The Little Burgundy: A Jeanne Dark Adventure

by Bill Jones Jr.

  There was no mysticism regarding how I’d found him so quickly. I knew precisely where to look. When we were in Casablanca, we’d been chased not only by Samuel’s team in the first Mercedes, but by a second Mercedes. Via the process of elimination, I presumed that vehicle was the Seize Mai group. However, in her long, evil villainess speech, Samuels had admitted that the Seize Mai contingent did not work for her. That implied that they had, in fact, been working for Captain Gharnati. I twisted and turned this over and again in my head until I came up with a startling revelation, improbable, but one which fit the evidence better than her version of the truth. There was no Seize Mai. The entire terrorist organization was a fiction created by Gharnati and his real partner, Alexej Kovac. Samuels intended to continue the legend for her own benefit.

  When Foss and I were being pursued through Casablanca, we picked up the attention of a second hired Mercedes. They were not chasing government agents, but a pair of wealthy tourists wearing very expensive clothing. Our own vanity had put us at risk. Though an improbable coincidence, my assessment at the time was correct. We had been pursued by ordinary carjackers once we’d evaded Samuels’s team. Gharnati had exploited the Seize Mai legend in order to legitimize his operations in Casablanca as well as providing a credible scapegoat for crimes committed there if need be. Samuels used the same strategy in blaming the fictional terror group for Gharnati’s death once she learned her partner was double-dealing her. The question I had was with whom was he dealing and why.

  Weasel Rudenko gave us his contact’s name as Otto Mitad, an obvious distortion of Otro Mitad, or more correctly, otra mitad, Spanish for other half. Gharnati was one half of the operation in Casablanca. His partner, Kovac, was the other. I was certain that were I to follow the path of the al-Gharnatis to their Spanish relatives, I would find living among them our Mr. Kovac. To my delight, a simple Internet search listed an apartment building’s owner as a Señor José-María Gharnati Verdú. It was the only listing by anyone with the Gharnati appellation and I was grateful that some still held onto the custom of keeping both the father’s and mother’s surname. Yusuf Gharnati ran the burgeoning African and Middle Eastern operations out of his Casablanca locale, while his partner and long-time associate led the entire operation from their family compound in Granada. In all likelihood, Weasel Rudenko fled to Casa in order to help Gharnati launch a local escort franchise, not realizing it was the most dangerous place he could have been.

  Whoever Kovac turned out be, it was his cleverness that betrayed him. Had he not used Spanish word games as his alias, I would have assumed he’d fled from Spain. Yusuf’s family name, which itself was derived from the Arabic for Granada, made it pretty obvious where in Spain he’d be. When I left London, I followed him here, taking a rental flat that overlooked his apartment building and most of the Albayzín neighborhood in which it sat. In the days I’d waited, he emerged only once, briefly, but long enough for me to photograph him. He was a handsome man around six feet tall, with bronzed skin and dark hair that had begun to be interspersed with streaks of white. He was fit—I guessed a runner—wearing a track suit when he emerged on the balcony. I cannot say how for certain I knew it was him, other than I did. Despite my being hidden by shadows, he turned in my direction just as I took his photo. I retreated deeper into the shadows, fearing I’d been discovered. However, I soon realized he was speaking on the phone and likely couldn’t see me at all.

  Given my physical limitations and the possibility that Samuels’ team had traced him to Spain, I was unable to follow him around Granada, so I limited myself to watching the comings and goings of the building in which he lived. Despite my diligence, I saw no further trace of my adversary. I eventually became brave enough to venture out, using the crowds along the narrow, cobblestone Albayzín streets to hide my presence. Once I’d steeled my courage for the inevitable confrontation, I headed toward his abode. It took only twenty minutes to reach Kovac’s door from my apartment, although the steep rise toward the Alhambra taxed my hip. It was no wonder the Granadian elderly often walked with the use of a cane. Had I been willing to risk being seen, I might have rented a Segway or one of the ubiquitous scooters that raced through the tourist herds.

  Once at Kovac’s building, I was surprised to see there was no more security than one would have expected at any expensive apartment building. The front was simple and elegant as is the custom among homes in Granada. The entranceway was clear, wide enough for two small vehicles and lined by alternating checkerboard tiles of slate and stone. There was only a single small shrub, nowhere to hide should anyone be outside. There was no watchman, though the front door was locked. I assumed residents had a card that would let them in, as I saw a proximity reader at the front. There was a call buzzer, but a close look through my camera’s telephoto lens showed a small lens. That meant residents would be given a good look at me should I try buzzing myself in. I hid in the morning shadows and waited for someone to exit. I saw my chance when a short, chubby woman came rushing out of Kovac’s building. Speaking the fluent, accented German of an Austrian tourist, I intercepted the woman, accidentally knocking her over and causing her to spill the contents of her bag. I must admit to having too much fun speaking with the cursing, furious lady in my Austrian-accented broken Spanish. As I apologized profusely, insisting on helping her gather her things, I managed to check her identification and slip her security card into my pocket. She pulled away, calling me all sorts of names. I bowed, apologizing again, and headed up to La Alhambra with a smile on my lips. I couldn’t help but think that Foss would have been proud of me. It saddened me that he wasn’t there to witness it.

  I spent two hours photographing the old castle, keeping an eye out for unwanted, familiar faces. It was quite bright, so I’d wrapped myself in a head wrap, changing from the bumbling Austrian tourist to a Middle Eastern one along the steep rise to the castle. I took lunch there, dining on a potato tortilla sandwich an enjoying una cervesa sin alcohol. I needed to be clear-headed for the evening’s work and even a single real beer would have prevented that. Having satisfied myself with history while distracting myself from the night’s work, I returned to my flat, where I sat watching the Alhambra burst into its nighttime radiance and waiting for the familiar sequence of lights’ turning on within Kovac’s building. After securing my courage, I armed myself with Foss’s weapon and headed downstairs. This trip was slower than the first, as my hip was throbbing by this time. I could feel my heart racing and pounding in my ears as I hurried the last few hundred meters to the building’s front door. There were two people outside, smoking, so I turned, pretending to be going to a nearby car. They glanced at me. I acted as though I had lost my keys and reversed course. When I turned the corner, I almost sank to the ground with stress. I waited five minutes then peeked around the corner before heading to the building, satisfying myself there was no one there. Just then, my phone buzzed, scaring me into almost wetting myself. It was a message from Jette:

  Jeannie, I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Please call me. Foss is gone!

  For a moment, I stood dumbfounded, not knowing how to react. I was confused, since she texted in English, and for a moment, I thought perhaps it wasn’t really from Jette. Then I stumbled backward, sinking onto the pavement, and wept. Dead. He was dead and I wasn’t there for him. Oddly, my first hot tears were not of grief but rage, at my mother for having been wrong yet again. I picked up my phone, intending to be the dutiful wife and calling Jette for details. However, a blinding, shrieking ire overtook me and I flung the phone along the stone street, smashing the glass face. I screamed, then clasped my mouth with my arm, certain that Kovac’s guards would hear me and come finish me off. After some quivering minutes, I stood, wiped my eyes, and donned my darkest glasses. I did not need them for the light. This time, I needed them for the darkness. My dear, sweet Foss was gone, and I would avenge him by closing this case, or die in the process. Perhaps at some deeper level, death was the result I hoped for.


  I retrieved what was left of the phone, and peeking around the corner and finding the entrance empty, I rushed to the front door. I used the card. As I hoped, it still worked. For all of her fury, the woman from whom I’d stolen it didn’t bother to report it as lost. Perhaps she didn’t notice. Having seen Kovac once, I was able to guess at his location as being on the top floor. I could only hope there were not too many apartments to choose from on his level. In the lift, I pushed the number four, the highest it went, and the car opened to a short hallway and a set of stairs that led up to a single door. Kovac lived on the entire fifth floor. If Foss were with me, I am sure he would have kicked in the door and barreled his way into the apartment. I weighed less than one hundred ten pounds. I couldn’t bully my way into a paper bag. Instead, I knocked on the door. The pounding in my ears grew so loud that I could barely hear the masculine footsteps approach.

  “Who is it?” he asked, speaking Spanish. I detected an accent, which could well have been Western Slavic.

  In response, I gave the name of the fat woman I’d knocked over earlier.

  “¿Que quiere?” he asked—What do you want? This time, his voice was sharper, less patient. The woman must have had the same effect on everyone she’d had on me.

  I answered him in Spanish, trying to come as close to her Andalusian accent as I could. “I seem to have locked myself out,” I said.

  I heard the sound of bolts unlocking and the door whipped open. A beautiful, olive-toned face with salt-and-pepper hair, a taut, shirtless chest, and a day’s growth of beard lurched out as if to shoo me away. He managed the single word, “Maribel,” before I pressed my cell-phone’s cover against his chest, pushed the button, and Tasered him into submission. As he writhed on the floor beside me, I pushed the door shut. Fortunately, the Taser still worked even though the phone was a complete loss. I reminded myself again to look into buying Taser stock.

  “Well, look who el gato dragged in,” came a woman’s voice.

  I looked up to see the partly clothed Monica Samuels. She was wearing a red lace bra and panties and a black nine millimeter pistol in a shoulder holster. It was a perversion that made me ill. Despite the lilting tone of her voice, there was no feigned amusement on her face. “How many fucking times do I have to kill you?” she asked, unholstering her gun.

  “Once,” I said, and shot her in the leg. Had I listed being ambidextrous on my government personnel profile, she might have been more cautious.

  “You made me shoot a hole in my favorite pants,” I said. I’d not had time to remove the weapon from my pocket.

  Samuels was writhing on the floor and whining like a kicked puppy. “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” she said. She was so angry she spat as she talked. I should be ashamed of how much satisfaction it gave me. “You broke my knee, you psycho bitch!”

  “Don’t be such a baby,” I said. “It’s a very small gun.”

  I’d made the mistake of underestimating her. I’d prepared myself for the possibility that she and her team had discovered where Kovac was, but in no way expected her to have formed an alliance—certainly not a sexual one—so soon. Now I understood why she was initially so hungry for my partner. The woman was a tramp. Since my surveillance indicated that Kovac lived alone, I had only one pair of handcuffs. It was difficult to determine which of the two was more dangerous, but Samuels was wounded and Kovac much larger than my small frame. I made the only logical choice—I shocked the pumpkin-haired demon so that she was writhing on the floor. Working quickly, I handcuffed Kovac to the sofa and used Samuels’s bra to tie her hands behind her back. By this time, she was recovering—spitting, cursing, and kicking with her good leg—but I was satisfied she was restrained.

  “I’m going to fucking cut your scrawny tits off before I kill you,” she said.

  “Monsieur Kovac …”

  “I’m gonna cut ‘em off, and I’m going to fucking eat one and feed the other to my cat.”

  I tried again. “Monsieur Kovac, I am going to make this quick.”

  It was as far as I got before Samuels interrupted.

  “Then I’m going to shoot you in your dried-up cunt.”

  The woman obviously had sexual feelings about me. I suppose I should have been flattered, but I was short on time and she was annoying. Kovac was alert by this time, though his eyes were still unfocused. I fear I shocked him too much. I tried to resume my speech, and once again, Samuels interrupted with another stream of invectives.

  “Enough!” I said. I stood, walked to her, pulled down her briefs while she screamed, hissed, and kicked like a rabid cat, and stuffed her filthy culotte into her big mouth. She was muffled then but belligerent. “If you don’t behave, I will shoot you in the other leg,” I said.

  That settled her, though her eyes were aflame with hatred. Kovac was stirring the pot by stealing glances at the woman who was now sitting on the floor, naked except for her gun holster, bleeding and gnawing on her panties. The horrid man had an erection! For the first time, I could feel the putrescence emanating from him and understood how he could use people the way he did. He was a sexual viper.

  I repositioned myself across from both of them. “Since you have met Miss Samuels, I know there is no reason for me to recap what I know and what I want.” Kovac nodded. I looked in his eyes and was unsurprised to see no fear. Instead, there was the merest up-curl of his lip. I could feel all the ways he wanted to rape and then kill me. This was the alpha male jackal I’d expected. “I will make things simple for you,” I said. “I do not care about your money. I don’t care about your silly whores for homes business. My partner’s death convinced me it wasn’t worth it.” Samuels’s eyes widened and for a moment, her mouth drew into a smile. She stopped when she saw my hand shaking. I gathered myself and continued. “I want three things. First, you will give me the location and amount of every bit of polonium at your disposal. Second, you will provide the names, addresses, alias, etc. of every contact you have for acquiring polonium in the past or in the future.”

  “And then what happens?” he asked.

  “I take what I need, render you unconscious, and I disappear.”

  He thought for a time, and then smiled. “I’m sorry, as much as I hate to insult a beautiful woman like yourself, I think you’re full of it. See, there is the matter of a few deaths back in London. Surely your government wouldn’t overlook those.”

  “I didn’t say the police would not pursue you. I said I would not. I leave and either you are caught or you are not.”

  “Why would I make this deal?”

  “Because I will destroy Rosie’s files, everything that ties you to these crimes. All I want is the polonium.”

  He looked at Samuels who shook her head vehemently. “Sorry, I can’t give you that. I’d be dead in a week.”

  I was out of options. “You have no choice. If you do not, I will shoot you tonight.”

  Samuels was still shaking her head and managed to spit out just enough of her culotte to speak. “Don’t listen to her. You’ve read her psyche profile. She’s bat-shit crazy, but wholly incapable of murder.” She read my surprise and glared at me. “Hint for the future: when you have the press say you’re dead, make sure a body shows up at the morgue.”

  Kovac flashed a furious look at Samuels that quieted her. “It doesn’t matter what she’s capable of. I’d always take my chances with her before I gave up any names.”

  Samuels gave me a self- satisfied smile. “Face it, Dark. You’re in over your head. Even if you managed to get out of here, my team will take you out as soon as you hit the street.”

  “If that were true, I would already be dead. I am guessing from your state of dress you’ve already disposed of your team. Too many mistakes, too many witnesses, eh?”

  Kovac looked at me and erupted in a smile. “Monica said you were smart.”

  “Shut up, you asshole!”

  “You shut up!” he responded. “You drew her to me! I was giving her Rudenko. He only knew what I wanted
him to know. Don’t you get that? If you hadn’t interfered, they would have arrested him, found out his computer data was bogus, and moved on.” I could see his fists clench, unclench, clench again. “I would have had time to move the entire London operation to … other places.” He looked at me, clearly having said more than he intended.

  “It was a stupid fucking plan,” Samuels said.

  “You killed my best man after convincing him to do exactly what I wanted him not to do! The man was a glorified traffic cop. He never worked an RPG in his life.”

  “The RPG wasn’t my idea, you idiot, it was his! He killed Rudenko to cover his own ass after Dark got onto him!”

  The two erupted in a spew of bickering that made them glow with orange-red auras. For the first time, I began to get nervous. I was fully prepared to die right away and thought there was only a minute chance I would see my way through this. However, the interview had gone long enough that I was beginning to see hope that I would live. With hope comes fear. That Kovac stopped himself from revealing his future plans told me he was beginning to believe he could escape. Samuels confirmed they both knew every psychological profile ever done on me said the same thing: under no known circumstances would I ever willingly take a life. He could only have read my profile if she provided it, and she would have done so only if they knew I was alive. Surely they knew I would come, just not when. I guessed that he’d somehow set off a silent alarm and was simply biding his time, waiting for his rescuers to come and finish me.