The taxi driver drops us outside a petrol station on a busy road. I start swigging whisky and smoking, trying to look the part. Anything to avoid suspicion.
Tonight I'm planning to do business with the gangs that sell and traffic young women. I am going to buy a sex slave. They are wrapped in fur coats to survive on the freezing streets.
They don't seem surprised to see a foreigner here. They beckon me towards them, out of sight of the CCTV cameras. Police cars drive past — it must be obvious what's going on, but I've been told officers simply turn a blind eye.
She is pretty but looks worn. Her hair is greasy and tangled, her skin dirty and bruised. Both women begin to talk to the driver inside.
He is Monica's "owner", the internal trafficker who has imprisoned her for sex with countless men every day. As the trafficker and his pimps watch me I demand that Monica twirls around so I can check her body. I have no idea how to put a price on a human so I ask them to suggest a figure, adding, "She must have ID papers. But kidnap or handing money to local traffickers are the only ways to guarantee a successful rescue of a girl.
