The Eyewitness (22 page)

Sasha pointed at Katrina.

“I will take you to London,” he said.

Katrina beamed, then put her arm around her sister's shoulders.

“And my sister?” she asked.

“When she is older,” said Sasha.

“I cannot use underage girls in London. In two years, when she is ready, I will bring her. But not now.”

Katrina opened her mouth to protest, but Sasha silenced her with a warning finger.

“You will do as you are told,” he said.

“I am the boss, you obey me, do you understand?”

Katrina took her arm from around her sister and nodded.

“Good. If you remember that we will get on fine.” Sasha didn't bother explaining that Katrina would have to work to pay off her debt once she got to London. If there were any problems, he'd explain it to her when it was too late. The younger sister would give him leverage, too. Katrina wouldn't know where she was, but Sasha would.

He went back to the meeting room and sat down. Karic and Rikki were already there. They gave him the four Polaroids and said that the girls were fine. They were well versed in checking, and Sasha trusted their judgement. He poured himself a glass of water and was about to add ice cubes when Nikolic came back into the room.

“How is everything?” he asked, dropping into the chair opposite Sasha and opening his attache case.

Sasha pushed the Polaroid of Katrina across the table towards him.

“Ah, by far the prettier of the two,” said Sasha.

“An excellent choice. I already have an offer of fifteen thousand euros for her.”

“You said five thousand pounds before.”

“The bids have started, Sasha, and the sisters are pretty and talented. I have an offer of fifteen thousand euros for her. And fifteen for the sister.”

“I'm not interested in the sister,” said Sasha.

“I'll give twelve thousand pounds for her.”

Nikolic scribbled in a small leather notebook.

Sasha passed over the photograph of the four other Moldavians.

“And I'll pay six thousand pounds apiece for these.”

“I already have an offer of ten thousand US dollars for this girl,” said Nikolic, tapping one of the pictures.

“Okay, eight thousand pounds for her. Six for the rest.”

Nikolic made another note, then took a handful of photographs out of his attache case.

“I have these for your consideration,” he said.

“All English speakers.”

Sasha settled back in his chair and flicked through the Polaroids. The bidding had now started in earnest and would go on for much of the day. He was certain of one thing: he was going to buy Katrina, no matter how much she cost him. Not that the money mattered she would repay it: he knew he would have fun with her himself.

Solomon was sipping his espresso and looking at the Legal Escorts website when his mobile rang. It was Danny McLaren.

“Looks like you've got the flat to yourself for a few days, mate,” said the journalist.

“Things are starting to move Iraq-wise so they're sending me out to Saudi this afternoon. Probably all turn to shit but I won't be back before the weekend, whatever happens. I've got to handhold one of our star feature writers, get her the quotes so she can win another award. And I say that without a trace of bitterness.”

Solomon said he could look after himself. McLaren asked him what he was doing.

“Going over the agency's website,” he said.

“Have you found out who it's registered to?” asked McLaren.

“Probably hidden but you should give it a go.”

“How?”

“Go to a domain-checker. There's one atwww.registryweb.com. They'll tell you who it's registered to, who the technical people are, how long they've had the domain, stuff like that. Does this mean you'll be inviting young Miss Whatsername back to my humble abode?”

“No need,” said Solomon.

“According to the site she's available for in call now. Maybe that's what the fiasco was about last time. She was probably too busy moving into the new place.”

“Don't think they have to move much, mate. They don't usually live in the flats.”

“Escort agencies are different,” said Solomon.

“No maids, and the girls often sleep where they work.”

McLaren laughed.

“Sounds like you're becoming an expert,” he said.

“Got it from the horse's mouth, a Maltese. He says he's got girls right across London. I'll try to fix up a date with her tonight.”

McLaren laughed again.

“A date? Is that what you call it? You old romantic, you.”

“Less of the old,” said Solomon. He wished his friend a safe trip and cut the connection.

Then he clicked through to Registry Web and typed in the URL for Legal-escorts. com After a few seconds the details of the website owner popped up, but it appeared to be an Internet company in Surrey. They had probably registered it on behalf of the true owner. They had bought the domain in March 2000.

He went back to McLaren's flat before phoning the agency. A girl answered, younger the first, and her accent was less pronounced. He asked if he could book Amy for an hour's in call at four o'clock, but was told she was busy until later that evening.

“Would you be interested in another girl?” asked the receptionist.

“What time would Amy be available?” asked Solomon.

“Not until nine, I'm afraid,” said the receptionist.

“Can I book her for an hour then?” asked Solomon.

“No problem,” said the girl.

“Have you seen Amy before?”

“No, I haven't,” said Solomon.

“And your name is?”

Solomon froze. He couldn't remember the name he'd booked under last time. He was using his mobile and if they were anywhere close to efficient they'd have taken a note of his name and number. He looked frantically for his notebook.

“I'm sorry, you're breaking up,” he said, playing for time.

“I didn't catch what you said.”

Then he remembered. The bedroom. He rushed down the hallway as the receptionist repeated what she'd said.

The notebook was on the floor and Solomon grabbed it.

“Richard,” he said, fighting to keep his breathing steady.

“Richard Williams.”

“I'll call you back to confirm, Richard. What's your number?”

Solomon gave it to her. Five minutes later she called back and gave him an address in St. John's Wood.

Solomon fetched a beer from McLaren's fridge, sat down in the kitchen and worked out what he was going to say to Nicole Shala.

The sky had darkened outside the hotel when the auction finished and Nikolic presented Sasha with his bill. Eighty-five thousand pounds, plus a commission charge of twenty per cent: Nikolic took a cut from both buyer and seller.

Sasha opened his metal briefcase and took out bundles of banknotes.

“I wish these Brits would adopt the Euro,” said Nikolic.

“It would make life so much easier.”

Sasha stacked the money beside the case. One hundred and two thousand pounds. He had agreed on twenty thousand pounds for Katrina; the most he had ever paid for a girl. He had bought two Latvian girls for five thousand apiece and two pretty Ukrainians for seven and a half each. The four Moldavians had cost him a total of thirty-five thousand. Nikolic had also talked him into taking a Bulgarian girl who specialised in domination work. While Sasha wasn't interested in that side of the sex industry he knew of a woman who ran a dungeon in the City who would give him three times what he'd paid to take over her contract.

“The woman in six thirty-six, is anyone bidding for her?” asked Sasha.

Nikolic shrugged carelessly.

“The Bosnian? There has been some interest, but no bids.”

“How much do you want for her?”

“You are joking?”

“Does it look like I am joking?”

Nikolic stopped laughing.

“The triads would pay me eight thousand,” he said.

“That would be Hong Kong dollars?”

“US,” said Nikolic, smiling thinly.

“Do I look like I was born yesterday? I'll give you two thousand pounds.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Three thousand five hundred.”

Sasha sighed.

“I'm too tired to argue,” he said, and counted out bundles of banknotes. He gave the money to Nikolic, then told Karic to lock the briefcase. He said he would return in a couple of months.

Markovic was waiting for him in Reception.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“I took ten,” said Sasha.

“Good merchandise. And one other. A girl from Sarajevo. Get someone to collect her. Nikolic will have her ready for you. You've still got that bar outside Sarajevo, the one where the federal cops drink?”

Markovic nodded.

“Give her a job as a waitress, or in the kitchen. Pay her well, yeah? Not stupidly well, but I want her taken care of.”

Markovic slapped him on the back.

“Not getting soft, are we?”

Sasha reached down and grabbed Markovic's balls.

“You want to see how soft I am just carry on talking like that,” he said.

Both men laughed and they walked towards the waiting cars with their arms around each other.

Anna knocked on the door to his office and Sergei Goncharov looked up from the spreadsheet on his computer screen.

Anna smiled brightly, not put off by the frown on the Russian's face. She had worked with him for almost four years and was used to his black moods. She was from Estonia, a tall, striking blonde with a super model's figure, who had been one of Goncharov's highest-earning girls during the three years she had worked as an escort. She'd approached him directly after making her own way to London on a fiance visa that an Englishman she'd met in Moscow had obtained for her. She'd dumped him within days of arriving in the city and had started working for Goncharov a week later. Because she wasn't on a contract she could work for him on the same terms as the English girls at the agency and kept two-thirds of the money she earned. After three years she had amassed more than a quarter of a million pounds in the bank, a two-bed roomed mews house in Knightsbridge and half a dozen marriage proposals from City lawyers, stockbrokers, TV executives and a schoolteacher who lived with his aged mother. For some reason that Goncharov could never fathom, she'd agreed to marry the schoolteacher and stop working as an escort.

Goncharov had been more than happy to keep her on as one of his receptionists: she was professional with a good phone voice and acted as a substitute mother to the younger girls, even though she was only in her mid-twenties.

“Sergei, you remember you asked us keep an eye on Amy?” She always spoke to him in Russian, partly because she knew he preferred his own language but also because it gave her an edge over the rest of the office staff who couldn't speak it.

Sergei nodded but didn't say anything.

"We've just had a booking from a new client. Richard Williams. He booked Amy two days ago but she wasn't available so we sent Tanya instead. Today he has called for Amy and I've arranged one hour in call “So? Amy is a popular girl.”

“I phoned Tanya to see how he'd been with her, and she says he was a bit strange. He seemed uneasy, didn't want to have sex, and kept asking about Amy, even though he'd never met her. Then there was a phone call saying he had to work. The appointment was cut short but he didn't query the money.”

Goncharov leaned forward, his interest piqued.

“What was he like, this Williams?”

“Tanya said he was in his mid-thirties, quite good-looking. Brown hair. Brown eyes. About six foot.”

“He didn't mention Bosnia?”

“No.”

“And he's seeing her at nine?”

“That's right. What do you want me to do?”

For the first time in several days, a smile spread across the Russian's face.

“Nothing, Anna. I'll take care of it. And thank you, you've done well.”

The smile vanished and Goncharov went back to his spreadsheet. Business was good, and growing fast. Income from Legal Escorts amounted to more than a hundred and forty thousand pounds in the previous month, and it was only one of several agencies he owned. With the saunas, walk-ups and drinking clubs he was earning close to a million pounds a month in London alone.

The money didn't remain in the UK for long. Goncharov moved it through a daisy chain of bank accounts, then into a commodities company based in Budapest. The company made bulk purchases of easily re saleable items, anything from children's shoes to second-hand cars, which were then shipped around the world. Its subsidiaries received payment for the goods, and the money was moved through more offshore bank accounts until it was virtually untraceable. Goncharov had made sure that in the unlikely event that the British police or Europol targeted him for trafficking or living off immoral earnings, the money would be unreachable. Everything he used in the UK was leased or rented: his mansion in Kensington, his fleet of cars, his cruiser moored at Chelsea Harbour. None of it belonged to him and he could walk away from it without a moment's hesitation.

Nicole's flat was in an apartment block close to St. John's Wood tube station, a ten-storey, featureless building with more than fifty bells at the main entrance. A small brass plate detailed instructions for contacting the various apartments. Solomon pressed the 'clear' button, then the flat number, then the star button. The intercom made a harsh repetitive buzzing noise, then there was static hiss, then he heard a girl's voice.

“Yes?”

“Amy?” said Solomon.

“It's Richard.”

“Come on up, Richard.” The lock clicked and Solomon pushed open the heavy wood and glass door. He took the lift to the second floor. The corridor was expensively carpeted and there were pretty brass light fittings every half-dozen steps. He went along to Nicole's flat and knocked at the door. It opened almost immediately and Nicole Shala smiled at him.

She was taller than Solomon had thought, although she was wearing three-inch heels, and she looked older than he knew she was in a sheer leopard-patterned robe.

“Come in,” she said.

Solomon smelt jasmine as he walked past her into a large sitting room with a fireplace above which hung an ornate gilt mirror. He watched her reflection as she closed the door and walked up behind him. She put her hands on his shoulders and massaged them gently.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” said Solomon. He turned to face her. She was wearing a lot of makeup heavy foundation, thick mascara and bright red lipstick.

“Whisky, beer, Coke?”

“Water would be fine.”

She put a hand up to his cheek.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she said, then headed for the kitchen.

There were two Louis XIV-style sofas at either side of the fireplace and Solomon sat down on one. Gilt-framed paintings were on all the walls, scenes of various European capitals. A crystal chandelier hung from the centre of an ornate carving that was almost certainly plastic. Solomon realised that the whole room was a fake the reproduction antique furniture, the old-master prints. And Nicole? A cheap copy of a mistress: a sexual experience bought and paid for without any emotional involvement.. .

“You look worried,” said Nicole, coming back from the kitchen.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“Better not to think,” she said, and handed him a glass.

“Is that how you feel?” asked Solomon, and put it on a marble coffee table.

“Thinking doesn't help.” She sat down on the sofa next to him and put her hand on his leg.

“So, what do you like to do?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“In bed?”

"Ah, I don't know. I really just wanted to talk' She raised her eyebrows.

“Talking is good,” she said.

“Do you want me to tell you what I want you to do to me?” Her hand slid up his thigh.

“Nicole .. .” said Solomon, and she froze.

“What did you say?”

“Your name's Nicole, right?”

She stood up.

“Who are you?”

“My name's Jack. I just want to talk to you.”

“You must go,” she said, nervously.

“Go now.”

“Please, Nicole, sit down. Just give me a few minutes.” He took out his wallet and held up two hundred pounds.

“Look, here's the money. Phone the agency and tell them I'm here, then listen to what I have to say. Please.”

“How do you know my name? How did you find me?”

Solomon held out the money but she ignored it.

“I was looking for you in Sarajevo,” he said.

“I spoke to Emir.”

“Emir?” She sat down, her hands clasped together.

“How is he? What's he doing?”

“He's fine, he misses you he's read and reread that letter you sent him a million times.”

“He loves me,” she said, flatly.

“There's no doubting that,” said Solomon.

“You should get in touch, let him know you're okay.”

“Nicole isn't okay, Nicole Shala is dead.”

“That's not true, Nicole,” said Solomon softly.

“Nicole died three years ago. My name is Amy.”

“Nicole ' ”Don't call me that!" she hissed.

“Okay, okay,” said Solomon.

“If you want me to call you Amy, I'll call you Amy.”

“I want you to go,” said Nicole. She stood up.

“I want you to go now.”

“We've found your family,” said Solomon.

For a moment her eyes brightened, but the look of hope vanished just as quickly.

“They're dead,” she said.

Solomon nodded slowly.

“All of them?”

“The truck was at the bottom of a lake.”

Nicole wrapped her arms around herself.

“It was my fault,” she said, and tears trickled down her cheeks.

Solomon stood up and went over to her.

“It wasn't your fault,” he said, putting his hands on her shoulders.

“You mustn't say that.”

She began to sob and Solomon put his arms round her. As he held her, she crumpled against him. He could smell her jasmine perfume, and stroked the back of her neck, not sure what to say.

A mobile phone beeped into life. The William Tell Overture. She pushed him away and rushed over to it. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed loudly, then answered the call.

“Hello, yes, yes, he's here.” She turned her back on Solomon.

“I was just going to call. Yes, everything's fine.” She cut the connection and tossed the phone on to one of the sofas. Then she turned to Solomon. Her face was streaked with tears.

“Please, just go. You don't have to pay me, just go.”

“We need to talk,” said Solomon.

“No!” she hissed, then rushed across the room, disappeared through an open door and slammed it behind her.

Solomon could hear her crying softly.

“Nicole,” he called, 'come out and talk to me." There was no answer. He knocked.

“Nicole, please.” Still no reply. He tried the door but it was locked.

Solomon sat down with his back to the door and lit a Marlboro.

“I'm going to wait here until you come out, Nicole,” he said, 'you have to talk to me. You have to tell me what happened three years ago. You're the only witness to what happened, Nicole. You're the only person who can get justice for your family. I understand why you wanted to run away. I understand why you wanted to forget that it ever happened, but you have to face up to it now. If you don't speak up, if you don't tell the world what happened, the men who did it will get away with it."

He heard a click. He scrambled to his feet and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray then went to the door. It led into a bedroom, small but prettily furnished with a brass-framed bed, a white dressing-table and built-in mirrored wardrobes. There were feminine touches throughout the room a crystal vase of long-stemmed roses, a gilt-framed photograph of Nicole, a twelve by ten of one of the pictures on the website, and four toy rabbits with different-coloured bow-ties. On the dressing-table were a dozen different perfumes, all expensive brands. Probably gifts from admirers, thought Solomon.

Nicole was sitting on a small stool, staring into the dressing-table mirror.

“It's safe to go back now,” said Solomon.

“Kosovo's a different place from what it was three years ago. The Americans are there, European soldiers are there, the UN is watching. They're there to make sure that justice is done. There are people there who'll help you, in Kosovo or Bosnia. There's a whole organisation geared up to tracking down war criminals and bringing them to justice.”

Nicole stood up and turned to face him. In her right hand she held a small metal nail file. She held it to her left wrist, the point pricking her skin.

“If you don't go, I will kill myself,” she said. There was a faraway look in her eyes.

“Nicole, this is stupid,” said Solomon.

Nicole pressed the file harder.

“I mean it.”

“Stop this,” said Solomon urgently.

“I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to talk.”

“I've nothing to say to you. Now go, or I will cut my wrists.”

Solomon was four paces away from her and saw that he could probably reach her before she did herself any serious damage -but then what could he do? If she was serious about killing herself there would be nothing to stop her doing it after he'd left.

Solomon held up his hands.

“Okay, I'll go,” he said.

“But can I leave you my phone number, and if you change your mind will you call me?”

“I won't change my mind,” she said. She held out her hands towards him, the point of the file still pressed against her wrist.

He backed out of the bedroom. Nicole went with him but stopped at the doorway.

He went to the front door and reached for the handle.

“Nicole, can I just say one thing?”

She flinched, and he saw a drop of blood blossom at the end of the nail file and dribble down her wrist.

"Please, stop that, will you? said Solomon.

Her right hand was shaking and she was biting down on her lower lip as if preparing to cut deeper.

He took out his wallet. Inside was a card that had come with the pay-as-you-go phone he'd bought. He knelt down and placed it on the floor.

“That's my mobile number,” he said.

“Think about it, really think about it. I can help you. Together we can track down the men responsible for murdering your family. They deserve justice, Nicole. And you are the only one who can get it for them.”

“Go,” she said, scraping the point of file down her wrist. More blood flowed.

Solomon pulled open the door and went out. He shut it behind him. He stood on the landing for almost a minute, wondering whether or not to ring the bell again, but he knew there was no point. There was nothing he could say to her that he hadn't already said. All he could do was hope she'd have a change of heart.

Sergei Goncharov scratched his groin as he watched the girl flop on to a sofa and curl up into a ball as she sobbed. He felt no sympathy for her. She was a commodity, a revenue generator, nothing more. She had another client due at ten thirty and if she wasn't over her crying fit by then he'd send round one of his men to straighten her out.

Goncharov picked up his phone and tapped out a number. Aleksei Leskov answered on the second ring.

“Have you got him?” asked Goncharov.

“He's in a black cab, heading south,” said Leskov.

“Don't lose him,” said Goncharov, but the instruction was unnecessary. Leskov had spent two decades working for the KGB in Kiev and had few equals when it came to surveillance or counter-surveillance. Leskov would have no problem in following the man called Richard Williams back to his home. Or in doing whatever else was necessary.

Goncharov cut the connection and studied the CCTV monitor on his desk. There were two hidden cameras in the girl's apartment; one in the light fitting in the sitting room, one in a smoke detector in the bedroom, and microphones in four of the flat's electrical sockets. He had watched all visitors to the apartment, even if they hadn't fitted the description Petrovic had given him The conversation had intrigued the Russian and he wondered what the girl had seen in Kosovo. His years as a GRU investigator had provided him with all the techniques he'd need to get the information out of her. The threat of a little blood from her wrist wouldn't have deterred Goncharov. He'd have let her cut herself, then patched her up and asked her the question again. He smiled to himself. The man was a fool, and a weakling.

Goncharov had known Petrovic for more than a decade. The Bosnian was a nasty piece of work but a useful contact, and Goncharov had been paid enough for him to ignore the questions that were buzzing in his mind. Petrovic had wanted the man found and killed, and Goncharov was happy to oblige. What the girl had seen would remain a mystery.

Solomon closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. He had the beginnings of a headache. He couldn't believe how badly he'd handled the situation. He'd gone in too hard, confronting her immediately, when he should have brought up the real reason for his visit only after he'd won her confidence. She was little more than a child, a child whose family had been massacred, and he'd treated her with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

He stared out of the window of the taxi. At least he'd found her. If nothing else, he could tell the War Crimes Tribunal where she was and they could pick her up. The Tribunal's investigators were professionals and they would probably do a better job of questioning her. And they'd be able to reassure her that she'd be protected, that she wouldn't suffer the same fate as her family. Maybe then she'd tell what she knew.