CHAPTER 39. WEDNESDAY OCTOBER 7, 19:30.
Caramarin looked around. He picked up his sports bag and walked over to Deribasovskaya Street. In the alleys behind the restaurants, amongst the black bags and dumpsters, he found what he was looking for. The vagrant in the wrecked suit, or another very like him, was standing on a box rooting through a bin looking for scraps. The stench of rot made Caramarin gag. Yes, he'd do. Was about the same height and build.
Despite his drunken state, the tramp's street survival skills meant he quickly became aware of someone watching him. The man looked down at him.
"Whachhoo wan'?"
Caramarin held up a twenty hryvnia Frankel.
"Want to earn this?"
"Whachhoo wan, missr? A blow?"
"Fuck off." Caramarin shrugged off his camo jacket and held it up. "Do you want this? Better than what you're wearing. Warmer, too."
The derelict stepped down with his hand out.
"Yeah, shure, missr."
Caramarin stopped him. "I want to swap clothes. Everything. That all right with you?"
"Yer some weird pervo, missr?"
"No, call me a mysterious benefactor."
"Wha'?"
The tramp pulled off his jacket and hung it over the edge of the dumpster. He kicked off his shoes and let his trousers fall down. His filthy, sweat stained shirt and tie was the last to come off. Underneath, his sunken chest was decorated with a prison tattoo even Placid would have admired. The tramp was about to drop his piss stained boxers before Caramarin stopped him.
"Not those, comrade."
Caramarin emptied his pockets, threw the camo jacket to the vagrant and then undressed. Hoping the dosser didn't have lice or anything infectious, his skin crawling with disgust, Caramarin dressed in the sweaty shirt and beat up suit. The shoes pinched his feet.
"Hey, missr, worra'bout me munny?"
Caramarin handed over the Frankel.
"Hey you want to earn more?" The tramp nodded. "You want more, be at the Duc de Richelieu statue at three tonight. Got that, comrade? Understand?"
The tramp peered at him, his eyes goggling with suspicion, confusion and greed.
"It's okay, comrade. No blow jobs required. Three this morning."
The tramp shuffled out of the alley to buy rot-gut booze. As soon as he left, Caramarin smeared filth from the dumpster over his hands and face and, if possible, dirtied up the suit some more.
Found half a glass of soured wine at the bottom of a bottle and poured it down his front. Picked up a piece of cardboard and wrote with his left hand, in ill formed letters 'Homeles and Hungry Plese Help'.
Lurching out of the alley and weaving his way down Deribasovskaya Street. Furtively looking around, he was pleased with the looks of disgust the beautiful people gave him. His disguise was working. Weaving his way to Prymorska Street, past the statue of the Duc still with his hand out cadging for change.
Staggering part way down the Stairs where he could clearly see the Duc then sat down with his cardboard sign propped in front of his sports bag together with a polystyrene cup. He tossed in a few kopecks and waited.
Slumped down, with his long hair in front of his face he could see nearly everything going on the Stairs. He concentrated on controlled his breathing and his thoughts as he had been taught on sniper training all those years ago. Live for the moment, let nothing distract you.
As the hours passed, the crowds thinned. Most ignored him, many looked down with contempt. Some tossed coins into his cup. Did best with men trying to show their caring side to their girls. If he survived tonight, maybe he could take up begging as a living. Maybe he'd have to.
The Militsia looked down at him. At first, they took no notice of Caramarin as he wasn't actively panhandling for change. But later, one more aggressive than the rest rousted him on. Caramarin mooched around for a while before returning to a different spot higher up the Stairs.
After the sun went down, the evening chill gnawed into his bones and his thin trousers were no protection from the cold concrete. First Venus, the bright evening star, and then the moon came out. Caramarin crouched in the deepest shadows. Wished he still wore his combat jacket.
After about one thirty in the morning, the Stairs were deserted. Occasionally, the odd passer by walked past, but now he had the Stairs to himself. Concentrate. Breathe. Live in the moment.
Now it was time. Three in the morning. When the body is at its lowest ebb and the blood runs slow. Still nothing happened. Then, staggering up to the Duc's statue, his vagrant. The lure of a bit of extra money too strong to turn down. The man rested an arm on the statue's base, looked like he was going to piss against it.
Stepping out of the shadows at the top of the Stairs. Oilfield. Even in the darkness, Caramarin knew it was Oilfield. The gangster stepped up to the vagrant. The man started to straighten up just as Oilfield placed what looked like a white bottle to the back of the man's head. It was so quiet now, even from where he was sitting Caramarin heard a dull pop. So that was how it was meant to go down.
The vagrant collapsed like all the strings holding him together were cut instantly. Oilfield knelt and rolled the body over then recoiled. Caramarin heard the gangster speak into his cell.
"It's not him, it's some fucking tramp, boss." a pause. "No, I've no fucking idea where he is."
Caramarin slid his CZ-75 pistol from out the sports bag. Oilfield started down the Stairs. As the man came near Caramarin's position, maybe his sixth sense kicked in.
"Huh?" he said. Started to raise his silenced pistol. Caramarin's first shot ripped out his throat, his second punched a hole straight through his heart. The man fell back and died before he hit the ground. The gunshots and smoke filled the air, filled his ears and nose.
Caramarin plucked Oilfield's cell from his pocket. Quickly pressed the last number on the calls dialled menu.
"Everything all right up there? I heard..." Maiorescu's voice.
Caramarin cut in. "No it isn't. Listen you bastard. Last chance. Send Valeriya and Vladimir up now or you're all dead."
"Tough words, shit head. You've got five minutes to get down here before I kill 'em both, capisce?" Maiorescu killed the call.
Caramarin pulled his Kalash from the sports bag then dived over the low wall into the park behind the Stairs. He Paratroop rolled and finished up behind a bush. No response to his actions. He crouched and ran, ducking and weaving, moving from cover to cover down the slope. Paused to catch his breath and assess the situation.
The park was still and quiet, the only movement from branches swaying in the sea breeze. Light from the buildings on Primorskaya Street below filtered up through the park's trees. Caramarin couldn't see much of what was happening on the Stairs, so moved closer, gripping the Kalash tighter.
He carried on down the park's slope, maybe half way down now, keeping to cover, keeping one eye on the Stairs. From below, a sudden burst of automatic fire shredded branches. Shit, at least one of them had a Kalash as well.
A dog, a rail thin stray, raced up the slope, ignoring Caramarin. He looked for the muzzle flash but couldn't spot it. Even at this time of year was still too much vegetation. The enemy must be jumpy.
He distantly heard Maiorescu's voice calling up from below. Couldn't tell what he said but sounded angry.
Holding his Kalash in the ready position, he crept downhill. Another burst of fire, this time much closer. The bullets chewed up the ground only a few metres ahead of his position. The muzzle flashes came from behind a small beech, maybe fifty metres away, although it was hard to accurately judge distance in this light. Another burst followed. Yes, definitely from behind the beech.
Caramarin threw himself prone, unslung its stock and wedged the Kalash tight against his shoulder. He wriggled forward on his belly, using every scrap of cover and deeper shadow available. The other man stepped out from behind the beech tree. Was that VCR? Could be. Same height and build.
"Amateur," Caramarin whispered to himself. He fired, sending the slugs ripping into then out of the man's torso. The man had time to scream, a horrible yell, before he staggered backwards, then crashed to the earth. His scream ended instantly in a dull thump.
"Should have stayed at home, comrade."