Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

  All well and good. He had been briefed about Attila Kozak. However, because the European Union conference was scheduled for the day after Ash Wednesday, Javier had arrived during Carnevale. Everywhere he turned, masked and costumed revelers danced and paraded through the campos and piazzas, some tipsy even at noon. He was sure the EU commissioners had chosen that Thursday so that they could attend the parties and banquets that revolved around Carnevale.

  Attila Kozak, the leader of the Croatian Party of God and Rights, was one of six candidates running for the presidency of Croatia. The Party of God had evolved from a succession of Croatian nationalist, conservative, right-wing paramilitary gangs that had now matured into the present political organization—PGR in English. Kozak had somehow managed to hold out an olive branch to both Serbia and Bosnia and Herzegovina. While neither country trusted the man, they had conceded to the United Nations that this might be the first step to some form of reconciliation between the warring states.

  During the Bosnian War, Kozak was a young and aggressive colonel in the most feared and beastly of Croatian paramilitary units, the Wolf’s Head Battalion, and was suspected of being one of the leaders behind the systematic ethnic cleansing and massacre of hundreds of Bosniaks. The men, and some women, of this unit acted like the heinous Nazi SS that had terrorized the Croatian countryside during World War II. Known for a stylized wolf’s head tattoo on the right side of the neck, they definitely were not the peace-loving Party of God and Rights and the future of Croatia. Kozak was also rumored to have established brothels in the cities they controlled, which were nothing more than rape centers populated with detained Muslim women and young girls. But in the aftermath of the peace accords and the eventual arrests and convictions of dozens of Serbian commanders, politicians, and soldiers for crimes against humanity, those Croats that participated in their own ethnic cleansings of the Bosniaks were often ignored. While a few Croats were caught and placed on trial at The Hague, most escaped or were never charged. Kozak was one of those never arrested or indicted.

  The dossier that CIA headquarters in Langley had given Javier noted that Kozak grew up in the suburbs of Zagreb, in one of the worst postwar industrial areas built by the Communists. With a drunken father and a mother who had disappeared when Attila was ten, he was raised by his grandparents. His eighty-year-old grandfather filled the boy’s head with stories of the war, hatred for the Germans, the Serbians, the Turks—as the Bosniaks were called—and anything European. It was a short step for the ten-year-old to be taken under the strong and embracing arm of one of the local Zagreb criminal gangs that moved opium and other drugs from the east through Croatia into Europe. When the Bosnian War exploded, they shifted their resources into stealing property, killing those in the way, and expanding their control of prostitution.

  Kozak was smart and understood the advantages of using the chaotic political turmoil as a way to provide cover for many of his own operations. He enlisted in the army and was selected by a friend to become part of the Wolf’s Head Battalion—a government-sanctioned gang that used its cover of legitimacy to pillage and plunder the villages of Bosnia and Herzegovina. A practicing Roman Catholic, Kozak was not shy about using the church as well. On his office wall in Zagreb, in a place of honor, hung a photograph of him kneeling before the pope’s ring.

  Javier wasn’t sure what Marika had. She had been vague as to the scope of the story and the information, but he was now certain that it was her intention to bring the man down. He also knew the dossier listed other witnesses to Kozak’s crimes, but they had disappeared. None had been found, alive or dead. When in a rare interview a reporter had asked Kozak about the coincidence of the missing witnesses, he answered, “I don’t believe in coincidences. Those people are probably on vacation.”

  Javier had two days. On Thursday, at the conference center Teatrino di Palazzo Grassi, the European Union would convene the next meeting in the series of post accession economic summits with Croatia and the surrounding Balkan countries. Also included in the EU conference were those European countries that stood to gain or lose something by Croatia becoming a member of the European Economic Area. Being a member of the European Union was one thing; becoming a member of the European Economic Area, with permission to adopt the euro, was something else entirely. The lowly Croatian kuna might not have much international power, but the conversion scared the devil out of Germany and France, and the citizens of Croatia as well.

  The rumor was that Kozak would make a political play at this conference. CIA contacts in Croatia suggested he would verbally attack the Germans and again lay at their feet the war crimes of World War II. Millions died in Yugoslavia and Croatia at the hands of both the Nazis and the Communists, but it was the Germans that Kozak still blamed for most of the current troubles in Croatia.

  “We Croatians will never again bow to the Germans, no matter how much they wave their precious euro in our noses,” Kozak had said at an earlier conference—a conference he’d not been invited to. “They want us for cheap summer cottages, cheap labor, and cheap food. Seventy years ago, it was the Germans that puffed up the dreams of the Bosnian Muslims who owed fidelity to Turkey. While the world may forgive this historic allegiance, we Croatians will never forgive or forget. Remember, it was those Turks, those Bosniaks, that filled the ranks of the treacherous SS Handschar army units for the Nazis. The Germans and the rest of Europe will pay dearly for our labor and access to our country.”

  Javier understood some of what was going on, but the US State Department had its own reasons for meddling in things. As for Javier himself, he just believed Attila Kozak had to be stopped.

  The CIA’s motto was “And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free.” Javier’s experience and eighteen years’ tenure in the agency had reinforced every one of those words. He and his fellow agents lived them, but since 9/11 he had grown wary of many of the other expanding bureaucracies of the American government. Their goals often drifted into the world of politics and politicians. Theirs was a gray world of innuendo and marginalization. His own world was simple: collect data, find the bad actors, and then put them away. But now two agents from some American organization had walked into the mix, men who knew this Alexandra Polonia. First he’d have his people in Langley check them out, and then make a few calls of his own.

  Even after finding two identical women on the same day in Venice, he did not believe in coincidences. Though, unwillingly, he was beginning to.

  CHAPTER 10

  The late-afternoon sun was low over the rooftops, and the canal outside Alex’s window was darkening. Her thoughts drifted like clouds on a windy day: the Croatian thugs, the delicious lunch, the cowboy from Texas, and the pistol in the room’s safe. For the first time in months, she thought, even with all the chaos, there were positive things.

  The phone rang. “We need to talk,” Javier said.

  “Why?” Alex answered. “What could I possibly have that you want?”

  Javier hesitated. “Things have gotten a little out of control.”

  “Out of control? Where?”

  “There’s a small café just across the bridge from your hotel. Only four tables in front. I’m sitting in one. I have been invited to a small dinner party this evening, and I’m asking if you would like to join me. A little touch of Carnevale might do us both some good. I believe you will find it interesting.”

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  “Right now, just to talk. Can you meet me?”

  She paused. “Sure, fifteen minutes. I just got out of the shower,” she lied.

  “Nice image. See you soon.” He hung up.

  Alex tapped the top of the phone. She still had no idea who this Castillo character was, even after an enjoyable lunch. She’d been assaulted, almost kidnapped, had escaped, been picked up by a Texan, bought a nice lunch, and now had been invited to a party. Not bad for her first twelve hours. Yes—why not?

  Soon afterward she slipped into the chair opposite
Javier as he clicked off his phone and removed his earpiece.

  “Why is it that these plastic chairs are not made for our American butts? Some of the Venetian women I’ve seen—how can I say this nicely?—are not exactly svelte.”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Javier answered. “They’re comfortable to me.”

  “You have a tiny ass, whereas we full-figure gals—well, just saying. So, what’s so important?”

  “Two men, Americans, accosted Ms. Jurić earlier today. They claim to know you. They demanded money of some kind. Their attitude toward you left little to the imagination.”

  “Two men?” Alex said, an edge to her voice. “What did they look like?”

  “Marika said they were white, called themselves agents. They gave the names Turner and Damico.”

  “Damn, those idiots? They are DEA and have been hounding me over the profits that Ralph supposedly has hidden.”

  “Is that why they are here?”

  “Probably to get the money, money I don’t know anything about. I assume they mistook your Croatian spy, or whatever she is, for me?”

  “Yes, that’s what she said. Maybe for the same reason why those Croats tried to grab you this morning—mistaken identity. It seems that I have two identical women on my hands, wanted by two extremely different groups with different agendas. Marika Jurić is my assignment, and the other, you, has become a pain in the butt—no chair joke intended.”

  “Cute. What did they say?”

  Javier described Marika’s encounter with Turner and Damico.

  “Damn, I just don’t get it. Why come four thousand miles to try and shake me down? If there is something that you would like to investigate, you should check out those two.”

  “They are not my concern.”

  “Really?” Alex said. “They should be.”

  “I have enough to do—I don’t need more. Money, what money?”

  “Don’t care but curious, not good. Somebody came up with a number during the trial; the number was twenty million. Ralph refused to say anything. So, these DEA guys are here looking for the money, how stupid.”

  “Like hunting a trophy head or something?” Javier said. “I’ve seen it before.”

  “Yes, maybe. I think they are in it for themselves. They are a smarmy pair, and I would not put it past them. Besides, that ex of mine knows that if I found it, I’d turn it over to the Justice Department. I’m sure that’s why he never even hinted at where it might be. He believes it’s so well hidden that it will still be there when he gets out. Damn, I came here to get away from all that, and the jerk still follows me. I’m beginning to have an overwhelming desire to shoot someone.”

  “That never solves anything.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  Before he called Alex, Javier had been on the phone with his friend, Special Agent Luis Rodrigues of the Cleveland FBI field office. Rodrigues, a Texan like Castillo, was shocked.

  “Alexandra Cierzinski is in Venice?” he asked.

  “She says her name is Polonia,” Javier answered.

  “It is. I was informed she recently changed it. However, we still know her as Cierzinski. Nice woman, well respected and a good police officer and detective. This office was directly involved in the follow-up to her husband’s arrest. His being a cop put the whole Cleveland police force under a microscope. In fact, my partner, Special Agent Latimer, interviewed her. We found nothing that connected her to the charges; it was hard to believe. Honestly, I was skeptical, but as the weeks went on, even I came over to her side. She was extremely upset about what her husband did and its impact on her—wait, that’s not the word. She was furious. I believe her husband, Ralph Cierzinski, kept her totally out of his criminal activities. Maybe he loved her. Who the hell knows?”

  “She mentioned a divorce.”

  “Yes, signed the day he went to Ohio’s Youngstown facility. He got twelve years. Might get out earlier for the usual good behavior. Personally, I’d lock him away forever. Meth is really bad, particularly for kids.”

  “The woman I’m assigned to assist here was mistaken for Polonia and was hit up by two DEA agents, Turner and Damico.”

  “Interesting, I know them. Average DEA, clueless and opportunistic,” Rodrigues said. “You think they are there for the money?”

  “What money?”

  “The number kicked around is ten to twenty million, but no one knows, except Ralph Cierzinski.”

  Javier whistled. “Really? Shit, no wonder they are here.”

  “Seen people go brain dead over a lot less. What’s Polonia’s connection to your assignment?”

  Javier explained the coincidence of the two look-alikes, the Croatian thugs’ attempt on Polonia earlier in the day, and the DEA agents’ shakedown attempt on Marika in the afternoon.

  “I assume your assignment is as good-looking as Polonia? I’ve seen her,” Rodrigues asked.

  “Don’t go there. I’m working.”

  “Too bad, nice to have choices. We tried to find the money—nothing. For all I know it could be buried in a box. Our guess is it’s in accounts in the Caymans or Switzerland. The fact that he was a cop gave him knowledge your typical meth-lab operator doesn’t have. You think this Polonia woman might be in Europe to get it?”

  “Not sure. If she is, I think she would have blown me off. Didn’t seem like it. Then again, she is a cop.”

  “Wow, two blondes, party-central Carnevale, millions of dollars out there, government expense account—you dog.”

  Javier let it slide. “If you hear anything, let me know. This will all be done in three days, then I’m back to Milan.”

  “As I said, you lucky dog.”

  Alex sipped her espresso. “This is good, not as good as my hotel’s, but good. We could have met there—less windy and a lot warmer. So, did you find those Croatian thugs?”

  “No, and probably little chance of it. Since lunch, a lot has happened. These DEA guys, what about them?”

  “Quite a pair,” Alex said. “I was on a task force with them.”

  “How did they know you’re here? In fact, how did they get here so quickly? You only arrived this morning.”

  “Since you told me, it’s been nagging the hell out of me. Someone told them I was here. No one from Cleveland knows I’m here except my old partner, Bob Simmons, and my parents. Even my captain doesn’t know. Can you find out when they arrived?”

  “Possibly,” Javier said. “I suggest you ask your partner who else knows.”

  “I will.”

  Javier studied Alex’s face, then continued, “You and Marika look exactly alike, even down to the eyes and smile.”

  Alex stared at him in disbelief. “So, I have a double. I don’t know whether to be thrilled or give her my condolences.”

  “To be seriously honest, it threw me. You two could be twins. Her hair is just a bit different, she wears more makeup, nice jewelry. Better dressed.”

  “Really? You employed by Vogue or something on the side?”

  “Sorry, just wondering what you would look like all dressed up.”

  “Good enough to knock your socks off, mister. I’ve dealt with federal agents like you for many years, Castillo. Most look like whiny momma’s boys—all straitlaced and such. Until now, I’ve never run into a Texas stud, with a deep tan, dark eyes, speaks a few languages, and, my guess, is seriously buffed under that shirt. Do you wear big shoes?” She smiled, then tilted her head to one side.

  Embarrassed, he returned her smile. “I deserved that. Sorry—I think.”

  “You will never know,” she answered. “So, tell me about this dinner party. Am I going to like my twin?”

  “She’s tough, been through a lot. She has important information that she wants to pass to the United States. I’m here to get it. There’s an international conference this Thursday on Croatian monetary issues, critical to some people. One of those attending is a war criminal disguised as a politician.”

  “That’s not news. Lots of them floating
around the world today.”

  “Yes, but Ms. Jurić has information about this one particular man. I can’t do anything about the others. My job is to make sure it gets to the right people. Then I’m done. She has asked me to meet with them this evening.”

  “Them?”

  “She has a son. He’s an attorney in Milan with an international NGO; they track down and bring war criminals to justice. I’ve never met him.”

  “I assume that I should, at least, wear something not so touristy?”

  “It is a nice hotel.”

  “I would not expect anything different from my twin—she gets to live my nonexistent, yet imaginative, elegant parallel life.”

  “I will pick you up at seven forty-five. Her hotel is just a block away.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Attila Kozak paced the length of the private car attached to the train traveling from Zagreb to Trieste. The train, a local, seemed to stop every twenty minutes; it waited at a platform, then started again. His private coach was the last car. Curled up in the corner of a velveteen settee was a woman sipping champagne. Kozak looked into her dark-green eyes as he marched up and down the aisle.

  Kozak stopped and pointed at the man in a military uniform who was seated at the far end of the car.

  “Why the hell wasn’t she stopped, Colonel Vuković? How could your men let her get out of Croatia? You had your orders. And me, the future president of Croatia has to take this train, all because of some international no-fly list. Have they found her in Venice?”

  “Yes, but before they could grab her, she escaped.”

  “They could have shot her,” Kozak said.

  “That would have been worse. You know that, General. However, they are watching her. We need all the information she has. She has probably left copies with someone; we need to know what she has. Then we will take the appropriate action.”