CHAPTER 19. TUESDAY AUGUST 4, 00:00.
"C'mon ladies. We've got a long drive ahead of us." Not all seemed to understand him. He tuned into Prosto Radio 102.5 FM and headed south into the Bessarabian countryside.
Placid and Oilfield sprawled on the back seat. They had a couple bottles of vodka and were passing them round to the girls. Oilfield built a massive spliff and the heavy sweet smell of marijuana filled the minibus. Oilfield beckoned to one of the girls, a tidy looking auburn haired piece, and made her sit on his lap. Passed the spliff to her and after Placid took the joint Oilfield started fumbling with her clothes. She squeaked and tried to wriggle off but a few more tokes and vodkas calmed her. Placid took hold of another and dragged her down onto him.
"Hey, you, turn that shite off and put this on," shouted Placid as he tossed a CD up. Caramarin sighed and sighed again as thrash metal blasted out from the speakers. It was going to be a bloody long journey.
Pulled up at a garage with a shop attached for diesel and to give the girls a comfort break. Placid came out the shop with more vodka. Caramarin took him to one side.
"Right, I've had enough, I'm not crossing no border with drugs. Got that?"
Placid blinked. "Who you telling what to do, cunt?"
"Listen. We get stopped with drugs we're going down. Got that? You wanna explain to the boss why we've fucked up? Why he's lost a load of money? That what you want?"
The two men looked at each other. Caramarin stood on the balls of his feet. Ready for action if it came. Adrenaline rushed through him. Who knew how Placid would react? Probably not even Placid knew.
Yet it was Placid who backed down. "Okay."
"Good, and leave the women alone, capisce."
"Why? They're only slags, who cares what happens to them?"
"I care, so lay off. And tell your mate the same. Unless you want me to."
Only four women had boarded the bus. Couldn't see the cheeky looking Turkic girl. Feeling like he was in charge of a kindergarten, Caramarin re-entered the garage. He saw her looking at the food. The babushka behind the counter was watching the girl. Suspicion all over her creased face.
"C'mon, time to go." He took her arm. She turned a tear streaked face up to him.
"I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten for two days."
"What about the others?"
"No," she burst into tears.
Caramarin scooped up as many rolls, cartons of milk, fruits, sweets as he could hold and peeled off some notes and paid for them. Back on the minibus he handed them out to the women. Didn't give anything to Placid and Oilfield. Couldn't miss the evil look the two men gave him. Like he could care less. Whilst he was at it, ejected the thrash CD and back to the radio. This close to the border, he tuned into a Romanian language talk show. Just to wind them up even more.
The minibus quietened as the girls settled down to sleep. The two hoods at the back talked to each other. Caramarin knew they were ranking him to the dogs. But couldn't care less. The dark, flat Bessarabian country unrolled beneath the wheels. On the outskirts of Izmail, a town a few kilometres from the border, Caramarin pulled over.
The two hoods shrugged into wakefulness.
"Right. Anything I should know before we cross over? No guns, drugs, kiddie porn, dead bodies?"
"No, you cunt. Clean as a whistle."
"Okay. Anything goes wrong, I'll let the boss know who fucked up. Got that?"
Turning his back on them, he walked up the gangway past the dozing women and drove up to the customs post. Despite the late hour, there was still a queue waiting to cross the Danube into Romania. Leaving Ukraine was no problem, just a question of showing their passports.
It was the crossing into Romania that was the difficulty. The minibus was waved over to the side of the brick built customs post. In the glare of the floodlights, the blue , yellow and red flag of his homeland fluttered over the building. A burly customs official with the beginning of a paunch and a heroic moustache climbed on board and flashed a torch around. His suspicions were raised by the sight of five half asleep young women and two over muscled men.
"Everyone off," he ordered. Caramarin translated and they all stepped off, yawning and stretching in the chill air.
Caramarin handed over all their passports and visas and they all stood and waited by the minibus. In the very early hours of the morning, they all felt tired and scratchy. Caramarin rubbed his jaw. Figured they'd a long wait ahead of them. And he was right. The customs official came out.
"We're searching this bus," he told Caramarin.
They unloaded their bags and waited some more. A heavy set woman came out leading a spaniel. She released the dog and it bounded inside, sniffing about, wagging its tail. It was the only one that was lively and up for it at that time in the morning. It barked when it reached the back seat. The woman entered and found the roach end under a seat.
"It's a hire minibus. Didn't know it was there. Look at the paperwork, please," explained Caramarin wearily.
The dog carried on its search and then was led past their group. It wagged its tail furiously at Placid and Oilfield and almost wet itself by one of the girls. The woman led the dog away and returned.
"I'm going to search these women. Tell them," the big woman ordered. Caramarin explained. The girls looked frightened, one even started crying. They followed the woman over to the customs house.
The three men were taken over later. They stripped, their clothes were turned out and examined. Catching sight of Placid's acorn knob, Caramarin thought he should tell him to lay off the steroids for a while. Might not go down too well.
"Hey, might be a good idea to lay off the 'roids. Y'know what happens, don't you?" He waggled his little finger.
Litovchenko glowered, flexed his heavily tattooed hands, but even that psycho wasn't going to kick off in a customs house. Not when he was naked. And there were men with Kalashs standing about.
Of course, the humour vanished when one of the officers slipped on the plastic gloves and went prospecting. That was no fun.
Eventually, their clothes were returned. They filed back out and saw more customs officers searching their jacked up minibus. Cushions lay on the concrete next to some side panels. One had drained the tank and the diesel stood in jerry cans. The wheels had been taken off with the deflated tyres loose around their rims.
Caramarin stood next to the huddle of women. One was crying, but the others looked as disheartened and deflated as the tyres. Couldn't think of what to say to them.
One of the officials told Caramarin they'd finished. Caramarin picked up the wheel brace from the concrete and started to replace the wheels. Placid shrugged his shoulders and started making calls on his cell. In fairness to him, after a moment, Oilfield rolled up his sleeves and joined in with refilling the diesel. Most of it was still there. A couple of the girls sorted out the minibus's interior.
All the same, it was well into the morning and they were many hours late before they were ready to roll. Caramarin collected their papers and drove into the sun on the way to Constanta. He pulled in at the first diner he came to. Told Placid to pay for breakfasts as he was skint. Earned himself another black look, but the big doorman ponied up the folding.
It was late morning before they arrived at the port of Constanta. Placid moved to the shotgun seat and guided him to a lock up on the dock road. Caramarin was surprised at how quiet and dead the port was. Not like when he was last there, years ago. Cranes stood idle whilst dockers fished from the quays. Stacks of rusting containers shimmered in the sun. Very different from the hustle and business of the thriving port at Odessa. A strong smell of oil and fish filled the air.
He parked outside the lock up and the girls stepped out, blinking in the light and looking around them at their new surroundings. A slim handsome young man in a formal white shirt and black jeans stepped out of the lock up. He raised his shades and looked the girls over. Just behind him was an older woman, also smartly dressed in skin tight jeans and an embroidered white blouse with a red silk scarf.
She showed the young women inside. Last in was the cheeky Turkic girl. Caramarin pressed a scrap of paper into her hand as she passed.
"Call me," he whispered. She nodded once and followed the others inside.
Litovchenko made a call on his cell, nodded, then handed the girls' passports and papers to the young man.
"Job done," Placid said. "Take us home."
Caramarin tossed him the keys.
"I'm shattered. You can drive for a while."
Shouldn't have said he was tired. Back on went the thrash CD. Full volume.