CHAPTER 37. WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 7, 08:00.
Prosto Radio 102.5 FM Breakfast announcements. Eight A.M.
"And in breaking news, Militsia have found the bodies of three men in fields by the Danube delta. They suspect smugglers were interrupted last night. One of the smugglers fired at the Militsia officers and was killed in cross fire. Fortunately, none of the Militsia officers was injured. More in our next news flash at nine."
"And now the weather report. Ivana?"
Dawn found Caramarin sitting on the bed of a truck carting a load of sugar beets in the direction of Odessa. Tried eating one, he was that hungry but it was too woody. He watched the flat landscape unroll beneath him and thought about what he had to do. He jumped off when the truck turned off the highway.
Looking as he did, he knew he'd have to walk the rest of the way. Also, he didn't want to answer any questions about the AK-47 shaped object in the sack he was carrying. As the day warmed up, he took off his camo jacket and wrapped the sack in it.
Needed money, needed a change of clothes, needed a place to stay. Mostly, needed to finish with Maiorescu.
Money was no problem. Caramarin walked over to the long distance bus terminal off Balkivs'ka Street a couple of kilometres out of town. Looking as beat up and worn out as he was he fitted in with the dossers and alkies hanging around.
In a bin, he found an empty vodka bottle. Just what he needed. He slumped in a doorway with the bottle between his knees and a polystyrene cup in front of him. Kept his head down, sat still but watched what was going on. Reminded him of his sniper course from long ago. Concentrated on his breathing.
A white coach arrived. A group of western tourists stepped out and milled around. He could tell they were western from their expensive hiking clothes. They were only young, maybe on a gap year from university. Couldn't tell from their language where they were from, but that didn't matter. Mixed boys and girls. Ideal.
An athletic blond lad in a plastic Viking helmet was holding up a map and getting in the way of other passengers. They looked confused by all the Cyrillic writing and the Ukrainian announcements over the tannoy.
Marvellous. Circling like a jackal was Radu. One of the pickpockets and sneak thieves who hung about the terminal. Liked to prey on foreigners after a long journey as they were dopey and slow and didn't know how to raise the alarm. He was usually long gone by the time his mark knew they'd been robbed.
Caramarin liked to watch an expert at work. Even watching, Caramarin couldn't see how the boy did it but knew he'd come away with something. His fingers dipped like a flash into the westerners' pockets. Watched as Radu slipped the gear to a friend and they both melted away.
Caramarin was on his feet and followed the two lads out of the terminal and down a rancid alley behind a coffee shop. Had to act quickly before they passed it on. They'd stopped by an overflowing dumpster and had two wallets spread open.
"Sorry guys," said Caramarin in Romanian. They jerked their heads up. "Tax time. Pass it over."
"Fuck you, Caramarin."
"Yeah, you must be in shit to have to be robbin' us."
"I'm not arguin'. Just give." He smashed the vodka bottle against the side of the dumpster. "Now."
The two lads backed off.
"Sorry about that. Better luck next time."
He stuffed the cash into a pocket. Not as much as he'd like. One of the tourists had obviously heard about Odessa's reputation and had hoped to get lucky so had put a few condoms in his wallet. Caramarin took them too then buried the rest of the wallet in the waste.
His life had gone downhill. Not long ago, he was eating caviare and riding in a top of the range BMW M5 next to a beautiful woman. Now he was dressed like a down and out and robbing scum bags to survive. But what did it matter?
Until he'd sorted Maiorescu, his life wasn't going anywhere anyway. He jumped a minibus into town. Bought himself a holdall for the Kalash and a fresh combat jacket and jeans.