CHAPTER 31. TUESDAY OCTOBER 6, 01:00.
After seeing Belgian at the Skorpio club on Arkardia beach, Caramarin drove back back north to Videnov's office just off Prymor'ska Street.
Could do with a few answers. He pulled up at the far end of the parking lot in the deepest shadows he could find. Fortunately, the night wasn’t cold. He pulled his combat jacket around him and settled down to watch and wait and see if there was any activity at the accountant’s.
After an hour, he still could see no lights or movements. He slipped out of Videnov's Merc and keeping to the shadows and using what cover he could he sneaked up to the office. No sounds, no nothing from inside. Only the never ending noise of traffic from Prymor'ska Street. He peered through the office blinds. Couldn’t see much but felt happy with the situation. He didn’t have that prickle from his sixth sense – that strange feeling you get when something is wrong. He trusted that sense as much as he trusted his other five.
He crouched by the door away from the frame and unlocked it. Grasped the handle and threw it open, being careful not to expose his silhouette to any gunfire from within. None came. A glance showed that the only occupants were still strapped to their chairs. Videnov, had toppled over, obviously trying to free himself. The heavy weight was still slumped. Caramarin had hit him harder than he’d thought. Glass jaw, he thought. No wonder he’d never made it big time. Just a fairground bruiser.
Caramarin shut the door behind him and flicked on the light. Videnov blinked and squinted in the sudden brilliance. Even the thug stirred and muttered something. Caramarin sat Videnov up. He ripped off the gag and whilst Videnov was swearing he fetched him a cup of water from the cooler.
"Answers, comrade. And get them right first time. I don’t want to have to use this." He showed the accountant his combat knife. If possible the man went even paler than before.
"Right. First things first. Where’s the girls’ passports?"
"Second drawer on the right. In the orange folder."
"Good man," said Caramarin fetching them out.
"This may surprise you, but Maiorescu never told me who you work for. I thought it was gonna be a straight forward deal so I didn’t need to know. Who?"
The accountant trembled. His eyes watered, looked like he was going to cry. "Please, don’t tell anyone you got it from me. Please." At least he wasn’t wasting time pretending he wasn’t going to tell.
"Well, I already figured you’re not working for a bunch of nuns. Come on, comrade."
Even then, Videnov seemed reluctant to tell. He watched Caramarin playing with the point of his knife.
"Don’t tell. I’ve got a family, you know."
"OK." He sighed. "I s'pose I could find out on the streets so it won’t have come from you."
Even in the privacy of his own office Videnov’s voice sunk to a whisper. Maybe he was worried if his heavyweight wasn't as out of it as he seemed.
"Major Balashov."
This information literally rocked Caramarin back on his heels. Of all the gang bosses he’d expected Videnov to name, he’d never thought he would come out with Major Balashov. Knew of him but thought he was currently expanding internationally, well beyond Ukraine's borders. Didn’t know he was still into sex workers from Odessa. Thought he was frying much bigger fish by now. This put a different face on things.
So far in Odessa, Caramarin had not personally come up against Major Balashov. Guessed he was too small fry for that. Knew of him by reputation, of course, and had, occasionally, seen him out on the streets. But passing off a kilo of baking powder and taking those two girls without paying would put him dead centre of his radar.
Didn’t think it would do any good but had to try anyway.
"Listen, comrade, I didn’t know the brown was fake. I don’t know why Maiorescu did that to us but I had nothing to do with it. I’m gonna find out, though. Look, do me a favour and tell Major Balashov I’m good."
Maybe the accountant had recovered a bit of his courage sensing the fear in Caramarin’s voice.
"Give us the girl back," obviously he didn’t know Caramarin had found Yulia in the trunk, "and maybe he’ll just break your limbs."
"Kiss my arse." Caramarin pushed the accountant back over onto his face and left. He was in deep trouble. Only question was how he was going to keep alive long enough to deal with it. Drove back to Bohdana’s place in his beat up Combo. Thinking, thinking all the time.
Major Balashov. The Cossack Fiend they’d called him. His evil reputation went before him. He must be in his fifties now but still acted with the ruthlessness of a young gangster rising through the ranks with everything to prove.
Caramarin knew the Fiend used to be in the Spetznaz, the old Soviet Special Forces. He already had a taste for violence but his character had hardened in the hell hole of the Afghanistan campaign back in the Eighties. His idea of pacification was to slaughter entire villages. No witnesses, no talk. He’d personally killed dozens of men, women and children and enjoyed torturing anyone he thought might have information. His speciality was the blowtorch and pliers.
If he'd stuck to that he'd have come away with a chestful of gongs but there were rumours he supplemented his salary with importing Afghan heroin through military channels. He must have greased enough palms because this carried on for years.
He’d been in Yeltsin’s First Chechen war back in the early Nineties. The atrocities carried on, got worse if possible but there was less to loot and maybe his backers cut him loose. There’d been talk of a possible court martial. Major Balashov must have known where the skeletons were buried – in all senses - because nothing came of it.
However, he’d had to resign from the army. Caramarin didn’t know what Balashov had done next. He’d next shown up with the Serb forces during the Yugoslav Wars of the mid Nineties. Caramarin had come up against him during the siege of Sarajevo and didn’t want to meet him again. Ever again. And now the man would be interested in him.
Not good. As far from good as Vladivostok.