CHAPTER 16. SUNDAY AUGUST 2, 16:15.
Maiorescu looked up from his laptop. His face looked haggard, eyes bloodshot. Looked like he hadn't had a good night's sleep for a week and could do with buying a sharper razor. His tie was pulled down, showing a thick tangle of black hair. Sweat stains dampened his armpits and front of his shirt. The man lit up then poured himself a large Absolut and drained it in one swallow. Didn't offer the bottle around.
"Look. We can't carry on like this. This Abkhazian lot are causing me a bit more trouble than I thought. After that fire bombing the other week, I think it might be better to keep our heads down for a while."
"What!" shouted Litovchenko, living up to his nickname. "What're you saying? That we should give up and let them foreign rag head bastards just take over?"
"Not at all. We just need to calm it down for a while before we can sort them out properly."
Caramarin looked up. "You've had some pressure from the Militsia, boss?"
"That's right. They think it's getting out of hand and it's bad for the city's image."
"Fuck the city's image and fuck these Abkhazian fuckers, too. Let's smash them now."
"Can't do that. Not for the time being. Anyway, I've set up a meet with their boss, Timur Ozgan. I want you, Nicolae, to come with me."
"That cunt? Thought I was your second," Placid jumped to his feet, hulking over Maiorescu.
"You are. But you might be too... intimidating... for the meet. Anyway, I want you to put your feelers out and see if you can't round up some useful chaps who we can rely on in the near future. Capisce?"
He held Litovchenko's stare for a moment. It was the doorman who looked away first.
"Nicolae, pick us up at the villa at seven. And wear a suit. I'll see you later." He stood and went to the door. The two doormen followed.
"Stay a moment, will you, Litovchenko. Quick word. I'll see you at seven, Nicolae."
Caramarin left, felt dismissed. What were the two men talking about without him?
As the sun's rays spread and lit up the calm waters of the Black Sea that evening, Caramarin arrived at Maiorescu's villa outside of Yuzhne with half an hour to spare. He swung up the driveway and parked. Walked over to the pool. Rippled reflections danced on the surface. Natalya was resting on a recliner, a glass of vodka by her side. She looked up from her magazine.
She was wearing just her tiny white bikini, this late in the summer her skin now deeply tanned. The early evening sun caught her blonde hair, making it like molten gold. She slipped her sarong on and stood to greet him, her full breasts shadowing her stomach, her nipples very prominent under her top. They exchanged a chaste kiss.
"You look good, Nicu. You should wear a suit more often. It suits you."
"Eugen wants me to go to a meeting with him tonight."
"I know. Wonder why he's not taking Litovchenko?"
"I think he's lookin' for a bit of discretion on this one. Not just beating someone to a pulp."
"Yes, that man's getting worse. Too many 'roids."
Caramarin shrugged off his jacket and helped himself to a beer and waited for Maiorescu.
Didn't have long to wait. Maiorescu hurried down. He was wearing a grey lightweight Bill Blass suit and a dark blue silk tie. The clothes were expensive but the man still looked like a furtive crook in a line up. He shot a look at Caramarin standing near Natalya in her tiny bikini. Caramarin stepped a pace away.
"Ready to go, boss?"
"Yeah. You look the part. C'mon." Maiorescu tossed his wife a pack of cigs.
Natalya waved them off. Caramarin took Maiorescu's Mercedes saloon and headed back into Odessa. Maiorescu directed him to a sauna by Mala Station. Not too far from the fire bombed coffee shop which was now boarded up. Caramarin glanced up at the blackened ruins. Against the rest of the street it was like a rotten tooth in a mouth. Only his imagination but he almost thought he could smell the smoke from it.
He pulled up in a small car park near the sauna.
"Want me to come in with you, boss?"
"'Course. Just keep your eyes open. There'll only be me and Ozgan and one of his men here. Discreet. The fewer people the better, capisce?"
Caramarin stepped out the Merc.
"You carrying?" Maiorescu asked.
Caramarin nodded.
"Well, leave it in the car. No weapons."
"You sure, boss?" Maiorescu had always been obsessed with personal security.
"Sure."
Caramarin hid his pistol in the glove locker.
The two men walked into the waiting room. Ignored the 'Closed' notice on the door to keep out the passing trade. Caramarin smelled perfume, steam and underlying that the sour odour of sweat and sex. Classy.
A dyed blonde woman spilling out of a pink bathrobe greeted them. She was maybe late thirties but tried to appear younger. In a way, she reminded Caramarin of Natalya except her hard face let her down. And Natalya was younger and now had the big advantages of money and an easier life.
She offered two glasses and bottle of champagne. Maiorescu grabbed the bottle and poured. Caramarin accepted a glass. Sipped it as he wanted to keep his wits about him. Maiorescu drank deep, refilled his glass and lit up. The two men sat and waited, Maiorescu smoking furiously.
"He's trying to show who's top. Don't worry about it," said Maiorescu. He was clenching his fists, his knuckles showing white.
"I'm not,"
But Caramarin understood his man well enough to know that his boss was angry underneath. No wonder he didn't want a psycho nut sitting with him, egging him on. What worried Caramarin was that his boss must be weaker than he thought to put up with this treatment. Yes, he'd noticed takings were down and too many 'customers' were behind on their 'premiums'. But there must be stuff going on behind the scenes that he was not aware of.
The door opened and the hostess showed in two men.
You could tell immediately which was Timur Ozgan. Authority rode on his shoulders like an eagle. Medium height but broad. Built like a weightlifter. He had a neatly trimmed beard flecked with grey and deep set dark brown eyes and a prominent nose. He was wearing a good Iranian style suit, no tie, and was holding a set of prayer beads which moved through his hand.
His bodyguard, Mehmet, had obviously been chosen for his imposing appearance. He stood a fraction under two metres and looked as if he spent serious time in the gym. He was dark skinned and wore mirrored shades. Like his boss, he wore a good suit but it barely covered his muscles. The backs of his hands had writing on them in some sort of strange foreign Cyrillic script.
Caramarin nodded politely. They undressed. No weapons and no wires, then wrapped towels around their waists. Maiorescu pushed on the door then the four men entered the sauna. The heat hit them in the chest like a sledge hammer.
Caramarin had no idea if Georgians or even Abkhazians had saunas in their own countries and couldn't care less. The two gang leaders sat at one end of the sauna and talked together in low voices. Sweat poured from Maiorescu but Timur Ozgan seemed to cope well. Maybe they do have saunas over there after all.
Mehmet either wouldn't speak or just didn't speak Ukrainian or Russian. He seemed content to glare at Caramarin. Started to get on his nerves but, remembering why he was there tried not to let it get to him. Glad he'd laid off the blow for a few days, though. Bit calmer without it. Concentrated on watching – and keeping the steam right.
When Maiorescu and Timur Ozgan had finished, they moved into the salon where a group of masseuses had set up four tables and waited for them. Relaxing mood music played in the background and scented candles lit the room with flickering shadows.
Interestingly, Maiorescu chose the older woman who had served them champagne earlier. Maybe she reminded him of his wife, too. Or maybe she was just more skilled than the young woman who massaged Caramarin. Nice body, great abs, but no skill.
No extras, though. Not at a business meeting. The only one who didn't seem to be enjoying himself was Mehmet. He stared at Caramarin. This man was setting himself up for trouble between them whatever happened.