No it couldn't get much clearer than that. Ozgan told him the address, a road just off King Street in the city centre.
"You might like to try Friday night, that's when he attends the Mosque. The office should be empty then." said Ozgan.
"What about security, alarms?" Caramarin asked.
"How should I know?" Ozgan told him. "Your problem." Timur Ozgan turned away, dismissing him.
Mehmet stood aside and Caramarin walked out, unable to believe he was still in one piece. A bonus. How could he have been so stupid as to have tried to rip off a man like Timur Ozgan? What had he been thinking of? Down in the lobby, most of the Koreans or Japanese had vanished and it was much quieter. Caramarin slumped in an easy chair and thought. First things first. He spoke to Valeriya back in Odessa and it was a weight off his mind when she replied. They chatted for a few minutes before he pretended there was another call waiting.
Next, he called his new friend, Pompiliu Stanga.
"Sorry," he said. "I've got my painting back, so I won't need your help now. Bronstein hasn't got it no more so call off your dogs."
"Well done," said Stanga, a note of sarcasm in his voice. "But we shook on the deal. Don't think I've forgotten that. I still want you to slot that bastard Gjergji Shkurti."
"There's nothing in it for me, now," said Caramarin.
"Stop whining. You made the deal. Well, what else do you want then, if not that Picasso?" asked Stanga.
Caramarin thought. Then, like lightning on a summer's day, an answer. A life for a life.
Trying to sound calm, like it was no big deal. "That girl I pretended to doom? She still with you?"
"Yes, still not earning her keep. At least she doesn't eat much," Stanga laughed. "Unless she sorts out her attitude, I'll doom her for real."
"All right then. I kill this man for you; you give me that girl."
"What the hell do you want with her? She's fucking useless."
"That's for me to decide. But I promise one hundred per cent there'll be no comeback on you," said Caramarin.
"I know there won't. One word from me and her entire family back in Moldova will find themselves in a world of hurt. Mother, father, brothers and sisters all the way down to second cousins twice removed. I have that reach, understood?"
"Loud and clear," said Caramarin. "Give me a call when you're ready for me to roll."
Hotel security was hovering nearby. Caramarin stood, zipped up his jacket and out into the lowering gloom. He glanced at his watch, and then walked through the hurrying crowds to this Subrata Mohanraj's office on King Street.
On the way, he bought a black baseball cap which he pulled down low over his eyes. He wrapped his keffiyeh scarf around his lower face. With the wind borne rain, now turning to sleet, he wasn't the only one huddled up against the weather.
The office was in a re-conditioned stone office block. The building itself was old and heavy, maybe a hundred years old or so. The stonework had been cleaned up, but was now smeared by rain and traffic fumes. Lichen or mosses stained some of the carvings.
Even not speaking English, Caramarin understood the sign outside advertising the centre as being '24 Hours'. That was good. Bright light spilled from the lobby so he walked up a short flight of stairs and pushed his way in.
The floor was marble tiles covered by a large blue rug with a corporate logo woven into it. Behind a large, cherry wood desk which took up all one wall sat two receptionists. One spared him a glance before carrying on with her chat.
Stepping out of one of the two lifts, an overweight bored looking security guard played with his smart phone. The man leaned against the receptionists' desk. The man appeared to be playing pocket billiards now. No obvious threat from any of these people.
Behind the desk, he saw a CCTV camera focused on the entrance. No surprise there – it was what he expected. Also, a notice board giving details of the businesses based in this block. He saw that Subrata Mohanraj's was up on the third floor.
On the desk was a pile of free magazines. He stood for a while leafing through a copy, getting a sense of how busy the centre was. Caramarin hoped the receptionists thought he was just killing time before an appointment. At this time of the afternoon, the lobby was quiet with just a few people, formally dressed, coming and going. He saw a courier enter, sign a register on the reception desk and then take a lift.
One of the receptionists turned and said something to him. From the raise in her voice it sounded like a question. Narcisa was right. He should learn a little English. He used one of his new words and said, "Yes, okay," with a smile. The girl turned away, satisfied. He figured she was probably used to foreigners with limited English in this city.
Behind the desk, he also saw a fire alarm panel and a monitor showing all the views from the CCTV cameras. Caramarin was pleased to see that the public spaces, such as the reception area and the upper floor lift lobbies were covered but not the offices themselves. Not wanting to linger too long and raise the girls' suspicions, he replaced his magazine and caught the lift up to the third floor.
A glass plate on the door reading 'Subrata Mohanraj Fine Foods' in a type-face meant to resemble Hindi writing let him glance inside. Beyond, he saw a small waiting area with two trendy Barcelona chairs and a coffee table with glossy magazines neatly fanned out. Behind that, another half open frosted glass door led to a main office. At a glance it looked like any successful, professional business.
From his angle, he saw a couple of smart, young, well dressed Asian women on the phone. One was on her computer. The woman glanced up and saw him hovering in the corridor. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Caramarin knew he didn't look the sort who would use the services of Subrata Mohanraj. He shrugged, as if he'd taken a wrong turning and walked back to the lifts. He turned into the toilets and washed his hands. Two cubicles and two urinals. If necessary, he could hide here for a while. It all depended on how thorough their security guard was. He'd seen enough for the time being.
Walking back along the corridor, he noticed the fire escape stairs and walked down them, coming out at the far end of the reception lobby. One of the girls had disappeared and the security guard stood near the outside steps, furtively smoking.
He'd seen enough for the time. Caramarin was no expert break and entry merchant or burglar but he thought he'd be able to gain access to Mohanraj's office, no problem. Back outside, the sleet was heavier, trying but failing to become snow, with a thin skim of slush forming on the sidewalk. It was too far to walk in this so he jumped the bus up to Cheetham Hill. Fuck, this city was so expensive after Odessa. How did the locals afford to live here? Back home for that fare, he'd have been half way to Kiev.