by Di Morrissey
His heart leapt as he heard Nina’s voice. ‘This is a message for Lucien from Nina. Don’t come to Zagreb, I’m taking the first plane out, probably to France . . . or Italy. I’ve found more than I expected. There’s no trouble, but I want to come back. I’d like you with me . . . for lots of reasons. Not just because I love you. If you return in time, call me at the hotel. I’m in room twenty-six. Otherwise, I’ll try calling you from the airport and give you my destination and you can meet me there. Bye, darling.’
But, wondered Lucien, why had she never called him from the airport . . . Had she just not been able to contact him? Then she would have left another message on his machine. Had she flown back to France? There was something wrong with that phone call, thought Lucien. Why would she want to come back later with him, when he was meant to be joining her now? And what was it she had found?
Number twenty-six would be down the hall. Excitedly, Lucien opened his door and couldn’t help looking up and down the hallway. A maid’s trolley stood at one end, no one was around. He found the room marked Suite 26 and tapped on the door. There was no answer. He knocked more firmly, trying the door handle. ‘Nina?’ he called softly as he rattled the locked door. Disappointed he turned away and found the maid holding a set of folded towels and watching him curiously.
He gave an embarrassed smile, then asked, ‘Are you going inside?’ He spoke in English, and when she shook her head he pointed at the door making opening gestures. Again she shook her head. There was something in her expression that made Lucien persist and he pointed to his wedding finger saying ‘ring’ and ‘husband’ and crossed his hands over his heart indicating love and pointed at the door. ‘Mrs Jansous.’
The maid looked frightened and glanced around and then nodded her head.
‘You do know the lady in there? Where is she? Please let me in.’ He spoke in French.
‘Deutsch?’
‘German? You understand German?’ He repeated his question, adding, ‘She is my wife.’ The words tasted wonderful.
The maid swiftly opened the door with her master key and Lucien strode through the suite. ‘My God.’ Instantly he saw Nina’s suitcase on the bed. He swung back to the maid. ‘What happened? Where has she gone? They told me she had checked out.’
The maid answered in fluent German. ‘They took her away. Two men came with the manager and she left with them.’
‘What sort of men? When?’ Lucien’s head and heart began to pound.
‘I don’t know . . . they looked like official men. She said she would be back when she’d sorted out a problem. But that was yesterday. She told the manager not to touch anything in her room.’
Lucien checked the suite again. Nina’s message said she was leaving, so she must have been preparing to leave when she was detained. But by whom?
‘I’ll speak to the manager. Thank you.’ He thrust twenty dollars in her hand. ‘What is your name?’
‘Greta. Please, don’t mention I told you this. That I opened the door . . .’
‘Of course not. Thank you.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he hurried back to his room, poured a drink, then carefully began to examine the situation from every angle.
Something had gone badly wrong, he concluded, and it involved the hotel management. He let in the room-service waiter and then ate his meal, trying to think how to tackle the manager without putting Greta’s job at risk.
Lucien returned to the lobby and waited until the manager had finished with a guest. There were few people about.
‘Sir, can I ask you about Mrs Jansous? I have telephoned my office and there is a message from her telling me she had two visitors here at the hotel. They were brought to her suite by the manager. Perhaps you can tell me who they were, it might help me work out where she . . .’
The manager’s head waggled again. ‘Not me, sir. Not me, sir. I am just the duty manager. The hotel manager, he knows these sorts of details. He is not here.’
‘Then find him for me. This is rather urgent.’
‘That is not possible, sir. Tonight. He will be here tonight. Possibly tomorrow.’ The man’s face started to flush. Lucien didn’t believe him.
‘Phone him. Or I’m calling the police.’
‘Sir, he may be out. It is his day off.’
‘Then try,’ said Lucien fiercely.
The duty manager dialled, spoke rapidly, listened for a moment and hung up. ‘His wife says he is not at home. He will be here at 9 a.m. tomorrow. I am sorry sir, that is all I can do.’
Lucien turned away. He was loathe to call the police, Nina may not want to draw attention to herself. Slowly he returned to his room.
Nina was dozing as best she could under the relentless harsh light. Basic meals were delivered by a young man who nodded, then retreated quickly, never speaking a word. Molnar and Puskar came and continued questioning her, promising that an embassy representative was on the way. Nina lost track of time, not knowing if it was day or night. The constant light was a form of torture that drained her of energy and a will to argue.
She kept repeating, ‘I can’t tell you any more. I had no knowledge of what my grandfather did. My mother merely wanted her family possessions for sentimental reasons. What harm is it now?’
She never received an answer. They rattled off names mentioned in the journal.
Nina could only shake her head. ‘I know nothing of these people.’
And then came the question that for Nina illuminated this whole interrogation.
‘But what do you intend to do with this document, Mrs Jansous?’
‘Nothing. I have no children to pass on this heirloom to. Perhaps donate it to a library. But that is my choice.’
‘I don’t believe it is.’ Molnar leaned closer to where Nina was sitting on the hard, narrow bed. ‘We believe you have been used to obtain this material in order to embarrass our country.’
‘Nonsense. I didn’t know it existed.’
‘What were you looking for then?’
‘Family mementoes. I was simply following up a vague comment by my dying mother.’
Puskar peered closer, speaking in a tone that suggested the playing and innuendo had stopped. ‘Mrs Jansous, we are aware of your position in America. It now seems to us you were planning to make propaganda of this document in your publications.’
So they had figured out who she was, but she controlled her reaction and said quite firmly, ‘Don’t be absurd.’
They were not put off by the denial. Puskar poked a finger at her. ‘Well, we say that a very prominent lady with powerful media connections intended to do certain people in our government today a lot of harm with this information.’ He slapped the old journal on his thigh.
Nina was tired. She could see this whole long interrogation was heading nowhere. She changed tack. ‘I could also do you a lot of good. Seeing as you are so concerned about public perceptions, propaganda, whatever you want to call it.’
Puskar hesitated, cocking his head and narrowing his eyes. ‘And how is that?’
Nina rallied, seeing a chink in their manner. ‘This is a fascinating country. My mother always told me how beautiful it is. Croatia has suffered, but surely what is important now is continuing the progress by encouraging more tourists to come here and spend money. They will also learn to understand something of the history of this part of the world. All we ever see on TV or in print is fighting and hate. I could write about the positive side of Croatia.’ She paused. The two men were silent. ‘I have a friend coming to meet me.’ Silently, Nina prayed that Lucien had missed her message to put off his trip. ‘He is a film-maker who will take pictures. I can write as someone who was born here. That’s why I came, to find out about my past, my family. Where I was born, where my mother played as a little girl, the places she took me as a baby. Where she went on a honeymoon with my father – the Dalmatian coast, which she loved.’ Nina paused for breath. ‘You might call it propaganda. I call it public relations . . . a good news story.’
‘
How do we know you will not write negative stories?’
‘Why should I? Unless I write about this . . .’ Nina was about to shout interrogation, enforced, illegal, damned imprisonment, but she held her temper and forced a smile saying instead, ‘. . . this little misunderstanding. We both have a choice.’
Molnar rose. ‘We will consider this suggestion.’
‘We will discuss matters with your embassy. There will have to be agreements,’ added Puskar.
They left her alone. Nina reached for her handbag, which, after checking, they had allowed her to keep. She took out her notebook and began writing. Her story for Blaze was taking on an extra dimension.
Lucien couldn’t sleep. He worried that hours were ticking by. He hated not being able to take any action. He lifted the phone and rang Blaze Australia, asking for the editor.
‘Hello, Ms Gruber, this is Lucien Artiem, I’m a close friend of Nina Jansous. We were travelling together and we arranged to meet in Zagreb. Now she seems to have disappeared.’
‘What makes you say that?’ asked Ali, somewhat taken aback.
‘She has left the hotel with a couple of men and left no message. It seems she may have been detained, although the hotel management say that’s not true. The hotel tried to tell me she had checked out, yet her bags are still in her room.’
Ali was at a loss to offer any help. ‘Look, she could have hooked up with relatives, old friends, just gone to visit someone for a day or so . . . don’t you think?’
There was worry in Lucien’s voice. ‘No, I don’t think so. We were looking forward to meeting. She would have left a message.’
Ali wondered if this Lucien guy was a panic merchant. ‘So what do you want me to do? Rather hard from this side of the world.’
‘I was hoping she might have contacted you as she’s writing a story for Blaze.’
‘No, but I’m not expecting to hear from her. I told her to take as much time as possible, really dig into it.’
‘She left me a recorded message that she was leaving Zagreb as soon as she could. And she said that she’d found something.’
‘Really?’ Ali suddenly sounded interested. ‘If her bags are still there, then she must have changed her mind and taken a quick trip somewhere, and she’s planning to return to the hotel. Don’t worry too much about her. Nina’s sensible and she doesn’t like to cause a fuss. I’m sure she’d do nothing illegal.’
‘God, I hope not. But that’s why I’m worried. I intend to speak to the hotel manager in the morning. If he can’t help me, I’ll contact the Australian Consul here for advice. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you just kept this between us. I agree Nina wouldn’t want a fuss, if there isn’t any problem.’
Ali closed the conversation. ‘If there’s anything we can do, Monsieur Artiem . . . well, keep me posted. I’ll ask my secretary to take your contact details.’
Ali spoke briefly to Belinda about a later appointment, then glanced at her watch. Bob Monroe wanted to see her. She called and asked him to come around to her office.
Heather Race and Jonathan Gibb were at a pavement café on the strip at Bondi. The laid-back surf set, backpackers, youthful e-commerce millionaires and dot-com high-flyers, strolling in casual gear along the seafront, took little notice of the tabloid TV celebrity.
‘I want to do a story on your chief. You owe me a favour or three for all those contact numbers I’ve been giving you lately,’ she said cheerfully to Jonathan. ‘Does Ali live up to her Yank Tank title?’
‘I guess so. She’s tough, but she’s smart. Ruthless – if you’re on the wrong side of her – but ambitious. Most of the staff hang on for the wild ride as it’s taking us all upwards.’
‘Yeah, Blaze’s circulation figures have jumped. Very impressive.’
Jonathan sipped his latte. ‘They are up and they’re accurate. Normally we don’t take too much notice of the numbers magazines print with their mastheads. They artificially bump them up. Take into account the freebies they airdrop over the New Guinea Highlands, multiplied by the number of people in an average household who might pick it up and read it . . . or some such rubbish.’
‘Sounds like TV ratings. Now, who do I talk to for an interview with Ali Gruber? She’s a dark horse. No one knows anything about her.’
‘Her PA, Belinda, would be the best bet. But Ali will knock you back if you go in the front door. You’re better off sliding in the back door. You’re good at that,’ he added with a sly grin. Heather had been outed in the rival print media several times for devious means of obtaining an interview or information. She was regarded with shocked awe by many press people. The worst cases of her unethical behaviour had been hushed up by the network. ‘Anyway, Ali’s off to New York any minute. Better find yourself another story.’
‘Do me a favour. Let me know when she’s going. What other suggestions do you have? I’d love an exposé like that Sally Shaw piece.’
‘I heard she’s back in town,’ said Jonathan casually.
‘Really? I could do a follow-up. What’s Sally doing?’
‘No idea. I heard Jacques Triton was chasing her.’
Heather lowered her voice. ‘There are stories and stories about that clique . . . there’s a club somewhere in the city where he’s set up a private room for his new mates . . . sex, drugs and you name it.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not invited to those kinds of scenes. I’m pretty dull,’ said Jonathan blandly. Heather had hit a nerve with him as he had also heard whispers around town. He knew Tony Cox was part of the Jacques clique. Jonathan felt excluded, curious and slightly peeved. ‘That’d be a story. But it would never see the light of day, of course.’
‘Not when the mogul’s son and high-flying friends are involved, that’s for sure,’ agreed Heather. ‘Okay, tell me where Sally Shaw is and we’re square.’
‘I’ll do my best. Be careful with Ali. I can’t help you there.’
‘More than your job is worth, eh?’ grinned Heather. ‘You gotta take risks in this business, Jon. Only way to score points.’
‘I’m more interested in just hanging in there,’ he answered. Life under Ali always seemed precarious.
Jonathan dropped by Bob Monroe’s office and leaned against the doorway. ‘Can I run a couple of ideas past you? Unless you have a hot story for me to chase?’
‘Nothing cooking at the moment. Let’s hear your ideas.’ Bob knew Jonathan was feeling aggrieved. April Showers was constantly in the news, her column widely read and now he was probably seeing Miche as a threat, despite the fact she was younger and less experienced.
‘I hear Sally Shaw is back in town.’
‘Yeah. Don’t even think of trying to follow that one up. End of story.’
‘Possibly. What I was thinking was doing that deep-throat piece on Heather Race I mentioned to you a while back.’
‘That bitch. You’d never make it past first base. No offence, mate, but she’d eat you alive.’ ‘Unless you take your poisonous wife along to protect you,’ thought Bob, who liked Jonathan but considered him weak. ‘Besides, the TV PR machine manufactures every word written about her. They’d never let you near her.’
‘I just had coffee with her. If we give her Sally Shaw’s number, I think she’d be grateful.’
Bob thought for a moment. ‘I take your point. Telly people always follow up on our stories. I’ll have to run it past Ali.’
‘I’d appreciate it if you’d try to do it before she leaves for New York. I’d like something to get my teeth into.’
Bob drifted around to see Larissa. ‘How’s it going? Shall we break out the booze and dance band while Ali is away? Tell Reg he has another six pages to sell?’
Larissa laughed. ‘You guys wish. No, everything seems to be staggering along as usual. She won’t be away more than a week . . .’ she looked out the window. ‘Wish I was zipping back for a week. Even a couple of days.’
‘A dirty weekend with the boyfriend? You miss him, eh? Must be tough. D
o you take the time to see people outside the office, Larissa? I mean, you’re always welcome to come over to our place – we generally have a barby on Sundays, friends drop in, nothing fancy.’
‘Thanks. Sweet of you to offer, Bob. Belinda and her Laurie are always fantastic. I think I have a nice group of friends here . . . it’s just hard to maintain a close relationship with my man over a long distance.’
‘Yeah, I imagine.’ He remembered the good-looking and charming Gerard and wondered if he was being as true and loyal as Larissa. They had no formal partnership as he recalled. ‘Gerard seemed a nice bloke,’ he said, not knowing what else to say. ‘Now, what I wanted to ask you concerns Jonathan. He’s looking for a meaty story and he’s still talking about doing that in-depth piece on Heather Race, the tabloid TV journo from Reality. Looking at media ethics, that kind of thing.’
‘Seems unlikely that she’d agree.’
‘There’s a trade-off.’
‘Uh oh,’ said Larissa.
‘Reality wants to do a follow-up on Sally Shaw. Where is she?’
‘I see. Miche has been in touch with her. I’m reluctant to tell you where she is without consulting Miche. It was a personal contact, not professional.’
‘Come on, Larissa, we don’t have any obligation to that girl. Miche did the right thing by Sally. I suspect she could have made the scenario sound much worse.’
‘So the deal is Heather will bare her inner soul if we hand her Sally?’
‘An interview without the station’s PR people sitting in monitoring is a big step. Go, Larissa, give Jon a break.’
Larissa caved in. ‘Okay. But I’ll run it past Ali before she leaves. And Sally is in a hotel near Kings Cross. There can’t be too many. Make sure you talk to Miche first and we do this only if Sally agrees to a TV story.’
Bob gave her a thumbs up and left her office. Larissa wondered if she had done the right thing – he might be a member of the Blaze staff, but should she have trusted him?
