It was the first time during the entire trip that JW thought, There’s someone above Abdulkarim.
Two days later, they’d switched hotels. Abdulkarim’d asked JW to wait in his room all day. Something was going to happen; that was blue-sky clear.
JW watched TV, smoked despite the no-smoking policy, played games on his phone. He felt more restless than ever. Tried to read but couldn’t. Called Sophie. She didn’t pick up. Thought about her, rubbed one out, jizzed in one of the free towels from the hotel. Drank champagne from the minibar, smoked again, watched British TV commercials. Texted Sophie, Mom, Nippe, Fredrik, Jet Set Carl. Played cell phone games again, tapped up a bath but didn’t get in. Read FHM magazine. Checked out the fine-looking centerfold chicks.
At three o’clock, he went down to the street and bought a Twix and a bottle of Diet Coke. Then he ordered a club sandwich to be delivered to his room.
He thought, Where the hell is Abdulkarim?
When he got back to the room, he sat down on the bed and pulled his legs up. Thought about Camilla. When he got back to Sweden, he was going to weed through all the leads once and for all. Call the police again-he had to know what they were finding out. But right now: focus on the C business.
Finally, at four o’clock, there was a knock at the door.
Abdulkarim was waiting outside. “He wants you to come with. I’ve told him what we saw. We’ve discussed everything. Now he wants to hear your opinion. Have you as a calculator. It’s time. Time to negotiate. You and the boss.”
JW’s heart pounded. He understood what this meant.
“You moved fast and straight up, buddy. Remember when I picked you up outside Kvarnen? Fucking lucky you didn’t say no. I wouldn’t ask twice. You know that? And now you sitting at the deal table with the boss. My boss. Me, not the one sitting there.”
JW wondered if he heard a hint of jealousy.
He threaded his arms through the newly bought club blazer and praised Harvey Nichols for the sweet clothes.
Put on the cashmere coat.
Felt ready for anything.
Abdulkarim’d told him what hotel he was going to, The Savoy. How sick was that? The Savoy, one of the world’s ten best.
It was in the West End. The hotel’s restaurant had a star in the Guide Rouge.
JW glided past. Self-confidence was all you needed, just like at home at Kharma. He announced his arrival at the reception desk. Two minutes later, a man arrived wearing a dark glam-cut jacket with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. His sported a backslick and a languid style. Unmistakable-a true cocaine king.
The man introduced himself in slightly accented Swedish. “Hi, JW. I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Nenad. I work with Abdulkarim sometimes.”
False humility. It should really be: Abdulkarim works under me.
It was nice to speak Swedish. They chatted. Nenad was only in London for the night. Negotiations had to be quick.
JW saw himself in Nenad-a Stureplan type with the wrong roots.
They had a seat in the hotel lobby. Nenad ordered a cognac, finest XO aging.
Large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Persian carpets lay under the classically designed leather armchairs. The ashtray was real silver.
Nenad asked questions. JW filled in what Abdulkarim hadn’t gotten or had misunderstood. Nenad seemed to have a grip on most of it. He saw the potential, understood the risks and opportunities. After an hour’s discussion, he reached an objective: first and foremost to import as big a load as possible, preferably in cabbage form.
JW agreed.
They kept discussing. Prices in England, primarily prices in Stockholm. Storage methods, transport methods, increased market shares. Sales strategies, dealing tricks, new people to enroll. Payment method to the syndicate: money transfer, SWIFT system, or cash.
JW’d learned a lot from his talks with Jorge. Heard how Jorge’s words, views, and thoughts came out of his own mouth.
Nenad liked JW’s ideas, the way he spit.
When they were finished, he lit a cigar. “JW, think through everything we’ve talked about one more time. Tonight at seven, we’re negotiating with the other side. I want you next to me. You need to be clear on all the numbers.”
JW got up and thanked Nenad. He almost bowed.
“See you later. It’ll be fun.”
JW felt like he was floating on clouds.
He remembered the moment in Abdulkarim’s gypsy cab when he’d first decided to help him sell C. Now-seven months later-he was talking big business with Nenad at the Savoy.
JW was a player.
For real.
Soon they were going to negotiate the world’s biggest fucking deal.
42
Two bad things. One, he’d been humiliated. Two, he’d lost his job.
Three good things. He was still a part of the organization-not totally out in the cold. He still had drive-possibilities to get ahead, maybe without R. And three, he was still alive.
Two days’d passed since the events at Fiskartorpet’s ski-jumping tower. Mrado remembered Radovan’s account in detail. Could cite every word/tone/gesture.
Rado’d stoked his own fire. Demonic. Dictatorial. Deadly.
But nothing’d happened. Mrado’d left like after any other meeting with R. At the end of the dinner, they’d talked about general subjects-cars, bars, laundering, dough.
Still, he’d been crowned a nobody.
There’d been total silence in the Range Rover on the way home. The only thought in Mrado’s head: Jokso would never’ve dealt with a situation like this. Not been so hysterical. Not dumped his best partner.
Mrado went on with his life despite the demotion. Went to the gym. Went to Pancrease. Fought with greater frenzy than he had for a long time. Omar Elalbaoui, pleased. “Good recoil to your punches, juggernaut!” he hollered when Mrado sparred in the ring. That Elalbaoui yelled like that at Pancrease-a sensation.
He ruminated. Should he screw Radovan’s orders and run a night along the coat-check route? Before he’d even finished the thought, he realized what a shitty impulse it was. Kamikaze idea.
But, on the other hand, Radovan wasn’t immortal. He thought he was Jokso, but just like for Jokso, the carpet could be pulled from under his feet in an instant.
In Mrado’s head: the possibility of busting Rado’s monopoly.
The idea had to be perfected.
Mrado’s thoughts flowed in conked-out currents. But at the same time, on an energy-efficient circuit, the idea was sparking: His strength was in his contacts; he should be able to break Rado, trick the fucking turncoat. If R. was planning to redecorate the Yugo hierarchy, there was a chance someone else’d been given the boot, too. Mrado had to find out who.
He rummaged around rumors. Dug dirt. Ratko knew some. Bobban some. Radovan was in the process of cleaning out the house.
Mrado guessed. Probably not Goran. Not Stefanovic. Could it be his friend Nenad?
Mrado began preparations for breaking out on his own the following day.
He was gonna play like in poker, even though it’d gone to hell the last time at the casino: the Big Slick. All or nothing. Mrado’d made up his mind. He was gonna take the plunge-all in.
Mrado versus the Stockholm underworld’s single most powerful man. It required planning.
Mrado versus Jokso’s heir to the throne. It demanded brainpower.
Mrado versus a tool. Mrado would take home the trophy, but he needed faith even to make himself believe it.
He brought out the notebook that’d been left untouched since he’d gone Latino hunting.
Thought about everything he’d done for Rado just to find that blatte. Broken the fingers of the fugitive’s cousin. Beaten up his chick. Waited in his car day and night and interrogated bums outside of homeless shelters. Turned the Latino into a human puddle. And what were his thanks? Mrado’d made up his mind-he couldn’t let it end with his own humiliation.