Within two days Mircea had the Russian passports for the girls ready. He had never been to Cyprus before, and was a bit wary. This would be the first time he would have to operate in a country where he didn’t speak the language, and he felt at a loss. Greek he could see learning, but Turkish? The letters of the Greek alphabet were familiar, so close to the Cyrillic he had grown up with. Turkish had all those weird additions to the letters, like the hook on the “s” and the “i” without the dot! He also didn’t like the sound of it…all those rounded vowels, sort of like Hungarian. Someone had told him those two languages were similar, not related. Mircea never liked the sound of Hungarian…stupid language that had to be an anomaly, surrounded by Slavic languages, but on its own. Romanian was at least related to other Romance languages…it was better to be closer to Italian or Spanish than…Finnish? Norwegian? Hungarian couldn’t even be related to something useful. Like Turkish…what was that close to?
“Don’t try the drugs in Lefkosia,” his embassy connection advised. “Everyone likes to try real hashish, but it’s a pain that gives you hangovers. Leave it to the students and stupid tourists.” “Can you at least get good drink?” Mircea asked. His connection made a face. “The local stuff is a sweet syrup like Sambuca.” He packaged up the passports. “Buy good vodka in Duty Free.” Mircea felt he should make an appearance in Andrei’s clubs, but he got the clear message that no none wanted to see him. Being the big bad boy in Minsk had its price – Mircea was persona non grata. He would have to fix this, if he wanted to keep recruiting girls in Belarus. He figured he would have to humble himself, plead illness. Gathering up the passports, he asked the embassy contact if he knew where Andrei would be tonight. “Do I look like a secretary?” he retorted. He saw Mircea reach for his wallet, and cut him off. “Don’t offer me money…I don’t know. I only ever meet fixers and middlemen. I don’t need to know where anyone is.” Thanking the contact, he left. Mircea thought he could try another tack, and headed straight for the biggest church in Minsk. If there was one group of people who would take a bribe, the church was. Mircea went to see the priest in his familiar Orthodox robes, and made a big show of weeping. He showed the priest the splints in his mouth, saying the Catholics had put a hex on him. He begged the priest to pray his pain away, and forgive him…all for a sizeable donation. An hour later and a sizeable stack of Belarussian roubles lighter, Mircea left the church, making sure as many people as possible saw him tearfully thanking the priest. Mircea hoped this round of public self-flagellation would be enough to appease the superstitious souls in Minsk. His jaw felt uncomfortable, and he resolved to replace the splint with the bite plates once he got back to his hotel. I guess orthodox prayers aren’t as powerful as Catholic ones! He was drinking alone in the hotel bar, probably not a good idea with the painkillers he’d taken, but it was better to sit in a bar than stare at Belarussian TV. He had gone through one over-priced watered down cocktail when Andrei’s henchmen showed up. One of the human tanks stayed by the door, while the other sidled up to Mircea at the bar. “We hear you went to church this afternoon.” Mircea didn’t answer, waiting to see how this would play out. Andrei’s man nodded at Mircea’s silence. “We thought you considered yourself above all this superstitious nonsense.” “I’ve had a change of heart.” Mircea took a quick glance at the man, not wanting to overdo his penitent act. “Come to the club with us…drink some decent cocktails.” It worked! Obediently, Mircea followed the two henchmen out of the bar and into the waiting car. Andrei greeted him at the club with a warm embrace. “You and I were raised in Soviet times, when religion was seen as silly nonsense,” the big boss of Minsk said confidentially to Mircea. “It is a good sign when a man knows how to humble himself in front a higher power.” Mircea wasn’t sure if Andrei was referring to himself or God. A bit of both, he decided. He realised he didn’t have splints in his mouth, and wondered if he could make a big show of needing orthodontics for the curse the Catholics called down upon him. On reflection, he considered an Orthodox miracle stronger – since the priest had prayed over him, he was cured. (Actually he wasn’t – he would need to put the bite plates in as soon as he got back to the hotel!) With Andrei’s arm flung around him, Mircea went to the table where several Russian “businessmen” were downing large quantities of vodka with scantily clad girls in their laps. Andrei introduced him as the “Moldovan from Ukraine”, and Mircea fought down a grimace. A thuggish man in a good suit gave Mircea the eye. “Is this the one who’s bringing our Slavic beauties to the Turks?” he slurred, slapping the bottom of the girl in his lap soundly. Andrei laughed dismissively. “He’s not taking the best girls!” Again, Mircea fought to keep his expression neutral. He had managed not to say a thing when Andrei had poached the best-looking girls, keeping them in Minsk when they could have served as ambassadors for Belarussian beauty in Mediterranean clubs. It was a waste – why hide such stars in the middle of such a god-forsaken place? The thug slobbered over his girl. “Only we can appreciate our fellow Slavs,” he declared, even though his girl had a distinctly Oriental look to her, which wasn’t diminished by her bleach-blonde hair. The thugs looked at Mircea with unsteady eyes. “But you’re a Moldovan, you’re not Slavic…you can’t appreciate them either!” Mircea winced. “My father was Russian,” he lied. His grandmother said he was a Soviet, probably a Georgian, which wasn’t Slavic either. Andrei looked at Mircea suspiciously. “I though your father was a Romanian, which is how you got the passport!” Mircea didn’t like his background being such common information. He forced a light hearted laugh. “That was my step-father, who believed the lie my slut of a mother told him.” Not unlike the lies Anton Kirilenko bought… “A good Russian boy, after all,” Andrei mused, sounding approving. He squinted at Mircea’s face, trying to recognise the Russian features in him. “His eyes were very blue, not unlike yours,” Mircea told Andrei. “Mixing those with the black eyes my mother had make mine this wonderful hazel colour!” He would have to check with Dr Mitu on the genetics of this, but Andrei nodded. He snapped his fingers, and someone poured Mircea a shot of vodka. “To St Cyril!” Andrei toasted, and everyone raised their glasses. Having drunk, he playfully punched Mircea’s shoulder. “So as a good Russian, you understand not to waste our lovely girls on Turks!” The good vodka was interacting with the drink he already had, and the painkillers he’d taken before. “I understand we should make money off of lovely girls,” Mircea countered. The thuggish-looking man seated near Andrea with a nearly naked girl on his lap glaredglared at Mircea. “What are you, a Jew?” he spat. Before Mircea could start sweating under that accusation, Andrei reached over and slapped the thug’s head, causing the girl in his lap to fall to the floor. “Konstantin, shut up!” Andrei ordered. A hush fell over the table, and the girl picked herself up off the floor. Wordlessly, she slipped into Mircea’s lap. “Mircea told us himself, he’s half-Russian. He’s no Jew – they don’t have the monopoly on making money. He’s right to share our beauty with the rest of the world – everyone knows Russian women are the most beautiful on the planet. If the Turks are willing to give us a good price for it, we should be taking their money!” Having made this pronouncement, Andrei winked at Mircea. “They’re too stupid to know how impressive our girls really are…imagine what they would pay if they saw some of the angels we have here!” Mircea hated the thought of missing out on making more money. That was one thing to be said for Ukraine – they weren’t deluded by some misplaced nationalism to keep their best earners off the market. Something niggled in the back of Mircea’s inebriated brain, but he couldn’t place it. Andrei waved at the bouncers, who came and escorted Konstantin away from their table. Another round of vodka was poured out, which Andrei again dedicated to the patron saint of Slavic people. The girl in Mircea’s lap stuck her tongue in his ear, a move he found distasteful. He pushed her face away, noting she looked older than he thought she was initially. Some great Slavic beauty, with those Mongolian eyes of hers! “I think I need a fresh one,” he joked, shoving the girl from his lap. This was greeted with a cheer around the table. A bouncer took the girl by the arm and led her away, while a different girl flounced over to the table and sat in his lap. She was what looked like a natural blonde, thin like Mircea liked them, and young, too, still a teenager. For a moment, Mircea thought he saw someone else when looking at her – another young blonde, with defiant eyes. “Milla,” he murmured involuntarily. “I’m Natasha,” the girl corrected him. Putting her arms around his neck. Mircea let this gorgeous girl kiss him, but shuddered when his tongue touched her teeth. He remembered Milla’s teeth raining out of her mouth in a shower of blood. Mircea pulled away, and shook the girl. “Never kiss a man on the mouth!” he admonished her. “That’s right,” Andrei joked. “That’s a rule you whores should have…only kiss the man you love on the mouth!” “But I do love you,” the girl purred. Everyone cheered, but Mircea winced as she kissed him again on the mouth. She slipped out of his lap and took his hand, leading him away from the table and to a private room. Mircea realised he didn’t want her mouth anywhere on him – the minute her lips touched him, he saw Milla. Natasha could pretend they were lovers, if she hadto, but he would be treating her like a dog, savagely taking his pleasure while cursing Milla.
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Athletes Against Exploitation had officially been launched, with a big GAA match and gala. Eileen, Sheila and I were holding several press conferences to discuss the issue and the sponsors behind all the events. Eileen McGrath-Roth was the one primarily in the spotlight at these conferences, with Sheila promoting the sponsors and me “as the voice of conscience and catalyst” for the campaign. I didn’t get to say too much, but I had gotten enough attention to get an interview on Dublin’s newest FM radio station, Christian Soul.
Christian Soul had started out as Soul, a station at the end of the dial that played R&B music. It lasted two years before folding and being bought out by an American Christian student organisation, who kept the name. A lot of the music they play doesn’t appeal to me, being a lot of country and western style songs, but some of the interview and talk shows they run at night are inspiring and uplifting. Cara changes the station immediately when I listen to Christian Soul in the car; these days, Niamh is often in the car with us, and she tunes it right back in. The researcher who contacted me to come on the Christian Soul “Joy Cometh in the Morning” show asked me all about the Red Light Prayer, and if I could speak specifically about that. An hour later, they called back to say I wouldn’t be on “Joy Cometh in the Morning”, but on the evening “Rhythm and Praise” show, which was a music programme, not a talk show. Christine, the lady who called me, said the host of that programme, Tenneh Dumbuya, specifically asked to do the interview. “We’ll re-run the interview on Joy Cometh in the Morning, but you’ll have a larger audience with Rhythm and Praise.” According to Niamh, Rhythm and Praise was the one show on Christian Soul Cara would listen to without protest. She liked the urban music they played, and found the host, Tenneh Dumbuya from Sierra Leone, entertaining and funny. I took it as a sign from God that appearing on that programme would help me reach out to Cara. She had started counselling, but was still sullen and withdrawn. Ever since Niamh had decided to turn her life over to Christ, Cara had less and less patience with me, convinced that I was on some sort of crusade for converts. I tried to tell her that I was delighted Niamh had found Jesus, but leading people to Him didn’t give me any brownie points. Cara groaned and rolled her eyes when I said that, reminding me an awful lot of the way Niamh used to be. I prayed to God for perseverance and strength; again, two things I used to pray for in dealing with Niamh. “I’ll be happy to do Rhythm and Praise,” I told Christine. I wasn’t so happy that the interview would be tonight at 9 – I had hoped for more time to prepare. But Rhythm and Praise was only on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, with Saturday being mostly a repeat of Wednesday. I told Sheila I would be doing the interview; out courtesy, not asking permission. Christian Soul was the media, but they were small potatoes compared to the national news and newspapers we had done press conferences with. She still suggested we run it by Eileen. “Of course Lisa should do it. This is for the Christian circle she’s a part of,” Eileen said immediately. She looked a bit annoyed that Sheila had delayed a conference call to mention the interview. “I couldn’t be happier with the campaign and the exposure it’s brought us,” she said to me. “You and I need to have a talk about a bonus and upping your responsibilities around here.” I was momentarily stunned by this hint of a promotion. Sheila quickly jumped in, clapping me on the back and congratulating me. Eileen waved us out of her office, telling her assistant to start the conference call. “I guess I’m not your boss anymore,” Sheila said rather stiffly to me. I shrugged – I hadn’t talked with Eileen yet, so I had no idea what anything meant. I could tell Sheila was worrying about her position, so I felt I should be comforting to her. “You’ll always be a mentor to me,” I told her. She pulled me into an awkward hug; after a beat of two seconds, we separated and went our different ways. I wondered how it would be between us once I had the talk with Eileen and the promotion was more concrete. Back at my desk, I called everyone I knew to listen in to Christian Soul that night – my family, the bible study group and Niamh. They all wished me luck. I wasn’t worried about talking about the campaign; this was my job, after all. I was a bit worried that I wouldn’t give a good testimony, but Tommy was quick to remind me per text not to listen to Satan’s lies. U will b fine – GOD is with U! They told me to come a half hour early, which Christine said was mostly to do with traffic, as Christian Soul was in Irishtown. I was surprised by how professional the place looked – as the station depended on donations, there were evidently a lot of Christian funds to establish different sound desks and studios. I didn’t get to meet Tenneh Dumbuya before the interview, because she was doing the newsbreak before the hour. I swept in the studio just as the theme music to Rhythm and Praise started, and Tenneh waved to me across the mike. I took my seat and Tenneh started speaking with a big smile. “Tonight on Rhythm and Praise, we are doing something very different. We will get to our fabulous Christian music, but first I want to welcome my special invited guest, Lisa O’Toole. This beautiful Christian lady works in Public Relations, and is doing something in the name of the Lord! Lisa, would you please tell us about Athletes Against Exploitation?” I wasn’t sure if I should say hello and thanks for having me on the show, or just answer the question. I looked at Tenneh, who batted her big brown eyes at me, and pointed to my microphone. “Can it be this PR executive is afraid of speaking on the radio?” she teased. She laughed a wonderful rich laugh, putting me at ease immediately. “No!” I said into the mike, laughing. “Athletes Against Exploitation is a big campaign against sex trafficking, I got the idea for this campaign from my church prayer diary, where I learned about the Red Light Prayer. We’re getting famous sports stars in Ireland to speak out against the sex trade.” “What is this Red Light Prayer?” Tenneh asked, zeroing in on this. “It’s something you do when stopped at traffic lights, but the name comes from the red light district, where you’ll find prostitutes, people who have been trafficked to work in the sex trade. These people aren’t there willingly – they have been lied to, abused, abducted, taken advantage of…and they’re being used. They’re not treated like people –they are commodities, something to be used for someone else’s gratification.” I took a breath. Tenneh took advantage of the pause. “The question people ask, is does prayer work? Lisa, have you seen this prayer work?” “Yes, prayer works. And since I’ve been doing the Red Light Prayer, there have been a number of arrests of sex traffickers in the United States. As Christians, we believe in the power of prayer. With the Red Light Prayer, you’re not just praying for the victims, you’re also praying for an end to the sex industry, for a change of heart in the people traffic and who use prostitutes. Prayer is a powerful weapon – in the days of slavery, trading African people, the abolitionists relied on prayer to help them end that disgraceful industry. They were praying for their fellow man – both slave and slave-trader. Some people may think this sounds wimpy, but you are asking for God’s help in this struggle. The African slave trade ended; we believe that prayer will also help end the sex trade, which is a modern day slavery.” “Powerful words, saying prostitution is slavery,” Tenneh said. “A lot of people will shy away from making that comparison.” I nodded. “We often have this idea that there are people who work in such a degrading industry of their own free will. We think of places where prostitution is legal, and think as long as it’s regulated, it’s okay, but really, what child says I want to be a prostitute when I grow up? Why are prostitutes often drug addicts, victims of domestic abuse and sexual assault? These are people in despair! The prostitute almost never sees the proceeds from the sex trade – the money goes to the pimps and brothels. Going to a prostitute is abusing someone, using their situation against them. “ I exhaled. “And that’s just western society – what about places in Asia where a girl’s body is sold to repay a family debt? Or where children are sold to brothels because families can’t afford to feed them? These people are bought and sold, then rented out…that sounds like slavery to me!” “It is slavery!” Tenneh pronounced, closing her eyes and nodding. She opened her eyes, which were now tear filled. “Lisa you haven’t talked about when this sexual degradation of women and children is being used as a weapon, a war crime.” I bit my lip. “There’s a lot of sexual slavery in war. For example, when people become the spoils of war, like the Japanese comfort women. Or part of a systematic punishment, like the rape camps in the former Yugoslavia. Or simply when people take advantage of chaos to abuse people.” Like the Chinese-Korean snakeheads who prey upon refugees from North Korea. Tenneh wiped the tears away and took a deep breath. “I specifically requested to be able to interview Lisa about the Red Light Prayer and Athletes Against Exploitation because it is an issue very close to my heart.” She paused, brushing another tear away, and continued. “For you see…I was a sex slave.” I covered my mouth with my hands in shock at this revelation. Tenneh swallowed hard, then kept speaking. “As many of you know, I am from Sierra Leone. As many of you should know, my country was ravaged by civil war for eleven years. I and my family were casualties of this civil war…my father and older brother were killed. My other brother was taken away to be a child soldier and presumably, eventually killed. My mother, sister and I were raped by the army that took over our town. My mother was murdered after they were done with her, right in front of us. My sister and I weren’t murdered, but given to SLA soldiers as wives.” Tenneh closed her trembling mouth to hold back a sob. “I was nine years old.” My hands muffled the gasp I breathed. I kept one hand over my mouth, and flung the other out to Tenneh, to grasp her hand in mine. Tenneh laughed, a shadow of the hearty laugh she had greeted me with. “This beautiful Christian lady is holding my hand,” she told the listeners. “But we are not sitting here in misery!” She raised our joined hands up to the ceiling. “We are raising our hands in triumph, because of the Lord who has rescued me and is reaching out to others in need.” She squeezed my hand and brought it down, but did not let go. “I am no longer a slave. In Romans 6, we are told we are no longer slaves to sin. I am not a slave to hatred. I can say to my so-called husband I forgive you…but he is dead. So I say in the spirit of Truth and Reconciliation, to the soldiers who killed my family, I forgive you! To the one who brutalised and killed my mother, I forgive you! To the men who raped my sister and me, we forgive you, and we only hope you can find the one who gives us this freedom to forgive. Jesus, you saved the adulteress and told her to sin no more…we are calling on you to save the people who enslave others, and convince them to go and sin no more. Join with me in the Red Light Prayer – God, please free these slaves of sin!” “Amen!” I sobbed, and Tenneh brought our hands up to the ceiling again. She smiled brightly, and let go of my hand to fade music in. “And now, as I promised, good Christian music! Let Jesus do what you can’t!” As soon as she turned the song up and muted our mikes, I threw myself at her in a hug. We laughed and cried together, but Tenneh kept an ear out for what she was doing. As soon as the song ended, she pounced on the desk, turning her mike on. “Hallelujah, what a great song! What a great God!” I took my chair and Tenneh turned my mike up. “Lisa…how can our listeners get involved with Athletes Against Exploitation?” I was moved by Tenneh’s story, but in awe of how professional she was. Wiping my eyes, I stammered out the dates of the matches being held for the campaign, and the times and venues for the associated parties. She asked me what else people could do, so I said pray. Once again, Tenneh took to the mike in open prayer. “Jesus, Lord, we thank you for all you have done for us. We thank you for our salvation, in so many ways.” She squeezed my hand again. “We come to you now to ask you to save others. Save people from being forced to sell or trade their bodies. Lord, we ask you to save people from abusing others. We are all brothers and sisters, made in your image. Don’t let us forget this…don’t let us abuse our brothers and sisters. Save us, Jesus, save us!” “Amen,” I put in. “Amen,” Tenneh repeated. She faded music in. “And now, so more music about how faithful our God is!” I’m glad she turned our mikes off, because we sang along with the song. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dynamo of a woman who was Tenneh – I thanked God for letting me meet her. But mostly I thanked Him for the change in her life…she was a shining beacon of hope to anyone who had been trafficked. Mircea had never been to Cyprus before – he preferred to take holidays in Croatia or Italy, but he always felt he missed out on the Eastern part of the Mediterranean. Piotr went on and on about Bulgaria the Black Sea, but even he had been to Turkey. On Tuesday, Mircea found himself in the company of eight Belarussian beauties, girls Andrei deemed pretty but not too beautiful to leave Belarus, on the way to Ercan. They were all blonde, and attracted attention from the moment they boarded the plane. Mircea tried to keep a low profile, sitting behind the troupe of girls, but several male passengers tried to flirt with them, making it impossible for Mircea to pretend that he didn’t know them. He had to intervene several times, claiming they were underage gymnasts, and he was their coach. He amended that to assistant coach, when glances took in his unsporty physique. For the millionth time, Mircea wished he had lieutenants to take care of such things as bringing the girls to the club. For one, he hated babysitting, and lieutenants didn’t work alone. There would be two or more of them, able to keep admirers away. Two or more minders would be much more effective in keeping the girls unmolested.
No one had organised transport when they landed – Mircea had to figure out how to ferry eight girls to the club. It was hot and humid in Cyprus, but that wasn’t why Mircea was dripping with perspiration. If Piotr or Andrei ever got wind of the disorganisation, Mircea would be worse than a laughingstock. There were no minivans available – there was no way he would put all the girls on to a public bus. Thinking quickly, Mircea commandeered two taxis, but then realised he couldn’t afford to separate the girls without any means of communication between them. The girls had surrendered their passports to Mircea, and didn’t have mobile phones of their own. Mircea was supposed to be in complete control of them – how was he going to manage this? He noticed how many people were jabbering away on mobile phones. He looked around the arrivals gate, realising the convenience store there did not sell anything as useful as mobile phones. SIM cards yes, but not the actual phone. Sweating bullets, Mircea had a brainwave. He bribed one of the taxi drivers with an outrageous sum of money to call him on his mobile – Mircea handed the taxi driver’s phone to the brightest of the girls, demanding she keep talking to him the whole time. The taxi drivers found this hilarious, and made several comments in Turkish, lowering Mircea’s opinion of the language even more. “Yeah, I know…we’re a comedy troupe,” Mircea said stiffly in English, handing money to the drivers. The girl with the phone was watching from the back of the taxi. “Why did you give them so much money?” she demanded. Mircea waved at her to keep quiet, wondering if he would have to pay her off, too. “Are you part of a circus?” the driver of the taxi Mircea would ride in asked. Seeing four girls squished into the backseat of a compact car made Mircea think of the trick where an improbable number of clowns burst out of a small car. “Yes. The circus.” Mircea rolled his eyes, and prayed this story would not make it back to Minsk. His jaw throbbed from the tension. He threw himself into the passenger seat of his taxi, not realising they drove on the left in Cyprus. He found himself staring at the steering wheel, as the driver coughed impatiently. He smiled stupidly up at him, pain shooting through his mouth. He would have to put the splints in! “The circus,” he explained to the driver, getting out of the driver’s seat. “What are doing?” the girl in the other taxi asked Mircea over the phone, as he ran around the front of the car to get into the passenger seat. Mircea almost told her to shut up, but he was afraid of her hanging up and cutting off the lines of communication. “Stop asking questions,” he ordered stiffly. The taxis drove off, and Mircea told the girl to alert him if she lost sight of his taxi. The girl wasn’t listening. There was the sound of an argument in her taxi. “The driver won’t let us smoke!” the girl finally told Mircea. Did these stupid females think they were on a holiday? “So don’t smoke!” Mircea told the girl. He noticed his taxi driver was smoking, and gestured at him to stop. The driver misunderstood, and handed him the pack, offering him a cigarette. Sighing, Mircea took one. The girls in his taxi asked for one, and Mircea yelled at them to shut up. “Hey, are you smoking?” the girl on the phone screeched. “This is not a holiday camp!” Mircea shouted into the phone. “You do as you are told – if that means no smoking, then you don’t smoke!” Mircea stuck his hand out of the window, three fingers pointing out. “Do you see our taxi?” When she confirmed this, Mircea asked her how many fingers he was holding up. When she said three, he made the thumbs up sign. “Excellent!” It was ragtag and unprofessional, but Mircea was managing this transfer of girls. The girl on the other end snorted. She spoke some English, so she could communicate with her driver. “He says it will take about an hour to get to the club…are you going to make signals at us the whole time?” Mircea could hear the girls in the other taxi laughing at him. Wordlessly, he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and the driver lit it for him. “I can see you smoke,” the girl on the mobile sulked. Mircea waved the hand holding the cigarette out the window at the other taxi. “You bimbos are driving me to smoke!” He took a drag -the cigarette was a local Turkish one, and it was vile. Mircea threw it out on to the road, coughing. “Will we get anything to eat?” the girl on the phone asked. “The food on the plane was disgusting, and we’re hungry.” Mircea clenched his teeth, causing himself absolute agony. He was tempted to knock the girl’s teeth in once they got to the club, which brought back a vision of Milla. Mircea closed his eyes and moaned softly. “Hey, are you okay?” the girl on the phone asked. “I’m fine!” Mircea insisted, opening his eyes. He couldn’t imagine keeping a conversation going with this idiot, so he racked his brains to come up with something. “Sing me a song!” “A what?” the girl said. “I can’t sing!” “So put on one of the girls who can!” Mircea heard muffled noises of the phone being passed, snippets of talk like he’s crazy and he’s Moldovan! Then he heard a thin but pleasant young voice singing The Internationale, of all things. Mircea found himself singing along, and to his surprise, the girls and even the driver in his taxi joined in. “A communist circus!” the driver roared. Mircea listened to the sound of the singing, realising these girls actually had some talent. Too bad they weren’t going to be the nightclub act he told the immigration authorities they would be. The taxi driver started to sing along, dangerously swerving as he did so. Mircea swore and shouted; the last thing he needed was to get into a crash. “Everyone shut up!” he roared. Remembering to keep the girl on the line, he told the singer to give the phone back to the original girl. “Tell me a joke!” Mircea ordered. “I don’t know any jokes,” was the lame reply. “Someone think of a joke!” Mircea yelled. The phone changed hands in the other taxi; one of the other girls told a weak off-colour joke about some gay priests. Mircea immediately thought of the Catholic missionary Michael, and demanded another joke. One of the girls in his taxi piped up that she knew one, but Mircea waved at her to shut up. He needed to keep a conversation going between the two taxis. Another girl stammered her way through a bad political joke, one that probably only made sense to a Belarussian. “Sing another song – not the Internationale this time!” Mircea ordered. Someone started to sing Happy Birthday, or all things. Mircea glared at his driver, putting a finger to his lips. “It’s your birthday?” the driver asked. “No, one of the girls,” Mircea lied. “Who?” the driver asked. Mircea dug into his pocket and came up with more money to shut the driver up. “Sing a folk song,” he said into the phone. Several of the girls joined in on this one. Though the song was slow and gloomy, the girls really did sing well. He noted that the taxi driver was nodding his head along to the sound of the singing, and he worried about the safety of the taxis again. “Let’s practise English,” he suggested, stopping the singing. “Who can count to ten?” The phone was handed back to the original girl, who had trouble with seven. “Hold the phone up, and all of you, repeat after me.” Mircea proceeded to hold an English lesson between the two taxis, as the girls in both taxis chanted the numbers in English after Mircea. “They should learn the Turkish numbers!” the driver suggested. Shrugging, Mircea nodded, and repeated the numbers the driver recited into the phone. There was a lot of giggling and squealing, as the driver of the other taxi corrected the girls’ pronunciation. Mircea wondered who would teach the girls some more useful vocabulary, like how much each different sex act would cost. He could hear the girls having another conversation in the other taxi; one of them was trying to get the driver to take them to the beach in broken English. Mircea’s blood boiled; where did these stupid girls think they were going? “No beach!” he shouted in English, then remembered to say it in Russian. “No beach?” the driver of his taxi repeated, and the girls in the back moaned in disappointment. Blindly, Mircea lashed out and slapped one harshly, turning with his hand raised to the back, to quell any further complaints. “You girls are here to earn money!” he shouted into the phone in Russian, making sure the girls in his taxi heard as well. “You’re not here for your fun!” He heard one of the girls in the other taxi protest that they were on an island, so not letting them go to the beach was unfair. He flirted with the idea of pulling the taxis over and dealing with the dissenters, but he knew he couldn’t manage that on his own. How could he be sure to get both taxis to stop? His driver was too inclined to get involved in everything as it was. “We will do nice things later, once we have checked in at the club,” Mircea found himself promising with the honeyed voice of an uncle. He thought of how instilling a sense of urgency, of some goal that they had to reach, would distract the girls. “You have to eat first, and that will be at the club. They are waiting for us, so we can’t be late!” The promise of food seemed to quiet the girls. One of them asked if there would be American-style pizza; Mircea had to wonder where she got that idea from. Where did these girls think they were going? He had thumbed through their passports earlier, which of course were fake and didn’t have any real information on any of them. On forged papers, they were all over eighteen, but Mircea was starting to ask himself how old they were really. He suspected some of them might really be young, like fourteen or fifteen. “Say the numbers again,” he suggested, hoping that would distract them enough to keep from complaining. He listened to them chant numbers in English and Turkish, rubbing his sore jaw. He was amazed that it could take them an hour to get anywhere on such a small part of an island, but traffic was pretty dense. It did almost take them an hour to get to the club, by which time Mircea thought he would go crazy. Here, they were expected; a team of bouncers swarmed on the taxis, herding the girls together like a flock of sheep, and dispatching their luggage immediately. Mircea handed the driver of the other taxi his mobile phone back, turning down his request for a drink at the club. The Swan Nightclub was out of the price bracket of a taxi driver. Mircea was shown into the back office of the nightclub, where the manager, Nikita , was watching the closed circuit cameras. “You must be Mircea,” he said in greeting, barely looking up. One of the video cameras was evidently in the dressing room, and Nikita was leering at a screen of the new girls in varying states of undress. “I am,” Mircea affirmed, looking at the screen with him. He looked at the body of one of the girls he suspected of being underage – without clothes, she really was young, with the nearly androgynous body of a child. Mircea liked young girls, but this was borderline paedophilia. “These Belarusians really are hot stuff!” Nikita commented approvingly. He squinted at the screen. “We’ll get them to get Brazilian waxes, so people can’t see that some of them are not natural blondes.” He laughed and held up his hand in a high five to Mircea. “Good job in getting them here in two taxis. There should have been a minivan waiting for you, but these Turks can’t organise anything.” Mircea smiled, pleased. He had passed a test in getting the girls to the club. As long as no one found out about the sing-a-long, he would look competent. On the screen, two of the bouncers who had dispatched the luggage had come in to the dressing room, and the girls were screeching in protest. “What’s this?” Mircea asked. Nikita snorted. “Employee bonus time,” Nikita explained. Each of the bouncers had chosen a girl and was leaving the room with them. Mircea inhaled, and Nikita raised an eyebrow. “Better one of our Russians than a Turk for the first time,” he said mildly. One of the girls who was chosen was the one Mircea suspected of being seriously underage. Mircea relaxed his jaw – that was what she came here to do, after all. And it wasn’t like she was a virgin or anything. He looked away from the screen; his part of this business was done. “Any chance of some food?” Mircea asked. Things really exploded after the Rhythm and Praise show. National newspapers wanted to interview me with Tenneh, as did morning chat shows, both radio and television. Tenneh’s story, and her forgiveness of the aggressors was a media magnet, but Athletes Against Exploitation was not overlooked. Kate and I researched the numbers on trafficked people, hoping to really hit home with the youth of the exploited and the high volume in trafficking.
The newspapers led with Tenneh, pulling me in after her brutal story was told. I found that Kate and I didn’t need to do so much research, as the journalists already had. I spoke instead about the campaign, and what moved me to do it. The newspapers already had their reports from our press conferences, but speaking with Tenneh and then me, they used a “women’s interest” angle, moving us from news to features. Our interviews were put into weekend magazines with television guides, which meant more coverage, as people would be seeing the magazine the whole week, not just on Saturday or Sunday. I asked Tenneh if she was okay with telling her story over and over again. She hadn’t told of her background before, and now that was all anyone knew about her. “They know more than that!” she insisted. “They know I believe in God, who gives me the strength to forgive and carry on! I am not some rape victim…I am someone who survived some horrible things through Grace. I want to be an inspiration of hope for trafficked women – I want to show there is life on the other side of their ordeal!” “You are amazing,” I told her, and the newspaper photographer snapped a picture of us holding hands, which was later used as the cover for the weekend magazine. “God is amazing,” Tenneh corrected me, which became the lead-in line for the article. Tenneh surprisingly was a bit camera-shy when we did the morning TV shows. Relaxed as she was on radio, she stiffened when having to have people look at her while she told her story. I held her hand the whole time, which was clammy and shaky. “God is amazing,” I kept reminding her between takes. “He is, but I need a make-up person who knows what to do with African hair!” Tenneh hissed back. For a moment, I thought she was serious, but she gave me her million-watt smile. She had her hair pulled into a turban of African cloth and looked fabulous. Eileen McGrath-Roth couldn’t be happier. She announced she was creating a whole new “pro bono” department to the firm, which would handle special charitable projects. I and Sheila would be the campaign managers in the department. I was surprised that I would still be working with Sheila, but then, she was very good in getting sponsors. “Lisa, you’re the heart of our work for good, but Sheila is the one who gets people to pay for it,” Eileen said to me in private, after she had made the announcement of the new department. “I really see this as an opportunity for our firm to carve itself a niche. Any good PR firm can have good connections and a strong network, but actually doing good will differentiate us. A lot of companies are jumping on the charity bandwagon, giving employees time off to volunteer. All we need to do is synch up with them, and ride this wave of doing good!” My expression must have turned sceptical, because Eileen gave me her barracuda grin. “Don’t look so downcast,” she told me. “Good things will be done!” There was red lipstick on her teeth again. Back at my desk, I texted Kate. Is it still a good work if done from the wrong motivation? She texted back a question mark, and told me to call her in half an hour, when she had a free period. I watched the clock anxiously until I could call her. “I got a promotion and am getting my own department to work in,” I told Kate breathlessly. “I’m here to be the face of good deeds here, to promote the firm as the only PR agency that does good works.” “That’s fantastic!” Kate exclaimed. “Is it? I’m only here to cash in on the current wave of charity. As soon as that’s no longer in vogue, it’s back to promoting clients who have the money to pay for it.” “Charity never goes out of style,” Kate argued. “It may be hard in tough economic times to find funding, but we’re always aware of how we need to help our fellow man.” I laughed. “Help our fellow man?” I echoed. “Do you not know what Athletes Against Exploitation is about?” Kate refused to rise to my negativity. “As long as there is evil in the world, there is the need for good to fight it,” she said firmly. “But what if the good isn’t motivated by good?” I asked. “Oh, Lisa, I wish I had your problems,” Kate sighed. “We’re having funding problems, and you’re whinging about your promotion. Maybe thinking of George Bernard Shaw will help you. The only reason he accepted the Nobel Prize in Literature was so he could give the prize money to charity. He said it doesn’t matter where the money comes from, as long as it ends up doing good.” I wasn’t sure if that helped me, so I focused on what Kate had said before that. “Funding problems?” I asked. “What do you need?” “Science equipment. Our labs are too old to handle advanced lessons. Some parents are moving their daughters to more modern, better equipped schools.” She paused, and lowered her voice. “If we were a boys’ school, we’d have the rugby alumni to lean on for donations.” That lament was always an undercurrent to any conversation Kate had about her school – the funding gap between girls and boys schools. I had just read an article about how there was a lack of female science graduates…from what Kate was saying, the problem could start earlier than university. I suddenly envisioned my next campaign after Athletes Against Exploitation. “Leave it with me,” I said to Kate. Kate heard the excitement in my voice. “Suddenly someone’s not down about her new job anymore!” I went straight to Sheila after ending the call with Kate, where I outlined my idea about promoting maths and sciences education for girls. She didn’t get interested until I mentioned the article I had read about the gender gap. Within seconds, she was on the internet to find it, and then she was researching cosmetics companies. “I don’t get it,” I admitted as I watched her scrawl down some notes. Sheila didn’t look up. She was making notes with one hand as she went through Cosmetic company websites with the other. “Think about it…think stereotypes. Cosmetics are for women, but cosmetics are based on science.” I thought she was reaching. “How does maths figure into that picture?” I asked. “It’s a big business! Getting women to look good involves a lot of maths and chemistry!” “The article says we need more women in technology. Does cosmetics involve computers and programming?” Sheila sighed, putting her pen down. “Okay, I don’t know how to work that in. But cosmetics companies sponsor a lot of good things, and I can see them helping education in a big way.” She gave me a tentative smile. “It’s a start. Eileen says we can pick out a team to work with, do some brainstorming and plan some events. Get Jimmy and Theresa in here…we worked well last time!” I thought about that. “We did, didn’t we?” “Lisa, this is another good campaign idea. It’s not as heart-breaking or depressing as anti-trafficking, but it’s just as important.” She looked up at me. “I don’t suppose this came from the Church prayer diary?” I shook my head. “No, my good friend is a teacher, and she was complaining to me about the lack of funds for a decent science lab in her school.” Sheila smiled. “You seem to run in the right circles for these pro-bono ideas!” I frowned. No I didn’t. Need was all around us; you just had to pay attention. “I don’t know if you’ll get to go on TV again with this new campaign, but you were good. That African girl was amazing!” “Tenneh,” I supplied. “You know, they offered her a regular spot on TV3’s morning show?” She had just called me that morning to tell me. She told me the first thing she needed to get sorted was finding a stylist who could fix her hair properly, as she didn’t intend to appear in a turban for every show. “Wow, are you jealous? You were pretty good too,” Sheila told me. I didn’t like all those lights shining on me and having to look for which camera to look into all the time. “Tenneh was pretty nervous, but she did a good job. I’m really pleased for her.” Especially after she told me the Christian Soul job was an unpaid one – she earned her money being a part-time manager in a restaurant. Now she could afford to concentrate on being a broadcaster. “I’ll talk to Jimmy and Theresa,” I said, thinking of the new campaign. “Maybe we can get Tenneh to talk it up on TV,” I suggested. She would be a strong advocate for the education of girls. “Excellent!” Sheila cried. “This is taking off already!” “We’ll need a snazzy name like the one you thought up for Athletes Against Exploitation,” I pointed out. “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Sheila complained. “At least give me until after lunch.” “I’ll give you lunch,” I said to Sheila. I booked a table for four at the nearby Mexican café. We’d meet with Jimmy and Theresa, and hopefully they’d be on board with working in the new department. If they said yes, this would be a working lunch! Mircea took advantage of being in Cyprus to take a day of rest. He put the bite plates in his mouth to sort out the problem with his jaw, and drank only mineral water. What he wanted was a good strong cup of coffee, but the harsh gritty Turkish coffee was not to his liking. He considered a cup of English tea, but that had never been his style, not even in London.
There was a balcony to the flat he was staying in, and he stood on it, staring out at the view of the sparkling ocean. In the distance was a mosque, with its call to prayer, but he liked the exotic sound of it all. This was the kind of place he’d dreamed about as a kid in Moldova, and for once he was happy to have achieved a childhood dream. Sitting on the balcony, Mircea realised that he felt lonely – there was never anyone to share his experiences with. He could get company, if he wanted it, but he’d never actually had a girlfriend. He’d always looked on women as some kind of expense – you paid for their time, or else have to listen to them yammer and moan. Colleagues who were married or kept girlfriends only ever talked about the cost – the only benefit Mircea saw in keeping a relationship was children. But since having the learned the truth about Piotr, he realised this could be bought as well. If you needed someone to carry on your name and business, just adopt in a kid without a father. That’s what Mama did with me, he thought, remembering his vile-tempered stepfather. That man gave Mircea his Romanian passport, but kicked him and his mother out when it became too obvious that Mircea wasn’t his. They moved into his grandmother’s tiny apartment, and Mircea had to start earning his keep early on. His grandmother had good smuggling contacts, which provided a good apprenticeship for Mircea, stressing the importance of languages and blending in. He provided as best he could for his mother and grandmother, but was relieved when they died. His mother first, probably at the hands of her oafish boyfriend who was always trying to horn in on Mircea’s business. She was found at the bottom of the filthy stairwell, but not all the bruises on her body corresponded to a fall. Truth be told, it was no great loss to Mircea or his grandmother. The apartment was bigger without her in it, and their lives were less complicated without her moaning and demands for cash. Mircea massaged his jaw with his fingers, thinking. His closest relationship with a woman was probably with his grandmother. She drummed the value of survival into him, to always to look for a way to improve their circumstances. She was both a Party member and a follower of the church, using her dead husband’s name as way to guilt a patriot’s pension out of the state, and a poor widow’s alms from the church. She was the one who insisted on keeping Mircea’s Romanian nationality, figuring it would someday be of an advantage. It was that Romanian passport that kept Mircea alive; he was away on business in Bucharest when the small apartment developed the gas leak that killed his grandmother. The corrupt firemen and police had neatly cleared away anything of value from his grandmother’s home, leaving Mircea only a few faded photographs and her thin wedding ring. Mircea had had the foresight to bury his grandfather’s gold watch and a pair of silver candlesticks in the courtyard; under cover of darkness he retrieved those. They didn’t bring much money, but they gave him the satisfaction of not having been totally duped. His grandmother would have been proud. He thought about Ivan and his son in London, sensing that for the first time, he envied Ivan. It made the scene with Piotr in Vinnytsia all the more horrible, as Ivan had something to lose. Mircea had nothing to come home to – if he were shot, it would all end there. There would be no widow, no orphans. He used to always see this as an advantage, but remembering how Ivan and Thomas sat together behind the desk caused an ache in Mircea. Ivan had been so proud of son, so happy to rely on him to fix the books. Mircea didn’t have anyone to rely on. I’m still young, Mircea told himself. I can have a family! He tried to picture himself with a woman and kids, not unlike Ivan. He envisioned sons, but remembered Ivan had a daughter, too. Mircea remembered the childlike body of the underage Belarussian, and saw her thin arms being folded down as the bodyguard lead her away. He winced. Sons – he would have to have only sons. Girls were too vulnerable. The undeniable facts forced their way into his brain – those girls all had fathers. Maybe some of them didn’t know their fathers, but it was simple biology – a person had a mother and a father. Each one of those girls had a father somewhere –maybe even one of the leering patrons of the clubs where they worked. Mircea shuddered at the disgusting thought. He wondered how Ivan could stomach the thought when handling the girls – how could he not see his own daughter in the girls they handled? Mircea realised he didn’t know any women. He only knew the girls he brought into the nightclubs, or the ugly women who worked for him in the cover businesses. He wondered how he would find a mother for his children, then, if those were the only kinds of women he knew. He thought about what Dr Mitu had told him about Anton Kirilenko. Was that the way to do it – create a family by adopting the sons of maids? Mircea recalled the way Thomas and Ivan huddled together, how they had the same jawline, and the same laugh. He thought about how his own stepfather hated to look at him – he didn’t like to see all the ways that his supposed son didn’t resemble him. Mircea puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out, which caused a twinge in his jaw. Having your own children was important, but how could he be sure to only sire sons? Well, maybe if his daughter was ugly, she wouldn’t have problems. He caught sight of his reflection in the window, and gave up on that idea – no daughter of his would be ugly. One thing Mircea didn’t have time for was depression. He didn’t want to waste a beautiful day on an island in the Mediterranean with self-pitying thoughts. He spit out the bite plates and smiled at his reflection in the window – it was time he made merry with some women he didn’t have to pay for. Once he was back inside the flat, he realised how unprepared he was for spending any time outside of a nightclub. He didn’t have sunscreen or sun glasses, or any clothes that weren’t suits. Mircea considered his situation, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel a sunburn starting already. Mircea sighed; he was going to have to find a department store. All he could find in the streets near the flat was a pharmacy, which took care of his need for sunscreen and sunglasses. There was a market with stalls nearby, where he found some cheap holiday clothes. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but he refused to get stressed out. The shabby texture of the shorts reminded him of the scratchy school uniform he had to wear back in Moldova. His grandmother would have hated to see him like this! At least the shirt he bought was silk. Until he found a department store, this would have to do. The newly acquired tourist outfit singled him out for all the vendors in the market to harass him, trying to sell him their silly souvenirs and further tacky clothes. He went back to the flat to drop off his suit; seeing himself in the wardrobe mirror made him do a double-take. He looked like an idiot – there was no way he could chat up a woman looking like this. Sighing, he traded the shorts for the suit trousers. He kept the silk shirt and the inexpensive leather sandals – it wasn’t ideal, but it was an okay look. Back out in the sun, he slicked some sun cream on his nose. He wandered around town, trying to figure out where he could go to meet people. He tried his usual trick of flirting with shop girls in bakeries and supermarkets, but they quickly averted their eyes. Mircea found himself face-to-face with a big burly guy more often than a sweet dark-eyed girl. He decided to head into the tourist area and take his chances with visitors. Buying a beer in a hotel got him access to their beach area; Mircea strolled around casually, seeing what was on offer. The hotel he was in seemed to be popular with retirement age Brits, some of whom insisted on wearing skimpy tops and bikinis that wouldn’t even look good on the fit girls in the nightclub. Mircea made sure not to make eye contact, continually scanning for more appealing females. He spotted a hen party that was closer in age to him, but then caught the sound of German by the hotel pool. Even though German made him think of Michael the Catholic missionary in Ukraine, he was happy to see a group of healthy-looking blondes. They were a bit fatter than he liked, but one of the girls was already smiling at him. He walked over to them, and asked if they spoke English; this was a silly question, as Germans always spoke English. They were actually Austrian, and Mircea was welcome to join them. Germans (and Austrians) had a predilection for drinking beer – Mircea actually wanted to switch to wine at some point, but the girls were sticking to beer. The girl he was getting close to was Astrid, a physiotherapist from Linz. He actually had his eye on her friend, Manuela, but she didn’t warm to him. She made eyes at a middle-aged Brit across the bar – there’s no accounting for taste! Mircea thought. He quickly discovered that picking up regular women actually required a lot of time. Mircea found he had to get drinks for all the girls, then single out Astrid to take to lunch. After a leisurely meal, they had gone for a digestive stroll along the beach before he could get Astrid back to her hotel room and get any action. The Austrian was at least energetic and enthusiastic, although Mircea found himself getting unnerved by the non-stop eye contact she insisted on. She also required a lot of sweet-talking, asking Mircea to call her darling and sweetheart. He found himself having to kiss her to keep conversation to a minimum, but that was hard on his jaw. Mircea was exhausted by dinner-time, but Astrid expected him to take her out for another meal and go dancing before taking him back through the calisthenics of the bedroom again. “Um, I actually have some business to take care of,” Mircea found himself mumbling, as he got out of bed. He found his clothes in a small pile and began getting dressed. “You’re on vacation!” Astrid argued, playfully snatching his shirt away. “Actually, I’m not. I’m here on business.” Mircea took his shirt back from her. Astrid then wanted to know all about his business, expressing an interest in seeing the nightclub he claimed to have a share in. Mircea hemmed and hawed, trying to talk her out of it. The situation was getting comically awkward, as Mircea tried to close out their brief acquaintance. Sensing she was being rejected, Astrid sat up straight on the bed, glaring at him. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t like it?” she demanded as Mircea made excuses to not go to The Swan. He found himself looking away from her nakedness, finding it suddenly very unattractive and uncomfortable. “What kind of a nightclub is it?” she wanted to know. As Mircea avoided looking at her, she made the obvious connection. “It’s a brothel!” she concluded, sounding disgusted. Mircea looked at her in exasperation. “Why are you offended? You have brothels in Austria! It’s legal there!” She finally clutched a sheet to her chest to cover her nakedness. “Legal yes, but that doesn’t mean I like it!” She made a face at Mircea. “You’re just a pimp!” she spat. Stepping into his sandals, Mircea zipped up his trousers. “I’m a pimp, am I?” he said. He gestured to her wrapping herself up in the bedclothes. “What does that make you?” With a shriek, she threw the nearest thing at hand at him. Mircea batted the TV remote away and left her hotel room. She was shouting something in German at him as he slammed the door behind him, and he heard something smack against the door. Shaking his head, Mircea went to leave the hotel and the whole afternoon behind him. The hen party he had seen earlier by the pool was in full swing in the lobby. Several of the women drunkenly grabbed him as he tried to get past them. “Come on and have some fun with us, Gorgeous!” they called to him. Smiling, Mircea quickly disentangled himself from their grasping arms. He didn’t even bother to blow them a kiss; he just fled. Regular girls were just too much trouble! |