At the top of a fresh page in the notebook, he wrote, Secure my life.
Started to list measures that had to be taken.
Move. Alternatives: become a lodger, sublet, buy a house through a front man, get a trailer.
He reread what he’d just written. Get a trailer-yeah right. Still, let it stand. He had to brainstorm. All ideas had to be put to paper.
Kept going.
Get a new car.
Get a dog: pit bull, German shepherd, or other attack dog.
Always keep the bulletproof vest on.
Get an even lighter gun. To carry, always.
Get an even better alarm system for the car and potential new home.
Arrange for a bodyguard. Possible people: Ratko, Bobban, Mahmud. Who can be trusted?
Stop training at Fitness Club.
Stop training at Pancrease.
Stop eating at Clara’s and Bronco’s.
Get a new cell phone and prepaid plan.
Start going to a new gym.
Change habits. Drive different roads to the same place. Change workout schedule.
Make Lovisa move, switch schools, and get an unlisted address.
Get a PO box address.
Write down and collect evidence about what I know about Radovan’s business and store it in a safe place. My best insurance policy.
He looked over the list again.
As was his habit, he underlined one word: Lovisa.
Most important. Most difficult.
He called her mother, the hate object, Annika.
No answer.
He left her a message. Hoped she would call back despite the mess with family court.
Decided once again. He’d make a go for R. But he had to take it easy. No point in rushing. The preparations were key.
Two days later. Nenad’s slow drawl on the phone. “Mrado, are you somewhere you can talk?”
“Yeah, sure. What’s up? When did you get back from London?”
Mrado’s interest was piqued. Nenad’s tone suggested something.
“I got back a few days ago. Things went fantastic there. Anything happen here at home? How’s your daughter? Is your line secure?”
Nenad let the last question slip in as though he’d asked about the latest K-1 fight on TV, something totally normal.
“These days? With you and me both marked by the Nova bitches? I don’t think so.”
“Could you meet me outside Ringen in twenty? It’s important.”
Dreary weather outside. March’s drabness was dragging on for longer than usual. And the area by Ringen was as dreary as the weather. Across from Ringen: the Clarion Hotel’s enormous entrance illuminated by colorful spotlights.
It was quarter past three in the afternoon. A Sunday.
Nenad arrived with the fur collar on his coat popped-mink against three-day stubble. Mrado saw something in his gaze he’d never seen in Nenad’s eyes before. Mrado thought, Is it panic/fear or just confusion? Something’d happened to Nenad; it was obvious.
They walked into the Clarion.
Nenad talked to a pretty girl at the reception desk. He’d apparently planned this well-had booked a mini spa session.
They walked up a flight of stairs. The smell of chlorine hit them in the hallway.
Registered at another reception desk. Got towels with the Clarion’s monogram embroidered in gold-colored thread. Felt slippers. A set of bottles each: shower gel, shampoo, conditioner, moisturizer. Terry-cloth bathrobes.
The door to the pool was fogged up.
They went straight to the showers. Rinsed off. Didn’t bother with the regular sauna.
Nenad’d booked nice; a private mini sauna was included.
The mini sauna fit three people on the top and three people on the lower level. Classic wood paneling covered the walls and ceiling. On one short side was a round window facing out to the Skanstull Bridge-ultraurban. Cool.
They each sat down on a towel.
Mrado studied Nenad’s face again. That strange something was still there in his eyes, and he looked tired, too. Not his usual, confident self. Something was off.
“Mrado, you’re the only one I trust right now.”
Mrado cut right to the chase. “What happened?”
“Shit show.”
“I’m not totally surprised. All of you is radiating ‘shit show.’ Let me guess. Rado shit.”
“Bull’s-eye. I suspected you knew. I’ve been cut. Demoted. Humiliated.”
“Tell me.” Mrado, strategic: was gonna wait to drop his own bomb.
“Came home from London two days ago. Rigged the biggest fucking deal ever. You can’t even imagine, it’s so huge. Then what happens? Rado calls my house at one in the morning. I’m making out with this hot little piece of Ostermalm ass I brought home. I go there. To his house, that is. Stefanovic brings me into the lib. Classic Radovan audience. Then I get a long lecture about his fucking ideas, a lot of smack about the new type of organization. Ends with him telling me I’m no longer in charge of the C business and am being demoted in the call-girl sphere. That I’m a fucking nobody. That I can forget about my role in the group. And, you know, I just sat there and took it. Felt the pressure-if I’d put up a fight, it could’ve ended there. Stefanovic was trigger-happy. Fuck. That’s the thanks I get. That cunt. And I just busted my hump in London for that douchebag. Biggest fucking deal ever.”
Nenad’s reaction as opposed to Mrado’s: healthier/angrier/more childish. Mrado envied him. That was the right way to tackle this shit. To lose it.
“Nenad, same thing happened to me the day before.”
Nenad’s mouth looked like a gaping black hole in the heat of the sauna. Both felt the same way. But above all, they felt relieved not to be alone. Someone to share the shit with. Someone to plan the counterattack with.
They talked for two hours. In and out of the sauna. Sitting in reclining wooden chairs outside the sauna. In the showers. In the pool. Ladled water onto the coals. Let the steam rise. Breathed through their mouths. Analyzed. Scrutinized. Rhapsodized.
Why’d they been demoted? What did the situation look like in terms of potential repudiation? Sit tight or try to strike back right away?
Mrado told Nenad in detail how he’d tried to cut himself a bigger slice of the coat-check cake and about his work with the market division. Which persons might be of help. Who he’d made a good connection
with, the Bandidos’ Jonas Haakonsen, the Wolfpack Brotherhood’s Magnus Linden, and others. But above all, he told Nenad about the feeling he’d had of a confidence crisis between himself and R.
They’d never before spoken so openly about the situation within the organization. And what was encouraging was that they shared so many views regarding Rado.
By the time they parted ways, they’d established three principles. It was the two of them together now. They would keep their mouths fucking watertight about all this. And the only way out: Radovan’s fall or their own.
Let the war begin.
43
Obvious-something’d happened to her.
Jorge’d called the brothel madam at least fifteen times a day for the past two days. The effect: She’d stopped picking up her phone. The rings went unanswered. She’d probably gotten a new number. Before she’d stopped picking up, he’d gotten the same answer every time: “I’m sorry, I have no idea where Nadja is.” Fat chance- mentirosa.
In summation, the situation was clear: Nadja’s disappearance, the terror in the eyes of the hooker in her room, the brothel madam’s lies.
The tough question: Was it his fault? The thought ate away at him. Ordinary Jorge’s basic philosophy: No one is responsible for anyone else. Life’s too short to wait around for cash flow. Serve yourself and let others take care of themselves. Worked for blow biz. Worked for cigarette deals at Osteraker. Worked when there were direct material gains for J-boy to collect. But now there was something else driving him.
Jorge saw himself as the Yugos’ nemesis. And the war against them entailed dangers for others. He already knew that. They’d threatened to hurt Paola. Now Nadja was gone. Where was she? What did she know?