tailored shirt with white stripes, and gold cuff links. The tie had a diagonal striped pattern in red, gray, and blue and was knotted with a tiny super-British knot. The Church shoes were brogues. JW dug his style-it was, simply put, corporate to the max.
JW was less formally dressed. The new club blazer with a white tailored shirt underneath, no tie. Pressed black cotton slacks. Correct but light and totally right-the client should be underdressed in relation to his adviser.
They took the elevator up. Made some small talk. Darren Bell had an Irish accent, flawless manners, and discerning eyes.
The conference room was small, with a view over the bay. Two impressionistic paintings on the wall. It was a foggy day. Darren Bell joked, “Welcome to the typical Isle of Man soup.”
Darren asked JW to tell him about his needs.
He explained what he needed. It was impossible for JW to tell him everything about certain things. But the most important stuff he could explain. First, he needed a private account to which he could easily transfer money. Preferably from Internet deposits. Or from cash sent directly to Central Union Bank’s office in London. Furthermore, he needed two companies on location on the Isle of Man. The main business of the first company was financial solutions for small and large companies. The other one would lie dormant for now, but it had to be ready to be activated at short notice. Both companies’ owner had to be protected by privacy regulations. The companies needed privacy-protected accounts with the bank. Finally, the financial-services company needed to be able to provide documentation regarding loans to a joint-stock company in Sweden. Darren Bell took notes. Nodded. Everything was possible. The island’s rules permitted most things; he would work on a proposal. Asked JW to come back the following day.
The next day, JW was sitting with Darren Bell again. The banker was in the same outfit as the day before, except for the shirt. Sank the impression. JW wondered, Why didn’t he at least change his tie?
Darren spread out a number of PowerPoint printouts on the table. Numbers, graphic explanations of transfer possibilities, depots, transaction costs. Explained what he’d done over the past twenty-four hours. Two companies in place, with accounts already connected. Complete privacy with regard to ownership, in accordance with the island’s legislation. Yet another account, owned by JW, that could only be accessed with the correct number combination. Finally, he presented drafts of financing contracts, loan contracts, deposit contracts, privacy contracts, proxy and brokerage contracts, ready to be filled out. The cost of the accounts: 0.5 percent of the total sum deposited per year, with a minimum charge of one thousand pounds a year. The companies: a one-time fee of four thousand pounds each. Three thousand in rolling fees annually. The loan documentation: four thousand pounds. In total: at least 200,000 kronor for JW to cough up.
JW thought, Darren Bell’s got a damn sweet job.
Darren looked pleased. “I think everything’s in order, sir. The only thing we need are name suggestions for your companies.”
JW stewed in his own glory. John Grisham-you can hit the sack. This was for real. JW’d soon be the owner of his own money-laundering system. Fantastic.
45
Mrado in Ringen’s mall. In ICA, the grocery store. Preparing the all-out day he was gonna have with Lovisa this week.
He hadn’t slept all night. Only been thinking about this day and his future.
Had to buy groceries. Usually, the cupboards, fridge, and freezer in his apartment were empty. Only the bar was full. But since his right to see Lovisa’d been secured by the court, it’d become important to Mrado to be a good father. A new self-realization: homemade eats weren’t his thing. Despite that, he tried to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner when Lovisa was there.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought so much food.
Red shopping basket in one hand, grocery list in the other. Difficult to grab the grub and still keep track of the grocery list. One hand busy with the list, the other snatching stuff-which hand would hold the basket? Mrado came up with a business idea: to produce list holders for the shopping baskets. Give the shoppers one hand free to grab goods. Maybe have a clip for the list. Maybe even for cell phones? Ads for sales items on the side. Mrado schemed on.
He kept adding stuff to his basket: macaroni, ketchup, ready-made meatballs, tomatoes-important to have vegetables, too. He was gonna be a healthy father.
Thought about his other list. He had to secure his and Lovisa’s lives. Tackle risks. Protect Lovisa. Get her to move. Protect himself. He’d already sold his car and switched phones. This week, it was time to buy a better bulletproof vest, get a PO box address, and research the market for home alarm systems.
His and Nenad’s pact felt secure. Radovan was gonna have to take it straight up the dirty-no more sitting pompous for Rado the rectal wreck. He’d regret ditching them. Radovan had to learn, the Serbian way. Go ahead, play tough-but don’t let your friends down. Who the hell did he think he was?
Mrado looked for a good dessert. Browsed between the freezer units and the cookie section. Ice cream or cookies, that was the question. No, he couldn’t just buy unhealthy stuff. Decided on fruit salad. Chose oranges, apples, kiwis, and bananas. Surprised himself-my God, he was fantastic.
He didn’t fit into these kinds of environments. It was strange-the same insecurity that overwhelmed the people he pressed for dough, squeezed confessions out of, threatened with death, he felt in totally ordinary places. In the grocery store, in the pizzeria, on the street. Thought people stared at him, that they saw right through him. Recognized a dirty citizen, a criminal parasite, a bad father.
And still, when he saw them-the people in the grocery store-it was clear that what they needed was to pump up their lives. Feel some voltage, get kicks. Experience the adrenaline rush in the ring at Pancrease. The serotonin level when you broke someone’s nose. The cracking sound, like dry boards, when the hand’s first two knuckles met the nose bone’s cartilage. Mrado knew what it meant to be alive.
He flipped through a cell phone magazine he’d plucked from the rack by the checkout. New finesses: TV in your phone, pay with your phone, porn in your phone.
Someone said his name.
“Mrado, is that you?”
Mrado looked up. Instant indignity. Freebie reading instead of buying. Embarrassing.
“What’s up?”
Mrado recognized the guy. Hadn’t seen him in ages. Old classmate from Sodertalje, Martin. The class’s brainiac.
“Martin, good to see you.”
“Damn, Mrado, it’s been years. Did you go to the reunion, whenever that was?”
The reunion: ten years after Mrado’d graduated from junior high. He’d been twenty-six at the time. At first, thought he’d screw it. Then chosen to show them. The fist champion they’d all hated was still a fist champion. With one difference-now he made out like a king. He’d sat with Ratko at a pub in the area an hour before. Downed three beers and two fat whiskeys. Hadn’t felt ripe enough to go without warming up.
“Sure, the reunion. That. What’re you up to nowadays?”
Mrado wanted to drop the subject. The reunion’d ended in a fiasco: Mrado in a fight with two old antagonists. Nothing’d changed-they were still on his back. Hadn’t understood who he’d become.
“I work in the federal court,” Martin replied.
Mrado, surprised. Martin in a green windbreaker, worn jeans, Von Dutch baseball hat. Looked young, chill. Not exactly the lawyerly type.
“Interesting. Are you a judge?”
“Yeah, I work as a deputy judge at the court of appeals. A ton of work. We’re criminally understaffed, toiling like beasts. It’s not unusual to pull sixty-hour weeks. We just maintain the rule of law. Nothing important. No siree. Sometimes you wonder about the values in this country. In the States, they value academics completely differently. Nope, the courts of law aren’t worth shit. Seriously, it’s totally messed up. I would make three times as much if I
