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.