The Eyewitness (20 page)

“Danny, call me back in ten minutes. Pretend you're my boss and I'm needed in the office.”

“Pig ugly is she, mate?”

“Just do it, please,” said Solomon.

“I'll explain later.”

The tap stopped running. Solomon put his mobile on the coffee table.

“Can I get you a drink?” he shouted.

“No, thank you,” the girl shouted back.

Solomon got a can of lager from the fridge and sat down on one of the sofas. He popped the tab and sipped it.

A minute or so later the bathroom door opened. The girl had taken off her clothes and wrapped a towel around herself. It reached to just below her bottom, showing off her long, coltish legs. She dropped her clothes on the arm of the sofa and put her boots on the floor.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” she asked.

Solomon grinned and waved at the sofa.

“Slow down,” he said.

“I like to take it slowly.”

Her smile widened.

“Ah, you like to be seduced, do you?” she asked. She walked slowly towards him, licking her upper lip.

“That's good, because I like to seduce men.”

Solomon took another drink from his can of lager as she slid on to the sofa next to him and ran her fingertips along his inner thigh, staring into his eyes and pouting. Solomon had to force himself not to laugh she was a terrible actress.

“You're very pretty,” he said. That much at least was true. Her skin was soft, white and flawless, and he could see an impressive cleavage above the towel. She had small, perfect toes with nails painted a bright red, and she ran one foot up and down the back of his calf.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And you are a very handsome man.” She blew in his ear and stroked the back of his neck with her right hand while her left continued to wander up and down his thigh.

“But you're not Amy, are you?”

Her hands stopped moving.

“You do not like me?” she asked.

“I like you fine, but I asked for Amy.”

“You don't want me?” There was a hard edge to her voice, and the hand on his neck was no longer stroking him but gripping tightly.

“No, I'm more than happy with you,” said Solomon. He leaned forward and kissed her. Her lips parted, and she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, moaning softly. Her hand caressed his neck again and she slid her leg over his so that she was sitting astride him.

Solomon broke away, gasping for breath.

“Hey, slowly,” he said.

She started to unbutton his shirt and tried to kiss him again. Solomon felt himself grow hard and pushed her away, laughing.

“You're terrible!” he said.

Her face fell.

“What you mean, I'm terrible?”

“I don't mean you're bad, I mean you're ... it's hard to explain. It's like you're trying to rape me.”

Her face brightened.

“Ah, is that what you like? I can tie you to the bed. You want that? I tie you to the bed and rape you?”

If the truth were told, Solomon found the idea a hell of an attractive proposition, but this wasn't the time or the place. He put a finger to the girl's lips.

“Slowly, is what I like,” he said.

“Talk to me, get comfortable with me, then we'll make love. Like boyfriend and girlfriend, okay?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

“Okay,” she said.

“We go to the bedroom now?”

“In a bit,” said Solomon. He eased her off his lap and put an arm around her as she snuggled against his chest.

“So what's your name, really?”

“Tanya,” she said.

“Where are you from?”

“The Ukraine,” she said quietly.

“Have you ever been there?”

“No.”

“It is a beautiful country.”

“I'm sure.”

She twisted round to look up at him.

“Why do you say that?”

“It must be a pretty place to produce such a pretty girl.”

She smiled and tried to kiss him again but Solomon laughed and moved his head away.

“I am being terrible again?” she asked.

“Yes,” he murmured.

“You are.” He drank some lager and she sat back, pushing her hair behind her ears.

“What happened to Amy?”

“Today she has her period,” said Tanya.

“She cannot work.”

“Why didn't the agency say something?”

She shrugged.

“Maybe they were scared you'd go to another.”

“How long have you worked for them?”

“Two months.”

“And they're a good company to work for?”

“They're okay.”

Then she tickled his ribs, grabbed his ears and kissed him hard on the mouth. He tried to push her away but she held him tight, grinding her hips against him and pushing her tongue deep into his mouth. Solomon felt himself grow hard again, and she felt it, too, because she started to ride him more rhythmically and moaned softly as she kissed him. Her towel slipped down and her full breasts pressed against his chest. Solomon tried to protest but she kept her lips pressed against his. He could barely breathe.

The mobile phone rang. Solomon pushed her away.

“I'm sorry, Tanya, I have to get that.”

She was gasping, as out of breath as he was.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

For a moment he wasn't. She was young, pretty and paid for, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. She smiled, sensing his indecision, but he answered the mobile. It was McLaren.

“How's it going, mate?” asked the journalist.

“I'm at home,” said Solomon.

“What's wrong?”

“You're needed in the office. Why the hell am I bothering? She can't hear what I'm saying, can she?”

“What? Now? Can't someone else do it?”

“Blah, blah, blah,” said McLaren, in a sing-song voice.

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Okay, but I'm not happy about this,” said Solomon, flashing Tanya a smile. She picked up the towel and wrapped it around herself again.

“Well, you could stay and give the dog a bone if you'd prefer,” said McLaren.

“No, I understand,” said Solomon, looking at his wristwatch.

“I'll be there in half an hour. Tell them I'm on my way.” He cut the connection.

“Tanya, I'm sorry, I have to go to the office. They've a problem and I have to sort it out. Keep the money.”

“We can make love first,” she said eagerly.

“We can do it quickly.”

Solomon picked up her clothes and handed them to her, apologising profusely. She took them into the bathroom and returned a few minutes later, dressed. She sat down on the sofa to put on her boots.

“I'm sorry about this,” said Solomon.

“It's okay,” she said.

“Call for me again, yeah?”

“Of course,” lied Solomon.

He showed her out, then leaned on the door, cursing his bad luck.

Sasha walked out of the airport terminal and shivered despite his full-length Armani leather coat. Karic and Rikki followed just behind him. Karic had a metal briefcase attached to his wrist by a thin chrome chain.

There were three black Mercedes with tinted windows parked in the No Waiting zone. Two men stood by each vehicle their eyes sweeping the crowds, looking for trouble even though they were on their home turf. Belgrade was a dangerous place, even for a man as well protected and connected as Sasha.

One of the men stepped forward and gave Sasha a bruising bear-hug.

“Good to have you back, little brother,” he said.

Sasha hugged him in return, trying to squeeze the air from his lungs. It was a childish game they played whenever they met, a trial of strength that neither man wanted to win.

“Have you stopped working out, Markovic? You don't seem as toned as last time I was here.”

Markovic guffawed and tightened his grip.

“How's that feel, little brother?”

Sasha laughed. Markovic always referred to him as his little brother, though they weren't related. At forty-one, he was Sasha's senior by five years but he looked older, mainly because he shaved his head and his face was lined and weathered from a childhood spent working on the family farm in the south of Serbia. Sasha gave Markovic a final squeeze.

“Come on, we've work to do,” he said.

One of the Serbs opened the rear door of the middle Mercedes and Sasha climbed in, followed by Karic. Markovic got into the front seat. The driver already had the engine running.

The first Mercedes pulled away from the kerb. Four of Markovic's men were inside it, and Sasha knew they would all be heavily armed. The second and third Mercedes followed in convoy. The cars were all armoured with bullet-proof windows and could withstand a direct hit from a grenade or a land mine Markovic opened the glove compartment and took out two Glocks. He handed one to Sasha and one to Karic. Sasha checked the weapon, satisfied himself that the safety was on, and slid it into his pocket. It felt good to be carrying again. It wasn't something he could risk in the UK, where possession of a handgun could result in a seven-year prison sentence.

“So, how is business, little brother?” asked Markovic, unscrewing the top of a silver hip flask. He offered it to Sasha.

Sasha took a swig of Cognac and handed it back.

“Business is great,” he said.

“I want to pick up another eight girls this trip, and I reckon on ten next month. How about you?”

“Getting better by the day,” said Markovic.

“We're shifting a hundred kilos a week into Germany and fifty into Italy.”

Like Sasha, Markovic had made his money out of the four-year siege of Sarajevo, but while Sasha had been smuggling food and medicine into the city, Markovic had been smuggling things out. People. People with enough money to pay to escape the near-constant sniping and shelling. Ten thousand people died during the siege, and Markovic made more than a million dollars. Once the war was over and the multinational peacekeepers had arrived in the former Yugoslavia, Markovic had moved into prostitution and drugs, initially supplying the local population and the internationals, but quickly moving abroad, bringing in heroin from Afghanistan and transporting it across Europe. Recently he had been pressing Sasha to set up a heroin-distribution network in London, but Sasha was reluctant to expand into drugs. Prostitution in the UK was more profitable than drugs, and came with much less risk.

The convoy drove to a hotel some three miles from the airport. It was a concrete cube eight storeys high, built in austere Communist style during the Tito era. It was now owned by Jon Nikolic, a Serbian Mafia boss who only kept it functioning as a hotel to launder drugs and trafficking profits. The four lower floors were occupied by paying guests; the top four were used by Nikolic's gang. The hotel was given a wide berth by the local and federal police; those who weren't on Nikolic's payroll knew that to cross the Mafia boss would bring a premature end to their careers or their lives. For the last two years it had been the venue for the country's biggest prostitute auctions.

The convoy drove up to the front of the hotel. Four men in long black coats stood guard at the entrance. They wore earpieces and dark glasses, and their hands were never far from their concealed weapons.

The men from the first Mercedes rushed over to the second and third and opened the rear doors. Markovic walked into the reception area with Sasha. There were several plastic sofas, cheap wooden coffee tables and artificial plants that hadn't been dusted for years. There was a shabby feel to the place, which was exactly what Nikolic intended. All the money had been spent on the upper floors.

Markovic and three of his crew went over to two of the sofas. Other groups of heavies had congregated in different parts of the ground floor of the building. Only the buyer, his money man and an assistant were allowed on to the fifth floor during an auction. Two more men in black coats stood guard at the lifts. One had the doors open for Sasha, who walked in, followed by Karic and Rikki.

The lift doors rattled shut and they went up to the fifth floor in silence. Here, two more guards were waiting when the doors opened, but this time their weaponry was on display. They each had a Kalashnikov AK-47 slung over their shoulders. Only Nikolic's men were allowed to carry weapons. It was all down to trusting him. That was how the system worked.

A table stood beside the lift, and next to it a metal detector, the sort used to screen passengers at airports. Without being asked, Sasha, Karic and Rikki handed over their Glocks. An unsmiling man in wraparound sunglasses made a note of the guns in a ledger and placed them on a rack behind him. A couple of dozen handguns were already hanging there, along with several machine pistols and two hand grenades.

Karic opened the metal suitcase and displayed the contents. Bundles of fifty-pound notes. The man moved the top layer to check that there were only notes underneath, then replaced them. He nodded at Sasha and told him which room they were to go to.

Karic clicked the locks shut, unchained the briefcase from his wrist, and walked through the metal detector. He held out his hand and the man passed him the case. Sasha and Rikki passed through the metal detector, and the three men walked together down the corridor to the meeting room.

In the early days of the auctions, the potential buyers had gathered together in one room and bid against each other for the girls on offer. That had stopped after a Russian mobster had pulled out a gun and shot an Italian in the head at point-blank range during a dispute over who should be allowed to buy pretty twins from Montenegro. The body had been taken away and the Russian had been billed for the cost of replacing the carpet and repainting the walls. From then on guns had been checked in on arrival and the buyers were kept separate. Nikolic moved between the rooms, showing which girls were on offer and taking bids. It was a safer system, but it depended on all the buyers trusting him: he was in a perfect position to manipulate prices.

Sasha walked into the room and sat down at the head of a large, oval, mahogany table. Karic put the briefcase on the table in front of him, then went to stand by the door. Rikki stood at the window, arms folded across his chest, face impassive.

Nikolic arrived, with two bodyguards in tow. They had large handguns in shoulder holsters.