by Jens Lapidus
“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.
45
Mrado in Ringen’s mall. In ICA, the grocery store. Preparing the all-out day he was gonna have with Lovisa this week.
He hadn’t slept all night. Only been thinking about this day and his future.
Had to buy groceries. Usually, the cupboards, fridge, and freezer in his apartment were empty. Only the bar was full. But since his right to see Lovisa’d been secured by the court, it’d become important to Mrado to be a good father. A new self-realization: homemade eats weren’t his thing. Despite that, he tried to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner when Lovisa was there.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought so much food.
Red shopping basket in one hand, grocery list in the other. Difficult to grab the grub and still keep track of the grocery list. One hand busy with the list, the other snatching stuff-which hand would hold the basket? Mrado came up with a business idea: to produce list holders for the shopping baskets. Give the shoppers one hand free to grab goods. Maybe have a clip for the list. Maybe even for cell phones? Ads for sales items on the side. Mrado schemed on.
He kept adding stuff to his basket: macaroni, ketchup, ready-made meatballs, tomatoes-important to have vegetables, too. He was gonna be a healthy father.
Thought about his other list. He had to secure his and Lovisa’s lives. Tackle r
isks. Protect Lovisa. Get her to move. Protect himself. He’d already sold his car and switched phones. This week, it was time to buy a better bulletproof vest, get a PO box address, and research the market for home alarm systems.
His and Nenad’s pact felt secure. Radovan was gonna have to take it straight up the dirty-no more sitting pompous for Rado the rectal wreck. He’d regret ditching them. Radovan had to learn, the Serbian way. Go ahead, play tough-but don’t let your friends down. Who the hell did he think he was?
Mrado looked for a good dessert. Browsed between the freezer units and the cookie section. Ice cream or cookies, that was the question. No, he couldn’t just buy unhealthy stuff. Decided on fruit salad. Chose oranges, apples, kiwis, and bananas. Surprised himself-my God, he was fantastic.
He didn’t fit into these kinds of environments. It was strange-the same insecurity that overwhelmed the people he pressed for dough, squeezed confessions out of, threatened with death, he felt in totally ordinary places. In the grocery store, in the pizzeria, on the street. Thought people stared at him, that they saw right through him. Recognized a dirty citizen, a criminal parasite, a bad father.
And still, when he saw them-the people in the grocery store-it was clear that what they needed was to pump up their lives. Feel some voltage, get kicks. Experience the adrenaline rush in the ring at Pancrease. The serotonin level when you broke someone’s nose. The cracking sound, like dry boards, when the hand’s first two knuckles met the nose bone’s cartilage. Mrado knew what it meant to be alive.
He flipped through a cell phone magazine he’d plucked from the rack by the checkout. New finesses: TV in your phone, pay with your phone, porn in your phone.
Someone said his name.
“Mrado, is that you?”
Mrado looked up. Instant indignity. Freebie reading instead of buying. Embarrassing.
“What’s up?”
Mrado recognized the guy. Hadn’t seen him in ages. Old classmate from Södertälje, Martin. The class’s brainiac.
“Martin, good to see you.”
“Damn, Mrado, it’s been years. Did you go to the reunion, whenever that was?”
The reunion: ten years after Mrado’d graduated from junior high. He’d been twenty-six at the time. At first, thought he’d screw it. Then chosen to show them. The fist champion they’d all hated was still a fist champion. With one difference-now he made out like a king. He’d sat with Ratko at a pub in the area an hour before. Downed three beers and two fat whiskeys. Hadn’t felt ripe enough to go without warming up.
“Sure, the reunion. That. What’re you up to nowadays?”
Mrado wanted to drop the subject. The reunion’d ended in a fiasco: Mrado in a fight with two old antagonists. Nothing’d changed-they were still on his back. Hadn’t understood who he’d become.
“I work in the federal court,” Martin replied.
Mrado, surprised. Martin in a green windbreaker, worn jeans, Von Dutch baseball hat. Looked young, chill. Not exactly the lawyerly type.
“Interesting. Are you a judge?”
“Yeah, I work as a deputy judge at the court of appeals. A ton of work. We’re criminally understaffed, toiling like beasts. It’s not unusual to pull sixty-hour weeks. We just maintain the rule of law. Nothing important. No siree. Sometimes you wonder about the values in this country. In the States, they value academics completely differently. Nope, the courts of law aren’t worth shit. Seriously, it’s totally messed up. I would make three times as much if I went corporate.”
“Then why don’t you?”
Martin pushed back his Von Dutch hat. “I happen to believe in this. Functioning courts, a court system where the best lawyers’ work guarantees a constitutional state. The possibility for people to have their sentences and rulings tried in appellate courts. Faster processing times without mistakes, carefully considered and consistent verdicts.”
Mrado hoped he wouldn’t have to talk about himself. He said, “You should be happy you work with something you believe in.”
“Don’t know if I believe in it anymore. I mean, we keep pushing the sludge through, but the slime is growing exponentially. Crime just gets smarter and more grisly, not to mention that there’s more of it. The police can’t keep up. We convict them as fast as we can, but they come right back again after two years, when they’ve done their time and are roaming the streets again. Often, they commit the exact same crime that we convicted them for the first time. Do they change? Not a piss. Soon the gangs are gonna fucking take over this city. Maybe I should offer my services to them instead. Better pay. Ha-ha. Anyway, what’re you up to?”
In Mrado’s head: I knew it was coming. What do you tell a judge? Mrado liked the guy somehow. At the same time, he felt it unwise to talk to a law fanatic. If he heard so much as a whisper about Mrado’s business, there’d be a hell of a racket.
“I work with teak.” Thought, Keep it simple. I do run that kind of company anyway. Less than 100,000 kronor in turnaround a year, but still. The perfect cover.
“Are you a carpenter?”
“Sort of. I import, mostly.”
Mrado suddenly wanted to stop talking, stop lying. He added the cell phone magazine to his shopping basket. Started to walk toward the checkout.
“Martin, nice to see you. I gotta go now. Am seeing my daughter.”
Martin smiled. Pushed his cap back low over his brow again. Looked trendy.
They shook hands. Mrado got in the checkout line. Thought, The dude convicts people like me every day. Imagine if he knew.
Martin disappeared into the store.
Mrado couldn’t stop harping. What if he already knows. What if he was just being polite. Fuck, maybe I should quit. For my own sake. For Lovisa’s sake.
At the same time, another voice was screaming inside: If you quit, who are you? If you don’t get even with Radovan, who are you? A nobody.
Martin’d lived on the same street as Mrado until the ninth grade. Then he’d moved to a better area north of the city.
He reminded Mrado of his school days. Mrado’d come with his parents to Sweden when he was three years old. Work immigration. Saab-Scania, big industry. Södertälje needed people. Sweden’d cut the visa requirements for Yugoslavians a few years earlier. Södertälje was crawling with Greeks, Finns, Italians, Yugos. The Syrians and Turks came later. Back then, the Yugos stuck together. No difference between Serbs, Croatians, and Bosnians. Tito was their hero. How wrong they’d been. Naïve. Gullible. Thought you could trust the Croatians and the Bosnians. Today, Mrado wouldn’t even piss on a Bosnian if he were on fire.
The catchword was Miljonprojekt, the state-run Million Program to create project housing and opportunities. Everyone worked hard. Mrado did, too. Every day, he’d beat one person up or get beaten up by a couple of people. They were always aggressive, armed. In bigger numbers. He bit the bullet. Never told anyone at home. Sharpened his knuckles. Learned to take a beating. Above all, learned to give a beating. Shootfighting at the basic level-kick to the shins, punch in the stomach, bite, scratch, aim for the eyes. He’d already become a fight-trick master by then. King of dirty play. A name in Södertälje.
He became respected. Did his own thing. No one got in his way. After finishing ninth grade, he never saw anyone from school again. Instead, he enrolled in an electronic and telephonic technical program at Ericsson’s own high school by Telefonplan. Dropped out his junior year and started working as a bouncer. Then straight up on the Yugo career ladder. And now he was gonna reach the top.
Mrado looked down at the girl manning the cash register. Thought, If I was a real father, I’d have an ICA rewards card. Instead, he pulled out his wad of cash. Sliced some cheddar off the top.
The girl didn’t seem to give a damn.
He saw Martin get in the line.
Looked away.
* * *
MEMORANDUM
(Confidential pursuant to chapter 9, paragraph 12 of the Secrecy Act)
PROJECT NOVA
COUNTY CRIMINAL POLICE INITIATIVE AGAINST
ORGANIZED CRIME
Balkan-related crime in Stockholm
Report Number 9
Background Information
The following memorandum is based on reports and reported suspicions from the Special Gang Commission and the Norrmalm police’s Financial Crime Investigation Unit in collaboration with the United County Effort Against Organized Crime in the Stockholm Area (collectively referred to below as the Surveillance Group). The methods employed include mapping, with the help of the combined experience of the Stockholm police; the collection of information from people within the criminal networks, so-called rats; secret wiretapping and bugging, as well as the coordination of requisite registries.
The memorandum is being submitted due to the murders of two persons active within the so-called Yugoslavian Mafia (referred to below as the Organization), further described in report number 7.
On March 16 of this year, two deceased people were found in an apartment in Hallonbergen. There are strong suspicions of murder. The Surveillance Group was able to confirm that they were killed using violent force. The Surveillance Group had planned for quite some time to put the apartment under surveillance, as there are suspicions of prostitution being conducted there. The date and time of death of the murdered persons have been established as occurring at some point between 3:00 and 5:00 a.m. on the morning of March 15. The cause of death for both parties was shots fired with a large-caliber shotgun to the stomach and head, respectively. Organic material has been sent to SKL for analysis. The weapon, a shotgun, probably a Winchester repeating rifle, Model 12,.12-80-caliber, has not been identified. Interrogations with people in Hallonbergen have begun. Because of the time of the crime, it is probable that very few people were awake and observed suspects in the area. The Surveillance Group believes that the killings are connected with the internal conflicts within the Organization.
A woman, probably working as a prostitute in the above-mentioned apartment brothel, has also been reported missing since March 13 of this year.