“Even more dangerous than an atomic bomb?” Jay asked.
“That’s a global risk. All you have to do is look across the border and see what the mafias could do here. There have always been rackets in Russia, only now the criminals are the elite, the new nomenklatura, and they run everything. And own everything. From cosmetics to prostitution, you name it, the mafias are Russia’s best capitalists. It’s almost impossible for a legitimate business to operate. Langley doesn’t want Poland sucked down the same pipe.”
◆ ◆ ◆
THE ONLY SUBJECT JAY COULD get Libby to talk about over their bowls of soup were her cats. Both strays picked up on the street. Her landlord objected until the cats started reliably catching mice. Then they became minor celebrities in the building. Over coffee, she finally asked what Jay had wanted to talk about.
“Actually, it’s not about me. Have you had a chance to look over the visa application for Tolek Kuron?”
“Who?” Libby asked.
“Tolek Kuron. He applied a few weeks ago. Didn’t I mention him the other day?”
“Oh,” Libby said. She blew her nose in a napkin. He could see her thinking, Is this why you bought me lunch? But she sat up and said brightly, “Sure, I’ll give his application special consideration.”
Jay told her as much as he knew about Tolek, even agreed to sponsor him, not certain what commitment he had made and envisioning ending up in an INS cage.
Outside everything was wet from an earlier rain. They crossed to the embassy, where the Marine guard waved them through the gate with a friendly, “Good afternoon, Miss Barnstable.” Libby blushed.
Tolek jumped up and straightened his tie when they entered the lobby. “You’ll have a chance to meet Mr. Kuron in person,” Jay told Libby.
Tolek looked more like a harried clerk in an ill-fitting suit than the marvel of communist resistance Jay had convinced Libby that he was. A Solidarity activist, arrested and detained under who knew what conditions; a caring father, it was clear in his application’s essay on “Why I Want to Go to America” (an addendum Libby had introduced—perhaps she had initiative after all); a caring husband, too, for a wife who had succeeded professionally: these were the attributes that convinced Libby to grant Tolek his visas. She seemed stunned when a big bear of a man whose shirt stuck out even after he tucked it in rose before them.
Jay made the introductions. Of Libby, he said, “US Consul General, and of course, you know her father is—”
“Of course!” exclaimed Tolek. He flushed with excitement. “It is my pleasure, my very great pleasure.” He pumped her hand.
“And mine,” said Libby hesitantly, unused to enthusiastic displays.
“Miss Barnstable has approved your visa,” Jay told him.
“Has Miss Barnstable approved my visa?” Tolek asked, as if responding to an instruction on a language exam: Turn this sentence into a question. Only when he had repeated it did he digest what he was saying. He expelled a few short breaths and stuttered a couple of random words. “Will Alina be surprised!” he finally managed. He flapped his arms, euphoric, ready to fly. Unable to contain himself, he embraced Libby and kissed her on the mouth. “You make me so happy! I love you!”
She fell back. “Mr. Kuron!”
“And you, Jay, you make me so happy I should kiss you, too!”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“It is my happiest day!”
Libby, wiping her lips, said, “Of course, there are still formalities.”
“Procedures,” he translated for Tolek, with an eye on Libby. “Mere formalities, right, Miss Barnstable? He can buy his tickets?”
“For my son, I thank you,” interjected Tolek. “‘Those who desire to give up freedom in order to gain security will not have, nor do they deserve, either one.’ Thomas Jefferson.”
Astonished, Libby asked, “You know Jefferson?”
“I know all the presidents! The capital for every state!”
“He does,” Jay confirmed.
Libby, clearly impressed, raised her chin and said, “Mr. Kuron, let me welcome you to America.”
He bowed, gentlemanly. “Thank you.”
She then excused herself, walking backward away from them before turning and scuttling off. Tolek stood there grinning.
“So you are really going to America,” Jay said.
“I am! Can you believe it? My son will know the kind of freedom I have only imagined. And now I want to announce to Alina that we have visas! Thank you. You have helped so much.”
They shook hands.
“Wait, I have Lilka’s key. I made her two copies.” Jay pulled them from his pocket but couldn’t find the original. “Somewhere I have it,” he said.
“It’s okay, give it to Lilka. Or send it to me in America!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
DRAVKO PEERED IN THE MIRROR, fishing for the nose hair that was tickling him, and finally managed to pluck it. With manicure scissors, he snipped away the hairs sprouting from his ears and ran a safety razor around the edge of them. His grooming complete, he stepped back to admire himself. Power had appeal, and he felt spotlighted that night. He’d been invited to the American ambassador’s residence for an off-the-record tête-à-tête. That could only mean one thing: the Americans were acknowledging that he was going to achieve Serbia. He’d be both her mother and founding father, and the Americans, always so reluctant to support ethnic independence movements, were finally acknowledging the inevitable: President Dravko Mladic.
A final pat of his hair, a last sweep at dandruff, and he turned off the bathroom light. In the mirrored bedroom, Dravko knew precisely where to stand for his reflection to ricochet and spin long chains of his likeness as far as his eye could travel. Slowly he turned, dazzling the room with his bright-shining medals. In the many mirrors, he tried to see himself all at once, to see the whole Dravko, and what he saw satisfied him. Pleased him. He was ready for the world.
He lifted his arms and, watching in the mirrors, briefly danced with himself before leaving the lodge. The proprietor bid him good evening as he passed the reception desk, and in those spare words, Dravko thought he detected a glimmer of congratulations. Proudly he hitched up his trousers, slipped into the waiting taxi, and gave the driver the address for the American ambassador’s residence. How had the invitation read? “An informal cocktail at the Residence.” Dravko knew the doublespeak of diplomatic sidestepping to decipher what lay behind the invitation: the siege of Sarajevo had sent the Americans clamoring for a meeting. They were the first to recognize his certain destiny, as would the whole world when it learned he had the bomb. When next he made this trip it would be in a motorcade. He leaned back in the seat, imagining the evening ahead, the whispered innuendos, the suggestions that as soon as he is president … The film inside his head started again. The streetlights were his klieg lights, passing headlights the flash of cameras, the taxi a limousine to his inauguration. The faxed invitation in his pocket his acceptance speech. Dravko smiled in the dark, enjoying the practice run.
◆ ◆ ◆
JAY HAD ARRIVED AT THE ambassador’s residence needing a drink. Now he was swirling the ice in his second scotch while telling Kurt and the ambassador about his encounter with the locksmith. They were in the library, which was lined with bookshelves tall enough to require stepladders. “That puts Basia in Billy’s Bar, and Billy was at the mechanic’s shack,” he told them.
“For Christ’s sake!” Carl broke in. “Do I need to remind you that you are here to assist the police, not investigate them? You’re suggesting one helluva conspiracy. The next thing I know, it’ll involve the Pope!”
“It probably doesn’t go any higher than a minister,” Kurt suggested.
“For Christ’s sake!”
Kurt had been watching out the window and said, “Mladic is here, and he’s dressed for the occasion. Formal whites. He must be in good shape to heft around all those medals.”
Ambassador Lerner chugged what rema
ined of his drink. “Don’t break any laws, because neither of you has diplomatic immunity. Now I’m going out there, and hope to God I’m not starting World War III.”
◆ ◆ ◆
UNCEREMONIOUSLY DROPPED OFF, DRAVKO BLINKED in the drizzle, confused by the lack of crowds. It took him a moment to remember the taxi ride was only a practice run. He faced the ambassador’s house, encouraged by its stately columns. A worthy residence. He mounted its steps and rapped on the door with its lion-headed knocker.
A maid—he guessed a Filipina, or some female from another one of those maid-exporting countries—ushered him into the foyer. As she took his overcoat and cap, he felt he was in a place where he belonged. Seconds later, Ambassador Carl Lerner appeared and held out his hand.
“I’m glad we have this opportunity to meet, General Mladic.”
The two men shook hands.
“It is my pleasure, Ambassador.”
“On a cold night like this, I imagine you could use a drink. Scotch, isn’t it?”
“You’re very well informed.”
“We Americans like to know our friends. I’ve invited some staff to join us. We’ll have our private conversation later.”
Dravko followed the ambassador through double doors into a banquet hall, where the conversations stopped as all heads turned to assess him. Their expressions were gloomy, certainly not the cheering, applauding supporters he had imagined, and for a moment he wondered if he had been lured into a hostile meeting, until the cocktail chatter resumed with good-natured laughter. With a clap on his shoulder, the ambassador steered him to his heavyset wife, whose blue eyes twinkled with permanent surprise from too many facelifts. In an English he could barely understand, she begged his indulgence and introduced him around the room. He spoke briefly to a man dressed as a racing jockey who insisted on speaking French, though he was neither French nor a jockey but director of America’s development program. When Dravko remarked he thought that America was developed already, the development man’s wife brayed at his remark while surveying a tray of canapes. Next he was introduced to a younger woman with fleecy hair who nervously jammed her fingers into the many pockets of her attire, reminding him of squirrels looking for nuts they’d secreted away. She ogled his medals.
“Now Libby, don’t hog the general,” the ambassador said as he approached them. “I want him to meet someone.”
They turned to see Kurt Crawford.
All the blood drained from Dravko’s face.
“General Mladic, I want you to meet Kurt Crawford. He’s a businessman visiting us here in Warsaw. I thought you two might enjoy a discussion of common interests.”
Kurt extended his hand.
Memories of the African’s hands came flooding back as Dravko grasped his paler palm.
“This is a coincidence,” said Kurt with a crooked smile.
“You’ve met before?” asked the ambassador.
“The general stopped me to ask directions on the street. Do you remember?”
“I remember you,” Dravko choked out.
“Our small world keeps getting smaller,” said Carl. “And our time shorter. Would you gentlemen please join me in the library?”
A minute later, the ambassador poured shots of scotch while he said, “I hope straight up is good for everyone. I refuse to dilute this scotch with ice or water.” He handed out the short glasses. “Cheers.”
“Cheers.” They all lifted their glasses.
“So, General Mladic, as I said, our time is getting shorter too, so let’s get down to business. On the record, I want to say that the United States government officially protests your country’s siege of Sarajevo and we stand with the international community in condemning attacks on innocent civilians. Off the record—and the rest of this conversation will be off the record—we must be pragmatists and look beyond the war at who will be able to be left in charge. We believe that will be you, General Mladic, in a very big way, and we can help you.”
“Help me how?”
“We’re used to riggin’ horse races in Texas. If we’re betting on you, we want to make sure you win, and hopefully win by more than a nose.”
“I am afraid my English is not good enough to understand,” Dravko confessed.
“Kurt, maybe you could step in here.”
“What Ambassador Lerner is trying to say is that we expect you will be the president of Serbia,” Kurt said. “That makes our president want to be friends with you. President to president.”
“You are inviting me to the White House?”
“That will come later,” the ambassador answered. “First you have to win a war or two, and that’s where Kurt comes in. He has an interesting proposition for you. The bottom line, General, is that we want this horse race in Bosnia to be over.”
“But you need the right firepower,” added Kurt, “convincing firepower. Are you with me?”
Dravko was. The scotch had the effect of clearing his head and blurring over language gaps. “You are offering me American weapons?”
“I will excuse myself and let Kurt discuss the details,” replied the ambassador. “You understand, General, that protocol forbids my discussing these matters personally.” With that, Carl closed the door after him.
Kurt burst into muted laughter. “Can you goddamn believe this? It looks like you could use another drink. I could for damn sure!” He retrieved the bottle from the bar. “Goddamn!”
“You did not plan this?”
“Plan this? Hell no! I don’t mind saying, though, I was glad to see you when I walked in tonight. I always prefer doing business with a friend.”
“What is your business? It has not been explained.”
“The dirty shorts of American foreign policy, that’s my business. I’m a weapons dealer for Uncle Sam. I make sure that American weapons get where they’re needed no matter what the public or piddling-assed Congress thinks. No money up front, no problem if you slip on the payments. When Uncle Sam picks a winner, like you, he makes sure that he wins.”
“Me?”
“Apparently the American brass like your style. They know you’ve got a setup with PENZIK and things are moving south without a problem. No road bumps, only sleeping policemen. We want to piggyback on what you’ve got in place and keep using your network.”
“My network?”
“It appears to be operationally seamless. You haven’t had a bust yet, have you?”
“A bust?”
“I didn’t think so. Your whole operation is smooth, Dravko. Can I call you Dravko?”
“Yes.”
“You should be proud of yourself.”
“I am.”
“And for good reason.” Kurt flashed a seductive smile. “You were goddamned good last night, too. I have some pictures in my head that I’d like to copy.”
“You can do that?”
Kurt laughed. “You have a good sense of humor, don’t you? Maybe we could have a rerun of last night. Copy that. You and me.”
“You are suggesting—”
“Only if you want. No pressure. I don’t usually combine business with pleasure, but for you and a rerun of last night, I’ll make an exception.”
“Yes.”
Kurt smiled. “I guess it doesn’t get any more affirmative than that. So about our business.”
“The weapons?”
“That’s another affirmative. Of course, you need time to make a list. There are issues of compatibility, redundancy, firepower. Battlefield strategies.”
Kurt reached to pour the last of the scotch into their glasses. His silk shirt stretched over his sporty body and revealed the impression of his nipple. Dravko put a tentative finger to it.
“Aren’t you the daredevil, but I like it.” Kurt slipped his hand under the general’s white coat to pinch his nipple in return. “How about tomorrow, Mr. President? Same place, same time, same shower?”
The emotions that coursed through Dravko! They tipped him into whitewater, threatening to drow
n him in eddies where he had never swam. He had never been infatuated before. He had never experienced those palpitations of the heart, that shortness of breath, the arousal of anticipation. He had dared touch the African in the ambassador’s library!
Jay knocked on the door and swung it open.
The general jumped at his intrusion.
“Excuse me. I thought the ambassador was in here.”
“There you are, Porter!” boomed the ambassador, coming up behind him. “You’re as hard to catch as a greased turkey on Thanksgiving.” He poked his head into the library. “Are you gentlemen done talking business? Because you are barricading the best scotch in the house. What Bitsy serves at these parties is swill.”
The ambassador pushed Jay into the room. “Let me introduce FBI Special Agent James Porter.”
“FBI?” Dravko stuttered.
“Relax, he didn’t say tax man,” Jay said and shook the general’s hand. Next he introduced himself to Kurt, pretending they had not met before.
“Mr. Porter is here on a murder investigation,” Ambassador Lerner said.
“Murder?” asked Dravko, still unsettled.
“It’s not confidential, is it, Porter?”
“Not once the newspapers printed the story. I’ve got it here.” Jay pulled a newspaper clipping from his pocket and unfolded it to reveal a headshot of the fourth courier that clearly showed his wounded face.
Dravko instantly recognized Sergej Ustinov and took an unsteady step.
Kurt put a hand on his shoulder. “Steady there, General. But I agree, that’s gruesome enough to make you lose your cupcakes.”
The general regained his composure. “Cupcakes?”
“He’s the fourth victim,” Jay informed them. “All killed the same way. The face is cut, and then bang! A shot to the heart.”
“When is the man killed?” asked Dravko.
Jay smiled. “Where were you Monday night?”
“Monday night?”
“It was a joke, General.”
“The man is not dead?”
The Fourth Courier Page 20
