The Eyewitness (21 page)

Sasha stood up and accepted a crushing bear-hug from the Serb. Nikolic was Sasha's height but about twice his girth. He had several chins and his gold-ringed fingers were puffed up like sausages.

“Sasha, you are one of the last,” wheezed Nikolic.

“Now we can start.”

“The plane was delayed,” said Sasha.

“My apologies.”

Nikolic waved him to a seat.

“I'm glad you made it. We have some excellent girls on offer, first-class specimens. How many are you looking for this trip?”

“Eight would fulfill my needs, but you know what an impulse buyer I am.”

Nikolic laughed, his hands on his massive stomach as if he feared it would burst.

“Before we start, I've a question for you,” said Sasha, taking the picture of Nicole from his jacket pocket.

“Is this one of yours?”

Nikolic frowned.

“I thought you didn't like the young ones,” he said.

“What is she? Sixteen?”

“Nineteen now,” said Sasha.

“Her hair might be darker.”

“So many girls pass through here, Sasha. I can't be expected to remember them all.”

“Nicole, her name is. Or Amy.”

“Names mean nothing, you know that. What is your interest?”

“Five thousand US, if you can tell me where she is.”

Nikolic rubbed his face.

“Sasha, there's nothing I'd like better than to take your money, but she is just one face among many.”

“She might have gone to London.”

“So, she is a face among thousands.” He handed back the picture.

“I'm sorry. Now, give me five minutes to talk to the Russians, then I will be back.”

“Is there anyone else here from London?” Sasha asked. He knew that at least two of his competitors were in the hotel he had recognised their men at Reception.

Nikolic pointed a warning finger at him.

“You know that's not allowed, Sasha,” he admonished him good-naturedly.

“You can meet the other bidders after the auction, if you wish. Can we get you anything?”

There were bottles of water, glasses and an ice bucket on the table. Sasha said that water would be fine: the time for drinking would be after the auction.

He sat patiently for ten minutes until Nikolic returned. This time he was carrying a Gucci attache case, which he placed on the table before lowering himself on to one of the high-backed leather chairs.

“So, what are you looking for, Sasha?” he asked, as he opened the case.

“What do you have?” asked Sasha.

Nikolic reached into his briefcase and handed over twenty Polaroid photographs.

“Moldavians,” he said.

“I have a bid on the table already for five thousand pounds apiece but I am willing to sell them individually.”

Sasha sorted through the Polaroids. Several he dismissed as too old, too fat or too ugly. In some parts of Europe it didn't matter what a girl looked like men were just grateful to be with a woman but the UK was a richer market and men who wanted to pay for sex could afford to be choosy.

He put two of the Polaroids down in front of Nikolic. They were both brunettes, one with short hair, the other with long hair in plaits.

“How old are they?”

Nikolic wrinkled his nose.

“I have passports for both showing that they are twenty,” he said.

Sasha smiled tightly. Nikolic hadn't answered his question.

Nikolic threw up his hands.

“Okay, okay,” he said. He tapped the picture of the girl with short hair.

“Fifteen,” he said.

“The one with long hair is her sister. Seventeen.”

Sasha tossed the picture of the fifteen-year-old on to the discard pile. He never touched underage girls. It wasn't just because of the potential problems if the police or Immigration discovered her true age; the real downside was that they weren't experienced enough to handle the customers. Sasha didn't want virgins or girls who had only had sex a few times. He wanted them seasoned. Broken in. Girls who could screw two dozen times a day without complaining.

That left him with fourteen. He spread out the pictures.

“I need girls who can speak some English,” he said.

“Just the basics.”

Nikolic nodded and, one by one, pushed five Polaroids towards him. The seventeen-year-old was among them.

“They are all upstairs,” said Nikolic.

“Feel free to test the merchandise.”

Sasha waved Karic and Rikki over. He kept the Polaroid of the seventeen-year-old for himself but gave the other four to his men. Nikolic handed over four hotel keys. Karic and Rikki left the room. They knew what to do.

Nikolic gave Sasha the key to the seventeen-year-old's room and winked.

“You'll like her, Sasha. I should be charging you extra for her.”

Sasha pocketed the key.

“What else do you have?”

“I have Belarussians. But, frankly, they are not up to your standards. Farm-girls. I don't think I would fuck them with your dick, Sasha.” Nikolic roared with laughter at his own joke and banged on the table with the flat of his hand.

“I also have girls from Latvia, the Ukraine, and Bulgaria.”

“What about Kosovans? Or Bosnians?”

Nikolic scratched his chin.

“I have two, but they speak no English.”

“I want to see them.”

Nikolic sorted through the photographs in his briefcase and passed across two.

“Seriously, Sasha, I wouldn't bother with them. Not your type at all. Second-rate. I was planning to send them to Hong Kong. The Chinese will screw any white woman and think she's Julia Roberts.”

“They are in the hotel?”

Nikolic shrugged.

“Of course.”

Sasha held out his hand and the Serb gave him two room keys.

“The one in six thirty-six is from Sarajevo, the other from Pristina. I must warn you, Sasha, they have medical certificates but I wouldn't trust them.”

Sasha stood up.

“Let me see for myself.” He left the room and walked to the lifts. One of Nikolic's men stood aside to let him enter. He pressed the button for the sixth floor.

He unlocked the door to 636 without knocking. The girl was a brunette in her late twenties with large, pendulous breasts and wide hips. She was wearing a black neglige, black lacy briefs and high heels that were several sizes too big for her. She smiled at him nervously and undid the front of the neglige. Her stomach was scarred and wrinkled. She'd had two or three children, at least. Her mouth was a vivid slash of scarlet and she'd applied too much blue mascara to her lashes. She took a step towards him, cupping her breasts, but Sasha waved her away.

“I don't want to screw you,” he said, in Serbo-Croatian. He took out the picture of Nicole from his jacket pocket and showed it to her.

“This girl, have you ever seen her? She's older now, with dark hair.”

The woman shook her head.

“You're sure? Look at the picture.”

The woman frowned, then shook her head again.

Sasha took the picture from her and turned to go.

“Where are you from?” asked the woman.

“Albania, but my business is in London.”

“I want to work in London,” said the woman.

Sasha opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell her that she was too old, too ugly, too scarred to make a living as a hooker in London, that there were younger, prettier girls queuing up for the opportunity to sell themselves, but he could see from her eyes that she already knew the truth. She had already given up hope, had slept with God knew how many men just to get to the hotel room in Belgrade where she would be sold like an animal.

“London is difficult at the moment,” said Sasha.

“There's a lot of competition. Where are your children?”

“My husband is taking care of them,” she said.

“Our farm is mined, we can make no money from the land.”

“He knows what you are doing?”

The woman looked down.

“We have nothing,” she said.

“They said it would be six years, maybe more, before they come to take away the mines. They have other priorities land belonging to more important people than us.”

“Why don't you work in Sarajevo? You would be closer to your family.”

The woman pulled her neglige around herself, still looking down at the floor.

“The man who gave me my job in Sarajevo has sold my contract. I wanted to stay but he said I had to come here.”

Sasha nodded.

“You can take me to London?” she asked hopefully.

“I'm sorry, no,” he said.

She nodded and sat down on the bed, her hands in her lap. Her nails were painted a dark red, but they were bitten to the quick.

The girl from Pristina was in the room next door. When Sasha opened the door she was reading a magazine but she stood up quickly, pushed out her breasts, sucked in her stomach, and smiled seductively. Sasha nodded. She had been well trained. Her makeup was good, just enough to put some colour in her cheeks and lips, and she was wearing a translucent dressing-gown, pull-up stockings and a bra that was slightly too small. No briefs another sign that she had been well trained. By showing the punter what was on offer, he was more likely to plunge straight into sex; the less time spent on foreplay the quicker the turnover.

She had a pretty face framed by dark brown hair with red tints, a professional cut. She also had a series of old razor cuts down the inside of her left arm. Not serious attempts at suicide, just attention-seeking self-mutilation. That was reason enough for Sasha to reject her.

“Can you speak English?” Sasha asked, in English. The girl looked at him blankly. Sasha took out the picture of Nicole and showed it to her.

“You know her?” he asked, in Bosnian.

The girl nodded.

“Yes. We worked in the same bar in Pristina.”

Sasha was stunned.

“You're sure?”

The girl looked at him as if he was stupid. Under other circumstances that would have earned her a slap, but Sasha was too surprised at what she'd said to take offence.

“She was a waitress for about a week. Then she started dancing. After a month the boss sold her on to a bar in Sarajevo.”

“Definitely the same girl?”

“Sure. She was blonde like this when she turned up at the bar asking for work, but she dyed it black after a couple of days.”

“The bar in Sarajevo, what was it called?”

“I don't know.”

“Think.”

“No one told me. I turned up for work one day and she'd gone. I asked what had happened to her and they said the boss had sold her to a bar-owner in Sarajevo. That's all I know.”

“The bar-owner, what was his name?”

Another shake of the head.

“I don't know.”

Sasha took the picture from her and went out of the room.

He took the stairs up to the next floor and let himself into the Moldavian sisters' room. Both girls were in there, sitting on the bed. He closed the door behind him. The younger of the two looked even younger than she had in the photograph. If he hadn't known her real age he'd have taken her for thirteen or fourteen.

“What is your name?” he asked the older girl, in English.

She stood up, smiling.

“Katrina,” she said. Her hair was in two plaits, and she was wearing a long red satin robe, tied loosely at the waist.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen,” she said.

“This is my sister. She is sixteen.”

Sasha ignored the lie. If the younger sister had looked older, perhaps he might have taken her to the UK on the fake passport, but she was never going to look like anything other than an underage girl. She was tiny, a little over five feet, and had barely any curves.

“You know what anal is?” asked Sasha.

Katrina nodded.

“And you are okay with that?”

“If it doesn't hurt,” she said.

Sasha's face hardened.

“I don't care if it hurts or not,” he said.

“I want to know if you are happy to do it. Customers pay more for it in London.”

At the mention of London the girl's smile widened.

“I'm happy to do it,” she said. She put a hand on her sister's shoulder.

“My sister, too.”

“You know what oral is?”

Katrina nodded and mimed putting something towards her mouth. Her sister giggled.

“What about oral without?” said Sasha.

“What does that mean?”

“No condom,” said Katrina.

“Take off your robe,” he said.

Katrina did as she was told, and he looked her up and down. Her skin was pale and flawless, her breasts firm, her stomach flat and unmarked. She turned round without being asked. High, tight buttocks, long legs, emphasised by her high heels. He liked what he saw.

There were condoms and a box of tissues on the bedside table. There was no point in paying thousands of pounds only to discover when a girl got to London that she was lousy at her job. Sasha told the younger sister to give him a condom as he unbuckled his belt. Katrina walked towards him.

“Let me do that,” she said.

Sasha smiled. It showed she'd been well trained. Katrina knelt down, unzipped his trousers and took him in her mouth. She kept looking up at his face as she moved back and forth. A nice touch. Eye-contact made it seem personal.

Sasha felt hands stroking his back. The younger girl was standing behind him. She handed him a condom, the packet already torn open. Sasha took it and gave it to the girl on her knees. She slipped it on while the other's hands moved round his waist and started pulling out his shirt.

Sasha told the older sister to stand up, then lifted her and drove into her as she gripped him with her knees, urging him on. He shuffled over to the dressing-table and sat her on it as he pounded into her.

“Yes, darling, yes, darling, I love it, I love it,” she gasped. The girl was good, thought Sasha. She made it seem as if she was enjoying it, as if he was special, and that was important because the more special a punter felt, the more likely he was to return.

Sasha came with a grunt, and the girl kissed his cheek and hugged him. He pulled away. The younger sister had slipped off her robe and tried to drag him towards the bed, but Sasha pulled up his trousers, went to the bathroom and flushed away the condom. He wiped the girl's lipstick off his cheek with a tissue. When he walked back into the bedroom, the two girls were wearing their robes and sitting together on the bed, whispering in their own language.