CHAPTER 30. TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 29, 20:15.
If Caramarin had been listening in whilst Maiorescu was on his cell, he would have been very frightened.
Maiorescu was sitting with his feet up on his desk in his office on Prokhorovs'ka Street. The office was in darkness except for a circle of light from the desk lamp and the dull red glow from a cigarette. He didn't recognise the number on the screen. But only a handful of people knew his cell number. He jabbed the green button.
"Yes?"
His feet slammed onto the floor when he heard the voice on the other end. He jerked upright. Major Balashov. Maiorescu licked his lips. During the conversation, Balashov told him several things. Some things he didn't know. Things that blew apart his world like a stick of Semtex. Then Major Balashov told Maiorescu what he wanted Maiorescu to do.
And Maiorescu agreed.
Maiorescu waited until Major Balashov finished the call before he closed the smart phone. He breathed deeply, then pulled open a desk drawer and poured himself a slug of vodka and lit a fresh smoke. He inhaled deeply and tried to control his rage. Yes, and his fear, too. The smoke added to the blue haze. Less than a minute later, his phone beeped with an incoming message.
The gang boss stabbed the button and looked at the pictures on his screen. He flicked through them all, scrolling faster and faster with each one. Some were grainy and out of focus. Some may have been taken with a long lens. But all were clear enough to leave no room for doubt.
For a moment, he wondered if these images were genuine. Bit beyond his skills but he knew you could do almost anything with computers these days. But, no, he had little doubt. If they were fake, Balashov would have made them clearer and anyway it all tied in with some niggles at the back of his mind.
Maiorescu drank some more and then went through the pictures more slowly. They all showed that fucking swarthy bastard Caramarin with Natalya. Kissing in that new blue BMW M5 he'd bought her. And not a peck on the cheek.
A clearer one of Caramarin leaning over her recliner by their pool, his hand on her boobs. Another of them sharing lunch together at some restaurant, her breasts overflowing a low cut dress. Yet another by the pool, that bastard rubbing tanning lotion into her buttocks.
Another beep from the phone. This time an icon for an incoming video. Maiorescu drank more vodka and lit yet another smoke. He touched the icon and waited for it to play. Far, far worse. Beyond the pale. Totally clear, no margin for error or the benefit of the doubt. A hotel room, a bed, a man he trusted shagging his wife. No sound but you needed no sound for what he was watching. He flung the vodka glass across the room where it shattered.
He called the number the images had come from.
"I'll do it," he said, choked. "I'll do as you say and stop fighting with the Abkhazians if that's what you want."
"Good, it is. I'll let you decide how you deal with Caramarin. Don't call this number again." The connection was cut.
Maiorescu sat back. Rage surged through him. He smoked furiously. When he felt he could speak, he made a call to Dmytro Litovchenko. A man with the most inappropriate nickname Placid.
A man who also really hated that back stabbing piece of shit Caramarin.