Easy Money

by Jens Lapidus

  They tightened the Velcro straps on their bulletproof vests. Double-checked the ammo in their weapons.

  Walked solemnly up to the house.

  It was as dark as it could get outside in June-not very.

  Radovan ought to be home. They knew their former boss. Every other Thursday night, the old guy played poker with his gambler gang: Goran, Berra K., and a couple of other silver-haired spenders. Mrado thought, I’ve never been invited.

  The game was usually over by half past twelve. Rado always went home after.

  He should be inside the house now.

  Mrado and Nenad walked up the gravel path toward the front door. A spotlight came on automatically.

  Before they had time to ring the bell, the door slid open.

  Stefanovic stood in the opening, with one hand inside his jacket.

  He spoke slowly, clear emphasis in the Serbian, “What are you doing here at this time of night?”

  Mrado replied, “We’re here to see Rado. He’s usually home about now. It’s important.”

  Stefanovic, electrified. In front of him: the two men Rado’d decided to demote. Lethal. One: assassin, debt collector, human murder machine. The other: cocaine magnate, smuggler, pimp king with a penchant for violence.

  The air was thick with explosive energy. One spark and everything could go off.

  “I think Radovan’s gone to bed. I’m sorry. How about you call tomorrow?”

  “No. He will see us now.”

  Stefanovic closed the door. Mrado and Nenad remained outside. Looked for movements in the windows.

  Three minutes passed.

  They understood that Rado understood. He would never dare let them into his house. How could he know that they hadn’t come to pop him?

  Stefanovic came back out.

  “He has agreed to meet with you. Please follow me.”

  Stefanovic guided them in front of him toward the garage-smart. He saw them, but they had to twist their necks to see him. He opened the garage door. Mrado looked in. It was dark in there. Mrado glimpsed a Saab and Rado’s Lexus, as well as a Jaguar, a motorcycle, and the Range Rover that’d picked Mrado up for the meeting in the ski-jump tower three months ago.

  Stefanovic asked them to wait. Possibly, he’d have time to shoot one of them, but not both.

  “Stay here. I’ll get Radovan.”

  They remained standing in the garage. The door was still open. Mrado heard a sound and knew what it was-Nenad’d pulled his gun out of his inner pocket.

  Mrado followed suit.

  He heard the door to the house open and slam shut.

  They couldn’t see anyone, only heard Stefanovic’s voice. “Okay, we want you to put your weapons away. Cross your arms in front of your chests. We’ll come out soon. Thought it’d be best you have your little chat with Radovan in the garage. You know, his daughter is sleeping in the house and we don’t want to disturb her.”

  Mrado kept his grip on his gun. “Forget about it. Nothing’s gonna go down unconditionally anymore. Radovan needs to have his arms visible at his sides when he comes out of the shadows. It’s simple. The mug on the one whose arms aren’t by his side is gonna look like it’s been in a colander.”

  Mrado heard Radovan laugh from the shadows. At least the old guy had his humor intact.

  He emerged. Arms hanging. Brave.

  Radovan face-to-face with his rebellious ex-minions.

  Mrado followed suit.

  Stefanovic appeared. Arms straight down.

  Nenad did the same.

  Four men in a luxury garage. Staring at one another.

  Radovan said, “Okay, so, what do you two want at this ungodly hour?”

  “Haven’t you understood by now? We just wanted to do it eye-to-eye.”

  Radovan smiled. “I had a feeling it would come. Mrado, you’ve never been good at dealing when things don’t go your way. Which is just one more reason why you can’t stay at the top. And Nenad, you’ve got to learn humility. You two can’t just desert me as soon as your duties change. Right?”

  Mrado chose not to respond to Rado’s provocation. “It’s over now. We got ten years together. For Jokso, under Arkan, for Serbia. But it’s over now. You don’t know what gratitude is, Radovan. You don’t know what honor is, or what justice is. That makes you weak. And it makes you a loser.”

  He caught his breath. Continued, “Things could’ve been different. You could’ve built this on the same foundation as Jokso. On respect for your men, and on humility. But you chose to demote us. Did you think we would take your shit? Who the fuck do you think I am? Some Sven who’ll bow and grovel and take it up the dirty? Rado, your time is over.”

  Mrado and Nenad walked out of the garage. If Radovan answered, they didn’t stick around to hear it.

  54

  Successful blackmail tactic in review. Three months’d passed since Jorge got the five photos of the captains of industry. He thanked Richard, the computer geek, with all his heart. Surprised that the dude hadn’t demanded he be let in on the action. Rocking the blackmail gig with J-boy was never even up for discussion.

  Jorge’d had the photos printed on photo paper. The quality still wasn’t super, but it was easier to see who was pictured and what they were doing.

  He wrote a letter to go along with the pictures, labored over the words.

  “The attached picture was taken of you at Sven Bolinder’s party in March. It will be sent to your wife within ten days. In order to prevent this from happening, deposit fifty thousand kronor at account number 5215-5964354 at SEB one week from today at the latest.”

  Jorge’d been in touch with an old junkie. Had the guy open the account at SEB. He pocketed the debit card and the password himself. Was gonna withdraw the deposited money as soon as possible.

  Worked wonders.

  The four silver daddies, one of whom appeared in two photos, deposited the dough, no questions asked. Jorge couldn’t pressure them all at the same time, since the debit card had a withdrawal limit. Knocked one off the list every other week.

  After two months-J-boy’d be 200,000 richer.

  Easiest gig in town.

  Poor suckers, they knew he’d be back for more.

  He hoped Radovan would find out that someone was fucking with them. That someone knew what he was up to.

  Abdulkarim kept applying pressure. “You gotta rig your squad. Get more retailers. There’s a George Jung-class shipment coming soon.”

  Jorge’d finally gotten info about the shipment from Abdul. It was blow, of course. A lotta pounds, over two hundred, according to the Arab. Could it be true? If so, it was the single biggest imported load Jorge’d ever heard of. His old homeboys in Österåker would faint if they knew.

  The buzz about the double brothel homicide’d died down. Other rumors were festering. War within the Yugo Mafia. Revolt against Radovan. Defectors from the organization. What did that mean for Jorge’s hate project?

  A few days later, Fahdi told him which Yugos’d left the organization: Mrado and Nenad. Fate’s fantastic feats. Those were the very men who were number two and three on his hate list, after their former boss, Radovan. Mrado for the pain. Nenad for Nadja.

  The computer geek called in the middle of June. The dude’d dragged out on time. Blamed a CS championship. Jorge thought: Counter-Strike-who gives? You should’ve called earlier.

  Jorge’d tried to put a fire under his ass. Was only supposed to take a few weeks; had taken two months. But he hadn’t been able to do much about it.

  At least now the time’d come.

  He picked up the computer at the computer geek’s place that very day.

  Jorge was keyed up on the way over. Maybe there was stuff on the laptop that would lead to even more cash.

  He walked up Lundagatan.

  Rang Richard’s doorbell.

  Stepped inside.

  “Hey, man, I don’t know you and don’t know anything about whatever it is you’re up to. Just so you know.”

&n
bsp; Jorge thought the comment was strange. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, really. Just thinking about what’s on that computer. Some stuff is, um, pretty disturbing.”

  Jorge just wanted the computer and whatever was on it. “It’s cool, chico. You want more dough, or what?”

  “Dough? No, I just wanted to warn you. So you don’t get into trouble.”

  Jorge didn’t know what to expect.

  He thanked the guy for his help. Paid. Peaced.

  He was tempted to open the laptop on the train on his way home. Stopped himself. Best to wait.

  Home in Helenelund. He sat down on the couch.

  Opened the computer. Wallpaper: a vast green lawn and a blue sky.

  He checked the desktop: not a lot of icons. My Computer, Trash, iTunes, two games: Battlefield 1942 and the Sims. Excel and Windows Media Player were also on the desktop. A couple of folders.

  He started looking through the folders one by one.

  Afterward, he thought, If I’d known what I’d find, I might’ve stopped looking.

  One folder contained images of weapons downloaded from the Internet.

  Another folder contained MP3s.

  The third folder: English cheat sheets for computer games.

  The fourth folder held the names of the johns, their aliases, and passwords. At least three hundred names. Jorge skimmed through the list. Mostly Svens, but some blattes, too. Fahdi was there. Jorge already knew his alias. Abdulkarim was there. Jet Set Carl was there. Jorge didn’t recognize the other names-had to look closer into all that. Potential gold mine.

  Next folder: draft of the Web site where the brothel advertised. Pictures of women. Snippets of text. Telephone numbers. Jorge scrolled through the pictures. Girls posing in stark rooms with strong lighting. He found two pictures of Nadja. Exposed. Alone. Vulnerable.

  The list of names was good. The pictures of Nadja were tough but not crushing. Jorge clocked that this was the way the hooker industry rolled. It was the contents of the final folder, an MPEG file, that made him hurl.

  The sickest, most disgusting shit he’d ever seen.

  It was five minutes long. Enough for a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.

  The video’s opening scene: a room, harsh lighting, a table.

  Two men in ski masks dragged a person into the room whose head was covered in a cloth bag. Judging by the body, it was a girl.

  One of the men: dark leather jacket, beefy. The other: dressed in a suit. Both spoke Serbian.

  Forced the girl onto the table. Hands tied behind her back. Fought back as hard as she could.

  The big guy pulled off the cloth bag. A girl, face swollen from crying. Blond, Nordic appearance. Yelled in perfect Swedish, “Let me go, you pigs!” She kept screaming. Jorge couldn’t make out all the words. The beefy guy said something. Hit her on the side of the head. Jorge recognized his voice. It was Mrado. The dude in the suit caressed her cheek. She spit in his face, screamed. A couple chaotic seconds. The girl screamed again, “How the fuck could I be with you?” Mrado pulled a gun. Pressed the barrel into the girl’s mouth. She grew silent. The steel scraped against her teeth. She cried. The suit guy was angry. Chewed the girl out: “You’ll never spit on me again, you fucking cunt.” Unbuttoned his pants. Tore off her workout pants. She lay still. The gun still in her mouth. The man in the suit pulled out his dick. Forced the girl onto her stomach. Mrado with the barrel of the gun against the back of her head instead of in her mouth. The suit guy raped her. Thrust. Faster. Went on for two minutes. Jorge threw up. He’d seen tons of pornos, but this was for real. The suit guy-finished. The girl-shattered. Mrado raised the gun. Looked into the camera. His eyes were visible through the slits in the ski mask. Said, in Swedish, “A warning to all you who’re thinking of fucking with us.” The last minute. They carried the girl to a chair, her workout pants still around her ankles. Mrado hit her in the stomach, over the arms, in the face. Drops of sweat went flying. Blood went flying. Her eyebrows were torn open. Her lips were busted. Ears swollen. Just shards of her left.

  The video ended abruptly.

  The girl’s appearance reminded Jorge of someone, but he couldn’t figure out who.

  The only good news: the video’s hideousness. It should be ill evidence against Mrado. The dude would regret that he’d beaten up on J-boy. For about twenty-five to life.

  That night.

  Jorge couldn’t forget the MPEG video. Assumed it’d been used as fear propaganda for whores who stepped outta line. Had looked closer at the movie’s stats: It was about four years old. Did they run the same trailer over and over again?

  A parody of sleep. First he couldn’t fall asleep. Then, once he’d finally fallen asleep, he woke up several times an hour. Went to the bathroom. Nightmared. Reminded him of the nights before his escape from Österåker.

  He felt like shit. Go ahead, watch porn and be happy-but not rape and abuse live in front of the camera.

  Who the hell did the raped woman remind him of?

  He groped at memories.

  It felt good to have shot the shit out of the pimp and the brothel madam.

  Now Mrado, the other guy from the video, and Radovan were next in line. He would crush them.

  J-boy’s on your tracks.

  In the morning, he drank strong coffee. Had to get going. Had to forget. It was Abdulkarim’s high holiday.

  The huge shipment was arriving.

  Jorge was part of the preparations-he and JW were supposed to watch over the delivery. From Arlanda to the cold storage facility.

  He was meeting up with Abdulkarim, Fahdi, and JW in an hour to plan.

  This was big. What he’d seen in the video the night before was bigger.

  But now he had to focus.

  The shipment would soon be here.

  * * *

  URGENT!!

  Confidential.

  Attn: Inspector Henrik Hansson, Special Missions Unit

  Fax number: 08-670 45 81

  Date: June 22

  Number of pages: 1

  Business: Operation Snowstorm, Project Nova

  Operation Snowstorm Begins

  Operation Snowstorm begins tomorrow at 10:00. All units will gather at Bergsgatan, room 4D, for an internal run-through.

  Brief History

  Johan Karlsson, who has served as an infiltrator within the realm of Project Nova (under the name Micke), has information that the target group is planning to receive a very large shipment of cocaine. The shipment is expected to arrive at Arlanda with flight B746-34 from London at 8:00 tomorrow. From there, it will be driven in containers by trucks from the transport firm Schenker Vegetables to the Västberga Cold Storage Center. The exact location for unloading is unknown at present.

  Plan of Attack

  There is a possibility that several high-ranking persons within Stockholm’s Yugoslavian Mafia network will be present at the unloading of the shipment of cocaine. According to present instructions, Operation Snowstorm will therefore wait to strike until it is possible to arrest as many of these persons as possible.

  We are currently working to gather exact information regarding the time of unloading and will be in touch as soon as we do.

  The Special Missions Unit, Project Nova’s head surveillance team, as well as Drug Enforcement are included in Operation Snowstorm. This fax has been sent to all officers and unit chiefs.

  55

  JW and Jorge were sitting in a rented pickup. They were waiting, didn’t talk much, were just quiet.

  JW’d drawn up the plan. Two trucks from Schenker Vegetables would pick up the containers at Arlanda. The teamsters who drove would go straight to Västberga Cold Storage. They were in the know enough to get that what they were transporting was valuable, but also not to ask any unnecessary questions. JW and Jorge were waiting to follow the trucks. Make sure they didn’t go off track, didn’t pinch any of the shipment, didn’t get in touch with suspicious people. Abdulkarim and Fahdi would meet them at the cold-
storage place. When the truckers left the scene it would be time for the Arab, JW, Jorge, and the rest to slice open the cabbages and repackage the coke. Move it, restow it. Rake in the dough.

  What Abdul didn’t know, of course, was that JW was the biggest double-crosser of the decade. He’d informed Nenad of every single part of the plan. According to their agreement, Nenad would be armed, would take control as best he could, maybe tie people up, including JW, and boost the goods. It would be smooth and easy.

  Abdulkarim’s time as a player was over.

  And no one could blame JW.

  It was brilliant.

  That morning, Abdul’d held an executive briefing meeting. Gave orders like some sort of drill sergeant. As if he’d ever been in the service. JW, Jorge, Fahdi, Petter were riled up, ready, and, above all, potential cocaine millionaires.

  The Arab went over the rules. New prepaid cards in new cell phones were a given. As soon as the goods’d been unloaded, the phones and the cards would be destroyed and Abdulkarim would distribute new phones. They all had to wear gloves-the traditional way of avoiding fingerprints. Fahdi brought a police radio with him in the car-the easiest way of knowing what the cops knew and, if they knew something, where they were going. They had to wear blue jeans and blue cotton sweaters-not a lot of people knew it, but forensic scientists hated blue cotton fiber. It was practically impossible to pin a person to a garment like that, since it was by far the most common textile residue people left behind. They had ski masks in their pockets: if the brass made a crackdown and you were able to get away, it was best that no one saw your face.

  Finally, just as they were leaving-and it came as a bad surprise-Abdulkarim dealt his final card: He had Fahdi distribute weapons to Jorge and JW.

  “You need these, boys. Like the dudes in England. We’re just as good. Now it’s for real. If the cocksucking cops try to fuck it up, just go for it.”

  JW got a black gun. It gleamed. Felt dangerously beautiful. He sat on Abdulkarim’s couch and weighed it in his hand. A Glock 22. Fahdi showed him how to work it-the safety, the extra trigger safety, and the magazine. Then he demonstrated the right way to hold it, how to take the recoil.