He opened the door.
No humidity washed over them. Instead, it was cool.
JW’d expected a jungle of cannabis sattiva. Or, even better, rows of coca plants.
Nope.
In rows along the ground grew small, unripe white cabbages.
Abdulkarim looked like a boldface question mark. He’d shared JW’s expectations.
JW caught himself-his mouth was wide open; he was gaping.
Fahdi looked at Chris. Was this a joke, or what?
Chris threw his arms open and laughed. “As anticipated. Everyone reacts like you. Goddamn it, aren’t they growing weed? Aren’t they growing blow? Forget it. We’re growing cabbage. In case you hadn’t thought of it already, you haven’t seen anything illegal here yet. You’ve seen dogs. But have you seen ice? You’ve seen two blokes making cans, but have you seen what they’re filling them with? Get the point. We don’t take risks. If there’s a sting operation here, at least we’ve got some ability to protect ourselves. We store the actual shit somewhere else. When it’s time to put it into animals, cans, or whatever else, it’s brought here under the strictest surveillance possible, and everything happens very fast. We’ve minimized the opportunities for the bobby fuckers to get at us.”
Abdulkarim was still eyeing the cabbage patch.
Chris continued: “We’re not done in here yet, but it’s our third, and largest, product.” He pulled a couple photos out of his jacket pocket and showed them to Abdulkarim and JW. In the first photo: a cabbage the same size as the ones in the greenhouse. In the next photo: a somewhat larger plant. In the middle of the plant was a plastic bag, tightly knotted, about two inches high and one and a half inches wide. Next photo: same plant, just a little bigger. The next photo: the plant with the bag again. The cabbage leaves almost completely concealed the bag. The next photo: the finished plant. The bag wasn’t visible at all. The last photo: three crates filled with cabbage.
JW understood before Abdulkarim did. “Jesus.”
Chris held the photos out to Abdulkarim. “Jesus is right.”
Abdulkarim looked at JW.
JW said in Swedish, “Don’t you follow? They grow the shit into the plant. Look at the picture with the crates. There’s no fucking limit to how much they can send.”
Abdulkarim said, “Allahu akbar.”
Abdulkarim was max-speeded all the way back in the stretch. He lay on one of the seats and sang with a Fanta in hand. Around his nose-coke rings.
JW was lit even before he did a line.
Fahdi tried to communicate with the driver. He wanted to change radio stations.
The meeting at Warwickshire’d ended with Chris explaining some economic conditions. Abdulkarim’d promised they would think it over. They’d said good-bye. Chris’d given Adbulkarim a little envelope-in which they’d found the white powder they’d just consumed.
JW asked why they hadn’t just sealed the deal right then. He’d done the numbers; profit would be huge.
“No, you don’t get it. Me, I’m not the high boss. Chris is not the boss, either. Tomorrow, the real gangstas meet in London. If you’re lucky, you get to come along.”
It was the first time during the entire trip that JW thought, There’s someone above Abdulkarim.
Two days later, they’d switched hotels. Abdulkarim’d asked JW to wait in his room all day. Something was going to happen; that was blue-sky clear.
JW watched TV, smoked despite the no-smoking policy, played games on his phone. He felt more restless than ever. Tried to read but couldn’t. Called Sophie. She didn’t pick up. Thought about her, rubbed one out, jizzed in one of the free towels from the hotel. Drank champagne from the minibar, smoked again, watched British TV commercials. Texted Sophie, Mom, Nippe, Fredrik, Jet Set Carl. Played cell phone games again, tapped up a bath but didn’t get in. Read FHM magazine. Checked out the fine-looking centerfold chicks.
At three o’clock, he went down to the street and bought a Twix and a bottle of Diet Coke. Then he ordered a club sandwich to be delivered to his room.
He thought, Where the hell is Abdulkarim?
When he got back to the room, he sat down on the bed and pulled his legs up. Thought about Camilla. When he got back to Sweden, he was going to weed through all the leads once and for all. Call the police again-he had to know what they were finding out. But right now: focus on the C business.
Finally, at four o’clock, there was a knock at the door.
Abdulkarim was waiting outside. “He wants you to come with. I’ve told him what we saw. We’ve discussed everything. Now he wants to hear your opinion. Have you as a calculator. It’s time. Time to negotiate. You and the boss.”
JW’s heart pounded. He understood what this meant.
“You moved fast and straight up, buddy. Remember when I picked you up outside Kvarnen? Fucking lucky you didn’t say no. I wouldn’t ask twice. You know that? And now you sitting at the deal table with the boss. My boss. Me, not the one sitting there.”
JW wondered if he heard a hint of jealousy.
He threaded his arms through the newly bought club blazer and praised Harvey Nichols for the sweet clothes.
Put on the cashmere coat.
Felt ready for anything.
Abdulkarim’d told him what hotel he was going to, The Savoy. How sick was that? The Savoy, one of the world’s ten best.
It was in the West End. The hotel’s restaurant had a star in the Guide Rouge.
JW glided past. Self-confidence was all you needed, just like at home at Kharma. He announced his arrival at the reception desk. Two minutes later, a man arrived wearing a dark glam-cut jacket with a silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. His sported a backslick and a languid style. Unmistakable-a true cocaine king.
The man introduced himself in slightly accented Swedish. “Hi, JW. I’ve heard a lot about you. My name is Nenad. I work with Abdulkarim sometimes.”
False humility. It should really be: Abdulkarim works under me.
It was nice to speak Swedish. They chatted. Nenad was only in London for the night. Negotiations had to be quick.
JW saw himself in Nenad-a Stureplan type with the wrong roots.
They had a seat in the hotel lobby. Nenad ordered a cognac, finest XO aging.
Large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Persian carpets lay under the classically designed leather armchairs. The ashtray was real silver.
Nenad asked questions. JW filled in what Abdulkarim hadn’t gotten or had misunderstood. Nenad seemed to have a grip on most of it. He saw the potential, understood the risks and opportunities. After an hour’s discussion, he reached an objective: first and foremost to import as big a load as possible, preferably in cabbage form.
JW agreed.
They kept discussing. Prices in England, primarily prices in Stockholm. Storage methods, transport methods, increased market shares. Sales strategies, dealing tricks, new people to enroll. Payment method to the syndicate: money transfer, SWIFT system, or cash.
JW’d learned a lot from his talks with Jorge. Heard how Jorge’s words, views, and thoughts came out of his own mouth.
Nenad liked JW’s ideas, the way he spit.
When they were finished, he lit a cigar. “JW, think through everything we’ve talked about one more time. Tonight at seven, we’re negotiating with the other side. I want you next to me. You need to be clear on all the numbers.”
JW got up and thanked Nenad. He almost bowed.
“See you later. It’ll be fun.”
JW felt like he was floating on clouds.
He remembered the moment in Abdulkarim’s gypsy cab when he’d first decided to help him sell C. Now-seven
