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.”
They left the house and walked in a row behind Chris toward the barn.
The figures with the guns over their shoulders could be seen farther off, behind the greenhouses.
Chris stopped in front of the entrance. Barking from inside.
“Like I said, we call this farm the Factory. Soon you’ll see why. Before I show you, let me just say that we’ll solve your problems. We deliver. Over the past year, we’ve completed successful transports of over five tons of goods. We know this stuff. You’ll understand in a minute.”
He opened the door.
They went in.
The stench hit JW, a rank smell of dirt and excrement.
The walls were lined with cages.
In the cages: dogs.
The cages were seven by seven feet, with at least four animals in each cage.
There was fluorescent tubing in the ceiling.
When they entered the barn, they were met by deafening barking.
The animals seemed hysterical. They moved frenetically and yapped at the visitors.
The fur on some of the animals was tattered, worn-looking, and full of sores. Those in other cages were in better shape. Some dogs had long, groomed coats and calmer temperments. A few of the dogs appeared sedated; they were lying in heaps on the floor.
Chris said, “Let me introduce our first product for delivery. We’ve used it successfully to transport goods to countries like Norway, France, and Germany.”
A man dressed in a white doctor’s coat and rubber boots approached them from one of the aisles.
Chris greeted him. “Hi, Pughs. Can you show them what I mean?”
Pughs nodded. Opened one of the cages where the dogs were calm and coaxed one with a nicer coat out. JW thought it was a golden retriever.
Pughs grabbed hold of the animal’s fur right under the front legs and said with a raspy voice, “I operate. They call me ‘the Vet,’ but that’s just bullshit. I was a surgeon before. Look here.” He waved them closer. “I’ve inserted four bags containing a total of six hundred grams of Charlie under the skin of this pooch.”
JW leaned in. What Pughs was pointing at didn’t look like anything more than a fold between the dog’s legs. No scars, as far as he could tell.
“It takes a month to heal and another two months for the fur to grow back enough.”
Chris took over. “We’ve sent out more than thirty animals. It’s worked every time. But most of the animals in here are ones we’ve taken in, straight from South America. That’s how we import quantity.”
JW turned and looked around before they walked on through the barn. There was a total of at least fifty animals in all the cages. He calculated: If half the animals’d had shit inside, they would’ve brought in over thirty pounds on them alone. Thirty pounds on the streets of Stockholm-almost fifteen million kronor.
He was impressed; this was massive, Trump-size business in a barn in the countryside.
Pughs pulled the dog back into a cage.
Chris led them on through a door.
They came into another room with high ceilings. There were two large green metal machines on the floor. Two men were working at one of them. JW thought the machines looked like the lathe in the woodworking shop in middle school.
Chris explained. “Our next product. We are producing tin cans. Look carefully. The machines are exactly the same as the ones used by Mr. Greenpacking, for instance. We fill them with whatever the order is. Fly them across the borders.”
Abdulkarim asked his first question. He seemed completely taken by all this. “Why you fly the shit over? Boat’s not cheaper?”
“Good question. Customs is always breathing down our necks. They know to take random samples on big deliveries containing tinned cans. A couple friends of mine got slammed hard by that a few years back. Still rotting in an iron box right now. Listen, we’ve got connections with a company in the catering business. They sell food boxes to airlines. The idea is simple. On any given flight, let’s say ten of the food boxes contain our cans with our contents. Ten people order special food, most often vegan food. They eat heartily but don’t open the tin can that’s included with the meal. Instead, they throw them in the trash cart the stewardesses push through the plane after the meal. The garbage-that is, the full cans-is then taken care of by our people working in garbage management at the airport. The icing on the cake is that it doesn’t even have to be our people ordering the food. We just hire some Ibiza-bound kids, ask them to order the veggie grub, and it’s a done deal. We transported two pounds of amphetamines to Kos that way last week.”
“And it never happen that some nasty brat pockets the can, not throw it out like you want?”
“It’s happened. That nasty brat never made it home from Kos.”
JW was fascinated. This was big, brainy, beautifully bad. And fucking surreal.
It was a drug-packaging industry, transportation insanity, amazing logistical philosophy.
Shit.
Chris led them onward. John picked up the rear.
They walked out of the barn, toward the greenhouses.
Abdulkarim asked Chris about stats. How often did their deliveries succeed? What size loads could they take? How much did they import on their own? From which countries? Whom did they represent?
Chris explained. They imported tons from all over the world. The cocaine came directly from South America. Warwickshire operated as the ultimate price regulator. They repackaged, sold their products from there, spread the risks, selected destinations, kept demand high.
A high-level European supply cartel.
Chris’s answer to Abdul’s last question: “I thought you’d been informed. We’re the extended arm of a syndicate. Doesn’t matter which one, but you’ll get a good price with us. Guaranteed.”
They were approaching the greenhouses. JW discovered that they stretched farther than he’d first thought.
Chris stopped outside one of them and pointed. “We grow all kinds of things in these.”
He opened the door.
No humidity washed over them. Instead, it was cool.
JW’d expected a jungle of cannabis sattiva. Or, even better, rows of coca plants.
Nope.
In rows along the ground grew small, unripe white cabbages.
Abdulkarim looked like a boldface question mark. He’d shared JW’s expectations.
JW caught himself-his mouth was wide open; he was gaping.
Fahdi looked at Chris. Was this a joke, or what?
Chris threw his arms open and laughed. “As anticipated. Everyone reacts like you. Goddamn it, aren’t they growing weed? Aren’t they growing blow? Forget it. We’re growing cabbage. In case you hadn’t thought of it already, you haven’t seen anything illegal here yet. You’ve seen dogs. But have you seen ice? You’ve seen two blokes making cans, but have you seen what they’re filling them with? Get the point. We don’t take risks. If there’s a sting operation here, at least we’ve got some ability to protect ourselves. We store the actual shit somewhere else. When it’s time to put it into animals, cans, or whatever else, it’s brought here under the strictest surveillance possible, and everything happens very fast. We’ve minimized the opportunities for the bobby fuckers to get at us.”
Abdulkarim was still eyeing the cabbage patch.
Chris continued: “We’re not done in here yet, but it’s our third, and largest, product.” He pulled a couple photos out of his jacket pocket and showed them to Abdulkarim and JW. In the first photo: a cabbage the same size as the ones in the greenhouse. In the next photo: a somewhat larger plant. In the middle of the plant was a plastic bag, tightly knotted, about two inches high and one and a half inches wide. Next photo: same plant, just a little bigger. The next photo: the plant with the bag again. The cabbage leaves almost completely concealed the bag. The next photo: the finished plant. The bag wasn’t visible at all. The last photo: three crates filled with cabbage.
JW understood before Abdulkarim did. “Jesus.”
Chris held the photos out to Abdulkarim. “Jesus is right.”
Abdulkarim looked at JW.
JW said in Swedish, “Don’t you follow? They grow the shit into the plant. Look at the picture with the crates. There’s no fucking limit to how much they can send.”
Abdulkarim said, “Allahu akbar.”
Abdulkarim was max-speeded all the way back in the stretch. He lay on one of the seats and sang with a Fanta in hand. Around his nose-coke rings.
JW was lit even before he did a line.
Fahdi tried to communicate with the driver. He wanted to change radio stations.
The meeting at Warwickshire’d ended with Chris explaining some economic conditions. Abdulkarim’d promised they would think it over. They’d said good-bye. Chris’d given Adbulkarim a little envelope-in which they’d found the white powder they’d just consumed.
JW asked why they hadn’t just sealed the deal right then. He’d done the numbers; profit would be huge.
“No, you don’t get it. Me, I’m not the high boss. Chris is not the boss, either. Tomorrow, the real gangstas meet in London. If you’re lucky, you get to come along.”
It was the first time during the entire trip that JW thought, There’s someone above Abdulkarim.
Two days later, they’d switched hotels. Abdulkarim’d asked JW to wait in his room all day. Something was going to happen; that was blue-sky clear.
JW watched TV, smoked despite the no-smoking policy, played games on his phone. He felt more restless than ever. Tried to read but couldn’t. Called Sophie. She didn’t pick up. Thought about her, rubbed one out, jizzed in one of the free towels from the hotel. Drank champagne from the minibar, smoked again, watched British TV commercials. Texted Sophie, Mom, Nippe, Fredrik, Jet Set Carl. Played cell phone games again, tapped up a bath but didn’t get in. Read FHM magazine. Checked out the fine-looking centerfold chicks.
At three o’clock, he went down to the street and bought a Twix and a bottle of Diet Coke. Then he ordered a club sandwich to be delivered to his room.
He thought, Where the hell is Abdulkarim?
When he got back to the room, he sat down on the bed and pulled his legs up. Thought about Camilla. When he got back to Sweden, he was going to weed through all the leads once and for all. Call the police again-he had to know what they were finding out. But right now: focus on the C business.
Finally, at four o’clock, there was a knock at the door.
Abdulkarim was waiting outside. “He wants you to come with. I’ve told him what we saw. We’ve discussed everything. Now he wants to hear your opinion. Have you as a calculator. It’s time. Time to negotiate. You and the boss.”
JW’s heart pounded. He understood what this meant.
“You moved fast and straight up, buddy. Remember when I picked you up outside Kvarnen? Fucking lucky you didn’t say no. I wouldn’t ask twice. You know that? And now you sitting at the deal table with the boss. My boss. Me, not the one sitting there.”
JW wondered if he heard a hint of jealousy.
He threaded his arms through the newly bought club blazer and praised Harvey Nichols for the sweet clothes.
Put on the cashmere coat.
Felt ready for anything.
Abdulkarim’d told him what hotel he was going to, The Savoy. How sick was that? The Savoy, one of the world’s ten best.
It was in the West End. The hotel’s restaurant had a star in the Guide Rouge.
JW glided past. Self-confidence was all you needed, just like at home at Kharma. He announced his arrival at the reception desk. Two minutes later, a man arrived wearing a dark glam-cut jacket with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. His sported a backslick and a languid style. Unmistakable-a true cocaine king.
The man introduced himself in slightly accented Swedish. “Hi, JW. I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Nenad. I work with Abdulkarim sometimes.”
False humility. It should really be: Abdulkarim works under me.
It was nice to speak Swedish. They chatted. Nenad was only in London for the night. Negotiations had to be quick.
JW saw himself in Nenad-a Stureplan type with the wrong roots.
They had a seat in the hotel lobby. Nenad ordered a cognac, finest XO aging.
Large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Persian carpets lay under the classically designed leather armchairs. The ashtray was real silver.
Nenad asked questions. JW filled in what Abdulkarim hadn’t gotten or had misunderstood. Nenad seemed to have a grip on most of it. He saw the potential, understood the risks and opportunities. After an hour’s discussion, he reached an objective: first and foremost to import as big a load as possible, preferably in cabbage form.
JW agreed.
They kept discussing. Prices in England, primarily prices in Stockholm. Storage methods, transport methods, increased market shares. Sales strategies, dealing tricks, new people to enroll. Payment method to the syndicate: money transfer, SWIFT system, or cash.
JW’d learned a lot from his talks with Jorge. Heard how Jorge’s words, views, and thoughts came out of his own mouth.
Nenad liked JW’s ideas, the way he spit.
When they were finished, he lit a cigar. “JW, think through everything we’ve talked about one more time. Tonight at seven, we’re negotiating with the other side. I want you next to me. You need to be clear on all the numbers.”
JW got up and thanked Nenad. He almost bowed.
“See you later. It’ll be fun.”
JW felt like he was floating on clouds.
He remembered the moment in Abdulkarim’s gypsy cab when he’d first decided to help him sell C. Now-seven months later-he was talking big business with Nenad at the Savoy.
JW was a player.
For real.
Soon they were going to negotiate the world’s biggest fucking deal.