Operation Samarium

2. Grigori and Vasili-1

Grigori and Vasili

Once they had exchanged the merchandise for money and checked that no one was following them, Vasili seemed calmer. In fact, the irrepressible jabbering of earlier was replaced by complete silence, much to Grigori’s relief. It meant he could snatch a quick nap.

While Vasili was driving the car to get them away from Marbella, he considered how they had got themselves into this dodgy situation and embarked on a review of recent events. At this time of day, traffic was non-existent and he was cruising at a moderate speed, so he could let his mind wander.

The range of possibilities for entertainment offered to Grigori and Vasili was fairly limited. It basically depended on their financial resources, which fluctuated between meagre and pitiful. Their usual habit - if the budget did not allow for more, which was most of the time - was to go into a bar and drink a few beers while watching a football match on TV. If their finances were a bit more buoyant, they could replace beer with vodka, albeit cheap and of abysmal quality. Only occasionally, and under certain special, infrequent and singular circumstances, could they afford to treat themselves to a visit to a nightclub, striptease included, even if the dancers were a little well upholstered and had probably left their grandchildren in the care of a neighbour.

So it was that on that Thursday, one rash midweek day, they decided to go to San Pedro de Alcantara and treat themselves to a special night out. Little did they imagine what they were about to get involved in.

While they were enjoying the spectacle - sad, decadent and pathetic - drinking a third-rate vodka and hoping to be able to convince one of the women in the room to have s*x at a reasonable price, a guy came up to their table.

The man, whom they had never seen there before, started talking to them, commenting on the strippers' bodies and in particular their t**s. Then, out of the blue, he made them a proposition:

‘Would you like to earn yourselves some easy cash? Then you could up your game and f**k a far classier tart than any of these here.’

The idea of being able to afford a w***e that was above their usual standard got them on the hook. Besides, the stranger had told them that it would be easy money. They wanted to believe him.

The man had style. He spoke with an educated accent that sounded like it was from eastern Europe, although they couldn't be sure he was Russian. He was no small-time punk. He dressed well, in an expensive suit, so he must be successful in business and know how to earn a penny. In fact, they wondered how such an individual, looking like that, had stumbled into a dump like that.

The stranger invited them to discuss the matter further, but in a more discreet place.

‘Do you have a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Follow me, please.’

They left the nightclub and watched as their new friend got into his car, an 800hp V-12 Lamborghini Aventador. They followed him in theirs, a second-hand Audi A4. He drove to Puerto Banús.

The club he took them to was right in front of the marina. Stopping at the entrance, they left the cars with the valet and went inside. A huge bouncer, his head shaved like a billiard ball, stood at the door, checking out the visitors. When he saw who it was, he let them through and greeted their new friend as if he knew him and he was there frequently.

‘Come with me,’ the man ordered, as the gorilla gave a nod indicating that he understood the situation.

The place was called Irina la dulce, which was either a demonstration of the owner’s lack of imagination when looking for a name, or else a subtle irony with reference to the film Irma la Douce (Irma, the sweet one) in which the main character was a prostitute. In any case, Grigori and Vasili had never even heard of Jack Lemmon or Shirley MacLaine and had certainly never seen the film.

After passing the payment booth, they had to climb a staircase with a dozen or so steps, at the top of which there were security staff controlling access. Behind them were huge, heavy velvet curtains whose main function was to isolate the noise, ensure the privacy of the guests and maintain an intimate atmosphere. Behind these curtains and down three steps, you reached the restaurant area with a small number of tables and a bar on the left where you could have a drink.

The club was tall and spacious, in the shape of a huge barrel. At the far end was a brightly lit stage, with a central pole, where a topless dancer gyrated and performed intricate erotic moves to the rhythm of the music. In between the restaurant and the stage, there were tables arranged in a semi-circle where you could take your time to relax and enjoy a drink while watching the show.

As soon as they walked in, they could see that there was a big difference between the strippers they were used to and the ‘escorts’ that filled every corner of this club. Booths were located on the sides of the long barrel, to the left and right. They had curtains drawn across for privacy and a guard outside to ensure that nobody interrupted what was taking place inside.

The type of clientele was also very different. They looked like powerful businessmen, with a lot of money and an even greater desire to show that they had it. You only had to check out the cars parked around the place. They were a lot fancier than the ones they were used to seeing in the dives they frequented.

Their host was perfectly at ease in this establishment. It was obvious that he knew it well or might even be the owner or at least the manager. There were plenty of clues; the way the bouncer at the door greeted him, the reaction of the waiters and the girls when they saw him arrive and the manner in which he moved around without the slightest hesitation. What they did not understand was why a man with a car like that and associated with a place like this, would go out of his way to seek them out. Before the end of the night, they would understand his motives.

He took them to an office tucked away from inquisitive eyes, situated at the far end, to the right of the stage. Inside, it was so well soundproofed that they could barely hear the music accompanying the exotic dancer on stage. They could observe her perfectly through a viewing window, which allowed them to see the show from there without being observed from the other side. They sat on a crescent-shaped leather sofa facing the entertainment. No sooner had they made themselves comfortable than a waitress appeared who left the two guests with their mouths hanging open. She must have been six feet tall with blonde, shoulder-length hair, almond green eyes and amazingly long legs. She wore a miniskirt that covered very little and a white blouse, under which there was nothing but her bare breasts. Her chest must have been at least a size thirty-eight.

‘What would you like to drink, gentlemen?’

They would have liked to answer with the sort of inane banter they were used to, like ‘your juices, baby’, but even they realised that this phrase - or anything similar - was out of place at that moment. As out of place as they themselves were.

‘Vodka?’ their host suggested.

They both nodded. They were feeling so self-conscious that they didn’t dare speak up and let their Siberian peasant accents show. But more than anything they were suspicious. They didn’t trust so much hospitality from someone they had just met. There was a hidden agenda here and they wanted to know what it was.

After a curt nod from the man, the waitress left and later brought a tray with a bottle of the best Beluga vodka and three small glasses. She placed it all on the table and as she bent down, they could see that indeed, under her blouse, only her naked firm breasts were visible.

The host made the same brusque gesture and the girl disappeared. He filled the glasses.

‘Here’s to women and business,’ he said, raising his glass.

The others followed suit and all three drank it in one gulp.

The vodka was excellent. Probably the best they had ever drunk.

Through the one-way window they watched as couples made their way to the private rooms in what looked like the prelude to a happy ending. The ‘escorts’ - all of them stunning - looked as if they had been snatched from a beauty contest. There were plenty of girls with Eastern European features, tall and blonde with blue eyes, but there were also some brunettes who looked South American or Cuban or some such, and a few Asian girls. It seemed that, no matter what might be the s****l predilection of the gentlemen who visited Irina la Dulce, their tastes were provided for. And there they were, two former farm labourers, enjoying vodka and the sight of women they had only seen in the cinema and, what’s more, for free. And on top of that, they were going to be offered a business proposition. Something didn't add up and they still didn't know what it was.

From that point on, their host started talking about himself, basically to big himself up. He endeavoured to impress them by telling them how he had progressed from a squalid suburb of Kiev to there. What he had had to do to get all that he had now and what he was willing to do not to lose it.

He didn't seem to have any interest in hearing what his new friends had to say on any subject. As he talked and talked, the glasses were refilled again and again and knocked back in one gulp. But one detail did not escape Vasili’s attention. His new friend spoke in the plural, as if he represented someone, perhaps some group, or more likely, a company.

The two farmhands kept drinking and drinking the vodka and after the second bottle they were beginning to feel its effects, while their host seemed immune to the alcohol. When he thought they were sufficiently mellow, he got to the point.

‘Well, gentlemen, let’s talk business. Would you like to make some easy money?’

They might be a couple of peasant farm workers who had migrated there, but they knew all too well that making easy money was a false concept. However, they were willing to do anything to earn money, even if it was ‘easy’.

‘We want to earn money. If it’s easy, all the better,’ replied Vasili on behalf of both of them.

‘Great! We need you to enter a house and take something.’

Although they were beginning to feel the effects of the dozen or so glasses of vodka that had slipped so easily down their throats, they still had a few functioning neurons left.

‘You want us to commit a robbery.’

The man poured another round and as he drank his vodka, he replied.

‘Well,’ he said, shaking his head slightly, ‘let’s say it’s a matter of retrieving something that shouldn’t be where it is. It’ll be a ten-minute job. No two ways about it. No risk involved. In and out. And five thousand euros each. But you must follow the instructions to the letter.’

They looked at each other and drank the latest shot their new friend had poured out. Five thousand euros! It had been a long time since they had seen that much money in one place. Grigori tried to remember the last time and remembered the bank heist in Sofia, with a couple of plastic guns. But that was a long time ago.

‘What do we have to do?’

‘Come back here in a week’s time. Thursday. Not before midnight. If the doorman gives you any trouble, tell him I’m expecting you. Bring a passport photo. I’ll give you your instructions then.’

‘And if the guy asks us your name, what do we say?’

‘Oleg. And your names are?’

‘I’m Grigori.’

‘And I’m Vasili.’

‘Good. See you next Thursday then.’

As they got up to leave, they passed the blonde waitress who smiled at them with a half-professional, half-mocking look on her face.

‘Thanks for coming. We look forward to seeing you again soon.’