CHAPTER 23. TUESDAY AUGUST 25, 09:30.
"Wait here," Maiorescu ordered.
Caramarin had driven them over to an abandoned sanatorium in the run down suburbs to the south of Odessa. Gone were the beautiful pastel coloured classical buildings of the city centre. This was the part that the tourists never came to. Grim post-War Soviet era buildings crumbled and peeled in the sun. Many of the buildings were empty. The people looked as down trodden and defeated as the buildings around them.
Caramarin knew Maiorescu had only recently bought this sanatorium. He was converting it into a massage parlour on the first floor and a recording studio on the second floor with an office for an internet dating agency he was thinking of setting up.
"We may be some time, cunt." Placid grinned at him.
Caramarin watched as they opened the steel shutter and let themselves in. He caught a glimpse of builders' tools as the shutter opened. He settled down in the Merc's leather seat and switched on Prosto radio 102.5 FM.
Poking out from under the passenger seat, he saw Maiorescu's laptop bag. This never left Maiorescu's side these days.
Caramarin prided himself on being good for his age. Yes, he was in his very late thirties but he looked younger. He worked out, kept in shape. Had a great tan. Okay, there were a few grey streaks in his dark hair and more lines about his eyes than he liked. When he looked in the mirror, his eyes looked tired and burned out. But he was trim and didn't have much trouble with the ladies when he put his mind to it.
But computers made him feel like an ancient Jurassic fossil. He'd never had much to do with computers. Kept away from that side of things at Maiorescu's business. Knew they were the future and he was being left behind but there was a part of him that hoped he could get away with ignoring them.
However, he'd seen Maiorescu on the laptop enough times. Frowning with concentration he switched the damn machine on. A host of icons materialised on the screen. Some he knew were business documents and spreadsheets. One was for the internet. He knew enough that some were for watching DVDs or videos. There was one folder marked 'Dog food'.
'Dog food?’ Caramarin thought. Apart from a few rottweilers as guard dogs back at his villa, Maiorescu had nothing to do with dogs. The man wasn't even into dog fights. Never heard that Maiorescu even had any business interests in dog food factories, even as a money laundering front.
He clicked on the icon. It flashed up a password request. Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshit. He glanced at his watch. On past times when Maiorescu and Placid had been at the sanatorium, they'd been at least an hour or more. Plenty of time. He reckoned this chance wouldn't come again. Fuck it, let's do it.
Fired up the Merc and headed south west. Just because he was out of his depth didn't mean he couldn't find some techy whiz kid geek who knew what to do.
Pulled up at an internet cafe. Didn't seem to do much in the way of food or drink but it did do computers. Pushing open the door, he saw several Afghan men hunched over their screens and one or two Africans and Indians. Guessed they were here on their way to trying to break into the E. U. They looked like they were in touch with their families back home.
One lad who couldn't have been more than nineteen or twenty was playing some on line war game. He seemed to be playing a Taliban Mujahedeen warrior killing epic amounts of U.S. Marines in a dusty village. The graphics amazed Caramarin. If war was really like that, there'd soon be no marines left.
He waited a minute for the slaughter to stop. The young man sensed Caramarin watching and turned with a look of annoyance.
"Speak Ukrainian? Want earn a little money?" he rubbed his fingers together.
"Yes to both, actually." His voice was soft and cultured. Not what Caramarin expected. He pulled over a spare chair and sat next to the lad. Caramarin showed him the laptop.
"Can you copy these files? One of them has a password. That's the one I probably need."
"Did you forget your password, then?"
"Err, yes. Sort of."
The lad looked at Caramarin with shrewd eyes.
"I'm afraid it won't be cheap. Go and get a DVD and I'll make a start."
"Why do I want a DVD? I don't want to watch a movie."
"I need to download the copied files onto it, don't I?"
Feeling like a fool, Caramarin bought a blank disc from the Chechen behind the counter.
Grinning, the young Afghan was already working on the laptop. He was totally engrossed in his work, his fingers rapidly moving over the keyboard as he delved into the guts of the laptop. He was bringing up screens that Caramarin had never seen before.
As the geek worked Caramarin asked how he spoke such good Ukrainian.
"I should do. I've lived here all my life. My Dad was a translator for the Soviets back in the Eighties. When they left, he came with them. Some of his mates were from round here so he came to stay. He didn't fancy living somewhere cold. Now he's a professor of languages at the university."
"Couldn't have picked a better spot then." Caramarin was surprised. He'd taken the lad for a homesick refugee but, like Caramarin, he had chosen to live here.
"Can you do it, then?" A glance at his watch. "How long will you be?"
"Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy."
"What about the password?"
"Anyone could get round that. Especially as you had it written down in another file?"
"Oh, did I?"
Caramarin felt old and foolish. Not a good feeling. He was looking at the future and he wasn't part of it.
A sudden gasp. Caramarin saw a young girl on the screen, a naked Placid standing over her with a chain. She looked like she was maybe sixteen or seventeen. She was tied down onto a pallet. Another man in a gimp mask was sporting a boner like a baseball bat.
"Bloody hell. It's not your lappy, is it?"
"No," Caramarin confessed. "It's the man I work for. But I guess you knew that before, didn't you?"
"Yes. If you're going to blackmail this bastard, cut me in."
"No. Not blackmail. I'm going to bring those bastards down."
He paid the young man, took the DVD and shook hands.
"Good luck and take care with what you're doing. If I can help you any, let me know. I’m here most days."
Caramarin jumped in the Mercedes, slid the laptop back under the seat and tried to arrange it into the exact same spot as before. He slipped the DVD into his breast pocket. His cell rang. Maiorescu. Headed back to the sanatorium as quick as possible, only to find Maiorescu and Litovchenko standing on the pavement.
"Where've you been?"
"Yeah, cunt. Told you to wait, didn't I?"
"Sorry. The Militsia were nosing about. Didn't want to draw attention to myself, did I?"
Maiorescu glanced at the laptop resting in the foot well.
"No, you did right. C'mon, let’s go."
"Cunt."
That evening, Caramarin told Valeriya he had a headache and wouldn't go down to the casino later on. He scored points by saying he would stay over at her place and look after Vladimir.
She kissed him. "Get better soon, love. I'll be back the usual time."
After she left, he read a story to little Vlad. As soon as the boy was asleep, Caramarin booted up Valeriya's old laptop and loaded the DVD.
It was worse than he thought. He'd always reckoned he was a hard man. Seen bad things in Romania and worse in Bosnia. Done bad things, too. But this cruelty for entertainment pure sickened him. He'd seen enough after a few minutes but carried on.
There were many video files on the disc. Mostly, it was Maiorescu and Placid with teenage girls and young women, none older than their early twenties. There was often a third man always wearing a gimp mask; another bouncer with a massive prison tattoo he knew worked on the doors of the Arkadia clubs; a short tattooed thug; occasionally a huge African.
But the poor girls. Tied up, chained, whipped, flogged, and beaten with what looked like a car aerial. Violated with anything they could ram in, raped, gang raped, sodomized. Burned with cigarettes, pinched with pliers. Their screams echoing in his head. He poured a big slug of vodka and knocked it back. He'd seen enough. His mind felt violated and dirty and unclean. He took out the disc and hid it in a book. Then he sat at the kitchen table, drank vodka and thought.
Midnight came and went. Caramarin was more than half in the bag when Valeriya came home from her shift. She saw that something was wrong as soon as she saw the vodka as Caramarin wasn't one for drinking alone. She checked on Vlad then pulled out a chair and sat down next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder.
He turned bleak, bloodshot eyes on her.
"You know when you were a dancer, before you met me, did you ever have to do stuff. I mean bad stuff you didn't want to do."
"You know I don't talk about that time, love. I needed money to get by. Times were hard back then, remember."
He looked at her. Eyes still searching for answers. From her or elsewhere.
"I wasn't a virgin. I've been around the block a few times."
"But I mean real bad. Y'know; video nasties, bondage, sadism, hard core stuff."
"No. I never did that. I knew a few girls who got into that scene but they didn't last too long." She frowned. "What's all this about, Nicu?"
"I can't say. Oh, what's it come to? I can't carry on like this much longer."
Valeriya knew Caramarin better than he thought.
"Is it that man Maiorescu? He getting into porno now as well?"
Caramarin jerked in alarm. He grabbed her arm.
"Don't say nothing. Not to anyone. Not to the girls at work. You don't know what these guys are capable of. They'd wipe you out without a second thought."
Now she knew.
"I've been around. I know enough to keep my mouth shut." She stood and tugged on Caramarin's arm. "You've had enough, love. Come to bed, please."
He followed her to the bedroom and climbed in after her. After what he'd seen and the amount he'd shipped, he wasn't in the mood. He held her tight, soaking in her warmth and softness. She was good for him, didn't want to lose her, needed her life and love. Eventually, he turned over and fell into dark sleep.