He had been in the game for a long time, he said, and had been importing fresh and frozen shellfish since the mid nineties. But now he was changing tack, giving up the fight against the big monopolies—ICA and Axfood. That was why he needed new partners. The majority of fishing for prawns and mussels was done in the North Sea, but if you went farther, up toward the Arctic Ocean, the quality of the shellfish was much better. The reason so few did it was that the journey back to Sweden often took a long time because the seas were so rough. But Hassan Kaya had managed to find a captain who froze the shellfish as soon as it was loaded onto the boat, and who also delivered superior-quality products at a reasonable price. With the kind of markup you could add as a wholesaler, they would be making money hand over fist.
On a paper napkin he grabbed out of an old takeout carton from a Chinese restaurant on Valhallavägen, Kaya had scrawled out the plan. Sami had taken the figures away with him. So he could work out for himself just how much money there was to be made in the import branch.
“We’re starting a company,” Kaya had explained. “You, me and Ibrahim. My captain needs to upgrade the freezers on board, and that needs capital. Ibrahim’s promised to go in with ten million and I’m doing the same. How much were you thinking of investing?”
After the meeting, Sami had felt overwhelmed. He didn’t have that kind of money. Once he had emptied his own bank account and his brothers had reluctantly agreed to loan him the majority of their savings, Sami had eventually managed to convince some of his friends and Karin’s uncle to get involved. He managed to scrape together a total of five million. For that, he got 20 percent of the newly formed import company.
He told Karin about the project, but failed to mention just how much he was staking on it.
Still, risks were something he had lived with his entire life.
When Sami Farhan ran up the two flights of stairs in Magasin 6 to exchange a few words with Hassan Kaya that cold February morning, he wasn’t surprised to find the door to the unassuming office locked. Kaya had advised Sami not to go out there to meet the boat; unloading a container full of frozen prawns was hardly a spectacular event for someone who had done it countless times before.
But Sami hadn’t listened.
He rushed back down the stairs and out of the building. The water of the Baltic Sea was still a few degrees warmer than the chilly morning air. Fog lay over the bay and the docks, and his face grew damp as he crossed the street. It was ten to seven, and he smiled when he saw Ibrahim Bulut’s white Mercedes parked at the end of the dock.
The successful wholesaler climbed out of his car as Sami approached, and they greeted one another.
“Time to make some damn money,” Bulut said with a hoarse laugh. A cloud of condensation left his mouth, as though he were laughing in a speech bubble. “Where’s the boat?” he asked, glancing around.
Sami shook his head and pointed randomly toward the harbor entrance. “You’re the one who knows this stuff. I’ve got no idea. Are boats like planes? Do they dock at a set time, or how’s it work?”
“When did a plane last land on time?” Bulut asked. “Have you seen the trucks?”
Hassan Kaya had shown them sketches of the trucks that would be emblazoned with the company’s logo. They should have been there to take the cargo, but there was no sign of them. Sami was jumping up and down on the spot like a child who wanted immediate answers to his questions.
The clock struck seven, and the two friends talked about Årsta warehouses and how much money they were going to make on frozen shellfish, all while trying to keep warm as best they could. Sami was constantly glancing in the direction of the Baltic, hoping to catch sight of the boat.
But there was no boat anywhere to be seen, and no trucks either.
By seven thirty, Sami couldn’t hide his frustration any longer. He told Bulut to wait by the Mercedes while he went away to talk to a couple of men busy unloading goods.
Sami Farhan wasn’t someone who left things to chance. During the two months that had passed since he invested in the project, he had asked Hassan Kaya thousands of questions, and Kaya had patiently answered them all. Thanks to that, Sami not only knew that the boat they were waiting for sailed under an Estonian flag, but also what its designation was and where it would dock.
But no one working in the harbor that morning could give him the slightest idea as to what had happened.
At quarter to eight, Sami called Hassan Kaya. The phone rang, but there was no answer. For once, it also didn’t go to voice mail.
“I don’t like this,” Sami said when he returned to Bulut and the car. “You know what I mean? This doesn’t feel good.”
He thumped his chest through his down jacket.
“You’re just paranoid.” Bulut smiled. He was leaning against his Mercedes, smoking a cigarette. “As usual.”
“It’s not just my money. Do you get that? People are expecting things. From all directions.”
“You’ve mentioned that a few times,” Bulut pointed out. “Like, a hundred.”
“So where the hell’s the boat?”
Sami’s hand drummed against his thigh, and he shook his head.
“You want to sit down and wait?” Bulut suggested. His friend’s behavior was starting to stress him out.
They climbed into the Mercedes and Bulut turned the ignition to get the heater going. They stared at the empty harbor entrance in silence, Sami still drumming his hands. On his thighs, on the dashboard, on the car door. After a few minutes, he couldn’t bear it any longer.
“I’m going to see if he’s in the office yet.”
Ibrahim Bulut nodded.
When Sami Farhan returned to the corridor in Magasin 6, the majority of the doors were still closed. He knocked on Kaya’s. Gently at first, then harder. Nothing happened.
He took out his phone and tried calling the number the shellfish importer had always answered in the past. It rang, but again, no one answered.
With the phone pressed to his ear, Sami studied the closed door. Some of the offices down the corridor had metal doors, but this one was wood. He shoved his phone back into his pocket and tried the door with his shoulder. It gave. Not much, but enough for him to know that it was worth another try, with more force this time.
On his fifth attempt, the door gave way. The frame broke with a crack and Sami suddenly found himself inside the tiny office he had visited so many times before.
It was empty. Even the desk had gone.
His blood was pounding in his temples.
There wouldn’t be any boat. There wouldn’t be any trucks.
Like a tiger in a small cage, Sami paced the room. The bastard had screwed them over.
Ibrahim Bulut was still waiting in the car. Sami tore open the door.
“He’s gone! Do you understand what I’m saying? Gone! The office is empty, his phone’s off. Shit! Shit, shit, shit. We’re driving over to that asshole’s place for a chat right now.”
“What the hell are you saying?” The color had vanished from Bulut’s face.
“We’re screwed. There’s no fucking boat. We’re going over to that bastard’s place now to get our money back.”
“But…” said Bulut, “I don’t know where he lives…”
“You don’t know where he lives? What the hell are you saying?”
Sami couldn’t believe it.
“Somewhere in Gothenburg, I think,” said Bulut. “Or Landskrona or somewhere on the fucking west coast.”
“You said you knew him?”