One word. That’s all it took for trouble to find Nicolae Caramarin.
"In." One little word. Two letters only.
The black BMW 7 mounted the sidewalk in front of him. It had tinted windows so he had no idea how many were in the car. That was not a good sign. The passenger’s door swung open blocking his path. A big man unfolded himself from the seat and stood before Caramarin.
The darker skinned man stood a shade less than two metres tall. Muscles bulged under his grey suit. Despite the overcast day, the man wore mirrored shades. Caramarin saw his startled face reflected in the lenses. The man stood with his clenched right fist half-hidden in his left hand. Tattoos in a strange Cyrillic language covered the backs of his hands.
Caramarin looked up and down the street. There were hardly any people about and those few who were kept their eyes averted. No way did they want to get involved.
"In," the man repeated. Caramarin made no move until the man shrugged his jacket back. The butt of a pistol showed for an instant. Caramarin was left with little choice. Maybe his options were as simple as die now or die later. He pulled open the rear passenger door and stepped into the BMW's darkened interior. Dying later seemed the least worst option.
A second man sat on the rear seat. Caramarin noticed two things. This man had a lantern jaw. But more importantly another semi-automatic pistol covered Caramarin. The giant swung back into the shotgun seat and then the BMW’s driver pulled smoothly away from the kerb. None of the men spoke on the short journey.
The BMW pulled up in front of a modern office block on Primorskaya Street, one of Odessa's main thoroughfares. The giant and lantern jaw hustled Caramarin through the designer inspired lobby and into the elevators. Lantern jaw pushed a button and the cabin glided up. Soon after the elevator doors opened up onto a corridor. A garish abstract print opposite caught Caramarin's eye. Then the big man opened a door and showed Caramarin inside.
Caramarin didn’t catch the name on the doorplate. But he didn’t need to. Before him stood one of the men in Odessa he wanted to see least. A hard man called Timur Ozgan. The mobster nodded to his two associates and spoke in a language Caramarin guessed was Abkhazian. Then Timur Ozgan led Caramarin into his personal office and explained what he wanted the ex-Paratrooper to do. Caramarin was astounded. This was completely unexpected.
"But why me? I don't even speak English!" The taller man looked puzzled and shrugged his shoulders.
"You must speak a little? All those western pop songs on the radio you listen to? All those Hollywood films on the television?"
"That doesn't mean I speak any English. The only words I know in it are 'yes', 'no' and 'fuck you',"
"That's enough to be going on with," Timur Ozgan grinned. "My nephew speaks good Russian so when you find him, you'll be all right."
"Yes, but why me? I mean, I'm grateful for the chance to clear my name with you but I would've thought you had better qualified men to do your dirty work."
"You want to know? I've done my research. The other month you brought down the whole of Maiorescu's gang and came out with only a few scratches. You're obviously a tough and resourceful man and I respect that. A man who will get the job done."
"And I'm expendable?" said the taller man with a grin. "Not connected to you in any way."
"That too," Timur Ozgan man said. "Also, you hold a genuine Romanian passport so you can enter Britain easily. Slip in under the radar, so to speak. As you may be aware, since September 2001 it's harder for a Muslim to travel to the west these days."
Nicolae Caramarin looked around the room. Quiet good taste defined the office. A large oak desk, clutter free. Abstract art on the walls. He didn't think they were prints either, they looked like genuine oils. Wouldn't have a clue how much they were worth but he reckoned people who knew about art would be impressed.
A large red and green Turkish carpet covered the centre of the floor, its intricate patterns a deliberate contrast to the bleached blond wood. One wall was dominated by a floor to ceiling picture window giving views over the Black Sea. An Italian cruise liner, glowing white in the fall sun, was entering the harbour. A big difference from Maiorescu’s, his previous gang boss’s, old dumps.
A thought came to Caramarin. "You'll leave the girls alone?" he said. "They've done you no harm. If I hear they've been hurt in any way, I'll come back and kill you."
"I trust you. You have my word on that. I have no quarrel at all with your woman, Valeriya. And I believe Maiorescu's wife, Natalya, is still in protective custody. She’s probably at the other end of the country, out of my reach so she's safe. However, you can take Valeriya with you if you want."
"No, that's not necessary. I'll go to Britain for you. As long as you keep your side of the deal, I'll do as you ask." Caramarin stared at Timur Ozgan, searching for any trace of a lie.
Timur Ozgan nodded and invited Caramarin to sit. The two men were a complete contrast in appearance but underneath, both had that air of quiet confidence coming from an ability to handle themselves under extreme, even violent, situations. Both knew the other had come through very dangerous places and situations. They were both hard men and like all truly hard men didn't need to prove it all the time.
Timur Ozgan sat behind his desk and opened a drawer. The mob leader was wearing a grey, well fitted Iranian suit over a crisp white shirt buttoned to the neck. No tie – the man wasn't deferring to the west for anything. He was built like a weightlifter, only medium height but thick set and powerful. He had intelligent, deeply set brown eyes above a hawk like nose and thin lips. He stroked a neatly trimmed beard greying now at the chin.
His visitor, Nicolae Caramarin was dressed in his usual combat jacket, a red and white Arab-style keffiyeh scarf and blue jeans. He was the taller of the two men, standing at just over one point eight metres; maybe not as powerfully muscular but with a strong, athletic build. He swept back his thick, long, dark hair from his forehead and looked at what Ozgan placed on the exact centre of the desk.
Caramarin picked up the cash and riffled the notes. A mixture of euros and British pounds.
His dark brown eyes widened.
"Must mean a lot to you," Caramarin said, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes, it does. As I said earlier, my nephew, Engin Hasanov, stole over one hundred thousand euros and a valuable painting. I want them back."
"And if I bring them all back, you'll wipe the slate clean? Forget our past err... differences?" asked Caramarin.
"Yes. You can do what you want in Odessa after – as long as you keep out of my way, that is," said Ozgan.
"Then I've no choice, have I? Okay, I'll do it," he shrugged.
"Good decision, my friend," said Ozgan. He slid over a computer printout. "That's the picture I want back. It's a Picasso. Painted in 1901. It’s called 'Vielle Triste Pute Avec Vase'."
The printout was of a picture painted in muted blue and grey tones. A sad, old woman was leaning on a table with an empty vase or urn on it. The woman was a nude, three quarters on, and Picasso had captured her ageing body and world weary expression.
"Very nice," said Caramarin. It must be valuable but he didn't think it was worth the kind of money people paid for famous paintings. But what did he know about art?
"It's very realistic," he finally said. "But I thought Picassos were like, modern art. You know all abstract with weird angles and everything all broken up?"
"This is from his earlier, Blue Period," explained Ozgan. "From 1901, Picasso painted a lot of bluish paintings after his friend, Carlos Casagemas, committed suicide. He must have been depressed or something."
"Right," said Caramarin.
"As you can see, he didn't finish this painting. I don't know why not but if he had, it would be worth many millions," Ozgan said.
Timur Ozgan then handed Caramarin a photograph of a young man. It looked like it had been cropped from a larger picture, maybe from a wedding party. The quality wasn't that great but it would do, unless this Hasanov character had radically changed his appearance since.
Caramarin folded the printout and photo and dropped them in his pocket together with the money.
"Where will I find your nephew? I suppose this Manchester is a big place?"
"Yes, it is. One of the biggest cities in Britain. However, to narrow it down for you, I've heard from a friend of a friend that he's been seen in a Turkish coffee house, the Kugulu Parki, a few times. Where he's been more than once, he'll probably go again."
Caramarin nodded. That made sense.
"So the idea is for me to hang about this coffee shop and take this painting and money off him?"
"Yes, but remember he's family. No violence. Or no more than strictly necessary."
"I understand. I'll do it," Caramarin said. He wanted to get out of Odessa for a while anyway. Before Ukraine's notorious Militsiya hauled him in for aggressive questioning about his recent activities.
Ozgan stood and opened the door.
"And the women will be safe? You guarantee that?" Caramarin asked.
"Of course, Nicolae. You want me to swear on the Holy Qu'ran?"
"No, that's all right."
Knowing that a man who would break his word would break it whatever he swore by. All the same, there was no need to make it obvious he doubted the man. Even though Caramarin didn't trust the Abkhazian any further than he could throw him. In his world, trust would get you killed. They shook hands at the door, then Timur Ozgan kissed Caramarin on both cheeks.
Caramarin took the elevator down and stepped out of the office building into the afternoon sunshine. He felt apprehensive with a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.