"I need you to doom a man causing problems for me. Has to be done by someone with no connection to me."
Caramarin thought. "And if I do, you'll get that painting back for me?"
"Sure, no problems," said Stanga.
"But we've been seen together. There'll be a record of our cell calls."
"We've only seen by people who won't talk. And you've only got one of my cell numbers; prepaid of course, which I'll destroy as soon as you go back to Odessa. Any other objections?"
Caramarin didn't want to upset Stanga. "No. I'll do it."
They shook hands on the deal. Stanga poured them both a hefty dose of vodka. Not Finlandia to Caramarin's disappointment.
"To success," Stanga toasted. Caramarin clinked glasses.
"So, who do you want me to rub out?"
"His name is Gjergji Shkurti. Some fool who wants to muscle in on my business. He won't take a warning so I need to show this city who's boss. And it isn't him."
"You'll provide weapons, whatever I need?"
"Within reason, yes. Unfortunately, not a Kalashnikov. I'll give you a call as soon as I get a call myself. When and where. Probably be short notice, but for a man of your calibre should be no problem."
Caramarin didn't like this set-up but Stanga had him over a barrel. That's if he wanted the Picasso back.
Outside of the nightclub, he walked through a curtain of moisture. He checked his cell. Battery full and a good signal. Excellent. However, he saw several missed calls, all from a Manchester number he didn't recognise. Had anything happened to Narcisa? He pressed redial. A cultured, urbane voice answered. A deadly voice.
Timur Ozgan. Shit. What was that man doing in Manchester?
"Where are you Nicolae? I'm in the Lombardia Hotel. I've someone here who wants to meet you. Wants to meet you very much."
Caramarin stammered. Ozgan. The last man he expected. Or wanted to see.
"I'd like to see you over here now, Nicolae. If you're free that is." Still an order, not a request.
"I'll be there."
Caramarin ran his hand through his hair. It came away wet. Fuck, He must have really pissed off the Abkhazian boss for him to have left his businesses and come all the way to Britain to sort out this problem. At least the man was unlikely to start something in the Lombardia Hotel. After all, this was Britain, not the mountain badlands of Caucasian Abkhazia.
Caramarin glanced at his street atlas. With the clogged traffic it was quicker to walk than to catch a cab or tram. In his hurry, he almost ran to the hotel. Even with urban indifference, several people stopped to watch a man with a bruised face dressed in a combat jacket running down the street. They probably expected to see him later on one of those police CCTV shows.
Panting, he pushed through the revolving doors and into the entrance lobby. It looked like that whichever architect had designed the reception area had shares in a chromium mine. Every surface which wasn’t blond wood was covered in the metal. Light from bright retro designed chandeliers bounced off the polished chrome dazzling Caramarin for a moment after the gloom outside.
Caramarin thought Security might give a man dressed like him the bums rush in the same way he'd thrown out the fat man yesterday. Fortunately, the lobby was packed with a load of Koreans or Japanese and the lobby was noisy with calls in their language.
Reception had their hands full dealing with them. A tiny woman in a black coat mistook him for a porter and tried to make him carry her bags upstairs. Caramarin kept shaking his head and saying "No."
He felt a hand on his shoulder; expecting to be escorted out, he saw Mihai Pojer. Caramarin hadn’t expected to see him in the lobby.
The two large men barged past some bewildered Korean or Japanese pensioners and caught the lift to the fourth floor. Pojer knocked twice, paused then twice again before the door opened. Engin Hasanov sat by the desk, smartly dressed. Timur Ozgan himself greeted Caramarin. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, with the top few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up. A suit jacket was slung over an easy chair.
"I'm disappointed. When I ask someone to do a job for me, I expect them to do it. Or die in the attempt. I don't expect to have to travel thousands of kilometres to do it myself. Especially when I use someone with your reputation."
Caramarin raised his palm. "I think I know where your painting is and I'm taking steps to get it back for you."
"Oh really," said Ozgan. "Where do you think it is then?"
"I'm sure it's at a..." he paused, unable to come up with something even half convincing. "Listen, if you think I've let you down, let me get it back."
He sensed a door opening behind him. Oh, Fuck-shit. Out of the bathroom behind him stepped Mehmet, Timur Ozgan's massive bodyguard. The man who had kicked all this off by inviting him to step into Ozgan’s BMW back in Odessa.
The giant stood tall, making the most of his two metres of height. His suit bulged over his gym honed muscles. Mehmet stood against the door to the corridor, his left hand covering his right fist. Caramarin couldn't help but glance at the strange Cyrillic script on the man's hands. Mehmet glared at him.
Caramarin knew he could discount Engin Hasanov as a powder puff. But Mehmet, Pojer and Ozgan together? He’d take less damage jumping out the window and free falling four floors.
"So, where... exactly... do you suppose my painting; my valuable Picasso is? The one you and your lady friend hawked round half the fences in Manchester?" Ozgan gestured to Hasanov who produced a familiar cardboard tube. He opened it, unrolled the blue canvas and spread it out on the bed.
There lay the 'Vielle Triste Pute Avec Vase'.
Fuck-shit. No point dodging the issue now. He gave a sickly grin. Spread his hands wide in a friendly gesture. The game was up.
"Sorry about that. I was well out of order and I'm sorry..."
"That's all right," Ozgan brushed aside Caramarin's stammered apology. "I've got my Picasso back and my nephew, as well as some of my money." Ozgan looked at Hasanov, patted the young man's hand and smiled. He continued. "As you say, you let me down. Badly. However, there is still something you can do for me."
A sinking feeling. But at least he was still alive. "What's that?"
"As you may know, my business interests stretch as far as this God-forsaken city. I've been sending... merchandise... to an associate here. However, I've found out he's been under pressure from Britain's Serious Organised Crime Agency.
"I can't afford for him to try and cut himself a deal by giving up my name. If you could call round his office one night and pick up any documents linking us then I might be able to overlook your... errors of judgement."
"What sort of documents?"
"I know you can't read English. That's why you're good for this job. You don't know enough to rat me out. Just take everything in his office. USB memory sticks, DVDs, the computer's hard drive. Paperwork. Take everything you see. And this time, bring them straight back to me. No funny ideas."
Knowing he had no choice, Caramarin nodded. "Give me the details," he said. Timur Ozgan sat at the desk next to Hasanov. He slipped on a pair of reading glasses then turned over a piece of paper.
"My business acquaintance is an Indian gentleman called Subrata Mohanraj. On the surface a successful restaurant owner and fine foods importer. His restaurant sometimes even appears in the local paper's gourmet column. But, also a silent partner in a number of brothels and clubs. That's where he makes his real money.
"Pick up all the records linking us and I'll make sure that no harm comes to you. Or your woman and her son back in Odessa."
That was clear as ice pure Finlandia.