56

Antoni Barcelo stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back, his weight resting on his left leg. He watched the three identical black Mercedes SUVs slowly wind their way from the front of the empty waterpark towards the visitors’ centre.

The approaching Bosnians were, in Barcelo’s eyes, a necessary evil. Spain, like the rest of Europe, was now one big open playing field. No one respected the old boundaries or territories any more. The important thing was to decide who to sit at the table with and who to feed to the fish. Outfits such as the Rogue Angels, though still dangerous in their own right, were not in the same league as the Bosnians. Barcelo had recognised both the very real threat and the opportunity presented by the Balkan mafia. They had first made contact nearly two years previously. The introduction had been anything but subtle. Their leader, Josef Golok, had arrived in Ultima with a small entourage of seven soldiers and promptly visited one of the red light houses that operated under the auspices of the Locos.

Barcelo had received a panicked call from Ali, the house pimp, to say that eight men were standing in the lobby of the whorehouse staring at him in silence. When Barcelo and a dozen of his men had come to investigate, the Bosnians were still there. They all had the same look. Thickset men, short and stocky, heads shaven—apart from a patch on the top of their heads that a cap would easily cover.

Golok stood nearly a head taller than the rest of his men. His face bore horrific scars that told of a near fatal encounter: a deep slash that ran from his forehead to his chin (this effectively divided his face in two, lending him an almost supernatural look). His right ear was missing. The canal that remained looked like an extra nostril, misplaced on the side of his head.

The deal Golok had proposed was simple: every two months or so they would supply a shipment of girls. Barcelo had the option of keeping them and putting them to work as prostitutes or selling them on to another buyer. Both equalled easy money. Barcelo had agreed to the deal and had profited handsomely ever since.

Yet Barcelo knew that Golok and his Balkan mafia could never be taken for granted. Any perceived slight would surely end in bloodshed. Any weakness in the operation would be cut out like a cancer to protect the main body: the Bosnians.

Now Barcelo watched as the three Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of him. Seven of Golok’s men stepped out of the vehicles. The AK74s they carried did little to calm his concerns. The enforcers seldom changed; the same hard faces were present at each of their meetings.

Golok stepped from the middle vehicle. He was dark with a tan that he hadn’t sported on their previous meeting. He accepted Barcelo’s outstretched hand, shaking it once. “We speak English, yes? My Spanish is still… crap.”

Barcelo gave a slight smile. “And my Bosnian is worse.”

Golok nodded at the six men that accompanied the Spaniard. “New faces. Where is Ortega? I know Ortega.”

“He is taking care of business. These are some of my other men.” Barcelo made a circle in the air with his hand. “Up-and-comers.”

Golok looked at each of the Locos in turn.

“Shall we?” Barcelo pointed to the visitors’ centre behind him. Golok nodded once in response. Not needing to be told, one of Golok’s enforcers remained outside with the vehicles while the other six followed Golok and the seven Locos.

They had used the visitors’ centre on previous occasions. The building, much like the rest of the park, was unfinished. Multi-coloured wires hung in tangled clumps from the ceiling where light fittings should have been attached. A table sat at the centre of the room. A set of shot glasses and a large bottle of premium vodka awaited them.

Barcelo and Golok sat facing each other at the table while the rest of the men stood behind their respective leaders. The Bosnian traced a circle in the fine layer of dust on the table top. Two dots for eyes and a downturned mouth. He leaned forward, his gaze never wavering from Barcelo for a second. “What happened with the girls?”

Barcelo attempted nonchalance but could feel a heat creeping under his collar. “Some Brits were causing trouble at one of my clubs. They set off some smoke bombs and the fire alarms. Just being a pain in the ass. They’re being dealt with as we speak.”

“And the girls?” Golok asked again.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Some of the little bitches made a run for it. Nothing to worry about. I don’t think they will be going to the police any time soon.”

“But some were caught by the police, yes?”

Barcelo hesitated. There was no point trying to deceive him; that would only make things worse. “Yes.”

Golok interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on his knuckles. The relaxed position he adopted left no doubt who was the power player in the room. “The police will connect the girls to you.”

“No. The club is not in my name. Nothing there to link the pollos back to me.”

“Then they will round up your boys,” Golok continued, as if he hadn’t heard him. “The one with his name above the club door. Then one of the boys will talk. Mention your name; mention my name, perhaps. Then we have problem. Big problem.”

Barcelo leaned forward to meet the Bosnian’s icy gaze. His voice was just above a whisper. “No way. My men are one hundred per cent loyal. They know the rules. No one talks. No one.”

Both men remained motionless, scrutinising the other. Barcelo knew this was the tipping point. If Golok desired it, then every one of the Locos in the room would die. Tense seconds ticked by.

“Okay. I trust.” The Bosnian stretched his hands into a prayer position, his hands now resting against the long scar that halved his face. “You bring money for next girls?”

Relieved, Barcelo clicked his fingers and one of the Locos stepped forward and placed the bag of used notes on the table. One of the Bosnians in turn stepped forward and after glancing inside, picked it up and placed it next to Golok’s right hand.

“All is good. But remember, when a finger is poisoned it is best to chop off that finger so the rest of the hand is saved.”

The Bosnian had asserted his authority in his play but Barcelo knew this was not the time to push back. “Drink?”

Golok smiled and pointed at the bottle of Belvedere. “I will drink.”

Barcelo filled two shot glasses to the brim. “To business as usual.”

“To careful businessmen,” countered Golok.

They both drank.

“Another?”

“Another.”

Barcelo refilled the glasses. He could see Babi Garcia from the corner of his eye, standing with his hands on his hips. Golok had asserted his status as top dog with his little speech but Barcelo decided to push back just a little. “Golok, this is my man Garcia. He is helping me with the Brits.”

Golok motioned to the seat next to Barcelo. “Sit. Have drink.”

Garcia came forward and took a seat, accepting a shot glass from his employer.

The Bosnian took his third glass. “Now, tell me more about these Brits.”