She started sucking him.
Felt strange. Filthy.
Jorge was surprised-hadn’t thought he’d feel anything at all. He asked her to stop. Felt nauseous.
She didn’t seem to notice anything. Or, more likely, she could have cared less that he’d gone pale and sat down on the bed.
Two minutes of silence. He fingered the money.
Made another go of it. “I’ll give you a G on top of the three hundred if you tell me something about Nenad.” He held up two five-hundred-kronor bills.
Strangely enough, she started talking. Jorge’s theory: Now that he’d dished for sex, he couldn’t be a cop. Instead, he’d become a creature she knew well-a john was always a john.
“Me, I not know much. But all know Nenad.”
Jorge thought her voice sounded frail. “So, what’ve you heard about him?”
“Nenad in charge. Nenad danger for life. They scared of him.”
“Who? You girls or your pimps?”
“All. Girls, pimps. Johns. He done stuff to people. He work for Mr. R.”
Jorge thought, She’s saying a lot but really nothing. “What’s he done?” he asked.
“Rape, beat, sick stuff, use girls for sick stuff. All scared. But me, no. Not give shit about him.”
“And Mr. R., what do they say about him?”
She looked up. Jorge thought it looked like she was smiling.
“Mr. R. They talk, say him always with guns, him kill if offend, him control this city. Boss Nenad, who boss little pimps, who boss us. They say R. ice-cold. All power. Spread bad air. But me, I think exaggerate. Mr. R. not ice-cold. Mr. R. not spread bad air. Mr. R. spread Hugo Boss smell.”
Jorge sat beside her on the bed. She was special. He couldn’t say what it was, but she had something. For sure.
A knock at the door. Jorge got up.
The madam poked her head in the door. Asked how long they were gonna go at it. Saw they were both dressed. Jorge on his way out. She nodded.
The madam led him out.
In the hall, Fahdi was talking to a guy wearing a hoodie under a blazer.
Jorge and Fahdi left the apartment.
“Who you talkin’ to when I came out?”
“The girls’ pimp. The guy in charge. What a fucking cushy job.”
Jorge woke from his reverie. Checked his cell. Back to the present-Odenplan, waiting for the courier: Silvia Pasqual de Pizzaro.
Jorge saw the number on the screen. Recognized the digits before he heard the signal. It was Mehmed.
He was wondering why nothing’d happened yet.
Silvia should’ve been at the hotel ages ago. Something was crooked.
They hung up.
He kept waiting.
Stared at the Hotel Oden.
A taxi pulled up on the other side of the street: Top Cab. Fixed price from Arlanda Aiport: 350 kronor. The driver stepped out first. Opened the trunk, lifted out two Samsonite bags. A woman got out of the passenger seat.
Obviously her. Dressed in black jeans, black wool jacket. Hat with earflaps.
Silvia Pasqual de Pizzaro. Finally.
Rolled the bags behind her to the hotel. The sand that’d been poured on the icy sidewalk crunched under the wheels.
Jorge remained where he was. Mehmed stayed in the car, waiting for a green light from Jorge.
Jorge eyed the entrance to the hotel for ten minutes. No one else went in or out. Good sign. If the 5–0 were on their backs, they’d probably want to bust the hotel, pluck the courier at the handoff.
Jorge called the reception desk at the hotel. Asked if the woman’d checked in. He got the direct number to her room. Called Silvia. She answered. Shit English. She’d made it fine through customs. No one’d followed her. Everything seemed clear.
Jorge texted Mehmed. Saw him go into the hotel. His instructions were to order lunch and send it up to Silvia. When the waiter came back down, Mehmed would ask if Silvia’d been alone in the room. If the answer was yes, time to go up and collect the blow.
Jorge’d walked around to the other corner of the hotel. Saw the entrance from a side angle.
Waited.
Phone in hand. If someone suspicious-looking entered the Hotel Oden, he’d call Mehmed, stat. Plan B, in case of a chase: Mehmed would drop the gear out the window toward Hagagatan. Jorge could pick the shit up there. Book it to the car. Step on it.
Nothing shady happened.
Darkness was falling. The hotel’s vertical neon yellow sign glowed softly.
Ten minutes passed. Jorge’d calculated that it’d take fifteen minutes to get the blow out of the bags.
Five more minutes passed.
Mehmed came out. Scratched his head-the sign that everything was under control. He had a plastic shopping bag from the NK department store in one hand. Started walking toward his car. Jorge watched from a distance. No one was following, as far as he could tell.
Jorge saw his very own controller, the IT dude, get out of his car. Timing smooth as hell.
Walked quickly after Mehmed. Caught up with him right at the car. Exchanged greetings. Jorge knew what they were saying to each other. Traded memorized phrases. A lot of people on the street at this time on a weekend. Made it worthwhile to put on a show. The IT dude asked loudly what Mehmed’d bought at NK. Mehmed told him about a jacket. Jorge saw the IT guy look into the bag.
It all went fast. The IT dude put his hand in the bag.
Pulled his hand out.
Licked his finger.
Tasted.
They talked for another forty seconds. Split up. Mehmed got into his car. Started it.
The IT guy kept walking down the street, his cell in hand.
Jorge got a text: Clean.
Neither Silvia nor Mehmed’d ripped him off. The gear in the NK bag was real. The IT dude was a genius call.
Jorge started his car. Pulled in behind Mehmed’s car, up by the red light at Dalagatan.
Then they drove off.
They were heading to Satra. Petter’s apartment. Jorge looked around. Compared cars. Took note if anyone’d been driving behind them unusually long. He and Mehmed’d decided on a more roundabout route than necessary. If anyone trailed them, they’d know right away. Jorge wouldn’t make the same mistake as when Mrado and Ratko’d followed him so easily into the countryside.
They took St. Eriksgatan. Over to Kungsholmen. Between Mehmed and Jorge the whole way: a red Saab 900. Behind Jorge the entire time: a Jaguar. But Jorge and Mehmed’d driven the straight shot so far. At this point, there was nothing strange about the same cars caravanning the whole way to Fridhemsplan.
Vigilance.
They took a left after Fridhemsplan. Through the Ralambshov Park. The red Saab was still sandwiched between them.
Up on Vasterbron bridge. It was dark out by now. The skeleton of the bridge was illuminated from below by floodlights. Jorge thought it was the city’s prettiest spot.
Nerves electrified. Thought he could feel the fabric of his shirt move over the left side of his chest with every heartbeat. To himself: Do this right. Become seven pounds richer.
Something in the red Saab caught his eye-a movement in the backseat.
