Peter Robinson - Strange Affair

He finished his burger and took the tube back to South Kensington with a view to nosing around Roy’s files again to see if there was anything there relating to the Albion Club or any of the members’ names Lambert had given him. Perhaps he could phone some of them and see if they would verify Lambert’s story. He also wanted to get in touch with his parents and the Peterborough police again and make sure everything was all right.

All was still quiet inside Roy’s house. Banks locked the door behind him, slipped the keys in his pocket and headed for the kitchen. When he got there, he was surprised to see a man sitting at the kitchen table. He was even more surprised when the man turned and pointed a gun at him.

“Sit down slowly,” the man said, “and keep your hands in sight.”

Banks did as he was told.

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I might well ask the same.”

“I asked first. And I’ve got the gun.”

“My name’s Alan Banks.”

“Do you have any identification?”

Banks put his hand slowly in his inside pocket and brought out his warrant card. He shoved it across the table to the man, who examined it carefully, then pushed it back and slipped his gun inside a shoulder holster hidden by his jacket.

“What the fuck was all that about?” said Banks, feeling a rush of anger as the adrenaline surged back.

“I had to be sure,” said the man. “Dieter Ganz, Interpol.” He offered his own card, which Banks studied, then stuck out his hand. Banks didn’t feel like shaking it; he felt more like thumping him. Ganz shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he went on. “Detective Superintendent Burgess told me you might be here, but I had to make certain.” He didn’t have much of an accent, but it was there, if you listened, in his speech patterns and careful diction.

“How did you get in?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” said Ganz, glancing toward the back window. Banks saw that a circle of glass about the size of a man’s fist had been cut out of it just below the catch.

“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Banks, “but after that little scare I could do with a drink.”

“No, thank you,” said Ganz. “Nothing for me.”

“Suit yourself.” Banks opened a bottle of Roy’s Côte de Nuits and poured himself a generous glass. His hand was still shaking. “So Burgess sent you, did he?”

Ganz nodded. “He told me where you would be. I’m sorry it took so long but he had a little difficulty finding me. I’ve been out of the country. It seems that we have interests in common.”

“First of all, you’d better tell me what yours are.”

“At the moment, my interest is in people smuggling, more specifically, the smuggling of young women for the purposes of sexual exploitation.”

Ganz looked undercover, Banks thought. He was young, early thirties at most. His blond hair was a bit too long and greasy, and he clearly hadn’t shaved for four or five days. The linen jacket he wore over his shirt was creased and stained, and his jeans needed a wash.

“And what interests do we have in common?” Banks asked.

Ganz took a piece of paper from his side pocket and unfolded it on the table. It was a copy of the photo Banks had given to Burgess. “You’ve been asking questions about who this man with Gareth Lambert is,” he said.

“Lambert told me his name is Max Broda.”

“That is correct,” said Ganz. “Max Broda. He’s an Albanian traveling on an Israeli passport.”

“Why would he do that?”

Ganz smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “No troublesome visas to worry about.”

“What’s his business?” Gareth Lambert had told Banks that Max worked in the travel business, organizing tours and cruises, but somehow or other Banks didn’t think Ganz would be here if that were the case.

“Broda’s a trader,” said Ganz. “Do you know what that is?”

“A trader in what?”

“Have you ever heard of the Arizona Market?”

“No.”

“I know it sounds American, but it’s actually in Bosnia, between Sarajevo and Zagreb. It’s like those old markets you see in movies, you know, the casbah, so romantic with its stalls of colorful goods and its narrow winding streets. During the day many people go there to buy pirated CDs and DVDs and knockoff Rolexes and Chanel perfume. But at night it becomes a market of a different kind. At night you can buy stolen cars, guns, drugs. And young women. They are sold there like sheep and cattle are sold at your country shows. Sometimes they are auctioned off, made to parade naked holding numbers while the traders touch them and caress them before they make their bids, look in their mouths like you would if you were buying a horse. When they’ve been bought, many of them end up working in clubs and brothels in Bosnia, servicing the international peace-keeping forces, but many are also smuggled into other countries to work in peep shows and massage parlors.”

“I suppose that’s where Lambert comes in?” Banks said. “The Balkan route.”

“That’s one way,” Ganz agreed. “Serbia, Croatia, Albania, Macedonia, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Montenegro and Kosovo. But there are others, and they are always changing. They cross wherever the border is unguarded. Many women from Russia, Ukraine and Romania are smuggled through the eastern route, through Poland to Germany, or through Hungary. From Serbia to Italy, many smugglers prefer to use Albanian seaports and ship the women over on rubber dinghies. Not all of them make it. But however they get here, once they are inside the EU, they can be moved around more freely.”

“So Lambert and Broda are in business together?”

“Yes.” Ganz’s eyes hardened. “Broda buys the women and Lambert arranges to get them into the country. He doesn’t do it himself, of course. That would be too risky. But he knows the weak spots and who can be bribed. We think they have been in business for some time. Lambert was based in Spain before, but things got a bit too hot for him there, so now he’s over here, and the travel business is a perfect cover for the trips he has to make.”

“So Gareth Lambert and Max Broda have been conspiring to smuggle young girls into England for the purpose of prostitution for some years now?”

“Yes. But not just England. That’s why it is difficult to pin them down. We are trying to build up dossiers on similar operations in Paris, Berlin and Rome. It’s a widespread problem.” He paused. “I have seen these women, Mr. Banks, talked to them. To call them ‘women’ is not strictly accurate in the first place. They are no more than girls, some as young as fourteen or fifteen. They are lured from their homes by promises of jobs overseas as nannies and models, maids and waitresses. Sometimes they are smuggled out and sold straightaway, sometimes they are taken to breaking houses in Belgrade. There they are forced to live in filthy conditions. They are humiliated, beaten, starved, denied even the most basic human decencies, raped repeatedly, drugged, made to be compliant. When their spirits are broken, they are taken to the markets and sold to the highest bidder. After that, even if they are smuggled to Rome, Tel Aviv, Paris or London, they are forced to live in terrible conditions and service ten, twenty, even thirty men a night. If they don’t play the game and pretend they are enjoying what is done to them, they are beaten and threatened. They are told that if they try to escape they will be hunted down and killed along with their families back home.”

“I’ve heard something of this,” said Banks, shaken by the images Ganz was offering up, “but not… the extent.” He shook his head.

“Most people do not know,” Ganz said. “Many prefer not to know. People like to think that girls who end up as prostitutes deserve no less, that they chose what they do, but many didn’t. You can buy a young girl for as little as a thousand pounds and make over a hundred thousand pounds a year from her. Once she is worn out, you buy a new one. It makes good business sense, does it not?”