Jens Lapidus - Easy Money

Outside, gray British weather. He couldn’t even see the ocean beneath the plane, despite the fact that they were flying low.

The pilot reported: fifty-three degrees on the ground.

Gearing up to land, the plane passed through the haze.

It was drizzling.

The island appeared down below. Rolling hills dressed in trees sprouting new leaves.

JW on the Isle of Man. He was going to do this thing.

Douglas was situated on the water. The feeling was fiercely British. The place was crawling with hotels, banks, and financial institutions. But few people-winter was off-season, only bankers and finance sharks on the streets. They were well dressed, well situated, and well informed about the rules on the Isle of Man-bank-privacy paradise.

Of course there were other spots in Europe that were as good: Luxembourg, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, the Channel Isles. But the downside was that those places aroused suspicion. The tax man and the financial-crime investigators immediately raised their eyebrows when they saw accounts registered in those types of places. The Isle of Man was more discreet, but the regulations were just as advantageous.

The basic idea of offshore jurisdiction: easy to create companies, strong company privacy, even stronger bank privacy, and tax-free, obviously.

JW checked into a small hotel overnight. Top-of-the-line service, every single staff person welcomed him by name. Impressive.

He walked along the beachfront boardwalk on the way to Central Union Bank’s headquarters. A meeting’d been booked a month back with Darren Bell, a senior associate. According to trusty sources, Darren Bell was an exceedingly reliable person.

The building he was on his way into was ultraspruced. You could tell from ten yards away. The bottom section was made all of glass. The escalators up to the second level, a couple of enormous ficuses, and the gray Ligne Roset couches could be seen plainly from outside. JW walked through ten-foot-high revolving doors. Announced his arrival at the reception desk.

He looked around. Complex light fixtures of glass and chrome were hanging from thin cables. Marble floor. The Ligne Roset couches-empty. He thought, Does anyone ever sit on them?

No time to ponder. A man emerged from an elevator and introduced himself to JW. It was Darren Bell.

He was impeccably dressed in a gray suit with two buttons, a silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, blue tailored shirt with white stripes, and gold cuff links. The tie had a diagonal striped pattern in red, gray, and blue and was knotted with a tiny super-British knot. The Church shoes were brogues. JW dug his style-it was, simply put, corporate to the max.

JW was less formally dressed. The new club blazer with a white tailored shirt underneath, no tie. Pressed black cotton slacks. Correct but light and totally right-the client should be underdressed in relation to his adviser.

They took the elevator up. Made some small talk. Darren Bell had an Irish accent, flawless manners, and discerning eyes.

The conference room was small, with a view over the bay. Two impressionistic paintings on the wall. It was a foggy day. Darren Bell joked, “Welcome to the typical Isle of Man soup.”

Darren asked JW to tell him about his needs.

He explained what he needed. It was impossible for JW to tell him everything about certain things. But the most important stuff he could explain. First, he needed a private account to which he could easily transfer money. Preferably from Internet deposits. Or from cash sent directly to Central Union Bank’s office in London. Furthermore, he needed two companies on location on the Isle of Man. The main business of the first company was financial solutions for small and large companies. The other one would lie dormant for now, but it had to be ready to be activated at short notice. Both companies’ owner had to be protected by privacy regulations. The companies needed privacy-protected accounts with the bank. Finally, the financial-services company needed to be able to provide documentation regarding loans to a joint-stock company in Sweden. Darren Bell took notes. Nodded. Everything was possible. The island’s rules permitted most things; he would work on a proposal. Asked JW to come back the following day.

The next day, JW was sitting with Darren Bell again. The banker was in the same outfit as the day before, except for the shirt. Sank the impression. JW wondered, Why didn’t he at least change his tie?

Darren spread out a number of PowerPoint printouts on the table. Numbers, graphic explanations of transfer possibilities, depots, transaction costs. Explained what he’d done over the past twenty-four hours. Two companies in place, with accounts already connected. Complete privacy with regard to ownership, in accordance with the island’s legislation. Yet another account, owned by JW, that could only be accessed with the correct number combination. Finally, he presented drafts of financing contracts, loan contracts, deposit contracts, privacy contracts, proxy and brokerage contracts, ready to be filled out. The cost of the accounts: 0.5 percent of the total sum deposited per year, with a minimum charge of one thousand pounds a year. The companies: a one-time fee of four thousand pounds each. Three thousand in rolling fees annually. The loan documentation: four thousand pounds. In total: at least 200,000 kronor for JW to cough up.

JW thought, Darren Bell’s got a damn sweet job.

Darren looked pleased. “I think everything’s in order, sir. The only thing we need are name suggestions for your companies.”

JW stewed in his own glory. John Grisham-you can hit the sack. This was for real. JW’d soon be the owner of his own money-laundering system. Fantastic.

Mrado in Ringen’s mall. In ICA, the grocery store. Preparing the all-out day he was gonna have with Lovisa this week.

He hadn’t slept all night. Only been thinking about this day and his future.

Had to buy groceries. Usually, the cupboards, fridge, and freezer in his apartment were empty. Only the bar was full. But since his right to see Lovisa’d been secured by the court, it’d become important to Mrado to be a good father. A new self-realization: homemade eats weren’t his thing. Despite that, he tried to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner when Lovisa was there.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought so much food.

Red shopping basket in one hand, grocery list in the other. Difficult to grab the grub and still keep track of the grocery list. One hand busy with the list, the other snatching stuff-which hand would hold the basket? Mrado came up with a business idea: to produce list holders for the shopping baskets. Give the shoppers one hand free to grab goods. Maybe have a clip for the list. Maybe even for cell phones? Ads for sales items on the side. Mrado schemed on.

He kept adding stuff to his basket: macaroni, ketchup, ready-made meatballs, tomatoes-important to have vegetables, too. He was gonna be a healthy father.

Thought about his other list. He had to secure his and Lovisa’s lives. Tackle risks. Protect Lovisa. Get her to move. Protect himself. He’d already sold his car and switched phones. This week, it was time to buy a better bulletproof vest, get a PO box address, and research the market for home alarm systems.

His and Nenad’s pact felt secure. Radovan was gonna have to take it straight up the dirty-no more sitting pompous for Rado the rectal wreck. He’d regret ditching them. Radovan had to learn, the Serbian way. Go ahead, play tough-but don’t let your friends down. Who the hell did he think he was?

Mrado looked for a good dessert. Browsed between the freezer units and the cookie section. Ice cream or cookies, that was the question. No, he couldn’t just buy unhealthy stuff. Decided on fruit salad. Chose oranges, apples, kiwis, and bananas. Surprised himself-my God, he was fantastic.