CHAPTER 18. MONDAY AUGUST 3, 08:00.
Annoyingly, Maiorescu seemed none the worse after last night. If anything, seemed brighter than usual. Like the weight of the world had rolled off his shoulders. He shook Caramarin awake and almost dragged him to the kitchen. No sign of Natalya. Probably for the best. Their housekeeper fetched enough to feed the five thousand. Well, at least five.
"Eat up, lots to do today," Maiorescu said.
Caramarin picked at his food, kept it down, then brought the Mercedes round. Gleaming in the sun, even the Merc looked better than he did. Probably it felt better, the way his head was banging.
On the drive back to Odessa, Caramarin listened as Maiorescu laid out his plans.
"Don't know why I didn't get into this before. It's the future for us. Loadsa money and none of the hassle you get with the drugs game. And the beauty is I can use some of my contacts from the counterfeit ciggies and booze runners."
"So what is it then?"
"There's lots of people who'd do anything to work in the E. U. or the Middle East. What we'd do is help them with getting passports, getting through immigration and finding work visas. For a small fee. And maybe helping them find work in the West, as well," he glanced at Caramarin to see how he reacted. Caramarin kept his eyes on the road and his features neutral.
"And then there's those that need medical assistance in the west. You remember, that charity we set up last month? There's lots of people who can't afford or obtain the treatments they need here in Ukraine, capisce."
"In a nutshell, people trafficking," said Caramarin.
"I wouldn't put it quite like that."
"Will the people you'll be helping to move be women?"
"Mostly. At first anyway." Maiorescu looked shifty, glancing away. His good mood seemed to be diminishing. "Thought you'd be up for earning more cash."
"Yeah, could do with the money. But this is bad news, boss. Where we getting the girls from?"
"Women, I said, not girls. I'm not touching children. No way." That was a relief. "Timur Ozgan can send some over until I build up my own networks. Then I can cut him out."
"Like I say, I think this is going to be bad for us, boss. I was in Bosnia and I saw things there..."
"That was years ago and different circs. No, this is genuine. Get them proper jobs as waitresses, dancers, cleaners, whatever. Those rich westerners are crying out for people to do that kind of work."
Caramarin said nothing.
"Also, Nicolae, we're being leaned on by the Militsia over the insurance 'premiums'. Need to diversify, capisce?"
"You told Natalya about this?"
"She's nothing to do with it. Don't you dare say a word to her."
That meant no.
Parked at the office on Prokhorovs'ka Street.
* * * * *
There followed a week of hard work. Caramarin thought if he wanted an office job, he would have applied for one. His cell seemed welded to his ear. Arranged for some dodgy passports and work permits to be printed. Letters from western hospitals recommending treatments. Maiorescu was busy on his cell with his contacts within Moldova and Romania and further down the line, even as far as Germany and Britain. Also, he was scraping together a deposit for the women.
Caramarin felt sorry for the businesses owing insurance 'premiums' now that Litovchenko was collecting. They'd get no mercy from that thug.
Wednesday evening, Maiorescu handed him a well stuffed envelope with an address.
"Take that over to Ozgan's place, will ya? We'll be picking up some workers."
Caramarin stuffed the envelope in his pocket and nodded. Drove a hired minibus over to Ozgan's warehouse and beeped the horn. The main gate swung open and he drove into the cavernous interior. The fluorescents flickered on, bathing the warehouse in hard light. Suddenly, he felt very exposed and wished he'd brought back up. Slowly, he stepped out of his mini bus, both hands in full view.
Ozgan, Mehmet and a couple of other men approached. One of them was the tall lantern jawed man he'd had a couple of run ins with before. His bruises were fading now, but still did nothing for his appearance. The two men glared at each other.
Slowly, with his left hand, Caramarin took the envelope from his camo jacket and offered it to Timur Ozgan, who nodded to lantern jaw. The man stepped forward still glaring at Caramarin and took it. Their hands did not touch, like he thought Caramarin had the plague or something.
He passed it to Ozgan, who flicked through the notes. He nodded a couple of times and said some gibberish in Abkhazian. Mehmet went into a back office and came back out with five young women. Even under the harsh lights he could see the women were all attractive. All looked bone-tired, one or two looked scared and one seemed close to tears.
But, looking closer, he saw a blonde had a black eye and another was clutching her ribs. They all carried suitcases or rucksacks. They looked apprehensively at Caramarin. Only one smiled at him, a large breasted, cheeky Turkic looking girl.
"They're yours now," Timur Ozgan told him. "I'll have some more for your boss soon."
Caramarin opened the mini bus's door and gestured for the girls to get in. They filed sheepishly on board. No giggling, no laughing, just silence. They stowed their bags as Caramarin reversed out. In his mirror he saw the Abkhazians watching in silence. He drove the girls over to Maiorescu's warehouse on Mala Arnauts'ka. Despite taking a roundabout route, he didn't notice a grey VW Polo always following several car lengths behind.
The warehouse door lifted up as soon as the mini bus arrived and closed as soon as it was inside. Caramarin stepped out. Maiorescu passed him a padded envelope.
"Passports and paperwork," he slurred. The man had been drinking. Heavily. Behind him, Placid and Oilfield climbed onto the minibus.
"C'mon, cunt. You're driving."
"What?"
"Slight... change of plan," said Maiorescu. "You don't mind taking 'em onto, onto Constanta do ya? I've cleared it..., cleared it with customs."
"You're joking, boss."
"No, I need... need you to. These two thuds can't speak Romanian."
Caramarin sighed and held out his hand.
"I'll need money for diesel."
Maiorescu peeled off some notes and passed them over.
Caramarin swung behind the wheel and backed the mini bus out.