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 Sodra Lanken 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 amp; 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 Vastberga.
Nenad was playing gym techno on high volume. Pounded his fists to the beat against the wheel.
Power.
An easy match.
A nice day.
Vastberga’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 VASTBERGA 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 Ostermalm brat reminded him of someone. At first couldn’t think of whom. Half an hour later, he knew for sure.
Ay, que 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 truckers.
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.