. You know, cannabis is thirstier than an Arab in the desert.”
Darko listened. Let himself be entertained. Looked like he was unwinding somewhat.
“Major problem, watering the plants. Steven got the sickest idea, stood and pretended to piss on ’em at the same time the dude poured a glass of w
ater on the shits. A screw found him out, of course. Walked up. Flipped the fuck out and was all ‘Are you urinating on the lawn?’ Steven denied it, straight up. The screw was all gonna prove he’d pissed, got down on all fours. Started smelling the grass. You follow? Like a fucking dog. Steven told the CO fag, ‘Now you proved it. I suspected it a long time-screws and bitches, you got the same genes.’ Man, everyone in the yard just howled.”
Darko smiled. “I’ve heard that story before. Steven’s a cool bro.”
They walked up Kungsgatan.
After another five minutes, he started telling the story. “Me and Steven worked with a Serb, Nenad. Cruel bastard. The dude had good connections in Belgrade. There were rumors he’d belonged to the Tigers, that he’d slaughtered thirty Bosnians in Srebrenica with his bare hands. First brought the men out into the square, their hands tied behind their backs, and beat them until they crawled in their own puke. Then they raped their wives, in front of them. We didn’t know then that he was Radovan’s man. When we did the H job, it was on direct orders from R. We got a twenty percent cut. Partied for six months, then time for business again. So, the second time we worked for Radovan, it was on Nenad’s orders. Think that was a year before I was put away. We met up at Café Ogo-you know, Jokso’s old place. Nenad introduced himself, said we could call him the Patriot ’cause he always supported Serbia. That was serious for those guys. He was rock-hard, Nenad, with war tattoos all over his knuckles. Two other dudes were there at the table. Kept their mouths shut the whole time, I think. But I recognized one of them from the club scene, Stefanovic. Younger guy who worked for Radovan at the time. Nenad buttered us up. Kept talking about the good job we’d done with the last transport. What a success it’d been. He knew a lot about me, but that wasn’t strange, since we often worked for Yugos. I mean, I’m a Serb myself.”
Darko paused. His eyes glowed like embers. Fired up by old memories. By the kicks. The suspense. Or?
They walked across the square at Hötorget.
“Nenad went over the plan. It was a big load of H. We were gonna bring it on trucks, like before, from the Belgrade area. And it’d be real bulked, take a lotta space. We didn’t clock shit, then. Planned the whole thing. Landed two German-registered semis, took two containers each. Fixed the drivers, the customs crap, the permits. The whole enchilada. Officially, machine parts were being driven from Turkey over the Balkans. Nenad had rules. Needed at least seventy cubic feet for the load in each container. When we met up with our contact people outside Belgrade, they drove up in two old army buses, dressed in military uniforms and carrying machine guns. Had four women with them. I thought they were gonna give us vodka and a nice time with the girls. It took me a minute to get it. We were never bringing any H. It was people we were smuggling. At first, I thought they were refugees.”