Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

  “And I am proud,” Marika said.

  “You should be,” Alex said. She looked at Marika’s arm. “Can I assume that the tattoo on your arm covers the wound from the barbed wire?”

  Marika rolled her left arm over and looked at the long, thin dagger tattoo. “Yes, the wound became infected and took months to heal. The scar was dark and quite hideous. The tattoo is there to cover the scar and to be a reminder. It is my sword of retribution.”

  “A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Alex said.

  “Most of our lives are dramas. I chose to have this reminder dyed into my skin. A day does not go by that I do not think of that afternoon.”

  “I don’t wish to put an end to this evening,” Javier said. “But there are people waiting for the information in Milan. I need to catch the last train. The information will be transferred to a particular State Department official in Washington who will review the materials and, if there is enough evidence, make it public. But none of that will happen if I miss that train.”

  “Can’t it be faxed or emailed or something?” Alex said.

  “That will also be done. However, they are old school: they want to see the pictures, inspect the original film, and see and listen to the affidavits. That’s what’s in the package, and it will need at least twenty-four hours to reach Washington.”

  “So, this is goodbye?” Alex said, a touch of disappointment in her voice.

  “Until tomorrow night,” Javier answered. “I will be back. I’ve been assigned to stay through the conference, more as a liaison for our consular agencies both here in Venice and in Milan. They have limited resources and my language skills will be helpful.”

  “What else do you speak besides Italian?” Alex asked, happier now she knew Javier would return.

  “Pashto, French, and some German. Growing up Latino in Central Texas also pushed a hard Tex-Mex dialect into my Spanish.”

  Alex stared at the man she hadn’t even known existed twenty-four hours earlier. Can this guy get any more intriguing?

  “And what are you doing tomorrow?” Marika asked her. “With Special Agent Castillo in Milan, you’ll have the day to yourself. May I suggest a stroll through the city? There is much about Venice itself that is beguiling, but there is nothing like a walking tour of the city, and hiring a boat to see the city from the water. It can be a pleasant and fascinating day. Then there is Murano with its glass factories and shops, yet another nice diversion.”

  Alex looked at Marika. “Since Javier will be away, why don’t you join me? I would enjoy the company.”

  Marika seemed to ponder the possibility for a moment. “I cannot in the morning, but I will be free after one o’clock. You can visit Murano in the morning, and then we can wander the canals and alleys of Venice in the afternoon.”

  “An excellent idea, Mother,” Ehsan said. “I don’t want you cooped up in this hotel until Thursday. You should get out.”

  “Marika, I agree with Ehsan,” Javier said. “Take your mind off all this, at least for one day, while your information is under review by Washington. I can make a call. There is an excellent tour company that I’ve used. Their boats are beautiful.”

  “It would be nice to put this out of my head for a day, or at least an afternoon,” Marika said. “Yes, I accept the invitation.”

  “Good,” Alex said. “Can you meet me in the lobby of my hotel? It’s just around the corner. Then you can play travel guide.”

  Marika turned to Javier. “Is she always this bossy?”

  “I’m beginning to find that out.”

  Marika laughed. “Well, before you go, you have to try some zabaglione with berries.”

  After they left the hotel, Alex suggested that she walk Javier to the train station.

  “It’s not that late, and I can use the exercise,” she said.

  “You’ll get lost going back to your hotel.”

  “Probably, but it will be fun anyway.”

  They strolled across the Rialto Bridge, dodging tourists and masked carnival goers. From either side of the Grand Canal, fireworks erupted, shooting colorful streamers back and forth over what seemed a thousand gondolas. Their sensuous shapes reflected in the mirrored glass of the canal. The noise was deafening, making a conversation next to impossible.

  “Magic,” Alex said.

  “It is that. Hard for a kid from Waco to imagine that someday he would be standing here. I’m sure I didn’t even know what Venice was.”

  They plunged into one of the countless passageways that led to the train station.

  “I’ve dreamed of Venice since I was twelve,” Alex confessed. “I had picture books and guidebooks. When my best friend went off to college and spent a summer traveling in Italy, she sent postcards. I still have them.”

  “Where else have you traveled?”

  “I have never been out of the United States—unless you count the extradition trips I made to Toronto and Montreal.” She smiled. “Javier, if all my future vacations start like this one, maybe I will travel more.”

  They crossed the Ponte degli Scalzi and the piazza in front of the train station. Alex waited while Javier bought a ticket, then joined him on the platform.

  “How long have you been in Italy?” Alex asked.

  “I’ve been assigned to Milan now for more than a year. I was in Rome before that. It’s a nice gig. I won’t get much sleep tonight. All this has to get to Washington.”

  “Try to get some on the train.”

  “I will,” he said, his expression strange. “I shouldn’t be doing this. Lord knows I’m breaking a hundred international laws, but take this.” He retrieved a thick envelope from his briefcase and handed it to her. “I know you know how to use it.”

  From its heft, she knew what it was. “I can’t.” She thought of the Glock in her safe.

  “You need it. These people do not play fair. It’s a loaner; I want it back tomorrow. I have a ticket on the midafternoon train. Would you care to have dinner tomorrow?”

  The announcement of trains and platforms interrupted her answer. Javier, briefcase in hand, looked at Alex and kissed her on the lips.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He smiled and boarded the train. Stunned, she stood there and watched the train slowly pull out of the station.

  CHAPTER 15

  Alex walked toward her hotel in a soft daze. The smallish Glock 26 was comfortably lodged in her handbag. Along with the pistol and spare magazine, she was surprised to find a cell phone. “If you need me, speed-dial 007,” said the Post-it note. Cute.

  She put on the porcelain mask Javier had given her earlier. It allowed her anonymity: a white face among dozens of other white and gilded faces that pushed their way toward the Rialto Bridge and onto Piazza San Marco. She strolled with the flow as music blared from cafés and osterie and people danced and celebrated. The wonderful dessert still lingered, but the wine had worn off.

  Venice . . . That’s why I came four thousand miles: to eat and drink.

  In the Campo San Polo, a restaurant, still open, was snuggled in one corner. She spied an open table under a large bare tree festooned with Italian lights. She sat and looked across the campo; even at this late hour, a small carousel filled with laughing children turned. Around and around it went, to the sound of an accordion. She slipped off her mask.

  Within seconds a waiter appeared and slapped down a menu. “Something to eat?” he said in English, his accent New Jersey–ish.

  “Just a bottle of Chianti, your best,” she said without looking at the menu. “Understand?”

  “Sì, sì. I lived a few years in Trenton, New Jersey. I got it. We have four Chiantis. Which one?”

  “You pick.”

  The waiter smiled. “You da boss.”

  Hundreds strolled through the campo, some in costume, some in heavy coats, and others in the seemingly ubiquitous leather jacket favored by Eastern Europeans. The Americans were easy to spot, all bright and shiny, iPhones and cameras firing away. The ot
hers, their international languages preceding them, pointed and waved in joyful chaos. The glowing windows of the two-, three-, and four-story buildings wrapping the campo gave the scene substance.

  Magic.

  A basket of bread landed on the table while she eyed the campo. Then the waiter appeared with a bottle and two glasses.

  “Only me,” Alex said.

  “Seriously, a woman like you alone in Venice?” the waiter said as he extracted the cork. “I thought your husband was just late. Maybe you are to meet him here?”

  If he only knew. “No, just me, but thank you.” She tasted the wine. “Wonderful.”

  He filled the glass, then mumbled something she thought sounded like “bummer” as he walked away.

  The theater in the campo continued. Music spilled across the plaza from deep in one of the passageways. Four drummers and three accordion players marched out ahead of an entourage of costumed revelers. She had never seen such silk gowns; they looked to be ten feet wide, with long trains, in bright yellows and pinks, some ecclesiastical purple. The men wore richly embroidered black capes, and their tricorn hats sat on great wigs that fell to their shoulders. Other men, with silk finery matching their partners’ colors, danced and preened. Some carried canes; others waved fans about even in the damp, chilly air.

  The wine and the music worked their enchantment. For the first time in more than a year, Alex could feel the weight of the past winter sliding away, even though the day, her first day in her dream country, had been so strange.

  Is this why I came to Venice? Magic? Texas magic?

  After two glasses, the restaurant had emptied to half, and even the campo had quieted. She asked the waiter for a bag. The rest of the wine would be her nightcap. She rose to leave.

  “Will you be all right?” the waiter asked as he handed her the credit card receipt.

  “Yes. In fact, this is the best I’ve been in a year.”

  His eyes went wide as she air-kissed him on both cheeks.

  Then she slung her handbag over her shoulder, picked up her mask and the wine bag, and headed toward a passageway exiting the campo. A sign with an arrow said “Ponte di Rialto.” She reset the mask on her face as fireworks exploded high over the terra-cotta roofs.

  She drifted along with the crowd through the maze of streets. After a turn, she came face-to-face with the Grand Canal. Everyone else turned left onto the Riva del Vin and headed toward the illuminated Rialto Bridge. Alex turned hard right to get out of the flow and moved over to some steps that descended into the canal. She stood with her boots one step above the water’s surface. More fireworks exploded over the spot where the canal curved and disappeared. A thousand lights reflected off the canal from lampposts, vaporetti, and restaurants that seemed to float atop a long sinuous mirror.

  She took in a breath and slowly released it. She felt a push from behind, forcing her to adjust her footing. She turned to look behind her and bumped into a large man. He said something under his breath, something she didn’t understand—in Croatian or some other Balkan language. His breath stank of garlic and booze. She felt a hand trying to grab her arm.

  “Get away from me.” She elbowed him hard in the gut. It did nothing. “Get the hell off me!” she yelled. A hundred people could have heard her if it weren’t for the background Carnevale noise masking everything.

  “Sada, doci!” he yelled.

  She saw the pistol held to his side. His black eyes stared at her; he smiled through yellowed and broken teeth, teeth she had seen that morning. She then noticed another man three paces behind him.

  Shit, not good.

  If there was one thing she remembered from her police-academy days, something she’d told a dozen rookie partners, it was “Never give the advantage away. If you don’t have it, get it.” She smiled at the man; his quizzical look was all she needed. She swung the bottle of Chianti at the thug’s forehead. The heavy paper bag kept the broken glass from flying everywhere but did not stop the bottle from knocking the man to the pavement.

  As he dropped to one knee, the other Croat pushed in to grab her. She deftly seized the attacker’s hand and, using his momentum, pulled the man to her, then stepped out of the way. He somersaulted into the canal again, its current soon snagging him and pulling him away as he screamed.

  Her eyes had never left the man kneeling on the cobblestones; blood ran down his temple and cheek. As he started to rise, she casually passed him and dropped an elbow onto his shoulder. She thought she heard the bone break. The pistol dropped from the hand of his traumatized arm. She picked it up off the paving, slipped it into her already-crowded handbag, and jogged down the walkway, dodging through partygoers as she made her way to the bridge.

  They had to have been following me, but why did they wait? For an hour I sat in the campo, nothing. Then here. What the hell?

  Just before she reached the Rialto Bridge, she turned into the Calle de la Madonna, away from the canal and back into the San Polo district. She was sure they would be watching the bridge. She made a left and sprinted another few blocks, toward a small café.

  The proprietor, gray haired with a long, drooping mustache, stood behind the antique cash register and told her something in Italian.

  “I need just one minute, then I’ll go. May I use your bathroom?” Then in Spanish: “Baño?”

  “Bagno, sì, sì.” He pointed.

  “Grazie.”

  She looked down the short hallway to a door she assumed opened to a back alley. A dead bolt locked it from the inside. She pushed her way into the tiny bathroom, looked in the mirror, and took a deep breath. She still had her mask on, and the shock scared the hell out of her. She slipped it into the handbag and put the Glock into the pocket of her leather jacket. The thug’s pistol was a Russian Makarov 9mm, its walnut handle well worn, the identifying five-pointed star carved into its checkered grip. She pushed it deep into her handbag. She’d managed to accumulate three weapons in a single day. She retrieved Javier’s phone, and as she started to punch in the James Bond number, a loud bang came from the door. Her heart skipped a beat.

  “You okay, lady?” Just the man from the counter.

  Alex pushed open the door. “Yes, I’m okay.”

  The man stood in the hallway, his arms across his chest. “No drugs here. Okay? No drugs.”

  “No drugs, okay.” She rummaged through her bag and came up with a twenty-euro note. “Espresso?”

  The man looked at the note and raised two fingers. She rummaged again and came up with another note.

  “No, no. Espresso, due euro.”

  She almost laughed as she passed one of the twenties to the man. “It’s okay, take it.” She slid into a discreet corner seat where she could see the front door but no one outside could see her. She called Javier.

  “Are you okay?” he answered after a few rings. “What happened?”

  She blurted out everything and became embarrassed as she went on. For Christ’s sake, I’m a goddamn cop.

  “Are you in Milan?” she asked.

  “An hour out, still on the train. They are waiting. I have to do this.”

  “Like you’re going to turn around and come to my rescue? Please . . . I’m fine. But if they have my hotel staked out, I’m toast for the night. The chance of finding a room with thousands of drunk partygoers on two small islands is nuts.” A few moments passed. “Javier?”

  “Here’s what I want you to do. In Venice, I’m staying at an apartment kept by a lesser-known government agency. I’m going to call them and set you up for the night. I’ll text you the address. Where are you now?”

  She leaned over and asked the man where the café was located.

  “My apartment is a block from Piazza San Marco,” Javier said. “Don’t go over the Rialto. Take a water taxi to the piazza—it’s safer. Have the driver mark your map with the apartment address. Call me when you get there. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “You have to ask the other guys,” she answered.

>   He laughed. “I’ll talk to you in an hour. The man at the front desk is Albert Nox; he will have all the info. Be safe.”

  “You too,” she said, not knowing why, and ended the call.

  He’s the one who’s safe. Hell, I’ve got a bunch of Croats chasing me who think I’m some avenging Croatian bitch. She looked at the clock on the wall over the door. Just past one o’clock.

  A half hour later she stepped off onto the small dock abutting the promenade at San Marco’s. On her map, the water taxi driver drew a line that she was to follow from the square to Javier’s apartment. She assumed that most Venetians put up with this chaos every year because of the tourist euros. She wouldn’t have lasted two days if she lived here.

  She passed the basilica and wound her way through the never-ending labyrinth that was the streets and passageways of Venice. She kept looking at the signs and crossed a narrow canal. The street name on the corner of the building matched the map. A light shone through a glass door covered by a sheer curtain. This looked to be a much stronger door than she’d seen almost everywhere on the island. She scanned the archway above it; a small inconspicuous camera sat high in the corner. The only identification was the brass number 17 above the door. No mailbox or apartment identifiers, just a single button. She pushed it.

  “Ms. Polonia, I assume?” came the voice through the call box.

  “Yes, Agent Castillo sent me.”

  “Of course he did,” the voice said.

  The door buzzed, and she pushed it in.

  TUESDAY

  CHAPTER 16

  Sitting on the outdoor terrace of the JW Marriott, Attila Kozak read a copy of the world edition of Zagreb’s newspaper, the Večernji list. A large glass of orange juice, half-gone, sat to his right. A coffee cup steamed in the early-morning daylight. Maja sat quietly to his left, wrapped in a heavy blanket. She carefully buttered a croissant. Two of his bodyguards sat at a nearby table. He watched as they wolfed down their breakfasts.

  Good boys. Hard to find good boys these days.

  He’d slept fitfully, thoughts of the next few days roiling around in his head. Last night he’d received word from the two men assigned to find Jurić that she’d taken both of them out, again—one thrown in the canal, the other’s collarbone fractured.