Continued attempts to infiltrate the Organization.
Regarding the budget for the above-listed measures, see attachment
1.
Criminal Investigation Department Superintendent Bjorn Stavgard
Special Investigator Stefan Krans
31
Jorge had to pee so bad, he could’ve pissed a whole ginger ale bottle full. Funny thought, maybe treat someone. “Here, have some ginger ale.” The color deceptively similar.
It would be weeks before he finally understood a basic ground rule for people in the surveillance business: Always bring a bottle to pee into when you’re staking out in a car. If it’s an empty ginger ale bottle or not doesn’t matter.
The car’s back windows were tinted-it was necessary so no one could see him. Regular windows would be too much of a hassle; he’d have to lie with his seat lowered all the way back. And then there’d be the risk of falling asleep.
Radovan’s house was peaceful. It was the first day he’d spent sitting out here. The first of many days to come.
He’d stolen the car, a Jeep Cherokee, in posh Ostermalm at 3:00 a.m. Switched out the license plates. Reduced the risk of being outed by the cops.
Jorge, the Angel of Revenge, was gonna bring Radovan’s empire to its knees. He just had to figure out how.
All he knew right now was that hate went a long way. A vendetta that demanded even more patience than the escape from Osteraker. He had to investigate, stake out, add things up. Dig up dirt on Radovan. To start, figure out Mr. R.’s routines. A good start: sitting in the car, thinking, and waiting to see if something shady would happen.
Nothing was happening on the street.
He looked at the house.
There was snow on the roof.
Unclear if anyone was home or not.
He kept staring, as if he’d enrolled at Komvux again-a course in suburban architecture.
Nodded off between five and six o’clock in the afternoon. Not good. Had to stay awake. Tomorrow, he was gonna bring cigarettes, Coca-Cola, maybe a Gameboy.
The day slipped by.
The hate remained.
A few days later, he was staking out the house again.
Forced himself to think about an outlet for his feelings toward Radovan. The ideas’d found their way into his mind a week ago for the first time. Earlier, he’d pushed the thoughts away, into the future. Had only wanted to survive on the run. Get in with Abdulkarim. Do a good job. Make some money. Fix a passport. Skip the country. Now, he enjoyed walking the city streets, being unrecognizable. The thought of leaving Sweden was starting to seem like too much of a hassle. Instead: When he’d made enough money, he’d start some kind of assault on Radovan.
A thought: There was the possibility that he was actually working indirectly for Radovan right now. Jorge knew coke Stockholm inside out. There weren’t many players out there with muscles big enough to deal on Abdulkarim’s massive scale. The Arab seemed ridiculous sometimes, but Jorge knew the dude had an iron grip on cocaine. Knew his shit. Jorge could have cared less either way. It wasn’t probable that Rado actually controlled Abdul-Serbs and Muslims didn’t usually mesh. And, if Radovan really was the boss, the irony was just too perfect.
He needed to plan other projects, his first real job for the Arab. Make sure a coke shipment had a smooth arrival, directly from Brazil.
That was his area of expertise.
Founding principle: An old trick can fly if you play it right. Jorge was prepared. A much bigger load than usual was being delivered. Cocaine acquired through contacts of contacts in Brazil. Priceworthy. Forty American dollars a gram. Heavy phone traffic the last couple of months. The deal was done: The tickets had been bought, a new prepaid cell had been acquired, the necessary people had been informed, customs officers in Sao Paolo had been bribed, and a hotel room had been booked. Most important of all, the courier had been secured. It was a woman.
Troubleshooting: done. Abdulkarim: double-checked everything.
Again: An old trick can fly if you play it right. The Arlanda airport police/customs were after suspicious couriers worse than baby ballers in the projects were after the gangs they wanted to belong to, like leeches.
Jorge repeated: He would play it right.
He went over his revenge project once again, which led to questions. What did he really know about R.? Some from the time before he was locked up, when he’d pushed powder for the Yugos. Their routines were tight. He’d pick up a key in a storage locker at the Central Station about once a week. Then he’d ride out to a Shurgard storage unit in Kungens Kurva, where he’d measure out ten to twenty grams per visit. Dealt the shit in the northern boroughs, sometimes at bars in the city. Sometimes to other dealers, sometimes directly to the customers. Simple jobs. Still, he’d banked. Been glossy.
He knew so much more about snow now. Osteraker’d had its good sides-J-boy was a walking Stockholm coke encyclopedia.
Then: He’d always known Rado, the Yugo king, was behind it all. But he’d also known that nothing led back to Mr. R. The guys that delivered the coke to Jorge had never mentioned his name. He’d never run into them at the Shurgard storage unit. Strange that Mrado hadn’t killed him out there in the woods. The Yugos must’ve been scared that he had so much dirt on Radovan, he’d be able to hurt them for real.
He wished he had as much on the Yugo boss as they thought he did.
Something Jorge had to consider: If he tried to gather info about R. within the field he knew best, coke dealing, didn’t he risk his own skin? Didn’t he risk his buddies: Sergio, Vadim, Ashur? Dudes who’d all been involved in Radovan’s coke pyramid in one way or another. He ought to find out other stuff about the Yugo Mafia.
What else did he know about Radovan from his time at Osteraker? First and foremost, what everybody knew: The Yugo boss was involved in a ton of other businesses besides ice. Racketeering, doping, cigarette smuggling. But what did he know of substance? Only a couple things: Radovan’s blow came in via the Balkan route, over the former Yugoslavia, where the shit was refined and packaged. Not like most other blow in Sweden, which came in through the Iberian Peninsula, England, or directly from Colombia and the rest of Latin America. The Balkan route was usually the heroin channel.
Moreover, he knew which restaurants Radovan was said to control and use for laundering. He knew a number of people who’d been threatened or gotten the shit kicked out of them because they’d challenged parts of Radovan’s empire: the blow biz in the inner city, Jack Vegas gambling machines at bars in the western boroughs, moonshine instead of smuggled stuff at restaurants in Sollentuna.
But again, nothing could be linked directly to R. Nothing could be proven.
Jorge figured he should give up. Eat the humiliation. Lots of people got the living daylights beaten out of them by men like Mrado. Who did he think he was? What could he achieve? On the other hand, J-boy, the big-balled Latino, escape artist extraordinaire, was bigger than the regular ghetto gophers with dreams of bling and expensive rides. He was gonna be somebody. Cash in, for real. If Osteraker hadn’t been able to stop him, no flabby Serbo- Croatian would, either.
The sky was darkening.
A crappy day.
The house was the wrong place to start. Jorge had to think. Be systematic.
He drove off. Parked the car in Sodermalm. Dangerous to ride around in it for too long.
