Authors: Jens Lapidus
The hotel phone rang. Natalie picked it up.
“You have a visitor down here.”
“Ask him to show ID.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment, then the receptionist said, “Johan Westlund. He says he goes by JW.”
“Okay, send him up.”
At the very moment she hung up the phone, her cell rang. Her guy down in the lobby reported that JW was on his way up.
There was a knock at the door. Adam peered through the peephole. Opened the door.
Natalie took a deep breath—JW looked fantastic. His hair wasn’t as tightly slicked back as the last time they’d seen each other. His overcoat and jacket fit like an extra skin over his shirt, which must’ve been made of insanely nice cotton—it gleamed even thought the light from outside was pale. His cufflinks had a green stone set in the middle. They matched the handkerchief that peeked out of his breast pocket.
But more than anything, it was his gaze. JW’s eyes were glittering. Natalie thought,
He’s so fucking hot. And he knows we’re negotiating today
.
They embraced. He didn’t smile. Natalie told him to keep his coat on and showed him out to the balcony.
They sat down. Natalie was wearing a pea coat and a scarf wrapped around her neck.
The situation was different today: her war with Stefanovic’d escalated for real. JW probably felt pressured to act. As it should be—all the bury-your-head-in-the-sand games were over now.
She cut right to it. “Your colleague told me that Moscow is getting fed up. Tell me more.”
JW twiddled his thumbs. “I’ve already told you—you have to stop.”
“Are you my boss or what?”
“No, but I’m not speaking for myself. Moscow is irritated.”
“Tell me more, please.”
“All this conflict isn’t good for this city,” he said. “For instance, Moscow believes you and Stefanovic are playing hide-and-seek with the information they need. I don’t know any details, but it can’t continue like that.”
Natalie had to remain calm. She wasn’t balanced—she felt excited, worried, and cool as ice all at the same time. The negotiation situation: so much was at stake. At the same time: she was visualizing JW in front of her, naked. She saw him kiss her. She was Natalie Kranjic—she set the rules of the game. She took what she wanted.
She said, “Come with me into the bedroom.”
She could tell by his eyes that he understood.
They walked in through the living room. Adam didn’t even look up.
They closed the bedroom door behind them.
She positioned herself close to JW. His face a head’s length above hers. She took a tiny step forward.
“There’s got to be a way for us to solve this, right?”
He bent his head down, she could feel his breath, it smelled of spearmint.
His face came up close against her. His chin brushed by her cheek.
She grabbed hold of his neck. Pressed him against her. Kissed him.
They threw themselves onto the bed. She rolled on top of him. He caressed her ass, hips, thighs.
He said, “You’re so damn foxy.”
She said, “You shouldn’t play so tough.”
He laughed.
She took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.
He kissed her neck. Then he kissed her forehead and eyelids.
The bed was even more comfortable than it looked. Natalie leaned back and stretched out. JW bit her earlobes and lips playfully.
He cupped her breasts in his hands.
She took his shirt off. JW was toned. Less than Viktor, but still with accentuated pecs and okay abs. She licked his nipples.
He groaned.
She pulled his fly down and pulled his cock out, licked the tip, took him in her mouth, held his cock at the root with one hand, and swallowed the entire length of him.
He groaned louder.
She didn’t want him to come. She released him and crawled up. He unbuttoned her pants and pulled them down. She was wearing pink Hanky Panky panties.
She moved his head down toward her crotch.
He kissed the inside of her thighs. The outside of her panties—warm breath through them.
He slipped her panties off. Kissed her pussy.
She felt him spread her with his fingers.
His tongue carefully found its way down there.
He brought one hand up to her breasts, carefully pinched one of her nipples.
His tongue continued to swirl around down there. Slowly approached her clit.
She felt how he massaged her pussy with the fingers of his other hand.
Delivered wide-tongued licks, then with the thin tip of his tongue, to the side, back and forth, alternately. He moved it in circles.
She tensed her body. Almost squirmed away from him.
He licked faster and faster.
It was as though electric shocks were pulsing through her body.
His tongue was everywhere.
She screamed. Her body in convulsions.
She came.
They lay still. Her pulse was still racing.
A minute or so later she climbed on top of him, sat. She was wet. His cock slipped in easily.
He moved his pelvis. She moved in time with him.
Natalie felt him inside her.
She leaned forward. He grabbed hold of her ass.
In and out. He caressed her breasts.
The bed bounced to their rhythm.
She saw him breathing faster.
She felt sweat on her back.
Saw sweat on JW’s brow.
They moved in time with each other.
His body pounded against the sheets.
She was close to coming again.
She felt the rush through her body.
Pulsing shocks through her pussy, through her belly, through her back.
Waves of pleasure washed over her heart.
She screamed.
It was unclear if he came as well.
They were lying next to each other. Hadn’t said much yet.
Natalie said, “At least you’re good for one thing.”
“You too.”
“Let’s finish talking.”
He smiled. “Okay, I think it’ll go better now that we’ve broken the ice.”
“What do you want in order to come over to my side?” she said.
JW stared up at the ceiling. “Your war has to end. It’s ruining business. I want you to be as loyal to me in business as I will be to you. And I have a proposition.”
Natalie waited.
“I want you to make sure that a certain thing happens,” JW said.
“What?”
“I’ll get to that. Be patient.”
He smiled.
They talked. For a long time. Bounced ideas back and forth. JW offered propositions. Natalie told him what she needed help with—he already knew most of it. She wanted to understand exactly how he worked. He was unwilling to tell her.
Natalie said that if she didn’t understand, they didn’t have a deal.
He folded, explained his business—it took over an hour.
He was pedagogical, thorough. Almost seemed like he took pleasure in explaining. Showing how smart, multifaceted, advanced he was. Above all: how much money he was handling.
First: the key to success was transfers. Everything was ruled by transferal.
Transfers from one economic system to another. Transfers from dirty to clean areas. Transferal in a cycle. Transferal in three vital steps: placement, concealment, reintroduction. Without them, there was no closed circuit.
Again, the foundations: placement, stratification, and reintegration into the legal economy.
The first step: placement. The funds were almost always in cash. The cash had to be moved into the financial system somehow. Cash was lethal—nothing raised suspicions as quickly as a bunch of bills.
Step two: concealment. Stratification to distance the money from the source. They used several systems, several transactions. Companies, private persons, trusts, geographical areas with high levels of bank secrecy. Transfers between accounts in different banks around the world.
The final step: reintegration into the legal economy. Reintroducing the illicit capital so that it could be consumed or invested without risk. So that everything appeared clean and legal.
JW and his people were in control, creating plans, being consulted at every turn, every step of the way. “We don’t just give advice, we implement the entire chain,” he said. “We execute everything that I just told you about.”
But now regulators within the EU and the OECD were applying pressure. Countries were implementing anti-terror laws to prevent shady transactions across borders. Many countries’d gotten rid of their bank secrecy laws. Switzerland had thrown in the towel years ago. Several Channel Islands gave up last year. Liechtenstein was on its way. Even most of the Swedish banks were much more careful now. No one wanted to become known as the dirty bank. Someone who wanted to make a deposit often had to answer questions and show valid ID if the bankers thought the transaction seemed unusual. Or if the bankers didn’t understand the transaction’s background, they began sniffing around. What was its purpose, where did the money come from, and what was it going to be used for? They wanted to see contracts, receipts, invoices, or other stuff that backed up your explanation. They wanted to know precisely who wanted to deposit what.
It was also increasingly difficult to use front men. The banks wanted proof that you owned more than 25 percent of the company, that you were the one who had the controlling interest. They wanted to know
that you were the actual principal. Which was precisely what a criminal wanted to hide.
But JW had a good entry point—that’s what he called it. The men in the currency-exchange group that he collaborated with made sure that the little birds behind the counters in the currency-exchange offices never asked questions.
Anyway, the main principle was to do only things that looked normal. Nothing that attracted attention. That created good relationships with bankers at other banks too. Created routines, trust. Once all that was in place, the deposit sums could be increased.
Bladman controlled three companies that did reasonably important business, in electronics, financial consulting, and catering. The important part: the companies actually had real customers, they had real income, they dealt with the real world. Front men were listed as the owners, but they could produce bank accounts, fake share books, and edited statements.
The electronics company had a Web site, a girl who manned a call center, even a small warehouse in Haninge. It sold laptops for fifteen million kronor a year. The thing: 80 percent of the sales were fake. Deposits were made into accounts without a sale taking place. The smart part: it all looked normal enough on the books. It wasn’t so easy for the bank to see that eight out of ten deposits were made by the same twenty people.
The consulting company operated on the same principle. It had a real office space, a dude who was employed to help small business owners with their bookkeeping, real phone, and Internet plans. Companies all over Sweden paid for capital consulting. The company had a turnover of twenty million kronor per year. The thing, again: 80 percent of the time that the dude wrote invoices, no business’d been done. But the clients were real—that was a point of strength.
The catering firm rented space in a kitchen in a basement venue on Ringvägen. It employed a chef. It delivered lunches, dinners, and business buffets for thirteen million a year. Maaaaany employees, who were paid a salary. The thing: the chef was a gambling addict, and 80 percent of the grub was fictive. The employees were figments of the controller’s imagination.
They had other companies too, where the business was fake all the way through. Antique furniture, tanning booths, and export companies—a lot was just on paper. It didn’t matter—the companies looked like
they had millions in turnaround every year. Cash-intensive industries—perfect. The banks thought everything appeared normal when the companies dumped ten grand a day into the service boxes. But the export company was best of all. All the payments came from abroad: its inflated invoices were matched by zero deliveries.
JW ran a tight ship, kept everything in check: you had to be careful about increasing the sums—they had to correspond with what the made-up companies might be expected to earn per day, and the deposits had to be made in old, wrinkly bills.
All together JW and Bladman had a large number of placement tools. Many ways to introduce illegal cash into the system.
But they didn’t do everything via the companies. They deposited a lot straight off via errand boys—bums, alcoholics, and small-time criminals. Not junkies or gambling addicts—they couldn’t be trusted. Cash deposits made directly with Western Union, Moneybooker, Forex, and, above all, the currency-exchange offices controlled by JW’s business partner. They avoided the
hawala
joints and the Africa people—the terror hysteria was too rampant there. The errand boys made small deposits, under ten thousand kronor at a time, straight into the Swedish companies’ accounts or to companies abroad. It ended up being a lot anyway: one dude could wander around town and make fifteen deposits in one day.
And last but not least: they often used mules directly. Loaded suitcases with one thousand tightly packed five-hundred-kronor bills, filled hidden compartments in cars with euros, let some down-and-out person travel with their stomach stuffed with diamonds. It was dangerous, of course—the mule could rip you off or be found out. That was why JW needed dangerous friends. He needed the support of the right organization. The mules had to be scared off from trying something stupid.
Summa summarum
: JW claimed that he invested more than one hundred million per year in safe locations.
The second step was more refined. The actual stratification.
There were companies in Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands, the Isle of Man, Dubai, and Panama. They’d even bought their own shell bank in Antigua where they were in control of the whole show. Northern White Bank Ltd.—JW loved the name. If suspicious eyes were ever turned on them, they could personally decide to shutter the entire bank and destroy the bookkeeping. Oops, we just had a fire—what terrible luck.
They opened bank accounts for the companies in the same countries or in other countries with better secrecy policies. They had walking accounts in more than ten countries through which they diverted deposits. The idea: the bank had clear instructions that all incoming money was automatically to be transferred to the next bank in the next country. But not too quickly. If a deposit was diverted directly, the honest bank could grow suspicious and its warning system would be set off. The instructions to the banks were to empty the accounts over ninety-day periods. Bit by bit. What was more: each bank got even clearer instructions that if some regulatory authority was in touch and asked about some transaction, it had to inform the bank in the other country, which then had to divert the money immediately. This method created tricky paths for Big Brother to follow. Even better: it created an early-warning system if something were to go to hell.