Couldn’t let go of the thoughts of R. and his connection to the Balkan route. Jorge knew a guy, Steven, at Osteraker. The dude was doing time for smuggling horse from Croatia. Might be a starting point. Find out if Steven was out yet. Otherwise, find Steven’s partners. Guys who knew more about the Balkan route.
The next day, he called Osteraker from a pay phone. Disguised his voice. Asked if Steven’d been released yet. He was met with a mocking tone on the other end of the line. Jorge didn’t recognize who it was. “Steven Jonsson? He’s got at least three years left. Call back then.”
Pigs.
Jorge called Abdulkarim, Fahdi, Sergio. Everyone he trusted. No one knew much about Steven and H smuggling. Some of them knew his name but had no idea who he’d worked with.
Three days of making calls. No success.
He couldn’t even get in touch with Steven himself in a safe way. Phone calls could be tapped, if they were even allowed. Letters could be opened and read. E-mail wasn’t allowed at the facility.
He staked out the house. Waited for something without knowing what.
Stared at the flat roof, his gaze glued to the snow.
Thought: How do I get in touch with Steven? Learn about heroin via the Balkan route. It was a perfect area. Jorge himself’d never been involved in it. No risk for him or his friends.
It became an obsession. A manic goal with Rado’s and Mrado’s heads as bounty.
Sometimes he saw people at the house. R. himself came home. A woman with a thirteen- or fourteen-year- old girl arrived at the house at around six o’clock every night. It had to be R.’s wife and daughter. Home from school and work. Never alone. Always accompanied by a big dude with a Slavic look-obvious capo in the Yugo hierarchy. Later, Jorge learned who the guy was. His name was Stefanovic, private bodyguard and murder machine for the Radovan Kranjic family.
The woman drove a Saab convertible.
Radovan drove a Lexus SUV.
A happy little family.
When Jorge saw the girl, he thought about the picture of Paola that Mrado’d showed him in the woods. They played dirty. Jorge could play dirty, too. Do something to the girl. Still, it didn’t feel right. The girl was innocent. Besides, it seemed too dangerous.
The house was heavily guarded. Every time someone approached it, floodlights automatically lit up the path leading to the door. Sometimes, if Stefanovic was home, he came and opened the door for Radovan. That indicated that some sort of indoor alarm system forewarned him as soon as someone approached the house.
Jorge abandoned the idea that waiting outside the house would yield anything. It seemed half-baked.
Four days later: another idea. He called Osteraker again. Asked about Steven. Asked what he’d been convicted of. Asked when he’d been convicted. At which district court.
Thanked Sweden for the law about open access to public records, whatever it was called. Jorge called the district court. Asked them to send him information about Steven Jonsson’s conviction. No problem-they didn’t even ask his name.
A day later, in Fahdi’s mailbox: trial documents. Stockholm’s district court. Aggravated drug possession. Thirteen pounds of heroin. Straight from Croatia, fresh. The defendants were Steven Jonsson, Ilja Randic, Darko Kusovic. Steven’d been sentenced to six years, Ilja to six years, Darko to two years. The last guy should be out by now.
Darko wasn’t difficult to get hold of. His cell was listed in the regular directory.
Jorge called.
“Hey, my name is Jorge. Old buddy of Steven’s from Osteraker. I was wondering if it’d be okay if I asked some questions.”
“Who the hell are you?” Darko sounded on edge.
“Chill out, man. I did time with Steven. We were on the same hall. Would like to get together if you’ve got the time.”
Jorge cajoled. Sounded pleasant. Pulled some slammer stories about Steven. Made Darko understand that he’d really been in the cell next to Steven. Jorge giggled. Played like a cob. Harmless tool.
That always worked.
Finally, Darko said, “It’s cool. I’ve kicked that habit. Refurbishing Saabs full-time now. I’ll meet you, but only on one condition. I don’t wanna get pulled into anything. You get me? I quit that shit. I can tell you what Steven and I were up to, but it’s gonna be my way. Nothing more. I’m straight these days.”
Jorge thought: Yeah right, superstraight.
They arranged to meet up.
He was gonna meet Darko in four days. Five hot G’s burned in his pocket. A large part of his income from the job with Abdulkarim went to his hate project: It was both completing and depleting.
They met up at a coffee shop on Kungsgatan. Blueberry muffins and a hundred different types of coffee behind the counter. Place packed with teens and maternity-leave moms. The clientele’s conversation topics recapitulated: guys, girlfriends, stroller models.
After some polite small talk and the three thousand kronor as promised, Darko started talking. His dark voice carried over the shrill cackle as he recounted the preparations the heavy hitters’d made four years ago. Despite all his objections over the phone, he didn’t seem to give a shit if people heard him.
Darko was a Balkan route pro. Was familiar with every single smuggling route between Afghanistan, Turkey, Tajikistan, and the Balkans. He knew the 20 of every customs station along the entire stretch of the former Yugoslavia’s border. Which customs agents would turn a blind eye for dead presidents. Who was expensive, who was cheap.
Jorge was impressed. He asked about Radovan specifically.
Darko shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Can lead to trouble. I’ve got a son, eight years old.”
Again, Jorge thought about the cell phone picture of his sister that Mrado’d held up to his face in the woods that afternoon.
Kept applying pressure.
“Come on. Help me, just a little. Two more G’s for the info?”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Fuck it, man, call and ask Steven if you think I’ll sing. We used to sneak a blaze in the bathroom my whole time on the inside. I’d never jux a friend of Steven’s.”
Darko seemed to relax when he heard Steven’s name.
“You’re stubborn. I’ll tell you the whole story for five.”
No point in haggling. Jorge said, “Agreed. Five.”
Darko kept talking. Told how he and Steven hadn’t really worked for R. except on two occasions. The first time, they smuggled in nine pounds of heroin hidden in a tractor-trailer crammed with timber. Value on the street: over one and a half million. They’d cooked the whole dish from scratch: fixed the dudes who drove, kept their eyes on the dudes who drove, bribed customs agents, landed protection from other organized naughty boys in Belgrade.
The second time, he hadn’t smuggled H, something else. Worse.
Jorge got interested. Poured on the questions.
Darko looked strained. His eyes danced around the room. Downed his coffee. Suggested a walk instead.
They went out.
It was a cold February day. Crispy air and blue sky.
Jorge spewed chatter. Created trust. Babbled on.
“You should’ve been there. In the summer. Steven smuggled in fifteen cannabis seeds hidden in raisins that he planted in the rec yard. You know, cannabis is thirstier than an Arab in the desert.”
Darko listened. Let himself be entertained. Looked like he was unwinding somewhat.
“Major problem, watering the plants. Steven got the sickest idea, stood and pretended to piss on ’em at the same time the dude poured a glass of water on the shits. A screw found him out, of course. Walked up. Flipped the fuck out and was all ‘Are you urinating on the lawn?’ Steven denied it, straight up. The screw was all gonna prove he’d pissed, got down on all fours. Started smelling the grass. You follow? Like a fucking dog. Steven told the CO fag, ‘Now you proved it. I suspected it a long time-screws and bitches, you got the same genes.’ Man, everyone in
