walks into the subway car. What’re the odds? Still, it happens.
Or maybe it’s not chance. Maybe reality is made up of a complex lattice of coincidence. Clumps of information. Connected, linked to one another by what we call “chance.”
Jorge made it easy for himself. His only creed: Cash is king.
Still, couldn’t help but wonder. What happened at that moment at Sturehof must’ve been an instance of pure chance.
Or not.
A group of guys walked by. Blazers, shirts unbuttoned at the collar, straight-leg jeans. Cuff links, expensive watches. Broad belt buckles in the shape of the luxury brands’ monograms.
Most of all-slicked-back hair.
Stureplan’s swift golden gods.
Sophie got up. Hugged and kissed them on the cheek, one by one. Tittered at their jokes.
In Jorge’s opinion: obvious that she acted excessively happy to see them.
She didn’t introduce Jorge. Maybe that was expecting too much. Still, it stung.
The brats disappeared into the O Bar, Sturehof’s inner party spot.
He asked, “Who were they?”
“No one, really. Just some acquaintances.” Sophie seemed uncomfortable. Jorge thought, She’s ashamed she didn’t introduce me.
“JW’s friends?”
“Some of them know JW.”
“Which ones?”
“The guy in the striped blazer, that’s Nippe. The guy in the black coat, his name’s Fredrik. He’s friends with Jet Set Carl, too. Have you heard of him?”
In Jorge’s head: Jet Set Carl? Sounds familiar.
Thought again.
Jet Set Carl.
Jogged his memory.
Giant Karl.
“Jet Set Carl. Who’s that?”
Sophie told him about the clubs and the parties. “Jet Set Carl, that’s Stureplan’s most powerful party planner. But he’s pretty slimy to girls, to be honest.”
The final comment set off a ringing through Jorge’s head.
Catch the giant.
41
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.
