by Jens Lapidus
Jorge got a revolver. Was cool about it.
JW felt torn-a mix of terror and delight.
Jorge was calm. He had dark circles under his eyes and whined about having slept like shit. His hair was straighter than usual. JW thought, Did he forget to use the Afro curler?
They were parked outside the gate by the fence at Arlanda’s freight terminal. Waiting for the trucks. JW in the driver’s seat and Jorge next to him. The Chilean stared out the window.
The car they sat in smelled new.
After ten minutes, Jorge turned to JW. He looked strange. Pensive, but tired at the same time.
“JW, you got a sister?”
JW took his time answering. In his mind, the chaotic questions piled up: Why did Jorge ask that? Does he know something about Camilla? Did Sophie tell him something?
JW nodded. “I have a sister. Why?”
Jorge replied, “Nothing. Just wondering. I’ve got a sister too. Paola. Only seen her once since the escape. Heavy. I carry her with me, always.”
JW lost interest. Jorge just wanted to talk. He didn’t seem to know the Camilla story. That his sister was missing, that she’d been with her teacher, who’d given her top grades in exchange for sex. That she’d ridden in a yellow Ferrari with an unknown Yugoslavian. That something’d been seriously fucked up.
Jorge was a solid guy. Lived up to the ghetto myth about the hardcore blatte. At the same time, he was a good person who’d shown real gratitude toward JW for picking him up in the woods.
JW said, “I carry my sister with me, too. I’ve got a picture of her in my wallet.”
Jorge turned to face JW.
He didn’t say anything.
The conversation dried up.
They watched the gate.
JW thought Jorge didn’t just seem tired; he seemed stressed-out, too.
After half an hour, the freight trucks drove out. Two of them, with the text Schenker Vegetables in green lettering on the sides of the containers. They’d already seen several identical cars and had started sweating. No way they could miss the right cars. Imagine if they followed the wrong shipment. Ended up with a ton of cabbage without C. JW and Jorge both had slips of paper with the license plate numbers in their hands-this time it was the right trucks.
JW slipped into first gear. Slowly rolled after. The trucks drove up the ramp and swung around the terminal, JW right behind them.
The only hole in the plan was the access to Arlanda. Theoretically, the truck drivers could’ve ripped them off in there. They were the only ones allowed on the loading docks within Arlanda’s vicinity. But the risk that they’d have exchanged the goods for worthless crap was minimal. The truckers knew the deal: If they ripped off Abdulkarim and the others, they’d have to pay. According to the Arab, with their lives.
The task was important. Not let the trucks or the drivers out of their sight. Even if the truckers didn’t totally grasp what they were driving, it was too many pounds to take even the most negligible chances.
The trucks stopped for a few seconds by one of the parking lots just outside of Arlanda. Long enough for Jorge to jump out of the car. Check that it was the right guy driving the right truck. If it’d been the wrong guys, they would’ve forced them to get out of the trucks and into the car. Then driven them to Abdulkarim and Fahdi for the full treatment.
Jorge waved. That meant green light-correct guy behind the wheel in each car.
They kept driving.
It was a nice day. Two lonely clouds in a blue sky.
Jorge seemed preoccupied. Was he scared?
JW asked, “What’s up? You stressed-out?”
“No. I’ve been stressed-out a couple of times. Know how that feels. When I ran from Österåker, almost a mile at record speed, then I was really fucking stressed-out. A sign is that I smell. I smell like stress.”
“Don’t take it personally, J., but you look like shit,” JW said, and laughed. He thought Jorge would grin.
But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “JW, can I take a look at that photo of your sister?”
JW’s thoughts in anarchy again: What the hell does Jorge want? Why all the talk about Camilla?
JW held the wheel with his left hand. Groped in his back pocket with his right. Pulled out the thin wallet in monogrammed leather: Louis Vuitton. In it he had only bills and four plastic cards: Visa, driver’s license, gas card, and a rewards card to an upscale department store.
He handed it over to Jorge and said, “Look under the Visa card.”
Jorge pulled out the card. Under it, in the same slot, was a passport photo.
The Chilean checked out his sister.
JW kept his eyes on the road.
Jorge returned the wallet. JW put it on top of the glove compartment.
“You look alike.”
“I know.”
“She’s pretty.”
Then silence.
The trucks were driving slowly. Abdulkarim’s orders were that under no circumstances were they to speed-the highway to Arlanda was a favorite haunt for the traffic police.
Less than an hour later, they were driving through the southern sections of the city. So far, it’d been smooth sailing.
JW called Abdul. “We’ll be there in forty. The trucks’ve been driving calmly. The drivers are cool. Everything seems to be working.”
“Abbou. We’ll be there in twenty. See you there, inshallah.”
Despite their new phones and cards, Abdulkarim’d decided that all numbers, times, and the like would be divided in four. In other words, JW and Jorge were actually ten minutes from Västberga Cold Storage. Abdulkarim, Fahdi, and the others would be there in five. JW thought it was a bit much. If the police were tapping their calls, they were screwed no matter what. Jorge almost seemed asleep in the passenger seat. JW couldn’t have cared less about him. He fantasized about the future financial fiesta. He set his goal: When he had made twenty mil, he would stop with coke. The delicious part of the calculation: The goal might be reached within a year.
Fourteen minutes’d passed. The trucks backed into the loading docks, spots five and six, by the cold-storage facility. JW parked the car.
He said to Jorge, “This’ll be a chill day. You just be chill, too.”
Jorge didn’t seem to be listening. Was he focused on something else? What the hell was he up to?
They got out of the car and walked over to the freight trucks. The two drivers’d climbed out. JW thanked them and discussed briefly when they could pick up the cars again. Then he paid them. They got three thousand kronor each, cash in hand. A good mood settled. Maybe they thought it was cigarettes, liquor, or other small-time stuff. The risk that they understood that they’d just driven 100 million kronor in cocaine to, at the moment, the most nervous drug pushers on this side of the Atlantic was minimal.
Jorge got out of the car and took a turn around the loading docks. It was his job to scout out the area.
Petter, who’d arrived with Abdulkarim and Fahdi, walked in the opposite direction. He was also scoping out the scene. Made sure everything was straight.
Fahdi emerged from a steel door on loading dock number five.
He nodded to JW. Made eye contact with Jorge in the distance. Meaning: Everything’s been cool here so far.
Abdul opened the container on one of the trucks so that JW could look inside. In the dark he glimpsed a pallet and six rows of boxes.
Passed it. Instead, he groped with his hand in one of the boxes in the pallet behind the first one and picked up a head of cabbage.
Fahdi’s stare was fixed on the cabbage.
JW held it in his left hand.
Pressed his right fist down between the stiff white leaves.
He could feel it distinctly-the plastic baggie.
56
Sometimes there’s nothing you can do but take the next step-and then the step after that.
Mrado wasn’t thinking about all the crap today. Just did what he had to do.
Dressed
slower, more carefully than usual. Like a slow-motion scene in an action flick, as if to underscore the importance of perfection.
Not because he had doubts or was scared, just because everything had to be perfect.
The knife: a Spec Plus U.S. Army Quartermaster with an eight-inch-long blade in black carbon steel with a blood groove. Black calf-skin sheath, strapped around his shin with two Velcro bands.
He tightened them. Made sure the sheath was in place-it was plastered against his leg. Secure. Without interfering with the flutter of the pant leg if he made any sudden moves.
He weighed the knife in his hand. Sure, it was American, but it was also the best battle knife Mrado knew of. He balanced it. Ran his thumb over the blade’s edge.
It was newly sharpened.
Images in his mind: the Battle of Vukovar. Bayonet fight with a Croatian sniper.
Warm blood.
He put on his pants. Thin black chinos: Ralph Lauren Polo, for warm summer days. Cool clothes were good. Light clothes.
On his upper body he wore a white wifebeater.
Looked himself in the mirror. Flexed his triceps. Did he detect some deterioration? Not impossible-he hadn’t been to Fitness Club since he was demoted over three months ago. Trained at World Class instead but didn’t know anyone there. Pleasure diminished. Attendance declined. Triceps and other muscles didn’t measure up. Stung to see it.
He put on a button-down shirt, beige Hugo Boss.
On top: a dark linen jacket.
No holster today. If the cops made a bust, he wanted to be able to toss the weapon somewhere without having to explain why he was wearing a gun holster. Happy that his S & W was so small.
Even happier about the ammunition he had: Starfire, hollow bullets that exploded on impact. Worked extra well in weapons with short muzzles, where the bullet’s speed was lower, the expansion at contact greater.
Held the revolver in his hand. It was polished. So beautiful with its stainless steel. The emblem on the side gleamed above the grip. An inscribed text above the trigger: Airweight.
Mrado remembered when they’d taken it from him at the ski-jump tower by Fiskartorp. After today: Remorse would be their inheritance.
He put it in the inside pocket of the jacket.
Tied his shoes-meticulously.
Ready for the greatest coup of his life-100 million on the street.
Worth certain risks.
Nenad was waiting in the car downstairs. He’d sold his old luxury car. It attracted too much attention. Now he drove a red Mercedes CLS 55 AMG, a powerhouse with soft curves.
Nenad was dressed in a linen suit. Handkerchief in the breast pocket. Slicked-back hair. A big day required smart clothes. The blow and bordello king never scrimped on style.
The Benz feel inside the car was elegant.
They drove the Södra Länken freeway out of the city. Then west. Toward the cold-storage place.
Discussed the break. The pleasure. Radovan’s attempt to push them down.
The old bastard was finished. The new kings of the hill were spelled M & N.
Revolution within the Yugo Mafia drew near. Within a few hours, they would be the coke kings of the city. Of Sweden. Of Europe.
They stopped at Gullmarsplan. Were meeting up with Bobban. Ratko hadn’t been able to make it. Mrado wondered why. Wasn’t Ratko on his side, or what?
Bobban was waiting as planned outside the bus terminal above the subway station. He drove a Volvo XC90 and was dressed in his usual black denim jacket. Mrado thought, That guy never changes style.
All in place: three men against Radovan.
Not really. Three professionals against a confused and drugged-out Arab, Abdul.
Besides, they had an insider on their team. The Stureplan slick in the know.
They drove in a convoy toward Västberga.
Nenad was playing gym techno on high volume. Pounded his fists to the beat against the wheel.
Power.
An easy match.
A nice day.
Västberga’s industrial area could be seen from far away. Warehouses. Logistics centers. Cold-storage units. The businesses in the area consisted of a key factory, low-end IT technicians, car companies, sorting plants, and machine workshops.
Mrado thought about Christer Lindberg. The ultra-Sven who’d had to file for personal bankruptcy in order to cover the tax debts from the video stores. This area was filled with his type of people.
Mrado didn’t feel bad for him. If you play the game, you have to deal with the rules of the game, or whatever. The guy only had himself to blame.
They drove toward the cold-storage building. It was enormous. Over seventy units, with everything from over two-thousand-square-foot refrigeration halls to rooms of less than fifty. Meat, vegetables, fruit, mink coats-everything kept better if kept cool. Rumor had it that some units housed organs for the Karolinska Medical Institute.
The building was made of white sheet metal with a flat roof. Drearier than dreary. Streamers outside read WELCOME TO VÄSTBERGA INDUSTRIAL AND LOGISTICS PARK.
They stopped the car outside the fence surrounding the loading docks. Nenad gave Mrado a key. They’d made duplicates; in case one of them went down, the other could make off with the car.
Began to walk toward loading dock number six.
Knew what they were looking for.
Bobban pulled in with his SUV. Parked it outside dock number five. The idea: one car close by and the other outside. If shit went down, they would need alternatives.
Nenad’d also parked a rented Volkswagen by the flagpoles on the front side of the cold-storage building the night before. A third get-away car if needed.
Bobban stayed in his car. Scoped out the area.
Mrado’s cell phone rang, a silent vibration in his pocket.
Bobban’s voice: “I see him now. He’s smoking by loading dock six. Swede. Blue sweater.”
“Thanks.” Mrado hung up.
Apparently, Abdulkarim’d placed only one man outside. Rookie mistake.
Mrado ran toward the loading dock. Saw the guy from twenty yards away. Slowed to a walk. Didn’t want to scare him.
The dude saw him too late.
Mrado, commando-style: slit his throat.
The guy gargled, didn’t have time to scream.
Mrado worried about bloodstains.
Pulled the guy in under the loading dock. Hid the body.
Bobban stepped out of the car. Jumped up onto the loading dock.
Could be days before the guy’s body was found under the loading dock’s overhang.
Bobban remained standing up on the loading dock. Stared in the opposite direction. Kept watch.
Mrado fingered his revolver. Felt the faint outline of the handle’s grip-friendly ribbing.
Nenad stood behind Bobban.
Waiting.
The air was clear. In the distance, the sound of two trucks leaving the area could be heard. No people in sight.
The big question: Had JW unlocked the entrance to unit 51 as promised? The little question: How vigilant were Abdulkarim and his boys?
Mrado tested the door handle to the entrance. It was designed so you could drive pallets with foodstuffs in and out-could be opened like a hatch.
Nenad pulled his gun.
57
The load-out was quick.
Jorge’s head, like a soup. A mix of fear, triumph, confusion.
Disgust.
It was JW’s sister he’d seen in the video on the computer.
Raped, abused. Beaten to bits. Murdered?
As soon as Jorge got in the car with JW, he’d thought the Östermalm brat reminded him of someone. At first couldn’t think of whom. Half an hour later, he knew for sure.
Ay, qué sorpresa.
JW’s sister-a whore. Taken by the Yugos.
He couldn’t bear to say anything.
They’d driven the boxes in on dollies. Ten of them. Heavy and difficult to maneuver. They weren’t exactly t
ruckers.
Abdulkarim, revved up. Fahdi, sweaty. JW was calm, for being him. Jorge himself didn’t know how he was feeling.
The Arab ordered Petter to keep watch outside. The dude was supposed to call if he saw anything shady. The pigs were on their backs like crazy these days.
The cold-storage facility had white walls and steel beams in the high ceiling in which to fasten lifting devices. Abdulkarim swore, wished they’d rented an indoor crane. The floor was made of metal. Smelled like cold fruit. It echoed.
Cool temperature in the entire space.
Two doors, the one they’d come in through and one at the other end of the room.
Four pallets were sin C-the ones that’d been farthest out. That was their safety margin if customs’d taken a random sample-always a chance they only checked the veggies on the end.
They began to empty the other cabbages.
Jorge and JW tore open the cabbages. Cut them open. Plucked out the small plastic bags with the white powder.
Abdulkarim stood by calmly and watched. Weighed and counted every single bag. It had to be correct down to the last gram.
Fahdi packed the bags into a couple of suitcases that they’d lined up against the wall.
Jorge’d already opened one of the bags. Stuck down his finger. Rubbed it against his gums in the classic manner. Tasted good. Tasted 90 percent.
JW was pleased. The eagle’d landed.
After fifteen minutes in the cold-storage facility, they had three pallets left to unpack.
Thirteen suitcases filled with bags. Bulked with old blankets.
They were almost done. Soon they’d load half the suitcases on Jorge and JW’s pickup, and the rest in the car that Abdulkarim, Fahdi, and Petter’d come in.
Abdulkarim, ardent. Every single bag’s weight was written down. Added up. Every suitcase had to contain 13.75 pounds of C. To be stored at different hiding places around town. Spread the risks.
Then something strange happened. The door out toward the loading dock opened.
Jorge turned around. Looked at whoever came in. He was still holding a cabbage in his hand.
Was it Petter?
No.
Big guys.