Easy Money (33 page)

JW got up early. Felt his own inner tension tremble. He knew the schedule; today was the day. If everything went well, they would get access to the big guys. The ones with direct connections to the cartels in South America. The ones who could grease the big gears. The ones who would give JW a rocket career in the C business.

He was sitting by himself in the hotel restaurant’s breakfast section, waiting for Abdulkarim and Fahdi to come down while drinking coffee and reading a British newspaper. Felt unusually restless.

He’d spent over sixty thousand kronor the day before. Clothes, bag, shoes, food, strip club in Soho. Later that night, they went to Chinawhite—where bottle service cost at least five hundred pounds—and did some serious damage. For once, they couldn’t be the ones to deliver the other China white. The sick part wasn’t that he’d spent the money. It was the thought of what his parents would say if they knew.

He texted Sophie. She felt far away, while she was still the one person who knew him best. The only one he’d revealed his double life to. But everything wasn’t revealed; he couldn’t man up to tell her about his background. Was ashamed of his simple Sven family and didn’t want to drag the Camilla story into things. It made him doubtful. If he couldn’t tell his girlfriend, how comfortable was he with her, really?

JW put the newspaper down. Two clear thoughts crystallized in his head. One, that he was going to hang with Sophie more. The second was tougher—that he was going to tell her about his background. But maybe she’d even be able to help him find out more.

Fahdi came down at the ten-thirty mark. They ate together and waited for Abdulkarim.

He didn’t come down.

It got to be eleven o’clock.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Fahdi seemed anxious. Still, they didn’t want to wake Abdul. Was there something JW didn’t know? Was there something Fahdi was afraid of?

Twelve o’clock.

Finally, JW went up. Knocked on the door to Abdulkarim’s room.

No sound.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

Alternatives: either Abdulkarim was passed out after the night’s escapades or something’d happened to him. Hence Fahdi’s stress. JW thought, Who is it we’re meeting today?

He pounded. Put his ear to the door.

Silence.

Finally, he heard Abdulkarim’s voice from inside.

JW opened the door.

The Arab was sitting on the floor in there.

Abdulkarim said, “Sorry. I was late with morning prayers.”

“You’re praying?”

“Tryin’. Sadly, I’m a bad person. Don’t always get up on time.”

“But why?”

“What you mean
why
?”

“Yeah, why do you pray?”

“You don’t get stuff like that, JW, ’cause you a heathen Sven. I bow to Allah. My body against the ground from which it came. Says to me, and all people—niggers or whites, Svens or
blattes,
rich or poor—that Allah, the one true one, it is he who is the one creator and Lord.”

Abdulkarim was serious.

To JW’s ears, it sounded like qualified bullshit, rehearsed flummery, but there was neither time nor energy to discuss Abdul’s life choices. He thought, He’s going to discover for himself what counts—cash or Allah.

They were pressed for time now.

Abdulkarim skipped breakfast.

JW, Abdulkarim, and Fahdi were heading north, toward Birmingham. It was going to take two and half hours by car service, a limo with legroom. Abdulkarim didn’t want them to be cramped on such an important day.

They were on their way—to the really big players.

They could’ve taken a train, bus, plane. But this was better, safer, calmer. Above all, more gangsta. Who the fuck’s going to bounce around on a bus when there’s a limo to be had?

Abdul laughed at the plan for the day’s deal. He’d gotten a call from an unknown person. Time and place’d been agreed upon: the main rail station.
“Don’t be late.”

They were on their way—into the countryside.

The driver was playing the radio, drum ’n’ bass pounding through the back-door speakers. Ultra-British.

He was a young Indian. Abdulkarim’d learned a new English word:
Pakis.
JW thought, Please, Abdulkarim, realize that now isn’t the time to use it.

Outside, the landscape stretched beautifully on all sides. Rolling, rich-earthed rural communities with sowed fields. Tranquil rivers flowed below the road.

English Eden.

Spring had come with a flourish. Compared to Stockholm, the air was warm.

Abdulkarim was tired and dozed, leaning against the window. Fahdi and JW exchanged curt commentary and evaluated London’s nightlife.

“You ever been with a stripper?”

JW thought about the pornos that were always rolling at Fahdi’s. “No, have you?”

“Think I gay or what? Course I have.”

“Here in England?”

“Fuck no. They too expensive. Pounder’s too high.”

JW laughed. “Thought you were the big pounder.”

He thought about their relationship. On the surface, it was purely professional, with some pleasant small talk. But JW felt Fahdi was actually a warm guy. He never judged, didn’t diss, never made fun of anyone. Fahdi was unpretentious. Happy as long has he had two things in life: a bench press and a piece of ass now and then. The drug business—more because he was connected to Abdulkarim for some reason than that he sought kicks, cash, or clout.

The driver started talking. Mentioned Stratford-upon-Avon and Shakespeare. JW looked out, saw a sign with a town’s name, under which was printed
THE HOME OF WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

They passed Birmingham’s suburbs. One-family homes with well-tended gardens. Tightly packed apartment buildings with laundry lines tied up in parallel threads crisscrossing narrow courtyards. Industrial areas that looked like movie sets. JW thought it couldn’t get more quintessentially British.

They arrived in the city. The houses were lower than in London but otherwise looked the same. Redbrick houses, narrow one-family homes with stairwayed stoops and long, slim windows, Starbucks, McDonald’s, bookstores, halal joints. No trees and no bikes.

The car stopped on a bridge by the train station. Underneath, the trains rushed by at high speeds. The noise was deafening.

They got out. Paid the driver and got his number. Said they’d call him in four hours if they needed a car to drive them back to London.

They took the stairs down to the station area.

Their arranged meeting spot was outside the magazine and bookstore in the station.

Didn’t take much to pick out their targets in the crowd—two broad-shouldered men in dark leather jackets, black Valentino jeans, and sturdy leather shoes stood stiffly outside the store. Like, were they in uniform or what? Both looked British: mouse-colored hair, gray complexions. One had straight-cut bangs that hung down on his forehead. JW thought it looked like a Caesar coif. The other rocked a perfectly combed side part.

Abdulkarim walked straight up to them and introduced himself in his
blatte
Swenglish.

No surprise. No smiles.

They followed the men to a minivan. They were directed to the backseat and got in.

The man with the side part, in JW’s opinion: right-wing extremist, severe expression. Asked how their trip’d been. JW thought, Definitely a Brit, judging by the accent.

Abdulkarim chatted for a while. When they were driving through the industrial areas, the right-wing extremist got out three strips of cloth and asked Abdulkarim, JW, and Fahdi to tie them on as blindfolds. Then he asked them to sit down on the floor of the minivan.

They obeyed.

Lay silent, blind, on the floor.

The Brits blared loud music.

JW’s feeling: one of the few times in his life he’d felt real fear. Who, exactly, were they meeting? Where were they taking them? What would happen if Abdulkarim made a fuss? It all seemed so much bigger and more dangerous than when he’d planned the trip back home in safe Stockholm.

One thing was for sure: They were going to meet powerful, shady boys.

After twenty minutes, Abdulkarim asked, “How long are we gonna lie here like sardines?” The Brits laughed. Told him only a few more minutes.

After around ten minutes, JW could feel that they were driving on a new surface. Maybe gravel, maybe stone.

The right-wing extremist asked them to take their blindfolds off and sit back up. JW looked out. They were surrounded by the British spring landscape as it’d looked on the drive up. They were driving on a narrow gravel road toward some buildings.

Fahdi looked bewildered. Glanced at Abdulkarim, who glowed with anticipation and curiosity, but, most of all, with the possibility of doing big business.

The minivan came to a stop. They were asked to get out.

In front of them was a large stone barn with wood crossbeams in a beautiful pattern; next to that was a house surrounded by numerous greenhouses. JW didn’t really get it. This was some kind of mad idyllic countryscape. Where was the gear?

Two men came out of the barn. One of them was enormous, not just tall but fat, too. Still, he had authority, like a heavyweight champ. Carried his weight like a weapon, not like a burden. The other was shorter, with a more slender build. Dressed in a floor-length leather coat and pointy shoes.

Drug lords’ customary fetishes: fast cars, expensive watches, hot chicks. They loved diamonds most of all. In the leather-coat man’s ear: an enormous rock. His body language was clear: He was the one in charge.

Abdulkarim took control of the situation and extended his hand.

The leather-coat guy said in a difficult dialect, “Welcome to Warwickshire. We call this place ‘the Factory.’ I’m Chris.” He pointed to the enormous man beside him. “And this is John, perhaps better known as ‘the Doorman.’ He worked as a bouncer for a long time. Now he’s found a more lucrative field. You know, before he used to boot the same people we today supply with gear. Oh, by the way, pardon the uncomfortable ride on the floor. I’m sure you understand our requirements.”

Abdulkarim sharpened his English. Sounded, consciously or not, like an American rapper. “It’s cool, yo. No problems. We be happy to be here and think it’ll be mad profitable to meet you.”

Chris and Abdulkarim talked for a few minutes. Exchanged some pleasantries—big business demanded long rituals.

“I really think our I-don’t-know-the-word-in-English are gonna be pleased.”

Chris said, “
Principals,
that’s what they’re called. Your boss, that is.”

JW looked around. He glimpsed two other people farther off, behind one of the greenhouses. Their shoulders were draped with weapons, clearly visible in the bright daylight. Farther down the road, more people. The place was heavily guarded. He’d started to grip the idea: Maybe operating in the countryside was pretty smart after all.

JW counted at least six greenhouses in a row. Around one hundred feet long and six feet tall. The house itself was big and all the windows were covered by drawn curtains. Barking sounds were coming from the barn.

Chris invited them into the house.

It smelled like cat piss in there. Dungarees and heavy-duty gloves were hanging on hooks in the hall. Chris hung up his coat. Led them into a big kitchen with a rustic feel. It was a strange contrast. Chris, with the massive rock in his ear and what JW thought was a tailored suit, in this skanky house.

He invited them to have a seat. Asked what they wanted to drink. Poured out tall whiskeys for all three of them. Fine goods: single malt, Isle of Jura, eighteen years old. They sat down. John remained leaning against the wall, didn’t take his eyes off them.

Chris looked happy. “Welcome, once again. Before we begin, I have to ask you to hand over your weapons.” In the middle of his smiling face—JW saw it clearly—his eyes flashed in Fahdi’s direction. “And to go through a little security check.”

Fahdi looked at Abdulkarim.

A fork in the road—either let up on safety, for once, or go home. Could be a trap, could be advanced narcotics investigators they had in front of them. The casting vote for Abdul was probably that the bling in Chris’s ear was real; you could tell. No narc would wear something like that, not just because it was so expensive—it was damn gay, too.

Abdul, in Swedish: “It’s okay. We have to play by their rules today.”

Fahdi pulled out the gun and laid it in front of him on the table. Chris leaned forward. Picked it up, weighed it, turned it over in his hand. Read what was written across the muzzle.

“Nice. Zastava M57, 7.63 millimeter. Reliable. Almost as click-free as an Uzi.”

He popped the magazine. It dropped onto the table.

Then he showed them into an adjoining room.

The two men who’d driven them in the minivan were there. They asked Abdulkarim, JW, and Fahdi to take off their shirts and pants; the boxers they could keep on. They turned around once, slowly. JW glanced at Abdulkarim. Looked like he thought this was the most normal thing in the world—being body-searched by two semi-psychos who’d just forced them down on the floor of a minivan. He assumed the Arab’d been searched before.

They were cleared.

Five minutes later, they were back in the kitchen.

Chris’s smile greeted them. “All right, now we’ve dealt with the formalities. Big men with small guns really stress me out. Yours truly isn’t all too big, but damn do I have a big weapon.” He giggled and grabbed his crotch. Turned to John as though to get backup.

“Let’s sit here, relax, and enjoy this fine whiskey. How’s London been treating you?”

Small talk and pleasantries went on for half an hour. Abdulkarim really went in for the part of group leader. Told stories about their nights in London, the places they’d gone to, about the shopping, about London Dungeon, and the guide they’d freaked out. All with genuine enthusiasm.

“London’s a real city. You know, Stockholm is like a piss in Mississippi in comparison. But we got a subway.”

JW chuckled inside. What were the chances that Chris understood the Arab’s talk about American rivers?

After finishing three rounds of drinks, Chris got up and said, “Let’s get down to business. I want to show you around. I’m guessing you’re curious.”