Easy Money

by Jens Lapidus

They were cleared.

  Five minutes later, they were back in the kitchen.

  Chris’s smile greeted them. “All right, now we’ve dealt with the formalities. Big men with small guns really stress me out. Yours truly isn’t all too big, but damn do I have a big weapon.” He giggled and grabbed his crotch. Turned to John as though to get backup.

  “Let’s sit here, relax, and enjoy this fine whiskey. How’s London been treating you?”

  Small talk and pleasantries went on for half an hour. Abdulkarim really went in for the part of group leader. Told stories about their nights in London, the places they’d gone to, about the shopping, about London Dungeon, and the guide they’d freaked out. All with genuine enthusiasm.

  “London’s a real city. You know, Stockholm is like a piss in Mississippi in comparison. But we got a subway.”

  JW chuckled inside. What were the chances that Chris understood the Arab’s talk about American rivers?

  After finishing three rounds of drinks, Chris got up and said, “Let’s get down to business. I want to show you around. I’m guessing you’re curious.”

  They left the house and walked in a row behind Chris toward the barn.

  The figures with the guns over their shoulders could be seen farther off, behind the greenhouses.

  Chris stopped in front of the entrance. Barking from inside.

  “Like I said, we call this farm the Factory. Soon you’ll see why. Before I show you, let me just say that we’ll solve your problems. We deliver. Over the past year, we’ve completed successful transports of over five tons of goods. We know this stuff. You’ll understand in a minute.”

  He opened the door.

  They went in.

  The stench hit JW, a rank smell of dirt and excrement.

  The walls were lined with cages.

  In the cages: dogs.

  The cages were seven by seven feet, with at least four animals in each cage.

  There was fluorescent tubing in the ceiling.

  When they entered the barn, they were met by deafening barking.

  The animals seemed hysterical. They moved frenetically and yapped at the visitors.

  The fur on some of the animals was tattered, worn-looking, and full of sores. Those in other cages were in better shape. Some dogs had long, groomed coats and calmer temperments. A few of the dogs appeared sedated; they were lying in heaps on the floor.

  Chris said, “Let me introduce our first product for delivery. We’ve used it successfully to transport goods to countries like Norway, France, and Germany.”

  A man dressed in a white doctor’s coat and rubber boots approached them from one of the aisles.

  Chris greeted him. “Hi, Pughs. Can you show them what I mean?”

  Pughs nodded. Opened one of the cages where the dogs were calm and coaxed one with a nicer coat out. JW thought it was a golden retriever.

  Pughs grabbed hold of the animal’s fur right under the front legs and said with a raspy voice, “I operate. They call me ‘the Vet,’ but that’s just bullshit. I was a surgeon before. Look here.” He waved them closer. “I’ve inserted four bags containing a total of six hundred grams of Charlie under the skin of this pooch.”

  JW leaned in. What Pughs was pointing at didn’t look like anything more than a fold between the dog’s legs. No scars, as far as he could tell.

  “It takes a month to heal and another two months for the fur to grow back enough.”

  Chris took over. “We’ve sent out more than thirty animals. It’s worked every time. But most of the animals in here are ones we’ve taken in, straight from South America. That’s how we import quantity.”

  JW turned and looked around before they walked on through the barn. There was a total of at least fifty animals in all the cages. He calculated: If half the animals’d had shit inside, they would’ve brought in over thirty pounds on them alone. Thirty pounds on the streets of Stockholm-almost fifteen million kronor.

  He was impressed; this was massive, Trump-size business in a barn in the countryside.

  Pughs pulled the dog back into a cage.

  Chris led them on through a door.

  They came into another room with high ceilings. There were two large green metal machines on the floor. Two men were working at one of them. JW thought the machines looked like the lathe in the woodworking shop in middle school.

  Chris explained. “Our next product. We are producing tin cans. Look carefully. The machines are exactly the same as the ones used by Mr. Greenpacking, for instance. We fill them with whatever the order is. Fly them across the borders.”

  Abdulkarim asked his first question. He seemed completely taken by all this. “Why you fly the shit over? Boat’s not cheaper?”

  “Good question. Customs is always breathing down our necks. They know to take random samples on big deliveries containing tinned cans. A couple friends of mine got slammed hard by that a few years back. Still rotting in an iron box right now. Listen, we’ve got connections with a company in the catering business. They sell food boxes to airlines. The idea is simple. On any given flight, let’s say ten of the food boxes contain our cans with our contents. Ten people order special food, most often vegan food. They eat heartily but don’t open the tin can that’s included with the meal. Instead, they throw them in the trash cart the stewardesses push through the plane after the meal. The garbage-that is, the full cans-is then taken care of by our people working in garbage management at the airport. The icing on the cake is that it doesn’t even have to be our people ordering the food. We just hire some Ibiza-bound kids, ask them to order the veggie grub, and it’s a done deal. We transported two pounds of amphetamines to Kos that way last week.”

  “And it never happen that some nasty brat pockets the can, not throw it out like you want?”

  “It’s happened. That nasty brat never made it home from Kos.”

  JW was fascinated. This was big, brainy, beautifully bad. And fucking surreal.

  It was a drug-packaging industry, transportation insanity, amazing logistical philosophy.

  Shit.

  Chris led them onward. John picked up the rear.

  They walked out of the barn, toward the greenhouses.

  Abdulkarim asked Chris about stats. How often did their deliveries succeed? What size loads could they take? How much did they import on their own? From which countries? Whom did they represent?

  Chris explained. They imported tons from all over the world. The cocaine came directly from South America. Warwickshire operated as the ultimate price regulator. They repackaged, sold their products from there, spread the risks, selected destinations, kept demand high.

  A high-level European supply cartel.

  Chris’s answer to Abdul’s last question: “I thought you’d been informed. We’re the extended arm of a syndicate. Doesn’t matter which one, but you’ll get a good price with us. Guaranteed.”

  They were approaching the greenhouses. JW discovered that they stretched farther than he’d first thought.

  Chris stopped outside one of them and pointed. “We grow all kinds of things in these.”

  He opened the door.

  No humidity washed over them. Instead, it was cool.

  JW’d expected a jungle of cannabis sattiva. Or, even better, rows of coca plants.

  Nope.

  In rows along the ground grew small, unripe white cabbages.

  Abdulkarim looked like a boldface question mark. He’d shared JW’s expectations.

  JW caught himself-his mouth was wide open; he was gaping.

  Fahdi looked at Chris. Was this a joke, or what?

  Chris threw his arms open and laughed. “As anticipated. Everyone reacts like you. Goddamn it, aren’t they growing weed? Aren’t they growing blow? Forget it. We’re growing cabbage. In case you hadn’t thought of it already, you haven’t seen anything illegal here yet. You’ve seen dogs. But have you seen ice? You’ve seen two blokes making cans, but have you seen what they’re filling them with? Get the poin
t. We don’t take risks. If there’s a sting operation here, at least we’ve got some ability to protect ourselves. We store the actual shit somewhere else. When it’s time to put it into animals, cans, or whatever else, it’s brought here under the strictest surveillance possible, and everything happens very fast. We’ve minimized the opportunities for the bobby fuckers to get at us.”

  Abdulkarim was still eyeing the cabbage patch.

  Chris continued: “We’re not done in here yet, but it’s our third, and largest, product.” He pulled a couple photos out of his jacket pocket and showed them to Abdulkarim and JW. In the first photo: a cabbage the same size as the ones in the greenhouse. In the next photo: a somewhat larger plant. In the middle of the plant was a plastic bag, tightly knotted, about two inches high and one and a half inches wide. Next photo: same plant, just a little bigger. The next photo: the plant with the bag again. The cabbage leaves almost completely concealed the bag. The next photo: the finished plant. The bag wasn’t visible at all. The last photo: three crates filled with cabbage.

  JW understood before Abdulkarim did. “Jesus.”

  Chris held the photos out to Abdulkarim. “Jesus is right.”

  Abdulkarim looked at JW.

  JW said in Swedish, “Don’t you follow? They grow the shit into the plant. Look at the picture with the crates. There’s no fucking limit to how much they can send.”

  Abdulkarim said, “Allahu akbar.”

  Abdulkarim was max-speeded all the way back in the stretch. He lay on one of the seats and sang with a Fanta in hand. Around his nose-coke rings.

  JW was lit even before he did a line.

  Fahdi tried to communicate with the driver. He wanted to change radio stations.

  The meeting at Warwickshire’d ended with Chris explaining some economic conditions. Abdulkarim’d promised they would think it over. They’d said good-bye. Chris’d given Adbulkarim a little envelope-in which they’d found the white powder they’d just consumed.

  JW asked why they hadn’t just sealed the deal right then. He’d done the numbers; profit would be huge.

  “No, you don’t get it. Me, I’m not the high boss. Chris is not the boss, either. Tomorrow, the real gangstas meet in London. If you’re lucky, you get to come along.”

  It was the first time during the entire trip that JW thought, There’s someone above Abdulkarim.

  Two days later, they’d switched hotels. Abdulkarim’d asked JW to wait in his room all day. Something was going to happen; that was blue-sky clear.

  JW watched TV, smoked despite the no-smoking policy, played games on his phone. He felt more restless than ever. Tried to read but couldn’t. Called Sophie. She didn’t pick up. Thought about her, rubbed one out, jizzed in one of the free towels from the hotel. Drank champagne from the minibar, smoked again, watched British TV commercials. Texted Sophie, Mom, Nippe, Fredrik, Jet Set Carl. Played cell phone games again, tapped up a bath but didn’t get in. Read FHM magazine. Checked out the fine-looking centerfold chicks.

  At three o’clock, he went down to the street and bought a Twix and a bottle of Diet Coke. Then he ordered a club sandwich to be delivered to his room.

  He thought, Where the hell is Abdulkarim?

  When he got back to the room, he sat down on the bed and pulled his legs up. Thought about Camilla. When he got back to Sweden, he was going to weed through all the leads once and for all. Call the police again-he had to know what they were finding out. But right now: focus on the C business.

  Finally, at four o’clock, there was a knock at the door.

  Abdulkarim was waiting outside. “He wants you to come with. I’ve told him what we saw. We’ve discussed everything. Now he wants to hear your opinion. Have you as a calculator. It’s time. Time to negotiate. You and the boss.”

  JW’s heart pounded. He understood what this meant.

  “You moved fast and straight up, buddy. Remember when I picked you up outside Kvarnen? Fucking lucky you didn’t say no. I wouldn’t ask twice. You know that? And now you sitting at the deal table with the boss. My boss. Me, not the one sitting there.”

  JW wondered if he heard a hint of jealousy.

  He threaded his arms through the newly bought club blazer and praised Harvey Nichols for the sweet clothes.

  Put on the cashmere coat.

  Felt ready for anything.

  Abdulkarim’d told him what hotel he was going to, The Savoy. How sick was that? The Savoy, one of the world’s ten best.

  It was in the West End. The hotel’s restaurant had a star in the Guide Rouge.

  JW glided past. Self-confidence was all you needed, just like at home at Kharma. He announced his arrival at the reception desk. Two minutes later, a man arrived wearing a dark glam-cut jacket with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. His sported a backslick and a languid style. Unmistakable-a true cocaine king.

  The man introduced himself in slightly accented Swedish. “Hi, JW. I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Nenad. I work with Abdulkarim sometimes.”

  False humility. It should really be: Abdulkarim works under me.

  It was nice to speak Swedish. They chatted. Nenad was only in London for the night. Negotiations had to be quick.

  JW saw himself in Nenad-a Stureplan type with the wrong roots.

  They had a seat in the hotel lobby. Nenad ordered a cognac, finest XO aging.

  Large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Persian carpets lay under the classically designed leather armchairs. The ashtray was real silver.

  Nenad asked questions. JW filled in what Abdulkarim hadn’t gotten or had misunderstood. Nenad seemed to have a grip on most of it. He saw the potential, understood the risks and opportunities. After an hour’s discussion, he reached an objective: first and foremost to import as big a load as possible, preferably in cabbage form.

  JW agreed.

  They kept discussing. Prices in England, primarily prices in Stockholm. Storage methods, transport methods, increased market shares. Sales strategies, dealing tricks, new people to enroll. Payment method to the syndicate: money transfer, SWIFT system, or cash.

  JW’d learned a lot from his talks with Jorge. Heard how Jorge’s words, views, and thoughts came out of his own mouth.

  Nenad liked JW’s ideas, the way he spit.

  When they were finished, he lit a cigar. “JW, think through everything we’ve talked about one more time. Tonight at seven, we’re negotiating with the other side. I want you next to me. You need to be clear on all the numbers.”

  JW got up and thanked Nenad. He almost bowed.

  “See you later. It’ll be fun.”

  JW felt like he was floating on clouds.

  He remembered the moment in Abdulkarim’s gypsy cab when he’d first decided to help him sell C. Now-seven months later-he was talking big business with Nenad at the Savoy.

  JW was a player.

  For real.

  Soon they were going to negotiate the world’s biggest fucking deal.

  42

  Two bad things. One, he’d been humiliated. Two, he’d lost his job.

  Three good things. He was still a part of the organization-not totally out in the cold. He still had drive-possibilities to get ahead, maybe without R. And three, he was still alive.

  Two days’d passed since the events at Fiskartorpet’s ski-jumping tower. Mrado remembered Radovan’s account in detail. Could cite every word/tone/gesture.

  Rado’d stoked his own fire. Demonic. Dictatorial. Deadly.

  But nothing’d happened. Mrado’d left like after any other meeting with R. At the end of the dinner, they’d talked about general subjects-cars, bars, laundering, dough.

  Still, he’d been crowned a nobody.

  There’d been total silence in the Range Rover on the way home. The only thought in Mrado’s head: Jokso would never’ve dealt with a situation like this. Not been so hysterical. Not dumped his best partner.

  Mrado went on with his life despite the demotion. Went to the gym. Went to Pancrea
se. Fought with greater frenzy than he had for a long time. Omar Elalbaoui, pleased. “Good recoil to your punches, juggernaut!” he hollered when Mrado sparred in the ring. That Elalbaoui yelled like that at Pancrease-a sensation.

  He ruminated. Should he screw Radovan’s orders and run a night along the coat-check route? Before he’d even finished the thought, he realized what a shitty impulse it was. Kamikaze idea.

  But, on the other hand, Radovan wasn’t immortal. He thought he was Jokso, but just like for Jokso, the carpet could be pulled from under his feet in an instant.

  In Mrado’s head: the possibility of busting Rado’s monopoly.

  The idea had to be perfected.

  Mrado’s thoughts flowed in conked-out currents. But at the same time, on an energy-efficient circuit, the idea was sparking: His strength was in his contacts; he should be able to break Rado, trick the fucking turncoat. If R. was planning to redecorate the Yugo hierarchy, there was a chance someone else’d been given the boot, too. Mrado had to find out who.

  He rummaged around rumors. Dug dirt. Ratko knew some. Bobban some. Radovan was in the process of cleaning out the house.

  Mrado guessed. Probably not Goran. Not Stefanovic. Could it be his friend Nenad?

  Mrado began preparations for breaking out on his own the following day.

  He was gonna play like in poker, even though it’d gone to hell the last time at the casino: the Big Slick. All or nothing. Mrado’d made up his mind. He was gonna take the plunge-all in.

  Mrado versus the Stockholm underworld’s single most powerful man. It required planning.

  Mrado versus Jokso’s heir to the throne. It demanded brainpower.

  Mrado versus a tool. Mrado would take home the trophy, but he needed faith even to make himself believe it.

  He brought out the notebook that’d been left untouched since he’d gone Latino hunting.

  Thought about everything he’d done for Rado just to find that blatte. Broken the fingers of the fugitive’s cousin. Beaten up his chick. Waited in his car day and night and interrogated bums outside of homeless shelters. Turned the Latino into a human puddle. And what were his thanks? Mrado’d made up his mind-he couldn’t let it end with his own humiliation.