Mircea’s face ached; from his jaw, from the tension headache cancelling his flight to Vinniytsia had brought on, and from the Duty Free he had opened and rapidly consumed. It was embarrassing to have to cancel his flight so he wouldn’t have to face Michael, but Mircea couldn’t bring himself to take that flight. Even if it meant stranding himself in Kiev – there were no regularly scheduled daily flights to Vinnytsia. He would have to wait two days for the next one – he had no idea how he would explain the delay. I couldn’t be near some priests? He would tell Piotr he was hungover and missed the connection. The next question was how was he going to get down to Vinnytsia – he didn’t want to wait the two days.
He was not going to go down by train. That might take two days, for all he knew of Ukrainian Rail. (It would certainly feel like it!) He checked the car hire counter, but got a very frosty reception. Foreigners were expected to pay top dollar for big cars, and going down to poorer parts of Ukraine was not encouraged. Mircea might as well have said he was planning to drive to Moldova from the expression on the clerk’s face when he said he was going down to Vinnytsia. He wanted to say a few choice expletives, but he had learned never to burn all his bridges. Instead he smiled as charmingly as he could through the pain, and said he needed to check his business plans. He caught a taxi into town and headed for a hotel he knew the Syndicate owned. The manager was someone he knew from past dealings, so he requested to speak to him at the front desk. He decided to throw himself on his contact’s mercy. “Liev, I need a bed for tonight and a way to get to Vinnytsia tomorrow,” Mircea told the manager in a low voice. “I’m just in from Cyprus and have the mother of all hangovers.” Maybe it was the hundred dollar bill he slid across the desk, or maybe Liev was impressed by Mircea’s travelling. Tucking the money into his breast pocket, Liev nodded soothingly. “Never drink ouzo,” he advised, pushing a room key over to Mircea. “I was in the North, so it was raki!” The manager winced, and tutted. “I have someone making a drop off of goods to the south, so I’ll have them do a little detour so they can drive you. That’s a good thing, as you’re in no state to get behind the wheel!” Mircea wrapped Liev’s hand with the both of his in lieu of an embrace. A porter gathered up his suitcase and carry on, leading the way to the lift. It was a small hotel, with only two penthouse suites. Mircea’s connection didn’t get him into one of these, but he was shown into a nice double and told the mini bar was complementary for him. Liev was a perfect example of never burning bridges; Mircea knew him from the Chernivtsi days, smuggling girls and dope. Liev had managed a night club there, and had taken a piece of what Vasile was skimming off the top. However, he kept all Syndicate members close with his sense of hospitality and comradeship – Mircea never felt like a junior member of staff with Liev. Vasile may not have respected him much, but Mircea did, keeping contact when Liev was moved up to the hotel in Kiev. As he sank down on the clean bed, he really appreciated Liev and his help. Closing his eyes, the feeling of his cowardice was as strong as the bad taste from his rinsed splints. Mircea got up out of bed to rinse them off in the clean sink of the room. He glanced at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was young and fit – he should have been able to stand up to Michael. He moaned as a sliver of pain crept around his jaw. “I got the girls down to the club without incident,” he told his reflection, feeling like he was practicing his excuses. Mircea knew he couldn’t tell anyone about the two taxis and the drivers trying to blackmail him into getting into The Swan. He didn’t want to seem like an amateur, some snotty-nosed kid playing gangster. Although hiding from Michael was not something that matched the hard man image he had cultivated in Minsk. “I took on the Church!” Mircea said to his reflection, sounding like a kid for all his bravado. He groaned, as his jaw was killing him. “I got those girls down,” he told the mirror in a softer voice. “I played a big part in getting the Swan Nightclub up and running, and building a reputation as a place for the big league! Without Slavic beauties, it would be just another cut-rate peep show.” He remembered the nubile bodies in the changing room – just a glimpse of those girls drove the taxi driver insane. Mircea wondered how hard they were on the driver when he tried to get in – probably just a few punches to the gut and kidneys. He started to feel sorry for the guy, but remembered how he through he could take advantage of him –no one took liberties with Mircea Rotar! I hope they killed him, the smarmy git! He left the bathroom and checked out the minibar. It wasn’t a good selection – mostly Ukrainian liquor, and a few small bottles of what looked like watered-down whisky. Even though his head was pounding, he opened the Nemiroff vodka. The fumes alone from it would kill the bad taste in his mouth. He cursed when he realised he didn’t have pain killers in pill form – he should have asked Liev for a good connection. If he called down to the front desk now, they would probably give him chalky aspirin. He rolled the vodka around in his mouth, hoping the alcohol would deaden any nerve endings. His grandmother was always slurping hard liquor for toothaches, but Mircea doubted its effectiveness. He remembered his grandmother got drunk, not soothed by the liquor. In the morning, she still had the toothache, but now with a hangover. Feeling defeated, Mircea spat the alcohol out and called the front desk for aspirin. I’ll get some drugs when I get back to Vinnytsia, he reasoned. He watched some satellite TV while he waited for the aspirin. There was some war going on somewhere, and that was being covered on the news channel; the battle scarred streets and people hunkering down in rubble made him think of his childhood. There was no war, but it looked like a war zone, Mircea thought bitterly, changing the channel. The inherent injustice of it all irritated him – why did the West never look like that, when 90% of the planet had to more or less live in a rubbish tip? Unwittingly, Mircea looked down at his hands, which were never clean while he was growing up. He was always washing them now, springing for the occasional manicure, but still, somehow, the shadow of the grime of his youth always lurked over his hands. He made to go into the bathroom, to wash them yet again. A knock on the door interrupted this plan; it meant that the weak pain relief had arrived! He opened the door and took the small packet from the waiter; the tablets inside were ibuprofen – Liev must have gotten wind of Mircea’s request. “The manager says to never drink Raki again!” The waiter handed Mircea a small bottle of mineral water, who slipped him a few Hrivnia in gratitude. The ibuprofen would go much further than the cheap aspirin would in relieving his aching head, but not nearly far enough. As the waiter made no subtle inquiries to Mircea needing something stronger, he didn’t ask for drugs. He would try to knock himself out with the vodka; hopefully a bit of sleep would ease the pain until he got to Vinnytsia. “Thanks again,” he said to the waiter, realising he had never thanked him the first time. But the waiter was gone, and so Mircea closed the door and reached for the vodka. With any luck, Piotr wouldn’t even be in Vinnytsia; maybe he would even be called to Minsk to make his report on the Cyprus club, and not have to spend much time in Vinnytsia. There were still some loose ends to tie up in Ukraine, but with the successful completion of his mission to Cyprus, maybe Mircea would never have to go to Vinnytsia again. He could sell on his share in the laundry, and focus only on international dealing. Never have to run into Michael again, he thought. Again, he hoped it wouldn’t get out that he turned tail and ran from a pair of priests. Mircea felt a bead of sweat on his forehead, and worried that his jaw pain had given him a fever. He figured the ibuprofen would take care of that, and swigged another gulp from the vodka bottle. I need to get some rest, he figured. He tuned the TV to a movie channel, and sank down on to the bed. I just need sleep! Sleep must have come, for the next thing Mircea was aware of was the hotel phone ringing. He felt clammy all over as he reached for the phone. His jaw was still sore – he had forgotten to put the bite plates in! He stifled a groan as he answered the phone. “This is Boris…I’ll be driving you today,” a gruff male voice informed him. “I’ll be leaving at nine, so come down to the lobby at 8:50.” “How will I recognise you?” Mircea asked, squinting at the watch on his wrist for the current time. “I will recognise you,” was the curt answer, followed by a dial tone. It was eight o’clock; Mircea had time for a shower and a bit of breakfast before the trip. Getting up, he realised his head didn’t hurt, even if his jaw did. He spotted the empty mineral water bottle on the nightstand, and was once again grateful to Liev. It was probably the rehydration more than the ibuprofen that improved his condition. Cleaning himself up, Mircea wondered if he should stay looking rough, to corroborate the hangover story. He thought about the hours it would take to drive down to Vinnytsia and figured he should at least tidy himself up before getting all crumpled and tired again. Even though he hated to show weakness, he put the splints in. He had to get some relief from his jaw! After a strong espresso and a continental breakfast, Mircea did feel better. He brushed his teeth and put the splints in, after having rinsed them with mouthwash. In the mirror, he looked good – a look that would not last very long in transit. Even though he would have to make an appearance, he hoped no one would be around when he finally got to Vinnytsia. Piotr hadn’t replied to his text, which Mircea didn’t know what to feel about. Surely if he were angry he would have been screaming down the phone at him. No news is good news, Mircea figured. At the front desk, Mircea had to deal with someone else, who at first tried to charge him for the room, but then noticed the note in the computer. He coughed, trying to cover up his gasp, and gave Mircea a sickening smile. “Forgive me, I did not notice the manager’s comments,” he explained. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.” Mircea enjoyed the feeling of power the clerk’s grovelling gave him, but slipped the poor man some Hrivnia anyway with a magnanimous smile. Turning from the desk, he saw Liev by the door, talking with a short hulk of a man in a leather jacket. He waved Mircea over, straightening the collar of the man’s jacket. “Mircea! You look refreshed and recovered,” Liev said. He gestured to the man, who eyed Mircea stoically. “This is Boris. Take good care of Mircea,” Liev ordered. “He is a very important man!” Mircea puffed out his chest in delight, and eagerly kissed Boris on either cheek in grateful farewell. Turning to go, he saw Boris’s eyebrows had lifted slightly. Silently, Boris took his suitcase and led him out to the waiting car. Mircea hadn’t known what to expect, but he was still pleasantly surprised by the fairly new comfortable sedan that Boris was driving. “The trunk is full, so your bags will have to go in the back,” Boris informed him brusquely, shoving Mircea’s suitcase into the backseat. “Yes, of course. Liev said you had some deliveries to make,” Mircea said, making conversation. Boris took his carryon wordlessly and dropped it on to the backseat. Mircea got the sense that this was going to be a long trip. Boris was sullenly quiet as they drove off; Mircea figured he would get some sleep, but Boris’s aggressive driving style was not conducive to this. Traffic in Kiev was bad, particularly as Boris had chosen to leave during rush hour. Boris had also put on a CD of annoying Russian pop music, and seemed to be applying the brakes in time to the drumbeat. Mircea realised he would have to talk to distract him from the music. “Have you far to go, after Vinnytsia?” he asked, hearing how the splints were muffling his words. Am I going to have to take them out? He frowned. Boris gave him a sideways glare. “I have to get to Odessa. It would have been quicker with the direct route, no detours!” Sucking on the splints, Mircea realised he was going to have to slip Boris some dollars to compensate him for the extra journey. He must have had some agreement with Liev, but he obviously wasn’t very happy about ferrying Mircea. It was a complicated way to go to Vinnytsia and then Odessa, so Mircea got out his bill fold. Seeing this, Boris grunted, and waved a hand over the passenger seat. “It has all been taken care of,” he said dismissively. “A favour to one of Liev’s friends is a favour to him.” The way Boris said friend had an odd tone to it. “I’m very grateful to you,” Mircea insisted, motioning with the billfold. He felt the spints slip, so he shut his mouth quickly. Boris snorted. “I don’t need your gratitude.” Again, the odd tone on gratitude. “You and Liev have your arrangement!” Slowly, a light came on in Mircea’s head. An arrangement. Liev’s “friend”. Disgusted, Mircea shoved the billfold back into his pocket and took a breath to protest, but then he stopped himself. He didn’t need to explain anything to Boris. Clenching his jaw and pushing the splints into place with his tongue, he forced himself to smile. “All right, then.” He reached out and turned the volume down on Boris’s music, not caring how he reacted to this. “I’ll get some sleep. How long do you think it will take to get to Vinnytsia?” “Long enough,” was the grunt of a reply. Mircea kept his false smile firmly in place. “Okay. “ Although he didn’t feel it was important to correct Boris’s impression of him, the true reason behind him having to be driven down to Vinnytsia couldn’t get out. “Keep the music down, will you? This monster of a hangover isn’t going away.” Boris promptly switched the sound system off. Mircea closed his eyes in the blissful silence. Being chauffeured was much preferable to a domestic flight, now that he thought about it. He smiled genuinely now – Mircea Rotar was moving up in the world, no matter what people thought of him!
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