Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  *

  Nina called the reception desk. ‘I will be leaving the hotel shortly. Please have my account ready.’

  In a moment, the duty manager called back. ‘Mrs Jansous, our car is at your disposal to take you to the airport. We will return your rental car.’ He made no reference to the supposed bomb scare.

  Nina hesitated for a moment, then accepted. ‘Thank you. I’ll call the car company and arrange to settle the bill.’ It would save her time. She wanted to make it to the airport as soon as possible to finalise a flight out of the country. She planned to be on the first plane available, no matter where it was going. The hoax about the bomb scare had unnerved her. Lucien would just have to change his plans and meet her. He would help her rethink their return to Croatia and work out how to follow up on what she had found. Perhaps he could say he was researching a film. In fact, maybe this could become a documentary based on the story taking form in her mind. Croatia intrigued her. On the surface it was growing as a thriving tourist destination again, recovering from the wars better than the rest of the Balkans, but from her personal viewpoint, she saw the remaining sinister shadows of an unsavoury past.

  Nina dressed and had almost finished packing when the doorbell rang and the door was instantly opened by the duty manager who was elbowed aside as two men in dark suits stepped into the room.

  Nina glared at the intrusion. ‘Excuse me, I haven’t checked out yet.’ Their expressions were unfriendly. The heavier-set man stepped forward holding out his hand.

  ‘Mrs Jansous, we must ask you to please come with us.’ He spoke in heavily accented English. In his outstretched hand was a badge. He was obviously a police officer of some kind.

  Nina looked at them and at the duty manager hovering nervously in the doorway. ‘Who are these people?’ she demanded. ‘You have no right allowing them into my suite like this.’

  The other man spoke up. ‘We are from a special investigation unit for the Department of Security. We have reason to believe you intend to smuggle items out of the country. Items that could be of concern for national security.’ He noted Nina’s shocked face.

  ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ She was tempted to instantly pull rank and point out she was Nina Jansous, the international publisher, but instinct told her to say as little as possible. ‘What sort of items?’ she asked as calmly as she could, but her heart was starting to pound as she thought of her grandfather’s journal in the safe at Reception.

  ‘We do not have to answer your questions, Madame,’ said the other man. ‘We are asking the questions, and so you will please come with us.’

  They motioned her towards the door, but Nina recoiled, glaring at the duty manager. ‘Ask Mr Zarvic, the manager to come up here at once, this is outrageous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I am on duty. The senior manager is . . . unavailable.’ He looked decidedly uncomfortable, avoiding her eye as he mumbled, ‘It is best you go with them, Mrs Jansous.’

  ‘Go where?’ asked Nina, thinking the whole incident was like a charade. She was in a plush suite in an international hotel, in a sophisticated city.

  ‘To headquarters. We wish to obtain information.’

  His stilted English sounded threatening, but Nina decided she wouldn’t let them know she spoke Croatian, even poorly. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. ‘All right, let’s be done with this. I have a plane to catch.’

  One of the men glanced at the duty manager, who quickly said in Croatian, ‘We told her there are no planes going out.’ He sounded defensive.

  It occurred to Nina now that it was the hotel manager who had told her of the supposed bomb scare. They must have been trying to keep her here. The heavy-set man produced a paper from his jacket. ‘Before we leave, Madame, we have a warrant authorising us to search your luggage.’

  Nina glanced back at the neatly packed, open suitcase on her bed. She lifted her arms. ‘I don’t believe you have authority to do this, but go ahead.’

  The second man swiftly raked through the clothes, checking inside her shoes and then the lid and outside of the bag as if looking for a secret compartment. She kept her eyes on the man, avoiding the temptation to glance at the vase on the shelves in the sitting room. He then checked Nina’s handbag, glancing in her wallet.

  When he was finished he shook his head. The heavy man courteously took Nina’s elbow. ‘Please, this way, Madame.’

  Nina picked up her handbag and jacket and followed the two men. She gave the duty manager a firm stare. ‘Lock my suite please, and do not allow anyone to go in there. I will be back for my belongings shortly.’

  The manager nodded, clicking the door shut behind them. The maid, standing by her trolley of fresh towels, soaps and cleaning items, watched them go. ‘Leave that suite,’ the manager barked at her and she nodded quickly, busying herself with the next room.

  Nina walked through the lobby, uncomfortably sandwiched between the two men. She was grateful the receptionist kept her head down and made no reference to Nina’s documents in the safe.

  The men sat on either side of her in the back of a large black car as they sped with undue haste through back streets rather than the main boulevards. They pulled up before an anonymous stone building and Nina was escorted through a doorway into an anteroom with a small desk and several filing cabinets. A woman in a drab suit sat writing at a desk piled with folders. She glanced briefly at them and looked back down. There was a door leading off this room and one of the men opened it, stepping aside for Nina to go in first.

  Nina froze, glancing around the room. Surely this was a joke. A farce. It looked like a movie set. Old black and white movie scenes of Gestapo interrogation sessions flashed into her mind. The two chairs facing each other beneath the stark light bulb, the rest of the room in darkness, a window of dark glass on a wall. She swung back to the two men. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘Joke? No. I do not think so.’ He motioned her to one of the chairs. ‘Please, take a seat.’ He sat opposite her, neatly adjusting the crease in his trousers. The other man leaned against a wall, folding his arms across his chest, a faintly pleased expression on his face. The woman from the anteroom bustled in and handed the seated man a folder. From the darker recess, she pulled out a chair, sat and opened a notebook, pen poised.

  Nina frowned. ‘I don’t believe you have introduced yourselves.’

  The man opposite nodded. ‘Excuse me. I am Mr Puskar and that is Mr Molnar.’ He didn’t bother to introduce the woman. ‘We are interested in your activities. Why did you come here?’

  Nina was uncomfortable, but more angry than afraid. ‘Let me say for a start, I do not have to answer your questions at all. I should have embassy and legal representation here.’

  ‘Yes. But that would take considerable time. A lot of unnecessary delays, which I don’t think you want to wait here for.’

  ‘I have no intention of waiting here, as you put it, under any circumstances,’ replied Nina. ‘You could have asked me questions in my hotel room. I am not hiding anything, doing anything other than being here on a personal vacation.’

  ‘Is it usual to rent an apartment and then disappear in the night? Or dig in the garden when one is on holiday?’ he retorted.

  Nina’s nerves tightened and her stomach twisted. She swung on the defensive. ‘If you have been following me, or checking up on me, I demand I have a representative here.’

  Puskar pointed to the lady making notes. ‘Mrs Vartec is making a copy of our conversation for you.’

  Nina rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. This is a nonsense. I demand to return to my hotel and if you want any information, you should contact either the US Embassy or the Australian Embassy.’

  ‘We will do that in time, Mrs Jansous,’ said Molnar, leaning casually against the wall.

  She turned to glare at him. He nodded at the man opposite him, who pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Nina. It was a photocopy of her passport.

  ‘We have traced your background.
We were most interested to learn of your grandparents’ names,’ he continued.

  ‘How did you come across this? This is my private property. Kept in the hotel safe.’ Suddenly she realised the hotel staff had been a part of this whole scenario. The hoax bomb-scare story that held her in the hotel, the evasive dance about not being able to take her documents out of the safe, how she had been hurried to her suite. Her passport probably hadn’t been there at all. It was being photocopied for these goons. She recalled the duty manager, dressed in casual clothes when he’d brought the documents to her room. He’d been off duty, yet he had her papers! How had they known about her? Who had tipped them off? Had they been back to the safe since she put the journal in it? These thoughts rushed through her head in an instant but, before she could recover, Puskar was opening the folder on his lap again. With a shock she saw her grandfather’s journal. She bit her lip and said nothing.

  His fingers drummed idly on the journal. ‘Mrs Jan-sous, may I acquaint you with a few facts about your former country?’ He paused, drawing out his advantage. ‘There are a lot of unresolved matters relating to past, shall we say . . . misguided . . . nationals who abandoned their country at a time of need, of crisis. Others who stayed chose to be traitors in their own land. A shame, don’t you agree?’

  Nina sat stoically, staring straight at him, ignoring the drumming fingertips. That was not how Clara had explained things to her. There’d been few opportunities for young people in postwar communist Yugoslavia. Exit visas and passports were rarely issued, the border closed. Helping them escape to travel to Australia had been the parents’ great gift to Clara and her young daughter.

  ‘Now, while Croatia today is very progressive and friendly to visitors, there are a number of visitors that our people feel are not welcome here. Visitors with links to a disturbing chapter in our history.’

  Nina jumped in. ‘Times have moved on. I do not have to answer to some postwar, outdated, vengeful mob of troublemakers who only create ill will and disruption by manipulating people,’ she said as firmly as she could.

  ‘Accountability for spying and propaganda, the actions of war criminals and theft during war, do not change,’ he answered smoothly. ‘If such people and actions are unmasked today, it can be very political. Very embarrassing. Very unfortunate. For example,’ he paused, fingering and lifting the cover of the journal. ‘The documentation of the activities of certain families, by certain families in the past, could today be considered sensitive. And dangerous.’

  ‘Just what are you trying to say?’ snapped Nina, losing her patience. ‘If you have a complaint to make against me, then say so and I will take appropriate measures to deal with it. I have done nothing but visit my homeland where my grandparents and parents lived.’

  Puskar recrossed his legs. ‘Let us be frank.’ He held up the journal. ‘You intended to remove this document from our country. You have retrieved this by fraudulent means. It has been taken from private property. And, as we have learned, the incriminating, subversive and secret information in here comes from your family. The Bubacic family.’

  To Nina, these men seemed to be still living in the forties. The stamp of the Slavic personality Clara had often criticised – dour, gloomy, depressed – was evident. She wondered if they knew who Nina Jansous was in the world away from here. She soon had her answer. Molnar walked to stand behind the seated Puskar.

  ‘Mrs Jansous. We are disappointed you did not announce yourself when visiting our country. A famous publisher like yourself carries enormous influence in the world. We hope your intentions did not include giving a poor impression of our country.’

  ‘I had no poor impressions . . . until now,’ said Nina tartly. ‘I request you return me to my hotel and return the personal papers that you have taken from my possession.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is not possible. This document can be used against our country. You are aware of its contents – or you wouldn’t have gone to such trouble to obtain and hide it.’

  ‘Who told you about this?’ Puskar held up the journal, his manner suddenly more aggressive.

  ‘If you are going to continue to treat me like a criminal, I demand you bring an embassy representative here.’ Nina spoke firmly but she was feeling sick inside. The farce was becoming a frightening nightmare.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Jansous. It may take a while. We have told the Australian Embassy we have caught one of their nationals attempting to steal items of national heritage and significance out of the country as well as spying.’

  ‘Which country are you working for, Mrs Jansous? Australia or the USA?’ Now Molnar was on the attack.

  ‘This is laughable. What do you mean . . . spying?’ Nina was exasperated. ‘I’m not a spy. Look, I came back merely to try to find out where I came from. I wanted to know about my family. It is natural for older emigrants to want to know about their roots and homeland. I was a little girl when I left here for Australia.’

  ‘Escaped you mean. You and your mother are still listed as leaving the country without a permit.’

  ‘That doesn’t apply any more! You’re dragging up an event that happened governments ago! Besides, my mother is dead. Now, I am not saying another word until I have representation here. And I want to use the telephone.’ She was feeling panicky. She had to reach Lucien. As soon as she could contact the embassy, she’d ask them to call Baron Triton to help sort this out. These power-mongers were living in the past. Then she recalled the name in the journal that was the same family name as one of the high-profile ministers in the current government. No wonder they were concerned. If it was shown one of his relatives had been a Nazi sympathiser, it would no doubt do terrible damage to his current image.

  She looked at both men. The woman was also looking at Nina, waiting for her to speak. Nina recrossed her legs and folded her arms, her body language saying clearly that she would not speak until they had done as she demanded.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Jansous. We will all have to wait until your embassy can send an official. It might be a number of hours, or days. Please make yourself comfortable.’

  They rose and the room was flooded with a harsh neon light and Nina saw a narrow bed and a partition beside it where, she assumed, she’d find a toilet. She swung back to them. ‘I’m not staying here. This is like a jail cell!’

  ‘We are aware you are used to more comfort, Madame. But until this matter is clarified to our satisfaction, we have the right to detain you.’ Molnar turned away.

  The three of them left the room. Nina stood up and found she was shaking. She went to the door. It was locked. She looked around the brown-walled room, which looked worse in the bright cold light. She went and sat on the bed, glancing up at the tinted glass high on the wall. Were they watching her?

  TAKE SIXTEEN . . .

  Ali pinned up the minis – the reduced images of pages – of the next issue of Blaze on her wall and thoughtfully walked along them, looking at the ebb and flow of the material, judging the rhythm and pace of the entire magazine.

  This was the time she liked best, when she felt most in control. This was the real thrill of being editor, when she could cut or kill a picture or a story. Throw convention out the window into Sydney Harbour and blow a picture to full page, or angle a single line of copy to be more effective than all the text fought for by the creative director.

  She looked at the advertising layouts and mentally patted herself on the back for the two new heavyweight clients she’d brought in – thanks to John O’Donnell making a phone call to the chairman of the board at his bank and a large firm of innovative commercial architects who were branching into home and apartment design.

  While Ali had aimed for a more cutting-edge look and approach to attract younger readers, she had readdressed the issue of mature readers (anyone over forty in her mind) by pushing Bob, the features editor, to introduce a slightly sharper edge to the writing style and the subject matter. While Larissa had described the change as beneficial – going more highbrow a
nd interesting – Ali declared it was just lateral thinking.

  ‘People are still interested in their own homes, lifestyles and pursuits as well as the esoteric,’ said Larissa.

  ‘So, instead of interior decor,’ responded Ali, ‘I’ve commissioned a piece about comparative religious designs reflected in architecture. Instead of boring recipes disguised in lavish layouts, we want a series on the culture of cuisine.’

  Larissa ran down the list of upcoming articles – male menopause, men’s search for spirituality, family health including sexual abuse, violence and Chi Gong healing. ‘I think we’re covering all the bases,’ she commented, ‘including the fashion scene with Fiona.’

  Fiona had proved herself to be innovative and creative. Her appointment had raised a few eyebrows in the incestuous fashion world as she was only twenty-five – and untested. Ali seemed impressed by Fiona’s creative flash-and-dash style, which complemented the new fashion editor’s clear ambition to be at the top one day soon. Fiona had a master’s degree in the history of textile design and was a smart, sharp writer. She saw clothing trends as a reflection of the psychological mood of where society was heading. She saw the representation of fashion as art, which in turn reflected the wider world. Her approach to fashion was that of a museum curator – it may not be something you wanted to own, but you could still appreciate its design and beauty. Or argue that it wasn’t beautiful – grunge, heroin chic, sweats and trackies may not be your taste, but they made a statement. As lace, beads and couture did for others.

  Ali’s war with the printers continued. She had a passion for being up-to-the-minute in a news sense, which was hard for a monthly publication where unfolding events could change dramatically overnight. Ali would hold back pages so she could make last-minute changes. It drove the printers and staff crazy when Ali decided to revamp a story an instant before publication. She felt it gave Blaze a fresh and current feel and to hell with what it cost – economically, or in the emotional toll on those expected to make it happen.