Limit of Exploitation (4 page)

“Your daughter is fine, complaining sure, but fine. Now take a seat.” Senka sits on the tatty sofa. “Paula sit.”

“My name is Senka, and believe it or not, you and I have a common cause.” Senka pauses for effect, “Can I tell you something first though? Something that you probably know by now?”

Paula holds an anxious hand to her mouth; Silent tears well up and run free.

“You are one fucking stupid lady. What did you think? Stealing money and drugs from somebody like Miroslav? MIROSLAV!” Shaking her head in disbelief Senka produces a pack of Russian Sobranie cigarettes. She offers Paula one.

“I…I just wanted the extra to get by, to get things for Emma and me.”

Senka snorts as she lights up. “And also to feed your own little habit, right? Am I right?”

Paula bows her head in guilt. Defeated she plays with her brightly coloured cigarette.

“Uh uh, so don't play games with me, playing your fucking stupid games is what got you into this mess in the first place”.

“Look, look I'll do what it takes to make things right, to straighten things out. I'll…I'll run the gear for you guys; I'll get the cash back, make it up to you. Just please don't hurt my daughter, she's just a kid, she is all I have.”

Senka raises that eyebrow again. Holding her cigarette in the continental manner she tilts her head back and blows a long skinny column of purple smoke into the air.

“Just like that eh? You think someone like Miroslav really gives a fuck about you and this bullshit arrangement you made?” Then the clincher “Have you ever heard of the Zemun Clan?” Paula's blank expression confirms that she hasn't.

Senka blows more smoke. “The Zemun are a very powerful crime syndicate based in Belgrade, that's in Serbia before you ask. It was their drugs and cash you stole, they're not impressed”. She pauses to suck the life from her Sobranie. “You stole from some fucking serious players Paula, I'm actually surprised you are still alive.”

“I…I didn't know, didn't know who they were, I've never heard about any of this Zemun stuff! I got involved with them, yes, but in the end I ended doing shit I didn't want to do.”

“Welcome to my world.”

“Your world?”

From inside Senka's Louis Vuitton handbag her mobile phone doubles tones. Paula watches as Senka digs out her iPhone and reads the incoming text. “Listen, I have to go,” she stubs out her cigarette and both women stand.

Paula gets anxious. “Go? Go where? Who was that? What about my daughter?”

“Paula your daughter is fine, it might take a while to sort this out and get her back, but she is fine.”

Paula is definitely not having that, “When? When do I get her back? For fuck's sake, I'm going to the Police!”

Senka steps forward, she needs to control this. “Listen to me! Do you want Emma back? Do you? Then forget about going to the Police, she will be dead or out of the country before the fucking Police can arrange the overtime. Don't be a bloody fool.”

“Then what? What the hell is going on? You come here with your bullshit stories. Why the hell should I listen to you?”

“I am not playing games here Paula and I'm not bullshitting you. You must speak with no one about my being here; you must say nothing to anybody.” She raises her finger to emphasise, “That's anybody.”

“I don't…”

“Understand? You don't understand much do you? I'm the only friend you have right now. I have my own reasons for being here but we will do things my way, and then maybe we both get what we want.” Senka turns and breezes down the hallway.

As Paula hears her front door slam she crosses the room and opens a drawer on the sideboard.

She pauses as she looks down at a soup spoon heavy with burn marks, some elastic ties, disposable syringes and other drug paraphernalia.

Outside, parked in a resident's only bay at the base of Paula's block, Miroslav's driver Marko sits patiently waiting behind the wheel of a metallic blue BMW X5 4x4.

A wiry built man, Marko wears two days growth and the obligatory black leather jacket of an eastern euro. His shoulder length jet-black hair is oiled back and combed into place. He checks his mirrors as Senka approaches.

The kids in playground are giving it max as she looks around checking the street before getting in the X5.

Marko gives her a sideways look. “And so? How did it go?”

“She is a stupid little girl that one. She has no idea what she has gotten herself involved in here.”

Marko slowly nods in understanding, “Miroslav will want to make an example of her, and you know what that means. He's still talking about trading her daughter. He's not going to just hand her back.”

“We must get the child away before that happens Marko.”

“Must we? Aren't we taking enough risks already? What about our plans? Who comes to save us Senka?”

Senka places a loving hand on Marko's face. “Marko, my love, we still have our plans, but I just, I just can't stand by while an innocent child gets trafficked like that.”

“You see yourself in that child don't you?”

Senka hardens up as bad memories come flooding back. She stares blankly at the kids playing. “My life was destroyed by pigs like Miroslav and the Zemun, why should that child's be?”

Marko tries for a reassuring smile but his eyes aren't playing along. He fires up the X5 and slips it into drive.

Alone and brooding, John sits on top of his Bergen Rucksack in the dusty shade of the blast walls; his rifle rests across his knees. He waits near the makeshift Helipad for the Chinook ride that will take him to Camp Bastion and the long journey home. Through the shimmering heat haze he idly watches soldiers on the other side of the Helipad gathering for a patrol, but his thoughts are elsewhere. Behind him a pair of boots are crunching towards him.

“A dying sister in London eh? What a load of shite.” John turns his head at the broad Glaswegian accent. It belongs to Ian Braddock, the Company Sergeant Major. A long career soldier in his late thirty’s, Ian wears a greying crew cut and a days growth, he eyes John intently with hard grey eyes.

“Yeah, apparently she’s in a bad way.”

“That right? Fuck me son, is that the best you can do?”

John returns his gaze to the patrol of soldiers as Ian lowers his voice. “You know, whatever it is John, looking at you, I can tell its drama.”

“There’s something that needs sorting Ian, a problem I need to deal with.”

“This problem have a name?”

“It has a Serbian name, want to know anymore?”

“No, do I fuck.”

“I’ve never asked you for anything Ian, never asked for any special treatment or favours, but I need this one.”

“Serbian eh? Doesn’t sound good to me.” Both men watch the departing patrol.

“I remember you when you first got to this Battalion, alone in the world, angry at everyone. The Army became your family, and I’m not happy when our family members are hurting.” Ian lets that sink in, “Remember, we’re a big brotherhood son and we look after our own.”

Eyes turn skyward as a distant Chinook is heard beating its way towards the FOB. As the patrol sprints out of the FOB, more soldiers take up defensive positions. Sanger sentry’s hunker down behind fifty calibre Browning machine guns and mortar crews stand ready in sandbagged pits, 81mm Mortar Bombs grasped in their hands.

A dirty beige Chinook suddenly bursts into view shattering the silence. As it batters down hard and fast onto the FOB’s helipad, sand and grit from the downdraft blasts troops and buildings alike.

Through their protective goggles John and Ian watch the roaring Chinook bounce down with its tailgate toward them. High above in a clear blue sky an Apache gunship circles menacingly.

Through the billowing dust cloud they can just make out the Loadmaster standing on the aircrafts lowered tailgate giving a thumbs up to a group of assembled troops. His foot rests on an M60 Machine Gun fixed on the tailgates edge.

The troops with their heads wrapped in Arab Shemaghs, sprint for the Chinook and start offloading boxes of ammunition, rations and water, all the commodities of war. The pilot keeps the rotors turning and burning at high revs, ready to lift off at a seconds notice should the shit hit the fan.

Ian leans in towards John’s, grabbing his collar he shouts in his ear to make himself heard above the din of the roaring helicopter

“WHEN YOU GET TO BRIZE NORTON THERE’LL BE A VEHICLE THERE FOR YOU. GO TO THIS GRID DOWN ON THE TRAINING AREA IN ALDERSHOT. IT SHOULD HELP.” He shoves an army notebook into John’s top pocket. John silently nods in understanding.

Through his goggles Ian makes eye contact. “DONT FUCK THIS UP SON OR WE ARE BOTH IN THE SHIT.”

John watches as the loadmaster waves towards him and give a lazy thumbs up. He turns back towards Ian and holds out his fist; Ian punches down on it, and then grabbing his rifle and Bergen, John disappears into the screaming dust cloud.

The high-pitched whine of the turbines is suddenly replaced by the rapid heavy thumping of the aircrafts rotor blades as the Chinook rockets skyward through the swirling sandy cloud. High overhead the circling Apache kicks out sun-bright chaff decoy flares. One Taliban shoulder launched surface to air missile could make the Chinooks flight a very short one.

Inside the aircraft John cranes his neck to peer through one of the porthole windows. Below him FOB Eagle, his home for the last four months, slowly shrinks away.

He shifts round in his red nylon seat and sets his mind on London.

The bedroom is big enough and it is nicely decorated, but it’s not home. A single bed, a bedside table with a lamp and some drawers. There’s a TV and a DVD player but not much else. Of all the unanswered questions running through her young mind, Emma wonders why there are no windows in the bedroom most of all.

She is past the crying and fear stage. There’s lots she doesn’t understand, but all she wants to do now is go home and see her mum. Lying on her bed in jeans and a T-shirt, she props herself up on her elbows as she hears a key turning in the locked door. Perhaps that’s mum coming to get me.

Emma is small for her age, maybe even under­nourished. Her mousey brown hair could do with a wash and she can’t remember the last time she brushed her teeth. She flops back down and stares at the ceiling as Senka enters with a tray of breakfast.

“Morning child, how did you sleep?”

There’s no response, Emma is emotionally drained. Senka is pleasant enough but she’s not mum.

“I’ve brought you your coco pops, these are your favourite.” She places the tray on the bed. “Am I right?”

Emma silently nods, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “Am I going home today?”

“Child, we have talked of this, remember?”

Senka checks over her shoulder before squirting a syringe full of Secobarbital sodium into the bowl of milk. Just enough to keep Emma docile and compliant.

Emma ignores her. “When is Mummy coming to get me?”

“Your Mummy will be coming soon, she has to do some work first, and then when she is finished she’ll be coming, just as we talked about.”

“I just want to go home now, when’s my Mum coming?” Emma voice starts to quake as Senka does her best bedside manner.

“Emma, Emma, no need for tears, she is coming, just a little while longer I promise you, and then you’ll be going home”

“I don’t like it here, there’s nothing to do. Can’t I go out and play?”

“Remember we said it wasn’t safe just now, we said it would be better to stay here for now.”

Defeated and confused Emma gives up and slips back into silent mode. Senka feels the pangs of guilt and shame well up in herself. “Tell you what, how about I get some new DVD’s? What about that one Madagascar? I’ve heard that’s a good one.” Silence. “Would you like that? Better than being bored?”

Emma couldn’t care less, “Ok.”

“Good! It will be fun!” Senka is all smiles but her eyes tell a different story. “Now, I have to go to work, work like your Mummy does, but I promise I will be back. Ok hunny?”

Silence again, she’s running on empty. Senka gently moves hair from Emma’s face and lowers her voice.

“I promise you child, not too long now, I promise, please be brave.”

Emma rolls onto her side blanking out Senka and stares at the wall with dead eyes. Sensing that this is good time to bugger off, Senka takes the opportunity to leave.

She pauses at the door and briefly glances back at the small child ripped from her life and now completely at the mercy of Miroslav. Tears start to well in Senka’s eyes as she steps out into a dark wooden panelled hallway of a large country house.

The hallway runs for what seems like miles in either direction, all that’s missing is Sherlock Holmes and some suits of armour. She quietly locks Emma’s door and leans back with her head bowed, her shoulders start to shake. When she raises her head again silent tears run free, she covers her mouth with both hands as the mascara starts to run.

Being an accomplice to Emma’s kidnap was an emotional nightmare for Senka. The memories of how she herself was sold into sexual slavery by her destitute Ukrainian parents were still fresh in her mind, even after all this time. Since Senka was a child however, the sexual exploitation and human trafficking of children in Serbia had increased at such an alarming rate that by 2007 three quarters of all child trafficking cases in Europe originated there.

Official UN and NGO child protection agencies named Serbia as not just a source country for human trafficking, but also a transit route and final destination for women and girls trafficked from Bulgaria, Romania, Moldova, Macedonia and the Ukraine.

The UN lists Serbia as a tier two country, in that the government there does not fully comply with the Trafficking Victims Protection Act’s minimum standards. But with organised crime rings and Mafias such as the Zemun Clan operating the trafficking routes with the collusion of corrupt government officials, it’s not hard to see why.