He wished he had as much on the Yugo boss as they thought he did.
Something Jorge had to consider: If he tried to gather info about R. within the field he knew best, coke dealing, didn’t he risk his own skin? Didn’t he risk his buddies: Sergio, Vadim, Ashur? Dudes who’d all been involved in Radovan’s coke pyramid in one way or another. He ought to find out other stuff about the Yugo Mafia.
What else did he know about Radovan from his time at Osteraker? First and foremost, what everybody knew: The Yugo boss was involved in a ton of other businesses besides ice. Racketeering, doping, cigarette smuggling. But what did he know of substance? Only a couple things: Radovan’s blow came in via the Balkan route, over the former Yugoslavia, where the shit was refined and packaged. Not like most other blow in Sweden, which came in through the Iberian Peninsula, England, or directly from Colombia and the rest of Latin America. The Balkan route was usually the heroin channel.
Moreover, he knew which restaurants Radovan was said to control and use for laundering. He knew a number of people who’d been threatened or gotten the shit kicked out of them because they’d challenged parts of Radovan’s empire: the blow biz in the inner city, Jack Vegas gambling machines at bars in the western boroughs, moonshine instead of smuggled stuff at restaurants in Sollentuna.
But again, nothing could be linked directly to R. Nothing could be proven.
Jorge figured he should give up. Eat the humiliation. Lots of people got the living daylights beaten out of them by men like Mrado. Who did he think he was? What could he achieve? On the other hand, J-boy, the big-balled Latino, escape artist extraordinaire, was bigger than the regular ghetto gophers with dreams of bling and expensive rides. He was gonna be somebody. Cash in, for real. If Osteraker hadn’t been able to stop him, no flabby Serbo-Croatian would, either.
The sky was darkening.
A crappy day.
The house was the wrong place to start. Jorge had to think. Be systematic.
He drove off. Parked the car in Sodermalm. Dangerous to ride around in it for too long.
Couldn’t let go of the thoughts of R. and his connection to the Balkan route. Jorge knew a guy, Steven, at Osteraker. The dude was doing time for smuggling horse from Croatia. Might be a starting point. Find out if Steven was out yet. Otherwise, find Steven’s partners. Guys who knew more about the Balkan route.
The next day, he called Osteraker from a pay phone. Disguised his voice. Asked if Steven’d been released yet. He was met with a mocking tone on the other end of the line. Jorge didn’t recognize who it was. “Steven Jonsson? He’s got at least three years left. Call back then.”
Pigs.
Jorge called Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Sergio. Everyone he trusted. No one knew much about Steven and H smuggling. Some of them knew his name but had no idea who he’d worked with.
Three days of making calls. No success.
He couldn’t even get in touch with Steven himself in a safe way. Phone calls could be tapped, if they were even allowed. Letters could be opened and read. E-mail wasn’t allowed at the facility.
He staked out the house. Waited for something without knowing what.
Stared at the flat roof, his gaze glued to the snow.
Thought: How do I get in touch with Steven? Learn about heroin via the Balkan route. It was a perfect area. Jorge himself’d never been involved in it. No risk for him or his friends.
It became an obsession. A manic goal with Rado’s and Mrado’s heads as bounty.
Sometimes he saw people at the house. R. himself came home. A woman with a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girl arrived at the house at around six o’clock every night. It had to be R.’s wife and daughter. Home from school and work. Never alone. Always accompanied by a big dude with a Slavic look-obvious capo in the Yugo hierarchy. Later, Jorge learned who the guy was. His name was Stefanovic, private bodyguard and murder machine for the Radovan Kranjic family.
The woman drove a Saab convertible.
Radovan drove a Lexus SUV.
A happy little family.
When Jorge saw the girl, he thought about the picture of Paola that Mrado’d showed him in the woods. They played dirty. Jorge could play dirty, too. Do something to the girl. Still, it didn’t feel right. The girl was innocent. Besides, it seemed too dangerous.
The house was heavily guarded. Every time someone approached it, floodlights automatically lit up the path leading to the door. Sometimes, if Stefanovic was home, he came and opened the door for Radovan. That indicated that some sort of indoor alarm system forewarned him as soon as someone approached the house.
Jorge abandoned the idea that waiting outside the house would yield anything. It seemed half-baked.
Four days later: another idea. He called Osteraker again. Asked about Steven. Asked what he’d been convicted of. Asked when he’d been convicted. At which district court.
Thanked Sweden for the law about open access to public records, whatever it was called. Jorge called the district court. Asked them to send him information about Steven Jonsson’s conviction. No problem-they didn’t even ask his name.
A day later, in Fahdi’s mailbox: trial documents. Stockholm’s district court. Aggravated drug possession. Thirteen pounds of heroin. Straight from Croatia, fresh. The defendants were Steven Jonsson, Ilja Randic, Darko Kusovic. Steven’d been sentenced to six years, Ilja to six years, Darko to two years. The last guy should be out by now.
Darko wasn’t difficult to get hold of. His cell was listed in the regular directory.
Jorge called.
“Hey, my name is Jorge. Old buddy of Steven’s from Osteraker. I was wondering if it’d be okay if I asked some questions.”
“Who the hell are you?” Darko sounded on edge.
“Chill out, man. I did time with Steven. We were on the same hall. Would like to get together if you’ve got the time.”
Jorge cajoled. Sounded pleasant. Pulled some slammer stories about Steven. Made Darko understand that he’d really been in the cell next to Steven. Jorge giggled. Played like a cob. Harmless tool.
That always worked.
Finally, Darko said, “It’s cool. I’ve kicked that habit. Refurbishing Saabs full-time now. I’ll meet you, but only on one condition. I don’t wanna get pulled into anything. You get me? I quit that shit. I can tell you what Steven and I were up to, but it’s gonna be my way. Nothing more. I’m straight these days.”
Jorge thought: Yeah right, superstraight.
They arranged to meet up.
He was gonna meet Darko in four days. Five hot G’s burned in his pocket. A large part of his income from the job with Abdulkarim went to his hate project: It was both completing and depleting.
They met up at a coffee shop on Kungsgatan. Blueberry muffins and a hundred different types of coffee behind the counter. Place packed with teens and maternity-leave moms. The clientele’s conversation topics recapitulated: guys, girlfriends, stroller models.
After some polite small talk and the three thousand kronor as promised, Darko started talking. His dark voice carried over the shrill cackle as he recounted the preparations the heavy hitters’d made four years ago. Despite all his objections over the phone, he didn’t seem to give a shit if people heard him.
Darko was a Balkan route pro. Was familiar with every single smuggling route between Afghanistan, Turkey, Tajikistan, and the Balkans. He knew the 20 of every customs station along the entire stretch of the former Yugoslavia’s border. Which customs agents would turn a blind eye for dead presidents. Who was expensive, who was cheap.
Jorge was impressed. He asked about Radovan specifically.
Darko shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Can lead to trouble. I’ve got a son, eight years old.”
Again, Jorge thought about the cell phone picture of his sister that Mrado’d held up to his face in the woods that afternoon.