Radovan said, “Okay, so, what do you two want at this ungodly hour?”
“Haven’t you understood by now? We just wanted to do it eye-to-eye.”
Radovan smiled. “I had a feeling it would come. Mrado, you’ve never been good at dealing when things don’t go your way. Which is just one more reason why you can’t stay at the top. And Nenad, you’ve got to learn humility. You two can’t just desert me as soon as your duties change. Right?”
Mrado chose not to respond to Rado’s provocation. “It’s over now. We got ten years together. For Jokso, under Arkan, for Serbia. But it’s over now. You don’t know what gratitude is, Radovan. You don’t know what honor is, or what justice is. That makes you weak. And it makes you a loser.”
He caught his breath. Continued, “Things could’ve been different. You could’ve built this on the same foundation as Jokso. On respect for your men, and on humility. But you chose to demote us. Did you think we would take your shit? Who the fuck do you think I am? Some Sven who’ll bow and grovel and take it up the dirty? Rado, your time is over.”
Mrado and Nenad walked out of the garage. If Radovan answered, they didn’t stick around to hear it.
54
Successful blackmail tactic in review. Three months’d passed since Jorge got the five photos of the captains of industry. He thanked Richard, the computer geek, with all his heart. Surprised that the dude hadn’t demanded he be let in on the action. Rocking the blackmail gig with J-boy was never even up for discussion.
Jorge’d had the photos printed on photo paper. The quality still wasn’t super, but it was easier to see who was pictured and what they were doing.
He wrote a letter to go along with the pictures, labored over the words.
“The attached picture was taken of you at Sven Bolinder’s party in March. It will be sent to your wife within ten days. In order to prevent this from happening, deposit fifty thousand kronor at account number 5215-5964354 at SEB one week from today at the latest.”
Jorge’d been in touch with an old junkie. Had the guy open the account at SEB. He pocketed the debit card and the password himself. Was gonna withdraw the deposited money as soon as possible.
Worked wonders.
The four silver daddies, one of whom appeared in two photos, deposited the dough, no questions asked. Jorge couldn’t pressure them all at the same time, since the debit card had a withdrawal limit. Knocked one off the list every other week.
After two months-J-boy’d be 200,000 richer.
Easiest gig in town.
Poor suckers, they knew he’d be back for more.
He hoped Radovan would find out that someone was fucking with them. That someone knew what he was up to.
Abdulkarim kept applying pressure. “You gotta rig your squad. Get more retailers. There’s a George Jung- class shipment coming soon.”
Jorge’d finally gotten info about the shipment from Abdul. It was blow, of course. A lotta pounds, over two hundred, according to the Arab. Could it be true? If so, it was the single biggest imported load Jorge’d ever heard of. His old homeboys in Osteraker would faint if they knew.
The buzz about the double brothel homicide’d died down. Other rumors were festering. War within the Yugo Mafia. Revolt against Radovan. Defectors from the organization. What did that mean for Jorge’s hate project?
A few days later, Fahdi told him which Yugos’d left the organization: Mrado and Nenad. Fate’s fantastic feats. Those were the very men who were number two and three on his hate list, after their former boss, Radovan. Mrado for the pain. Nenad for Nadja.
The computer geek called in the middle of June. The dude’d dragged out on time. Blamed a CS championship. Jorge thought: Counter-Strike — who gives? You should’ve called earlier.
Jorge’d tried to put a fire under his ass. Was only supposed to take a few weeks; had taken two months. But he hadn’t been able to do much about it.
At least now the time’d come.
He picked up the computer at the computer geek’s place that very day.
Jorge was keyed up on the way over. Maybe there was stuff on the laptop that would lead to even more cash.
He walked up Lundagatan.
Rang Richard’s doorbell.
Stepped inside.
“Hey, man, I don’t know you and don’t know anything about whatever it is you’re up to. Just so you know.”
Jorge thought the comment was strange. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing, really. Just thinking about what’s on that computer. Some stuff is, um, pretty disturbing.”
Jorge just wanted the computer and whatever was on it. “It’s cool, chico. You want more dough, or what?”
“Dough? No, I just wanted to warn you. So you don’t get into trouble.”
Jorge didn’t know what to expect.
He thanked the guy for his help. Paid. Peaced.
He was tempted to open the laptop on the train on his way home. Stopped himself. Best to wait.
Home in Helenelund. He sat down on the couch.
Opened the computer. Wallpaper: a vast green lawn and a blue sky.
He checked the desktop: not a lot of icons. My Computer, Trash, iTunes, two games: Battlefield 1942 and the Sims. Excel and Windows Media Player were also on the desktop. A couple of folders.
He started looking through the folders one by one.
Afterward, he thought, If I’d known what I’d find, I might’ve stopped looking.
One folder contained images of weapons downloaded from the Internet.
Another folder contained MP3s.
The third folder: English cheat sheets for computer games.
The fourth folder held the names of the johns, their aliases, and passwords. At least three hundred names. Jorge skimmed through the list. Mostly Svens, but some blattes, too. Fahdi was there. Jorge already knew his alias. Abdulkarim was there. Jet Set Carl was there. Jorge didn’t recognize the other names-had to look closer into all that. Potential gold mine.
Next folder: draft of the Web site where the brothel advertised. Pictures of women. Snippets of text. Telephone numbers. Jorge scrolled through the pictures. Girls posing in stark rooms with strong lighting. He found two pictures of Nadja. Exposed. Alone. Vulnerable.
The list of names was good. The pictures of Nadja were tough but not crushing. Jorge clocked that this was the way the hooker industry rolled. It was the contents of the final folder, an MPEG file, that made him hurl.
The sickest, most disgusting shit he’d ever seen.
It was five minutes long. Enough for a lifetime’s worth of nightmares.
The video’s opening scene: a room, harsh lighting, a table.
Two men in ski masks dragged a person into the room whose head was covered in a cloth bag. Judging by the body, it was a girl.
One of the men: dark leather jacket, beefy. The other: dressed in a suit. Both spoke Serbian.
Forced the girl onto the table. Hands tied behind her back. Fought back as hard as she could.
The big guy pulled off the cloth bag. A girl, face swollen from crying. Blond, Nordic appearance. Yelled in perfect Swedish, “Let me go, you pigs!” She kept screaming. Jorge couldn’t make out all the words. The beefy guy said something. Hit her on the side of the head. Jorge recognized his voice. It was Mrado. The dude in the suit caressed her cheek. She spit in his face, screamed. A couple chaotic seconds. The girl screamed again, “How the fuck could I be with you?” Mrado pulled a gun. Pressed the barrel into the girl’s mouth. She grew silent. The steel
