Easy Money (24 page)

Since the summer of last year, the Surveillance Group has, with increased efforts, tracked a number of persons who belong to the so-called Yugoslavian Mafia (referred to below as the Organization). The members of the Organization are suspicious of new people, which is why the Organization is difficult to infiltrate. This is largely due to the Organization’s ethnic homogeneity. The upper levels of the hierarchy solely consist of men between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-five, all born, or with both parents born, in the former Yugoslavia, today Serbia-Montenegro. There are few so-called rats who are ready to provide information about the Organization because of its members’ well-documented history of violence. The Organization has become famous for following through on threats, and several incidents of serious violent crimes over recent years can be tied to it and its related groups. See reports 2–4. Wiretapping or other bugging is often unsuccessful, since the people within the Organization search the places where they spend time as well as use prepaid phone cards that are frequently switched out.

Since three months back, the Surveillance Group has suspected that the Organization is preparing itself and its business to face the threat posed by Project Nova.

There are suspicions in regard to the following criminal activities: alcohol and cigarette smuggling, sex trafficking, procuring, and pandering, blackmail, and racketeering, as well as freight frauds and freight theft.

Radovan Kranjic:
The Organization’s leader is the Swedish citizen Radovan Kranjic (also known as Rado, Mr. R., and the Yugo boss), born in 1960 at an unknown location in the former Yugoslavia, now Serbia-Montenegro. He came to Sweden in 1978, seeking employment.

Among other things, Kranjic has previously worked as a bouncer and a bodyguard. Today, he owns and runs a restaurant, Clara’s Kitchen & Bar, Ltd. (Organization number 556542-2353), in central Stockholm. He reported an income from the company as well as from certain shares in Diamond Catering, Ltd. (Organization number 556554-2234), a total of 321,000 kronor for the past fiscal year.

Kranjic has previously been convicted of the following. 1982: assault, minor. 1985: illegal threats, assault, illegal weapons possession, speeding (served eight months in prison). 1989: illegal threats, tax fraud, illegal weapons possession (served four months in prison). Since 1990, Kranjic has not been reported for any crimes or misdemeanors.

Kranjic is married to Nadja Kranjic, with whom he has one child. Kranjic is believed to have participated in the war in the former Yugoslavia, 1993–1995, during which time he was not in Sweden for long stretches of time. He is said to have good connections within segments of the Serbian Nationalist Movement, among them Zeljko Raznatovic, better known as “Arkan,” whose private paramilitary army, the Tigers, led ethnic cleansing actions in Kosovo 1992–1995. During the later part of the 1990s, he was the number two in the Organization in Stockholm and was primarily responsible for the racketeering and cocaine businesses. Kranjic is also believed to have started the sex trafficking, procuring, and pandering business during this time.

Mrado Slovovic:
He is Radovan Kranjic’s direct subordinate. Slovovic, who is a Swedish citizen born in 1967, came to Sweden in 1970 from the former Yugoslavia. He has previously worked as a bouncer and with the import of Thai wood products. He trains in so-called bodybuilding and combat sports.

Slovovic reported an income of 136,000 kronor for the past fiscal year, profits derived from his wood-importing business as well as from gambling.

He has previously been convicted for the following. 1987: driving under the influence. 1988: aggravated assault, illegal weapons possession, and illegal drug possession, minor (served one year in prison). 1995: breaking and entering, robbery, and resisting arrest (served twenty-four months in prison). 2001: illegal threats. Since 2001, he has not been reported for any crimes or misdemeanors. Slovovic was most recently prosecuted for aggravated assault of a bouncer at restaurant Kvarnen in Stockholm. Charges against Slovovic were dropped on appeal. The other defendant, X, was sentenced to three years in prison for aggravated assault. X is believed to be one of Slovovic’s so-called lackeys and has worked with him within the Organization’s coat-check racketeering business. Furthermore, Slovovic is currently involved in a custody battle with his former wife, Annika Sjöberg, regarding the care of their daughter, Lovisa.

Slovovic is believed to have been a member of the so-called Tigers, during their attack on Srebrenica in 1995. Slovovic is very violent and has, other than the incident at Kvarnen, without a doubt committed a great number of acts that would be classified as aggravated assault if he were forced to stand trial for them. Among other things, the Norrmalm police’s Drug Unit has tried to infiltrate a group of so-called bodybuilders at the Fitness Club gym on Sveavägen in Stockholm, which serves as a recruiting base for crime. The police infiltrator (Y) was, on August 18 of last year, gravely assaulted by Slovovic, who used free weights from the gym as well as threatened him with a gun. Y does not believe that Slovovic suspected his connection with the police, but that the assault was done as an “exhibit of power” by Slovovic.

Slovovic is responsible for the Organization’s protection racketeering business as well as other acts of blackmail and threats. The protection-racketeering business is directed primarily against restaurants and bars in the Stockholm area, but also against other business owners who appear to exist in a legal “gray zone.”

Stefanovic Rudjman:
He is Kranjic’s nephew and his and his family’s private bodyguard. Born in Sweden in 1977. He has previously been enrolled at Stockholm University, where his studies have included law and economics. He did not complete a degree in either subject. He has previously been active as an accountant at the accounting firm Rusta Ekonomi, Ltd. (Organization number: 556743-3389).

He reported an income of 859,000 kronor for the past fiscal year, income that mainly originates from interest on stocks and other assets.

The Surveillance Group suspects that Rudjman runs a money-laundering business for, among others, Kranjic. Rudjman has not been convicted of any crime except for a number of traffic offenses since 2000. He is unmarried. Rudjman is also believed to handle Kranjic’s investments. Rudjman has, among other things, invested large sums in real estate development projects in the Belgrade area.

The Surveillance Group has gathered information regarding internal conflicts within the Organization. The Organization is well aware of Project Nova and is preparing itself to face the police’s efforts. Its leadership is planning to divide the market for certain types of criminal activity in order to avoid insider competition. The method proved effective during the so-called cease-fire between the motorcycle gangs Bandidos and Hells Angels. The Surveillance Group believes that Mrado Slovovic and Stefanovic Rudjman have been entrusted with the job of researching and planning as well as implementing such a division of the market. Slovovic has been in touch with a number of other criminal networks and organizations. He is very difficult to keep under surveillance since he often changes phone carriers. What’s more, there is no permit for further surveillance efforts. It is probable that he is planning to meet with more of Stockholm’s criminal gangs in the near future. Certain internal conflicts exist within the Organization in regards to the attempts to divide the market.

Based on a tapped conversation between Kranjic and Rudjman on February 15 of this year (tape SPL 3459-045 A), it is apparent that Kranjic no longer trusts Slovovic. The following quotes are translated from Serbian and taken from the transcript of the conversation:

The Surveillance Group believes that this is another sign that Project Nova has succeeded in its initial stage: to disrupt the organized crime scene and weaken it.

The Surveillance Group suggests the following measures to be taken, based on what has been described above:

1. Increased surveillance operations against Mrado Slovovic and Radovan Kranjic, to the extent that permission is granted.
   
2. Continued attempts to gather information from X.
   
3. Continued attempts to infiltrate the Organization.
   

Regarding the budget for the above-listed measures, see attachment 1.

Criminal Investigation Department Superintendent Björn Stavgård
Special Investigator Stefan Krans

Jorge had to pee so bad, he could’ve pissed a whole ginger ale bottle full. Funny thought, maybe treat someone. “Here, have some ginger ale.” The color deceptively similar.

It would be weeks before he finally understood a basic ground rule for people in the surveillance business: Always bring a bottle to pee into when you’re staking out in a car. If it’s an empty ginger ale bottle or not doesn’t matter.

The car’s back windows were tinted—it was necessary so no one could see him. Regular windows would be too much of a hassle; he’d have to lie with his seat lowered all the way back. And then there’d be the risk of falling asleep.

Radovan’s house was peaceful. It was the first day he’d spent sitting out here. The first of many days to come.

He’d stolen the car, a Jeep Cherokee, in posh Östermalm at 3:00 a.m. Switched out the license plates. Reduced the risk of being outed by the cops.

Jorge, the Angel of Revenge, was gonna bring Radovan’s empire to its knees. He just had to figure out how.

All he knew right now was that hate went a long way. A vendetta that demanded even more patience than the escape from Österåker. He had to investigate, stake out, add things up. Dig up dirt on Radovan. To start, figure out Mr. R.’s routines. A good start: sitting in the car, thinking, and waiting to see if something shady would happen.

Nothing was happening on the street.

He looked at the house.

There was snow on the roof.

Unclear if anyone was home or not.

He kept staring, as if he’d enrolled at Komvux again—a course in suburban architecture.

Nodded off between five and six o’clock in the afternoon. Not good. Had to stay awake. Tomorrow, he was gonna bring cigarettes, Coca-Cola, maybe a Gameboy.

The day slipped by.

The hate remained.

A few days later, he was staking out the house again.

Forced himself to think about an outlet for his feelings toward Radovan. The ideas’d found their way into his mind a week ago for the first time. Earlier, he’d pushed the thoughts away, into the future. Had only wanted to survive on the run. Get in with Abdulkarim. Do a good job. Make some money. Fix a passport. Skip the country. Now, he enjoyed walking the city streets, being unrecognizable. The thought of leaving Sweden was starting to seem like too much of a hassle. Instead: When he’d made enough money, he’d start some kind of assault on Radovan.

A thought: There was the possibility that he was actually working indirectly for Radovan right now. Jorge knew coke Stockholm inside out. There weren’t many players out there with muscles big enough to deal on Abdulkarim’s massive scale. The Arab seemed ridiculous sometimes, but Jorge knew the dude had an iron grip on cocaine. Knew his shit. Jorge could have cared less either way. It wasn’t probable that Rado actually controlled Abdul—Serbs and Muslims didn’t usually mesh. And, if Radovan really was the boss, the irony was just too perfect.

He needed to plan other projects, his first real job for the Arab. Make sure a coke shipment had a smooth arrival, directly from Brazil.

That was his area of expertise.

Founding principle: An old trick can fly if you play it right. Jorge was prepared. A much bigger load than usual was being delivered. Cocaine acquired through contacts of contacts in Brazil. Priceworthy. Forty American dollars a gram. Heavy phone traffic the last couple of months. The deal was done: The tickets had been bought, a new prepaid cell had been acquired, the necessary people had been informed, customs officers in São Paolo had been bribed, and a hotel room had been booked. Most important of all, the courier had been secured. It was a woman.

Troubleshooting: done. Abdulkarim: double-checked everything.

Again: An old trick can fly if you play it right. The Arlanda airport police/customs were after suspicious couriers worse than baby ballers in the projects were after the gangs they wanted to belong to, like leeches.

Jorge repeated: He would play it right.

He went over his revenge project once again, which led to questions. What did he really know about R.? Some from the time before he was locked up, when he’d pushed powder for the Yugos. Their routines were tight. He’d pick up a key in a storage locker at the Central Station about once a week. Then he’d ride out to a Shurgard storage unit in Kungens Kurva, where he’d measure out ten to twenty grams per visit. Dealt the shit in the northern boroughs, sometimes at bars in the city. Sometimes to other dealers, sometimes directly to the customers. Simple jobs. Still, he’d banked. Been glossy.

He knew so much more about snow now. Österåker’d had its good sides—J-boy was a walking Stockholm coke encyclopedia.

Then: He’d always known Rado, the Yugo king, was behind it all. But he’d also known that nothing led back to Mr. R. The guys that delivered the coke to Jorge had never mentioned his name. He’d never run into them at the Shurgard storage unit. Strange that Mrado hadn’t killed him out there in the woods. The Yugos must’ve been scared that he had so much dirt on Radovan, he’d be able to hurt them for real.

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 Österåker? 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 Österåker 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 Södermalm. 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 Österåker. 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 Österåker 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 Österåker 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 Österåker. 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.

Kept applying pressure.

“Come on. Help me, just a little. Two more G’s for the info?”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Fuck it, man, call and ask Steven if you think I’ll sing. We used to sneak a blaze in the bathroom my whole time on the inside. I’d never jux a friend of Steven’s.”

Darko seemed to relax when he heard Steven’s name.

“You’re stubborn. I’ll tell you the whole story for five.”

No point in haggling. Jorge said, “Agreed. Five.”

Darko kept talking. Told how he and Steven hadn’t really worked for R. except on two occasions. The first time, they smuggled in nine pounds of heroin hidden in a tractor-trailer crammed with timber. Value on the street: over one and a half million. They’d cooked the whole dish from scratch: fixed the dudes who drove, kept their eyes on the dudes who drove, bribed customs agents, landed protection from other organized naughty boys in Belgrade.

The second time, he hadn’t smuggled H, something else. Worse.

Jorge got interested. Poured on the questions.

Darko looked strained. His eyes danced around the room. Downed his coffee. Suggested a walk instead.

They went out.

It was a cold February day. Crispy air and blue sky.