Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

On the whole, though, the groups were able to concentrate. Focus. Develop new areas. Increase the margins. Increase the profits. Above all, they could keep clear of the Nova Project’s infiltrators.

After Mrado’s demotion and the problem with the video rental stores, his insomnia took on absurd proportions. He popped pills like a kid ate penny candy. It wasn’t okay. He hoped it’d get better once they took on Radovan.

Three fat losses on his tax return. Over 200,000 kronor total.

The solution: He’d sacrifice the companies. The fall guy, Christer Lindberg, the super-Sven, would take the hit. That’s what he was paid to do.

And nothing could be traced back to Mrado.

The problem that couldn’t be solved was that Mrado needed more clean cash to finance Lovisa’s protection in the future. The possibility of buying a new apartment for her and Annika topped the list.

He considered Nenad’s idea: Use the laundry genius, their guy JW. Apparently, the brat wannabe’d built beautiful solutions for big-load laundry. That’d be necessary after they’d flipped the massive steal, in any case.

Mrado and Nenad were in intense-planning mode. Two days left until they were gonna present their defection to the Yugo boss.

Why do it before the arrival of the C shipment? Wasn’t that unnecessary? Mrado’d discussed the matter with Nenad-there was no other way. It was the Serbian way: Let your enemy know he’s your enemy. Mrado and Nenad were gonna play this straight.

Besides, Abdulkarim’d been told ages ago that Rado’d cut Nenad off from the C biz. The Arab’d also been informed about who his real boss was. He’d probably suspected it for a while. The Arab fucker apparently sided with R. Refused even to talk to Nenad, which sent an obvious signal: You’re a loser. I’m on my way up. In other words, it didn’t matter if Radovan knew that Nenad was going his own way. Nenad’d officially not been given any information for the past three months. Rado and Abdulkarim thought he was out of the running. Their mistake: They had no clue about the leak in their pipes-the JW guy.

The shipment was due at the Arlanda Airport on June 23, in six days.

Mrado and Nenad’s plan was simple. JW managed everything. Two trucks from Schenker Vegetables were set to pick up the containers. JW’d talked to the teamsters who were driving. They knew the final destination for the containers-not a grocery-store warehouse, but the Västberga Cold Storage Center. JW and a couple of Abdulkarim’s other guys were gonna guard the load all the way from Arlanda. The truckers would drop the gear off at the cold-storage facility. Abdulkarim plus honchos would pick up the coke cabbage. And that’s where Mrado and Nenad came in. JW’d described everything he knew. The guy was gonna wait in the cold storage facility. Make sure Mrado and Nenad made it inside. After that, it was their job to overpower everyone-probably Abdulkarim and his constant companion, Fahdi, plus the guys who’d helped guard the truck transport. When it came to the JW guy, they’d have to pull a feint. Probably just take him down and tape him up, something like that. If they needed to use heat, no problem.

Mrado looked forward to the attack.

It was showtime-to present Radovan with the fact that he was enemy number one. Mrado and Nenad met up outside Ringen’s mall as usual. It was midnight. They took Mrado’s new car, a Porsche Carrera. Looked funny-Mrado had to fold himself in half to slide in behind the wheel. Nenad climbed into the passenger seat.

He drove toward Näsbypark, Radovan’s home. They were arriving unannounced.

Mrado felt naked without Ratko.

Nenad and he were constantly discussing what was on their minds.

Nenad’d just talked to JW: “We’re all set to go, but there’s a risk that Rado’ll get cold feet after what we’re about to tell him. Choose to reroute the shipment somewhat. Not much we can do about that except be flexible.”

Mrado was massaging the knuckles on one hand, driving in silence.

Nenad said, “Why’re you so quiet? We’re not going some fucking funeral. This is a big day. New Year’s Eve.”

“Nenad, you’re my friend. You know me. I’ve worked for Radovan for over ten years. Before that, it was him and me under Jokso. I fought in the same platoon as Radovan. Lived in the same bunker outside Srebrenica for five weeks under massive fire. Today I’m gonna present him with my betrayal. You think I’m happy?”

“I understand. But you didn’t start this. Radovan humiliated you first. Without reason. That’s not how you treat a brother in arms. After all we’ve done for him. All those years, sacrifices, risks.”

“He hasn’t treated me like a brother in arms.”

“Exactly. He hasn’t treated you with the dignity you deserve. My grandfather told me a story from the war, the Second World War, I mean. Did I tell you the one about the fast?”

Mrado shook his head.

“Granddad fought with the partisans. In the winter of 1942, he was taken prisoner by Ustaša. Sent to a German POW camp outside Kragujevac. Conditions were miserable. They didn’t get any food, were beaten every day, didn’t see their families. They suffered from diseases-pneumonia, typhus, and tuberculosis. Dropped like flies. But Granddad was tough. Refused to give up. Spring came and Easter was approaching. Granddad and a couple of other prisoners decided to celebrate Easter the proper way. You know, Serbian Orthodox, with a fast. They worked in some kind of tire factory. From seven in the morning until midnight, with a little meal in the middle of the day, usually. A German prison guard found out they were fasting and weren’t eating meat, eggs, or milk that day in order to remember the suffering of Jesus. He sought out the camp warden and got permission to order extra food. On the floor, inside the factory where Granddad was working as a slave, the guard set out a feast-ham, sausages, pork chops, liver, fish, cheese, eggs. Granddad was skeletal and starved even before the fast. He was, like, suffering from scurvy, was losing teeth like a six-year-old. The guard yelled at them, ‘Whoever eats doesn’t have to work all week.’ Imagine the temptation, to get to eat themselves full for once. Get to rest. But they’d promised to uphold the Orthodox fast. The guard tried to drag them to the table and force them to eat. One man was too weak to fight. The guard wrestled him to the ground. Pinned his hands back somehow and forced his mouth open. That’s when Granddad intervened. He hit the German over the head with an iron rod.”

Mrado interrupted Nenad’s tale. “Well done.”

“Yes, the guard collapsed. As a kid, I always asked Granddad how he’d dared. Know what he said?”

“No. I haven’t heard this story before.”

“This is what he said: ‘I’m not a believer, and I’m not religious. But dignity, Nenad, Serbian dignity. The guard was stepping on that man’s honor and therefore also on mine. I didn’t do it for Jesus; I did it for honor.’ He had to pay, Granddad, for what he’d done. I remember how his arms were crooked when I was little. But nothing could bother him. He knew he had his dignity intact.”

Mrado understood. Knew Nenad was right. Dignity trumped everything. Radovan’d stepped on Mrado.

Mrado had to retaliate.

There was no way back.

They were heading into war.

Only one of them could emerge victorious.

Mrado checked a final time. The gun was in his inner pocket.

They passed Djursholm. Almost there.

Näsbypark was as peaceful as ever.

He parked the Porsche far from Radovan’s house.

They tightened the Velcro straps on their bulletproof vests. Double-checked the ammo in their weapons.

Walked solemnly up to the house.

It was as dark as it could get outside in June-not very.