CHAPTER 26. WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 2, 23:00.
That evening, Maiorescu, Caramarin, Litovchenko, Oilfield and VCR sat around a table on Prymorsky Boulevard. The evening sun filtering through the leaves fell on the crisp white tablecloth and sparkling glasses.
Looking around, Caramarin felt the contrast between the beautiful people walking arm in arm between the sun warmed classical buildings and what Maiorescu was saying. But at the end of the road a parked Ferrari proved Maiorescu wasn't the only big shot in this city.
"You've heard what happened? That fuckin' Abkhazian shafted us. The wire transfer never come through and now he's got his phone off. Want us to go pay him a visit later."
"A visit, boss?"
"Y'know what I mean. I've fixed up alibis if we need 'em."
"With the whores in the massage parlour?"
"Sort of. I've paid for a couple of Militsia officers to be there, so there'll be no comeback."
The food arrived and the men fell to. Caramarin enjoyed the meal, felt like he hadn't had a proper meal for ages but wasn't looking forward to later. Had a few Zibert Lights but took it easy on the vodka.
Night fell but the number of people promenading along the boulevard and up and down the Potemkin Stairs had not gone down. Can't beat Odessa for night life. Maiorescu pushed his chair back.
"Let's go."
The others stood and made their way to their cars. Caramarin swung into Maiorescu's Merc and turned the key. The powerful engine growled into life.
"You sure about this, boss? Couldn't it have just been a mistake?"
"What do you think?" Maiorescu replied.
No, his boss was probably right. It made sense. Let a few little deals go through and then shaft him on the big one. And Maiorescu hadn't reached his level by letting things go. Especially when some Abkhazian toe rag thought he could rip him off.
They drove south, the city gradually becoming scruffier and more run down. No tourists came this way. They pulled up outside Timur Ozgan's warehouse. Placid popped the boot of his Merc and they drew out guns. Placid took a folding stock AK-47 assault rifle. Caramarin took his favourite CZ-75 pistol.
Maiorescu tried his cell again, but after a few rings it went to voice mail. He shook his head and pointed to the warehouse door. Caramarin hammered on the door. Seemed to be spending a lot of time trying to beat in warehouse doors lately. Paused; nothing. Hammered on it fit to burst.
He looked at Maiorescu.
"No reply, boss."
"Think we've worked that out, you stupid cunt."
"Easy, Dmytro," said Maiorescu. "Okay, shoot the lock off."
Caramarin gestured to the others to step back in case of ricochet then let Placid empty half a magazine from the Kalash into the lock. In the quiet street, the noise was deafeningly loud. No way could anyone nearby think that was a backfiring car. Cordite smoke swirled until the breeze blew it away. Placid booted the metal door open. It swung open then crashed back into place again.
Inside, the warehouse was empty. Just one great empty space. The fluorescents showed a few oil stains on the painted concrete floor and recent scratch marks and tyre tracks. Startled by the noise and sudden lights a few pigeons flew about the roof space. At the back was the usual offices and toilet.
"No one here but for what it's worth, search those rooms," said Maiorescu, lighting up.
Caramarin and VCR walked to the back. A metallic smell grew stronger. To his credit, VCR turned his head away before he was violently sick. The stench of blood and faeces was like hitting a wall with your face. Caramarin felt his meal rising up his gullet, burning his throat before he was able to force it down.
In the office, in several parts, was the mutilated body of a woman. Her head had been placed on the desk, some internal organs in a bloody heap in front of it. Her arms and legs were piled in a corner. Her torso had been split down the middle, possibly with a chain saw and the ribs pulled apart like a grotesque parody of a rack of ribs at a barbecue. White bone showed through the red gore. Blood covered the walls in horrible fans and sprays and puddled on the wall. Looking down, the blood was only starting to coagulate. This atrocity must be recent.
Caramarin hoped death had found her quickly.
Maiorescu and Placid had wandered over, hands in pockets.
"Bit over the top," said Placid. There was a note of admiration in his voice. Caramarin turned to him. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
"I can hear sirens," called Oilfield from the warehouse door. "Coming this way, I think?"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," swore Placid.
Too obvious now. A bunch of gangsters with shooters and a Kalash with a butchered girl? They'd throw away the key. And that was if they were lucky.
"Out, now!" shouted Maiorescu. No idea who was first out the door. Caramarin fired up the Mercedes and was half way down the street, doors flapping wildly before he had time to draw breath.
"Fucking close call that, boss," he dropped the car into third, slalomed the Merc around the industrial estate. Back into fourth when he reached the highway. Placid followed a few metres behind.
"Hope your alibis are still good after this,"
"Better had be. Fuckin' hell, they'll cost more than enough. And I'm a bit skint at the moment."
Came out on the highway just above Promyslova Street. Slowed down and merged with the traffic. A line of Militsia squad cars hurtled down the highway. His heart skipped a couple of beats but they sped past and swung into the industrial estate, A few minutes later an ambulance blew past, sirens and lights drilling into his head.
"Where to, boss?"
"Drop us at the office, okay. I've some calls to make. Then get yourself off the streets."