CHAPTER 2. MONDAY OCTOBER 5, 20:50.
Videnov's office was part of a Soviet era run-down complex just off Prymor'ska Street near the docks. Just outside directly under a street light was a black Mercedes S320. It gleamed darkly in the sodium glow. Old-fashioned but Caramarin could see why it would appeal to the accountant. He opened it and pushed the girl into the passenger seat then ran round to the driver's side before she could do anything stupid. He adjusted his seat, sparked it up and drove away.
He was at a bit of a loss and needed time to think. But time was one luxury he didn't have. He'd made two bad enemies tonight. Sure, Maiorescu wasn't quite the force he had been recently but the people that Videnov represented were far worse.
Maiorescu was strictly mid-league in the region's underworld. Protection rackets, extortion, loan sharking, property scams, knock-off gear, supplying a few night clubs with what they needed at over inflated prices. Yeah, that was Maiorescu's level. Mid level pond life.
Caramarin was happy with that. Well, not happy but he made out. Could live with it. But trading in sex workers was a big step up. Caramarin never wanted to get involved with people trafficking but he owed too much money to refuse. And now he was in deep trouble.
He swung right onto Prymor'ska Street and headed south. Past the magnificent Potemkin Stairs and the Hotel Odessa towering above the marine terminal. The girl was shivering in her seat so he turned the heating to full, even though the night was mild. He unwrapped his black and white keffiyeh scarf he usually wore and passed it over to her.
She flashed a quick smile at him. "Thanks," she said. "What are you going to do with me now?" Her voice husky.
"I hadn't really thought," he replied. "Don't think I can put it right just now."
"No." They sat silently as he drove on past the huge container port on the dock road. In the dark, the port spotlights shone with bright white intensity, the shadows harsh and dark. But they could do nothing to help lighten his mood.
"You're not from round here?" he asked.
"No, I'm from Donetsk, in the east."
"How did you get into this mess?"
"A woman at my dancing school said they were looking for dancers to audition in Paris. I wasn't interested at first but then my mum got herself a new fella and there wasn't room for me in the flat any more." She sniffed then carried on.
"I was sleeping on friends' couches and then I ended up sleeping in one of the parks so I thought I'd give it a go. But when I turned up, they wanted me to undress. I said no, I wasn't doing that no way but then he hit me, said they'd come after my little sister and threw me in a van."
Caramarin thought there may have been a little more to it than that, or a lot more, but let it slide.
"Do you want to go back? To Donetsk?" he asked.
"No way," she said. "But I don't know what to do."
By this time, they were entering the suburb of Moldavanka where Caramarin rented an apartment. He swung onto the grid of streets and pulled up outside his place. Took the keys out the ignition.
"Stay here and be quiet. I just need a few things."
"I can't drive anyway," she said.
"Right."
He ran up the outside flight of stairs and let himself in. Doubted if he could stay at this place again. Maiorescu had been here several times and it would be too easy for Videnov to trace him back here. He would be sorry to leave this place but he didn't own much. He knelt by the bed and pulled out a shoe box from a hollow in the wall. A bit of cash – nowhere near enough as he'd lost too much recently – his foreign passport and a razor sharp combat knife was what he took.
Caramarin stuffed a rucksack with underwear and a couple of shirts and jeans and that was him. Done. He glanced around the room for possibly the last time. Not much to show for nearly forty years of life. Was sorry to leave his stereo. But he still had his health. For the time being.
He shut the door behind him and ran down the stairs. He popped the Merc's trunk. He swore. In the trunk was another woman. In the inky darkness, little more than a huddled shape. Tied up and gagged with more of the duct tape. This one was wearing black dancer's sweats. She twisted around to look up at him. In the darkness, he couldn't see much but he guessed that she was young and attractive.
"Fuckshitfuckshitfuckshit."
His life had turned to something resembling rat shit in the course of an hour. Not like this was the first, second or third time he'd been served a large portion of rat shit but Caramarin could have done without this now.
He leaned into the trunk and helped her out. He was right, she was young and attractive. Looked like another dancer type, being slender and toned. Under her sweatshirt he noticed she had only small tits. She looked to be maybe only just eighteen. Young enough to be his daughter.
The girl's ankles were taped together so she couldn't walk. For very obvious reasons, he didn't want to spend too much time out on the street with a tied up girl so he stooped and threw her over his shoulder. Ignored her struggles and muffled squeals. He opened the passenger side and told the first girl to go up the stairs in front of him.
Back in his apartment he slung the bound girl onto the couch and told the first girl to sit down. He ran his hand through his long black hair sweeping it back from his face. He knew he couldn't stay here too long. When he didn't return with the girl Maiorescu had paid for they would come looking for him. Okay, he didn't think Videnov's crew would be here until the morning. But he certainly didn't want to be around for either lot.
Caramarin pulled the Swiss Army knife from out of his camo jacket and tossed it to the first girl. She looked at it like it might bite her. As he didn't want to face the terror on the tied up girl's face, he asked her to free the other girl. Not wanting to leave them alone for too long, Caramarin went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then he found a couple of his old sweatshirts and jeans for the girls.
By the time they were dressed, the tea was ready. His too large clothes made them look even younger and more vulnerable than they had before.
The first girl spoke up "I'm Ekaterina and she's Yulia. She's from near Donetsk, too. Look, what's going on? Why are you helping us?" They looked up at him from the couch.
He leaned against the kitchenette doorpost. "Don't know that I should. But this is all too much for me. I mean, I've done some bad things in my time but this is too much.
"I take it you don't want to go back to Donetsk?" They shook their heads, one blonde the second darker. "You can't stay here – in Odessa, I mean. What else..."
"I still want to go to the West," said Ekaterina.
"Don't we all," said Caramarin. Though he didn't really want to go West. He liked it here. He knew where he was and what he was doing. It was his pond and even though he dealt with pond life he got by. At least he did until tonight.
"What about you?" turning to Yulia.
"Yeah, I s'pose so. Why not?" She was shivering now. Whether with cold or a reaction to the terror she must have been in, he had no idea. Would take the girl a while to recover from being locked in a boot for who knows how long.
"Got passports?"
"Only my internal one. Not one for abroad. No, they took it off of me," Ekaterina shivered and looked like she was about to burst into tears. Yulia just shook her head.
"You think they're back at the office?"
"Probably, I mean of course I had it on me when they took me at Donetsk but what happened to it, I dunno now."
"Well, they're no use for going abroad anyway. Maybe I can get you fixed up but it won't be cheap."
Ekaterina suddenly looked horrified again.
"No, I didn't mean it like that." Caramarin said. Embarrassed himself now. "Look, we can't stay here much longer. Someone's going to come looking for us and we don't want to be here when they do. I know a place where you can stay the night, if you want."
They stood up when Yulia announced she needed to go.
"I know – we're going now," said Caramarin.
"No – I mean I have to go now."
She dashed to his bathroom and closed the door behind her. Ekaterina looked at him. The cheap stud partition wall let you hear just about every sound in the bathroom. It's hard to make conversation when you can hear someone dumping their load only a few feet away. Caramarin found the view from his window over the back of the opposite apartments to be way more interesting than normal.
The two girls still seemed dazed and followed Caramarin down to the Merc. He drove them a few blocks away where he knew one of his ex's mothers took in guests. It was late, but not too late. More importantly, she could be relied on to keep her mouth shut. He'd always got on well with Bohdana – especially when given a few hryvnias to hold in her work worn, arthritic hands. Told the girls he'd be back in the morning and set off again.
This time he drove east over to the night clubs by Arkadia beach. Had two pieces of luck. Managed to find a parking spot and his friend Belgian was on the door of the Skorpio Club. The story went that when Belgian's unit was sent to Beslan back in 2006 during the spill over from the Chechen crisis, he thought they were being sent to Belgium.
Way he heard it, the man was looking forward to mussels and fries with mayo and maybe a romp with an overpaid E. U. Commissioner's secretary but got dust and flies and bearded fanatics who hated all infidels instead. No, not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the man knew his way around the Odessa underworld.
Belgian was a sharp dresser. Wearing a tux and smelling of expensive cologne, he looked the part standing next to the velvet ropes and red carpet. Caramarin had worked the doors himself in the recent past and still put in the odd shift when business with Maiorescu was slack.
Belgian looked Caramarin up and down from his slicked back hair, combat jacket, check keffiyeh, blue jeans and walking boots. His normal day clothes.
"Still dressing like shit, Nicolae. Can't let you in lookin' like that, you know."
Nicolae glanced at the handful of young and trendy people queuing outside. Lads in fancy shirts and long legged girls wearing too few clothes. The pulse of western dance music spilled out of the entrance.
"Not for me. Too old for all that now. Anyway, it’s you I wanna see. Spare a minute?"
Belgian gestured to one of the other bouncers, who nodded and stepped forward. Belgian walked back with Caramarin to the Mercedes. The bouncer raised his eyebrows, stripes etched into the right.
"What you doing with Videnov's ride?"
"Long story, comrade. I'll tell you another time. What do you hear about Maiorescu? He wants me out the way or has he really fucked up this time?" Caramarin briefly filled in Belgian about what had gone down tonight. He could trust Belgian as much as he could trust anyone – which was very little.
"Out of Maiorescu's league," said Belgian. "He's never done much in the way of drugs before. You know that. Certainly not a kilo of brown. Whoever sold it to him must've known he's been losing ground and wanted to give him a little push. But I've not heard that he's got a beef with you so I reckon he didn't know. Fuckin' amateur."
"Thanks, comrade."
"Your big problem is the people Videnov's fronting. They'll think you've shafted them with the baking powder and you've got their chicks for free. You're going to have to sort that out fuckin' fast or you're gonna wind up at the bottom of the Black Sea. Look, if you need a hand, let me know. It'll cost but … you know."
The queue was building up and Belgian stepped out the Merc.
"I'll give you a bell or come down the gym. Keep in touch Big Guy" he called back. A joke as Belgian was a few inches taller and a twelve to fifteen kilos heavier than Caramarin. And all of it muscle.
"I will." Caramarin fired up the Merc and pulled away. Yes, Belgian knew a lot but he didn't know everything. Caramarin could think of one very good reason why Maiorescu might have a beef with him. But only if he'd found out.