Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

  She toweled herself off, dressed, and sorted some of her luggage, which she’d shipped to the hotel a week earlier, into the room’s drawers. Stylish gray slacks, a Florentine leather over-the-shoulder satchel, a designer handbag—things she couldn’t have dreamed of owning growing up on the streets of Communist Zagreb. But she had invested wisely after selling her software company five years ago and was now comfortable. Every kuna she had made was deserved, every euro used to pay for her son’s education was earned, and every English pound and American dollar sitting in Geneva banks was hers. She owed nothing to anyone. And her early retirement from software had allowed her to return to her roots as an independent investigative journalist.

  She reflected on her life’s twists and turns—doors opened and doors closed. Some opportunities seized, others forgone. But most of her life had hinged on one twist, one turn: a single day almost a quarter century earlier. The day she had left Zagreb and taken a bus up into the hills of Bosnia. She had been so full of hope and aspirations. Croatia was now a free and independent country, centuries of oppression by despotic governments, one after another, gone. Yugoslavia, always a political imposter, was gone. Croatia and the rest of the puzzle pieces of the Balkans were beginning to take their place in the modern world of Europe.

  Her room’s phone interrupted her reverie. She picked it up. “Yes?”

  “The afternoon wake-up call you requested, signora.”

  “Thank you,” she said and hung up. Not as if she needed the call anyway—her circumstances had left her restless.

  She rechecked her small pistol’s magazine, cleared the chamber, and grabbed her satchel. The pistol fit comfortably into its custom holster just under the flap.

  “Ms. Jurić, good afternoon,” the manager said a few minutes later, once she’d reached the lobby. “I hope you had a chance to rest. Was your luggage as you sent it? I was concerned.”

  “Signor Baradino, everything, as usual, is very satisfactory. However, I could use a few more towels, and there is a plastic bag in the bathroom that needs to be removed. I cannot stand to look at those clothes again. So, if you would, please.”

  “Certainly, as good as done. Anything else?”

  “Messages?”

  “One moment. I believe so.” Signor Baradino disappeared into an office behind the reception counter. “Yes, here it is. It came as an e-mail.” He held a small gilt tray; an envelope lay on it.

  “If you would excuse me,” Marika said and turned toward a small sitting area off the lobby. She sat on a velveteen couch with a carved dark-wood base and arms, placed her satchel next to her, and opened the letter. She smiled.

  Mother,

  I will see you in Venice on Monday afternoon. I’m arriving on the five o’clock train from Milan and will meet you on the platform. I have sent this to Mr. Baradino, whom I know you trust. I hope that your trip was a success. I look forward to seeing you.

  Con affetto,

  Ehsan

  She refolded the letter and held it next to her heart. How could the time have passed so quickly?

  “Is everything acceptable, signora?”

  “Yes, thank you, Signor Baradino.”

  “It will be good to see Ehsan again. If I were to have a son, he is the man I would want.”

  “He is my treasure. Moreover, as a man, far more than that. Is the small wine library available this evening? I may have some guests and, of course, Ehsan. Could you be kind enough to see?”

  “I know for a fact it is available. Would eight o’clock be acceptable?”

  “Perfetto. I have errands to run, and then I’ll be back. Thank you for taking care of the room.”

  The CIA agent had suggested they meet at three o’clock in the Campo Santi Giovanni e Paolo, and she’d agreed. He was a curious man, his accent unlike those she’d heard from Washington, DC. His was softer, with a twang, yet formal at the same time: he had called her ma’am many times during their phone conversation. She was interested in meeting this Javier Castillo—very interested. But first she needed to complete a couple of errands: get a card for her son (his birthday was this Friday), and retrieve cash from the ATM. The timing of his birthday was unfortunate, but at least they’d celebrate it together.

  She soon completed her errands. The birthday card was simple and direct—Ehsan would enjoy the thought, even though it was in Italian—and the five hundred euros now in her bag would be helpful.

  She had fallen for Venice as a young woman. Her parents had brought her here when she was eighteen, around the time the Soviet Union collapsed and Yugoslavia began to change. Old hatreds arose; boundaries were carved in blood; politicians conspired. Her parents discussed leaving Zagreb for Italy. She remembered her father saying something about a job he might be able to find near Milan. What it was she couldn’t recall. He was a mechanic, his hands always dirty, his clothes always smelling of gasoline.

  In Venice they toured the countryside in open cars and bright sunshine, drove on snowy roads in the mountains, and spent the week on the canals. A week that just the three of them enjoyed, not knowing it would be the last vacation they would ever spend together.

  Then the war came. Her father was conscripted by the army. She never saw him again. Her mother died soon after he did, from a broken heart. A couple of years later, all Marika had was her son, Ehsan, a small apartment in Zagreb, and an idea. Ten years after that, her software company was a success; she even opened an office in Milan. In time, she and her heart returned to Venice.

  She had an hour before her meeting with the CIA agent. She stopped for a glass of Campari at a small bar that overlooked the Rialto Bridge and lit a cigarette.

  As the waiter set the glass before Marika, two men pulled out chairs from the table next to hers, spun them around, and sat directly across from her. Shocked, she started to stand.

  “Sit, Cierzinski,” the thinner of the two men said. “We need to talk. There is much to discuss.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, her English—unlike theirs—thick with an Eastern European accent.

  “You know why we are here,” the other man said. “Is this why you skipped out of Cleveland, to come to Italy and get your husband’s money?”

  “Money? What are you talking about? What is this Cleveland ? I don’t know you, and I have no husband. Go away, or I’ll call the polizia.”

  “The money, I know you know where it is. Since he doesn’t need it, it’s ours. Just tell us and no one will be the wiser. So, blondie, where the hell is it?”

  She studied the men: cheap suits and white shirts under short trench coats. The man on the left had a narrow face, pasty skin, red hair, and green eyes. The other had a fuller face, dark skin, three-day stubble, and brown eyes. Both had receding hairlines and attempted to style what was left into something that they probably hoped made them look ten years younger. They reminded her of the EU bureaucrats she had dealt with in Brussels, but they sounded American.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  “Really, is this how you are going to play this?” the narrow-faced man said. “You don’t remember me? How could you forget your old friends, Agents Duane Turner and Bill Damico? We have a history. I am hurt, aren’t you, Bill?”

  “Very hurt,” Damico said. “I wonder if she treats all her friends this way.”

  “Probably, women can be so bitchy, forgetful, and mean.”

  Marika started to stand.

  “Sit,” Turner said.

  Marika sat back in her chair and placed her bag on the table. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am a tourist from Croatia; I am not this Cierzinski person, whoever she is.” She opened the flap of her bag, brushed her hand over the pistol, and removed her passport. She opened it and held it up to Turner’s face. “Now, based on your gangster appearance and your English, I assume you are some type of an American thug. Who the hell are you?”

  The men looked at each other, then back at her.

  “You are not Ale
xandra Cierzinski?” Turner asked.

  “No, obviously not.”

  “Did Cierzinski have a tattoo on her arm?” Turner asked Damico.

  “Not that I know of.”

  Turner grabbed Marika’s hand and twisted her arm to show Damico her tattoo, a dagger with flames erupting from its edge. Marika pointed her pistol at Turner, and he promptly let her go.

  “Yes, the tattoo is a cherished memory from my past,” Marika said, pulling her left arm back. “I suggest that you two gentlemen move along. It seems your embarrassment is a case of mistaken identity. I don’t know an Alexandra Cierzinski or even care. Shall we just say your mistake was an honest one before it becomes a regrettable one?” She smiled at the men as they stood.

  “Jesus, I could have sworn it was her,” Turner said.

  “Sorry, lady, we didn’t mean anything by it,” Damico added.

  The men walked away and didn’t look back.

  “Americans,” Marika said as she slipped the pistol back into its holster and closed the flap on her bag.

  CHAPTER 8

  An hour later, Marika entered the Campo Santi Giovanni and carefully inspected the dozens of plastic tables set up at restaurants around its perimeter, until she caught the eye of one man, a Spaniard by his looks. As she approached, the man stood. Something about the CIA agent reminded her of her son. He also looked confused.

  “Special Agent Castillo, it is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “And you too, Ms. Jurić. Please sit,” Javier said, still staring at her.

  “The afternoon is chilly despite the sun,” Marika began as she sat. “But then again what I am doing does not abide pleasant days and warm sunshine. Has everything been prepared?”

  “Yes,” Special Agent Castillo said. “You requested the transfer to be low key. That is not a problem. But we will need some time to review the information before we can go public.”

  “Yes, I understand, but Kozak will arrive here any day, and the conference is on Thursday. Your State Department has assured me there will be enough time.”

  “After the transfer of the information, it is out of my hands, but I will do my best.”

  “Thank you, Special Agent Castillo. I have waited more than twenty years to have this man erased from the history books. He is not the future of Croatia. If we Croats wish to play on the same field with the other European countries, we must show them our resolve.”

  “I understand, Ms. Jurić, but I am just the messenger. My government needs to be sure.”

  “Like your President Clinton waited to be sure as thousands were massacred? As he and your State Department did nothing while my people died and thousands of murdered Bosniaks were thrown into ditches and the women and children raped? Like those same plutocrats and politicians of the European community who also waited to be sure, safe in their glass-walled bureaucracies in Brussels?”

  “If this is your opinion of us, why am I here? There’s the French, the English.”

  “They are not to be trusted. Hundreds of years of mischief and meddling is behind their words and promises. No, all I have now is the United States—I have faith in your current president.”

  “More than many of his fellow citizens,” Javier added.

  “No matter, my goal is simple: to eliminate this man as a candidate for the presidency of Croatia. The man is a monster, and it cannot be permitted.”

  “The information?”

  “My son is bringing me the rest of the material, and the film, later today. I will give it to you tonight at my hotel.” She stopped and studied Javier. “Is something bothering you, Agent Castillo? You keep looking strangely at me.”

  “I apologize for staring,” Javier offered. “I am sure you remember an old adage that says we have a double somewhere—a person that looks so like yourself that even your mother might not know the difference. It seems that earlier today I met yours. It is perplexing, specifically right now.”

  “I have a twin, fascinating.”

  “Sorry if I offended you. I apologize.”

  “On the contrary, I thought I had lost an earring, or my makeup was a mess.”

  “No, you are just fine. It is just that the two of you are so alike, you might be easily mistaken for the other.”

  “That explains what happened an hour ago,” Marika said. “I was interrupted by two Americans as I was having a Campari at a bar near my hotel. They mistook me for a woman they called Cierzinski, Alexandra Cierzinski. After I had shown them some identification, they seemed confused. I told them to go away. They did, but it was very strange.” No need to tell him about the gun.

  Javier’s smile at the coincidence turned to a stern look. “That explains the other men too.”

  “What other men?”

  “Earlier today I was walking through the neighborhood near your hotel. You are staying at the Ai Reali, correct?”

  Marika nodded.

  “I noticed a woman in one of the piazzas that I thought was you, so I introduced myself. When she protested, and I realized that she wasn’t you, she told me a story of being attacked by two men—Croats by her description. She managed to escape them and she is staying nearby.”

  “Interesting. And this is the woman who is my double?”

  “Yes, and other than the clothes and your accent, to most anyone you would be twins.”

  “A fascinating story. Is this something your CIA has concocted?”

  “Ms. Jurić, Attila Kozak is trying to either kidnap you or in some way compromise you. I would not put it past him to find a way to eliminate you.”

  “Others have tried and failed. Kozak’s a thug and a gangster. He only knows violence and brute force. Those sorts of men are easier to deal with than a politician or bureaucrat, who wrap themselves in laws and regulations. The thugs are easier to spot. Unfortunately, sometimes their violence must be met with violence. The war in Bosnia did not end entirely through the actions of politicians. A few appropriately placed bombs dropped by your American planes did a lot more to bring Kozak and his militia to the peace table than fancy words.”

  “Did these Americans give you their names?”

  “Yes. Duane Turner and Bill something . . . Bill Damico. They said they were agents, I assume of some American agency. What is this all about? Are they with your CIA? I assumed they have something to do with this woman. They wanted money. Money she supposedly knew about. Now, Agent Castillo, can you tell me why these men are following Ms. Cierzinski?”

  “Her name is Polonia, Alexandra Polonia. She changed it before coming to Venice. She is also a policewoman.”

  “How suspiciously convenient. These men had a reason for accosting me as well as following this Polonia woman. I wonder what it is?”

  “I don’t have a clue.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Javier and Marika left the campo and walked back to her hotel.

  How can there be some other woman who looks so much like me—and here, now?

  “Agent Castillo, I do not believe in coincidences. They are only in movies and books.”

  “Ms. Jurić, I think even your son would have difficulty telling the two of you apart. She has the same eyes, height, complexion, and hair color, and you are both the same age. It is too strange.”

  “One must never discuss a woman’s age,” Marika said. “So, this woman is a police officer?”

  “Things are different in American police departments,” Javier said. “In fact, in some cities, the chief of police is a woman. They are respected and, more importantly, obeyed.”

  “That would be difficult to find anywhere in the Balkans. We are, as you might believe, a male-dominated society.” At an overlook of the Grand Canal, Marika stopped and lit a cigarette. “That is where many of our problems begin: the men and their testosterone and foolish bravado. Eventually, it changes to the lust for power, with old hatreds an excuse for violence. I have studied this man Attila Kozak for a long time. He started as a small-time hoodlum working for a small-time tribal
chieftain, smuggling in goods, drugs, and girls from Turkey, Romania, and Ukraine. All to satisfy a man’s wants. It was not hard to move on to murder on an industrial scale.”

  “Your information and data—are they truthful and undeniable?”

  “Of course, I would not be talking with you and risking my life if they weren’t.”

  “Vendettas can change a person. I’ve seen it.”

  “Special Agent Castillo, this has changed me. I cannot deny it. This vendetta, as you call it, changed my family, my beliefs, and my life. Yet if it were not for this man, I would not have my son, who would not have lost his family, and likely would have been killed too. I am here to stop this Kozak monster.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you do. You Americans are so naïve. You haven’t had as much time as we’ve had to build up hatred and religious righteousness—or the need for revenge. We Croats have long memories when it serves our purposes.”

  “You said that your son is coming today?” Javier asked. By this time they had reached the Campo San Lio, a short walk to her hotel.

  “Yes, on the late-afternoon train from Milan. I am having a small dinner party at the hotel to welcome him at eight o’clock. Please join us—I want you to meet him, and he has the papers I could not carry. I will give you the thumb drive and the original film with the rest of the data. You can do with them as you wish; I have copies. Also, please invite this intriguing double of mine—I would like to see what I look like. Good afternoon, Special Agent Castillo.”

  Marika turned and disappeared down a passageway.

  Special Agent Castillo considered the day’s events. No, events was the wrong word; it was more like one strange coincidence piled on after another. And the day wasn’t even done yet. In his operational orders from the CIA’s Milan field office, the mission was described as simple data collection. He was a go-between, nothing more. Pick up what Marika Jurić has on this known Croatian mobster, and military officer turned politician, Attila Kozak. Get the papers, thumb drive, and film back to Milan to be scanned and sent on to Washington. If the US State Department confirmed the information and blessed it, the US would publicly denounce Kozak.