“The best action is a bullet in her head.” Kozak leaned over and gently stroked the woman’s cheek. “What would you do, Maja, my dear?” he asked.
She smiled. “Take our time. Marika has by now contacted the European or American authorities. Even now, those cowards at the EU still do not believe all that happened in that wretched country, Bosnia. We must be prepared; you must be prepared. There will be many accusations and charges, but the evidence is long gone. This Marika Jurić has nothing—nothing, my general.”
“I wish I could be so certain. Everything we did was necessary. Good God, it was twenty-five years ago. Can’t they let it go?”
“Most have moved on with their lives. Now even the stupid Serbs want tourist dollars. The Bosnians are renting out their houses to the British; Dubrovnik welcomes cruise ships. My general, it is all about money. No one cares about the Croats, or the Bosnians, or the Serbs. These Europeans just want clean beaches, wine, and good food. The past is that—the past.”
“Fools, don’t they see what lies in front of us?” Kozak said. “The Bosniaks still believe the Turks will return and raise them up. And those criminals, the Serbs, are just waiting for their chance to take back everything they claim they lost.”
“It’s a war no one wants. Least of all the Croats.”
“They need to be reminded. These European offspring, these perverts playing naked on our beaches, these children who only want to party and play with their Facebook and Instagram. I have a great fear for my country and its future.”
“I do too, my general. I do too. Nevertheless, we will find a way to awaken them, to make them see what is happening. All these migrants and riffraff fleeing Africa, Syria, and Afghanistan are just making it worse. How many are really ISIS? How many are al-Qaeda? How many are the treacherous Saudis and their Wahhabis? You need to direct your people against these Muslims, all Muslims. You must make your people understand the threat they pose. It only takes one fanatic Muslim to change the world. Even if the number of terrorists is a small percentage by NATO’s count, there could be hundreds of trained killers.”
“And the Venice conference will be my stage to make it happen.” Kozak stopped and puffed up a bit. “It is there, with the world watching, that I can make them see how dangerous this all is.”
Maja sipped her champagne. “Yes, my general. Venice will be the place where you will take the world’s stage.”
The train was weaving its way from Zagreb through Slovenia to Ljubljana, then on to Villach, Austria, and into Italy. He would leave his railcar on a siding at the Venezia Mestre station and take the local into Venice’s Santa Lucia station. In many ways, he was much more comfortable traveling this way than by plane. All the security and nosiness bothered him. It was an insult to someone like himself. And his luggage would be out of his hands for hours. Good God, what foreign agents could do during that time. Trains had, in the past two centuries, helped form empires. There was something regal about them, unlike airplanes and flying with the “riffraff,” as Maja called them. What General Attila Kozak did not want anyone to learn was that he was deathly afraid of flying.
Why did this woman, this Marika Jurić, want to stop him, to embarrass him? She had unexpectedly appeared a year earlier in an article in the Times, branding him a war criminal. The interview went on and on about his record during the Croatian army’s advance into Bosnia in the spring of 1993. She claimed he had been responsible for massacring Bosniaks, burning villages, and operating Croatian execution squads. How simplistic—she never offered proof, and besides, what does a woman know of war? The criminals were those Serbs under Milošević and his brutal executioners. It was the Serbs who had killed both Croats and Bosniaks. Who was she to challenge the next leader of Croatia?
CHAPTER 12
After her meeting with Special Agent Castillo, Marika, full of the spirit of the holiday, wandered through her beloved Venice. Her destination: a small shop near San Marco, where she bought a simple half mask and a large black hat. The thought of the CIA agent and the other woman annoyed her. She often stopped and looked back to see if someone was following her, including any of Kozak’s men who might be watching for the real Marika Jurić. Her simple disguise worked, or at least she hoped that it was working.
Ehsan would be arriving in about an hour; she smiled at the thought. Her son, the love of her life, the reason behind everything she’d done during the past twenty years. When people said she was too young to have a boy his age, she beamed. Yes, when she saved him he had been eight years old, she just twenty. He had been her responsibility, he had been her child, and he had become her son.
It would be good to be with him again; they spent too little time together. Her time in Zagreb the last few years had been spent writing and interviewing the survivors of the last European war of the twentieth century. The demands of the victims—Muslim, Christian, and Orthodox alike—left little time for the two of them. Ehsan’s work in Milan meant he spent a great deal of time traveling. She had played a small part, unknown to him, in helping him secure the position. His trips to Slovenia and Bosnia didn’t worry her, but his increasingly frequent trips to Turkey and Saudi Arabia did.
“My job is to coordinate various Muslim and Christian organizations,” he had explained when she’d asked. “These religions and their political organizations are wary of each other. They all profess great sympathy, but I find they often reflect the politics of their countries. There is among some of these religious and political leaders a zealotry, a dangerous fanaticism. They respect me. I have access where others don’t. Maybe it’s my past, for those that know it. Maybe it’s because I have one foot in both worlds.”
That had been three years ago. Ehsan, having lived on his own then for already almost eight years, had come to Zurich to meet Marika, who was interviewing a Bosnian refugee. The woman had, like so many others, lost her entire family during the war. Ehsan was also there to meet his friends Cvijetin Radić and Asmir Fazlić. Radić was living in Zurich, Fazlić in Trieste, the three friends getting together when they could. Cvijetin and Asmir were two of the lucky ones, both having been swept up in an organization that rescued orphans and lost children after the war. They had grown up in a small Muslim orphanage near Budapest, and they had met Ehsan at university. After graduation, when Ehsan went on to Oxford, Asmir and Cvijetin had found jobs in Trieste. In time, Asmir had gone to work for a logistics company, and Cvijetin had moved to Zurich to work in hospitality. The three men’s histories, religion, and friendship bound them together.
Marika strolled through the city and across the Rialto Bridge and the Ponte degli Scalzi, the high-arching stone bridge that led to the piazza in front of the Santa Lucia train station. Across the canal from the piazza was the colonnaded façade of the church San Simeone Piccolo. She crossed the piazza and climbed the broad, shallow steps to the station.
The electronic train schedule, posted high in the grand lobby of the station, noted that Ehsan’s train was on time; she had twenty minutes until it arrived. As one of the only true gateways to the city from the rest of Italy, the station was packed with tourists, citizens, and businesspeople. Many carried masks, and a few were even dressed in Carnevale fashions. The women wore imaginative gowns in silk, the men richly decorated costumes of some lost or fantasized era, and all wore hats that defied description. For Marika, it was entertaining, a release from the long, dreary winter days in Zagreb. She held her mask to her face and bowed to one colorful couple. They returned her bow.
The signs above the crowded platform indicated Milan on the right and Trieste on the left. As if cued, the headlamps on both of the bullet-nosed locomotives appeared at the far end of the station. They each slowed and approached the platform, the train from Milan slightly in the lead, then stopped. The porters dismounted first, and the passengers followed, climbing down the steps to the platform.
Marika, her mask now in her hand, stood to one side as the flood of arriving passengers pushed their way toward Venice. Sh
e beamed a mother’s proud smile when she saw Ehsan step down from the train, a leather satchel in his hand. He saw her at the same moment and waved. Returning the wave, she walked swiftly toward her son, then looked to the opposite end of the platform.
A group of men was aggressively pushing its way through the disembarking passengers. None in the group carried baggage. Behind, a woman in a long black coat followed, a man in a gray-green military uniform immediately behind her. And directly behind them, flanked by two large men, walked Attila Kozak. They shoved their way through the crowd like tanks driving through a forest of small trees.
Marika turned to see Ehsan, wide eyed, jogging toward her. Apparently, he’d noticed her staring at Kozak.
“Not now, Mother,” Ehsan said once he reached her. “Not now.”
The woman in the long black coat touched Kozak’s sleeve and pointed at Marika. He jerked his head in Marika’s direction. For a moment he didn’t recognize her, but the woman said something and a sneer appeared on Kozak’s face. Immediately, he headed toward Marika.
Ehsan moved to place himself in front of his mother.
“Marika Jurić, my little viper,” Kozak said, looking past Ehsan. “It is a pleasure to meet you again. And I assume this is one of your bodyguards?”
Ehsan started to say something, but Marika grabbed his arm and pulled him back toward her.
Not acknowledging Kozak by name, Marika said, “He is my son, you murderer. We have nothing to say to you—nothing. I suggest you leave before—”
“Before what? Do you think I’m afraid of a woman like you, or this boy? When I am president, I can assure you troublemakers like you will not be welcome in our country.”
“The people hate you,” Marika said. “You and the criminals you call your comrades.”
“Come, Mother,” Ehsan said, now pulling her away. “Leave this for another day. This is not the place. There will be a time when this criminal will be properly disposed of—it is just not here and now.”
“Shut up, you Turk. I know about you. Yes, this is not the place, but someday—”
Like with after an accident on a busy highway, the passengers on the platform had jammed up against them. People raised their voices to tell them to move on, get out of the way.
Ehsan directed his mother down the platform and away from the exiting Kozak.
“Leave them, Mother. He has betrayed his country, and you will tell the world of this betrayal and his murderous past. Just leave them.”
Mother and son watched Kozak disappear into the station. Ehsan leaned down and kissed his mother on the cheek. “I missed you.”
“And I missed you,” she answered, placing her hand on his cheek.
CHAPTER 13
“After your first day in Venice, you look rested, and quite lovely,” Javier said as he met Alex in the Aqua Palace lobby, his hand hidden behind his back.
The intimate hotel foyer was crowded with guests, many wearing masks and costumes. Unlike the revelers, Alex wore a simple black dress and the short black leather jacket. Her blonde hair rested on her shoulders in soft waves.
“How’s the jet lag?” he asked.
“You are a little rusty on your compliments,” Alex said as Javier took her arm. “But thank you—the nap helped. There’s still a touch of fogginess around the edges, but better.” She looked at the guests. “I spent a bizarre week in New Orleans during Mardi Gras with some girlfriends, before I was married. But this”—she waved her hand—“is way over the top, very dressy. I see that you are not wearing a mask, Mr. Castillo. And what are you hiding there?”
He offered her a white porcelain mask decorated with black pearls and sequins. “For you.”
“Really?”
“Call it a disguise.”
“The bad guys are long gone.”
“We can wish.”
They walked through dense crowds of merrymakers, some costumes inexplicable, others fascinating. Inhibitions seemed to drop, or at least so Alex thought. Some of the costumes were just on the edge of bawdy.
She leaned into Javier. “It seems that the Casanova theme goes a long way here.”
“Way too much for my taste. Us Texas boys are not keen on public displays of affection, and some of this is embarrassing, even for a guy like me.”
“And what is a guy like you?” she asked.
He turned and whispered in her ear, “A federal agent on the job.”
“Spoilsport.”
The Ai Reali, its windows glowing from within, fronted the Campo de Fava. As they entered, a small group of laughing, costumed guests pushed their way out. Alex turned to avoid one man that seemed a bit too close and followed Javier into the hotel. Very nice. In fact, exceptionally nice. Whoever this Marika Jurić is, she at least has some money. The hotel lobby, bright in whites and new marble, fit right into the faux reality of modern Venice.
“We are guests of Ms. Jurić,” Javier said to the man at the desk.
The clerk smiled. “They are waiting for you in the wine cellar. Please, through these doors.”
“They have cellars in these buildings?” Alex whispered.
“I believe it is a figure of speech.”
The clerk led them through a series of twists and turns down carpeted hallways until they came to a dark-oak door. The clerk knocked and waited.
A handsome man opened the door. “Please come in. It’s good to see you again, Special Agent Castillo.”
“And you too, Ehsan, it has been months since our meetings in Milan. This is my friend Alexandra Polonia.”
If Alex could have been shocked after the past two days of hard travel, jet lag, and Croatian thugs, seeing herself walk across the elegant room would have stunned her. Marika Jurić, in an attractive dark-blue dress, stopped in front of Alex. The expression on Jurić’s face was no different than the one Alex wore; each squinted at the other. Then, before any pleasantries, they circled each other, staring like two strong felines warily appraising the other. Jurić, the more forward, reached out with her fingers and touched Alex’s face.
“When Agent Castillo said we look alike, I thought he generally meant hair, height, all the usual physical things. You know how observant men can be,” Marika said.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I feel like I’m looking at myself. I’m Alexandra Polonia, Cleveland, Ohio.”
“Marika Jurić, Zagreb, Croatia. Agent Castillo.” She walked to Javier and kissed him on each cheek. She then turned to Ehsan and took his hand. He looked to be around thirty. His face was long and sharp, with a closely trimmed, fashionable dark beard, and he had blue eyes and full black eyebrows. His black hair was neatly combed back and reached the top of his collar. His smile was welcoming, broad, and warm.
“This is all too strange,” Marika added.
“Ms. Polonia, the resemblance is amazing,” Ehsan said, surprise filling his face as he studied Alex. He looked at his mother. “Mother said that the two of you are supposed to look alike, but it is more than that: you look like twins. You are from Cleveland? Where is this Cleveland?”
“On the shore of Lake Erie in the state of Ohio, halfway between New York City and Chicago. Does that help?”
“I have been to New York and Chicago, so yes. The Midwest, right?”
“Yes, close enough.” Alex turned back to Marika. “They say we have a double somewhere in the world; I just didn’t think I would find mine in Venice. It is a pleasure.”
“Mine as well,” Marika said. “Champagne? Or something stronger?”
“A gin martini would be nice,” Alex replied. “Very dry, one olive.”
“Excellent,” Marika said. “I think we will be very good friends. Agent Castillo?”
“A Peroni, if you don’t mind.”
“Ehsan?”
“Yes, Mother, I will be right back.” He headed to the corner where a young girl stood behind the bar. She smiled as Ehsan walked toward her.
“He is a handsome young man,” Alex said.
“The love of my life, I will do anything for my son. But more of that later.”
With their drinks in hand, they took seats in the corner of the room, wine bottles in elegant walnut racks nearly surrounding them. The couch and chairs were deep-red leather. All in all, a comfortable room.
“I have asked that a dinner of seafood and risotto be prepared,” Marika said. “And some delicious wine from the vineyards north of Verona, and a surprise treat for dessert.”
“I love surprises,” Alex said.
“Not like the one from earlier today, I’m sure,” Marika said. “Those Croatian thugs are more than what most tourists want to find in Venice.”
“Yes, but it seems that I found a Texas cowboy instead.”
Marika looked suspiciously at Javier. “Yes, he is a cowboy. But I believe he is an impatient cowboy. I see it on his face.”
“I assume you have all that I need?” Javier asked.
“Yes, it is all there in that envelope.” She pointed to a thick manila envelope on a side table. “I have included the film—the original rolls—in the envelope as well. Ehsan brought the rest of the documents from Milan. Now you have all the proof you need.”
Alex knew she was not a part of this conversation, but her detective brain wouldn’t rest. A hundred thoughts bounced around inside her head.
“Agent Castillo, have you told my twin anything?” Marika asked.
“A few bits, not much.”
“I see no harm. After all, there are men about Venice that want to talk with Ms. Polonia about something other than Croatian politics.”
“I have no idea why they are here,” Alex said. “They are federal agents who may have had something to do with my husband. He’s in prison, and they think he’s hidden money here.”
“Your husband is in prison?” Ehsan asked. “Why?”
“Ehsan, it is not our affair,” Marika said.
Venice Black Page 7
