CHAPTER 22. SUNDAY AUGUST 16, 00:45.
"Put that down," Caramarin said, his hand on Litovchenko's arm.
Maiorescu had slowed his yacht, and it started to roll slightly in the swell as the speed tailed off. As the other boat got closer, Caramarin saw it was one of the Militsia's Customs vessels. Its pale grey hull loomed over the motor yacht. From the low perspective of the motor yacht it seemed the size of a cruiser. The searchlight moved away slightly, cutting the glare.
"Where are you going?" the officer's voice boomed out over the loudspeaker, distorted.
"Deep sea fishing, Captain." called out Maiorescu from up on the flying bridge.
"What was that?"
"Deep sea fishing," he shouted.
"Oh yeah?"
"That’s right, Captain. We're looking for octopuses. It's easier to catch them at night." Up above he saw Maiorescu wave a wicker basket and net in the air.
Caramarin knew fuck all about the habits of the octopus but figured that a man in charge of a naval vessel probably knew far more about deep sea fishing and marine animals than he would ever know. Maiorescu's story sounded pathetically thin. Even with the fishing tackle. Far as he knew, Maiorescu only used his yacht for fun and games involving vodka.
"Permission to come on board?"
His heart raced. Despite the cool air out to sea, the sweat stood out from him. Oh, now they were fucked. No way out of this one. Not with a mutilated dead body on board. They were too far from land for him to dive overboard and swim ashore. The Customs boat would round him up in minutes even if they didn't just shoot him dead in the water.
He saw Litovchenko look at the assault rifle on the deck nearby. If Placid started blazing away there would be no mercy. The Customs boat would blow them out of the water with its cannon.
Once again, it fell to Maiorescu to size up the situation.
"We're in a little bit of a hurry, Captain. My friends want to catch octopus before dawn. Maybe you could check it out later? Nicolae, send some drinks over? Only the very best for our gallant Ukrainian sailors."
Caramarin couldn't take it in. Took a push from Placid to get him moving. He ducked his head and went down into the galley. In the fridge were several bottles of imported Finnish vodka. Finlandia. Excellent. Top gear – made with pure glacier water. If anyone knew how to make vodka, it was the thirsty Finns. He carried them up and carefully tossed the bottles over to one of the sailors on the Customs vessel.
"I've got your registration and I'll be checking up," the officer's voice boomed over. "Take care out there, boys."
The vessel turned, tooted its horn and accelerated away back towards Odessa.
"What the fuck?" said Caramarin. The adrenaline rush went. His legs trembled and he felt like he was going to throw up. Only a few minutes ago, he thought he was looking at many years rotting in prison if he was lucky and being riddled with gunfire if he wasn't.
Maiorescu laughed like a loon. The relief had got to him as well.
"They think we're smugglers or drug runners," he called down. "But thought there's no point stopping us on the outward leg 'cos we'd have nothin' on board. But if we'd been coming back, they'd have been all over us like crabs." He laughed again. "Bet you shat your pants there, Nicolae."
"I can smell ‘em from here," Placid said.
"Can't say as I blame him. It was a close call. If we'd had someone willing to do the job our taxes are paying for, we'd all be on our way to the clink now." Maiorescu started up the engine again and the motor yacht picked up speed heading further out into the expanse of the Black Sea.
About thirty kilometres out, Maiorescu cut the engines. Turned off the music. Sudden silence fell upon the yacht. It slowed then rolled gently in the swell. Placid came up out of the hold with a length of heavy chain and the dinghy's anchor. The coke had well worn off and Caramarin felt jagged and tired and worn out. But he was not letting a monster like Placid touch her body again. No way.
"I'll do it." he said.
"Suits me." Placid sat back on the deck cushions, drank deep from his vodka bottle and watched. Caramarin tied the heavy chain around the dead girl’s ankles and padlocked the anchor to the chain. He lifted her body as carefully as possible and took it over to the side of the low sun deck. Placid belched, scratched his balls then got up and picked up the heavy metalwork.
He nodded to the sea and Caramarin dropped the body over the side, for some reason trying to make as little of a splash as possible. Just seemed important, somehow. But couldn't have said why. Weighted down as her body was, the dark waters of the Black Sea closed over her instantly. Their crimes may be hidden from man, but would they ever have to account for this night’s work sometime?
"Fish food," said Placid. He belched again.
"You know," called down Maiorescu, "They’ve found Greek and Roman galleys down on the bottom of the Black Sea. Maybe someone will find this little slag in two thousand years time."
A wave of fury swept through Caramarin. If he’d been holding the Kalash, he could have cheerfully gunned them both down. As quickly as it came, the anger went and he felt totally drained and unhappy.
Maiorescu turned the boat round and headed back to Yuzhne. This time Romanian pop over the speakers. Caramarin slumped into one of the deck chairs.
"Pass me that vodka," he said. Wanting to drink himself into oblivion now.
"Don’t just sit there, you lazy cunt." Placid again. "Get the deck scrubbed clean. Don’t want no fuckin’ DNA on it, do we?" Not that he needed to, but Placid was holding the cut down Kalash. Not aiming it at Caramarin, but not exactly pointing it away, either.
"Thanks. I'd appreciate that," called Maiorescu.
Wearily, Caramarin got a bucket, detergent and a scrubbing brush from the galley. He knelt where the girl’s body had laid and scrubbed the deck thoroughly. He thought about the poor girl and her end. And how his life had come to kneeling on a deck on a gangster’s motor yacht.
As he did so, he knew he didn’t want to carry on working with these two pervert bastards any more. Trouble was he couldn’t see his way clear to leaving. Wasn’t like it was the sort of job where you could hand in your notice and expect a farewell party and present.
"Okay, lads." Maiorescu had come down from the flying bridge when Caramarin finished the deck. He was holding out a garbage bag and wearing only his trunks. "Put your clothes in here. There’ll be DNA and stuff on ‘em. Don’t want nothing connectin’ us to that little slag."
Caramarin swore but stripped down. Placid’s huge muscular torso was covered in prison tattoos – a huge Christ on the cross writhing in agony, blood red tears and wounds. How anyone with a Christ on him could do what Placid had done beat Caramarin. Maybe the clue was in the tattoos on his hands. The bag was weighted and slung overboard.
Maiorescu had timed their arrival for exactly seven in the morning. Thought the Customs Inspectors would be doing their shift change about then. As it was, they moored at his villa at Yuzhne with no problems. Back up at the villa, Maiorescu lent them some fresh clothes. Didn’t fit too well but they’d do.
"I appreciate your help tonight. I know who I can rely on when the chips are down. Here, take this." He handed Caramarin a thick wedge of notes and a small bag of blow. "You’re the best, Nicolae. The very best."
Except that Caramarin felt like hurling the money and coke back. But he couldn’t do that and expect to live long after. Several times on the drive back to Odessa that morning he felt like throwing it out the window. It felt dirty and tainted the very air of the Opel Combo. But that would have been stupid. He’d done the work and here was the wages of sin.
He pulled up at Valeriya’s apartment. No key. He knocked, waited and knocked again. She peered out, clutching her robe about her. She hugged him tight, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. She kissed him.
"I wasn’t sure I’d see you again," she cried.
Caramarin couldn’t speak. Too many conflicting emotions. He felt so sorry for the dead girl, anger and even hatred to Maiorescu and Placid and on overwhelming sense of despair and futility.
Valeriya was no fool. She’d seen enough in her life as a dancer and croupier. She could tell he couldn’t or didn’t want to talk about last night’s work. Knew something had happened as he was wearing someone else’s kit and was as down as she’d ever seen him. So she let him have his way and didn’t push him. Caramarin sprawled out on her couch. She got a blanket and draped it over him.
When Caramarin woke that Sunday afternoon, he felt strangely refreshed and more clearly minded than he expected. Like his subconscious mind had worked overtime and come to some sort of decision. The roll of money was still in his pocket. He didn’t want it but he’d earned it. He divided it and gave Valeriya half. Her eyes widened in surprise at the amount.
"What’d you do, kill someone?" she joked. She saw the look on his face. "No, don’t answer that. I’m sorry. Forget it." She hurried into her kitchenette to brew tea.
Caramarin followed. He had a few hidden stashes where he hid money and papers in case his world fell in and he needed to escape. Had a safety deposit box at the First Investment Bank downtown, one hidden under the floor at his place in Moldavanka, another buried out in the woods next to a lightning blasted tree and one with Valeriya.
Couldn’t trust many people but felt she wouldn’t let him down. He emptied out a coffee tin, added most of his half to the roll inside, glanced at the phoney blue Moldovan passport and refilled it and resealed the tin. The tea had brewed by now and he sipped it gratefully.
"Can’t go on like this, love" was all he said.