Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

“I believe it was Baron Salvadori,” the waiter said.

  “That’s the one, thank you.”

  After all the usual wine-tasting formalities, Hugo poured Alex’s glass, then Javier’s.

  “Salute,” Javier said as he raised his.

  “No, you don’t. I get to make the toast. This may be your town, but I’m the guest. I’ll make the toast.” She paused, her glass high, and said, “To our futures, may they entwine for a hundred years.”

  Javier smiled. “I like that. A noi, to us.”

  The restaurant was comfortably full yet quiet enough to carry on an intimate conversation.

  “Did you hear from Washington?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, they said no. The reasons were muddled, but, as I thought, they want to stay far away from Kozak. Marika’s efforts would force them to get closer to the issue.”

  “Marika?”

  “She expected it when I called her. She didn’t seem as disappointed as I thought she would be. Strange.”

  “Especially after everything that’s happened. And Ehsan?”

  “No idea, I don’t think he was there. He and his two friends seem to have disappeared.”

  “Anything else on that Muslim house?”

  “Nox heard that the Venice police knew about it. They are watching the house, but the holiday had pushed their priorities elsewhere.”

  “Typical bureaucratic response,” Alex said. “So, Waco, Texas? South of Dallas, if I remember? I attended a couple of conferences in Dallas. A lot different than Cleveland.”

  “Not partial to Dallas, too big. I like the smaller Texas towns.”

  “Like Houston?”

  “Not smaller. That city just goes on forever, and after the flood, it will be a tough place to live for a while.”

  “And you ended up in Milan. It is somewhere on my list, after London, Rome, and Paris.”

  “Someday I’ll show you around.”

  “A man of the world . . .”

  “My family is old Texican, Spanish and Indian long before the Alamo and the Republic. I was raised proud and nonapologetic. My mother, Maria, is one of the grandest and loveliest people you will ever meet, and she instilled her sense of duty and respect in us five kids. My father owned a bakery in Waco until he retired a few years ago. Now he plays golf and takes care of my sister’s kids when she’s working. As you can tell, nothing tragic or mysterious.”

  “And I know she likes to keep tabs on her children,” Alex said with a smile. “And is there a Mrs. CIA Agent in a nice bungalow in Waco?”

  “No, single and dedicated. Someday, who knows?”

  “How did you get into the CIA?” Alex asked, intrigued.

  “ROTC at Texas A&M, two tours in the army—the Middle East and Afghanistan, nothing remarkable. During my last year, the CIA recruited me. They discovered my language skills and offered me a job. I’d be in some back-water office in Nicaragua if it weren’t for my mother demanding I be more fluent in languages other than street Spanish. It has come in handy quite a few times during the last few years. That’s why I’m here; Italian wasn’t too hard after proper Spanish. You? How did you get into the cop business?”

  “My family’s from the near south side of Cleveland, a romantic burg called Parma,” Alex said. “Both parents alive and well, two younger brothers, Catholic school, Ursuline nuns, absolutely nothing remarkable. I received my BA degree from the local college, and I lived at home until I became a cop. I am serious about this being the farthest I’ve ever been from Cleveland. My language skills are enough to tell a Mexican gangbanger to drop to the floor and put his hands on his cabeza. Grandfather and an uncle were cops, both retired. Sometimes the job was exciting, sometimes drudgery—even with all that, I never fired my gun. Vacations were always on the lake. My marriage to Ralph put many things on hold. Dedication and all.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “After what I’ve been through the last year, I’ll probably get the chance. First guess: the option of an early pension.”

  “They put a serious squeeze on you, or so I’ve been told,” Javier said.

  “I assume you made some calls; I would have. Yeah, it was more than a squeeze—it was a meat grinder. There’s a guy at the FBI Cleveland field office, Rodrigues, you know him?”

  “Actually, yes, a friend. Gave you a passing grade.”

  “Passing grade? All I get after the last three days is a passing grade?”

  “He said a lot of nice things, and just to let you know, he believes you.”

  “That’s nice. He is one of the few. Next time you talk to him, tell him thanks.”

  “Let’s order. The sole is amazing, and I need to improve your mood.”

  Alex contemplatively swirled the wine in her glass. “Sorry, still sore and edgy. Of course you’d check on me. Wish I could check you out, but my resources are not as readily available. Maybe later—a follow-up, in-depth, and personal interrogation, so to speak.”

  “I’ll be available.”

  She ordered the sole and he a casserole of shrimp and scallops. He suggested another bottle of wine.

  Later, after the waiter had brought two dessert brandies, Javier asked to be excused.

  Alex retrieved the phone from her clutch and scrolled through the e-mails. Nothing new from her partner. She began to delete e-mails until one subject line caught her eye:

  GL, Remember, Sandy?

  “You have got to be kidding me,” she said to herself.

  When she was dating Ralph, they had spent a few weekends in the summer resort community Geneva-on-the-Lake, about fifty miles east of Cleveland, on Lake Erie. During one evening of gentle ribbing, he had called her Sandy from the musical Grease, mostly because the character’s last name was Polish, Dumbrowski. She had chided him for his middle name, Danny—Danny Zuko from the show. Only one person in the world knew that—and this e-mail could only be from that one-and-the-same singular asshole: Ralph Daniel Cierzinski.

  She took a deep breath and opened the e-mail:

  Good morning, Sandy girl, from Geneva-on-the-Lake. You should know my situation by now. Had an uneventful trip north from the state-run hotel. Lucky that old pickup I borrowed still worked. I guess it was quite a shock to the other guests of the state when I checked out. Here in GL, my aunt’s place still had the key where I left it. Lucky for that—might have frozen my ass off trying to find another way in.

  Sorry I left you in such a shitty spot. As I said when we last saw each other, I’m a seriously fucked-up asshole—why you put up with me all those years is still a mystery.

  I’m fairly certain no one knows about Aunt Pat’s place here. So, for the time being, I’m okay. The laptop I have is clean, and the e-mail address is clean as well. Will be damn hard to follow this e-mail trail—assuming the geniuses have a clue how to do it anyway. I assume you went to Italy? You never told me where you were going—but knowing how much you love Venice, I hope you have a chance to visit. Still love that tattoo.

  It’s damn cold here, and a foot of new snow fell yesterday as I drove north. I’m going even farther north. The lake is frozen solid—thought about taking a chance with the snowmobile and crossing it, but contrary to what you think, I’m not a total idiot. I can hunker down here for a while. All the other nearby places are closed up. Remember that Christmas we spent here?

  BTW, there was a rumor in the joint that a couple of DEA guys are looking for the money. Do you think I would leave my profits someplace easy to find? Really? If you get the chance, shoot them.

  Got to go. If inclined, send me a note.

  Danny

  Stunned, she just stared at the e-mail. Inclined? A note? Dammit, now what am I supposed to do? He’s told me where he is. Now I have to tell someone, or I’m aiding and abetting the bastard. Shoot someone? How about starting with you, Ralph.

  It took every ounce of willpower not to pound out an e-mail and tell him he had ten minutes until she called her captain.

  Why ten minutes? Mayb
e I’ll just call Simmons now, that’ll show him.

  “What’s the matter?” Javier said. Alex noticed that he’d returned and was studying her. “More from your partner?”

  “Worse, Ralph just sent me an e-mail. He said . . . Oh hell, read it.” She handed the phone to him.

  A few minutes later he handed it back. “I can’t believe the nerve. What does he expect you to do? He knows damn well that you have to report him.”

  “I know, but there’s something else about this. It’s too strange. It’s almost a taunt, bragging. Damn the son of a bitch.”

  Javier’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen. “Milan.” He put the phone to his ear. “Castillo.” He listened and didn’t say a word, then hung up without saying anything.

  “A follow-up from Washington. Not only are they walking away from all of it; they also pulled me off the detail. I’m heading back to Milan tomorrow night. The Venice police have been talking to my boss. I’ll stay through the conference. It starts at ten, runs for two hours, then there’s a two-hour lunch, then they go for two more hours—all done by four o’clock. Marika says she will be there in the piazza that fronts the palazzo just before ten o’clock. I’ll take the last train, the same one I took Monday.”

  “These bureaucrats do know how to live.”

  They strolled back to Alex’s hotel, their evening cut far shorter than either expected, the mood evaporated. They stood in the soft light of the lamps outside the hotel; he took her in his arms and kissed her.

  “I have no idea where all this is going,” Javier said, pulling her close. “But for the first time in God knows how long, something has clicked. You are an unexpected gift, and to be honest, I am not sure how to open it.”

  “I won’t break,” Alex answered. She kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss. “After you see Marika, come back. It’s early.”

  “No promises, it will be difficult. Breakfast tomorrow?”

  “I understand. We could have breakfast in my room.”

  Javier pulled her tight and kissed her again. “As I said, no promises.”

  “Don’t take too long.” She turned toward her hotel.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes,” she said, looking back.

  “Take this, you may need it.” He handed her the small Glock he’d given her two nights earlier. “Just in case.”

  Later, Alex looked out the window into the dark canal below. Even in the cool of a late winter evening, a gondola drifted slowly by. Two lovers, wrapped in a red blanket, snuggled together as the boatman slowly sculled his oar through the black water. She thought she heard an Italian aria drift upward. She went to look for another vodka.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ehsan sat at a small marble-topped table in a coffee shop in the corner of the Campo Santo Stefano. There were few tourists out this late in the evening. Across from him sat Asmir and Cvijetin, both smiling.

  “That CIA agent was surprised,” Asmir said as he sipped his coffee. “The whole charade could not have worked out better. A wonderful idea, Ehsan.”

  “And that woman, this is a mystery,” Cvijetin added. “She must be working with him. She does look like your mother. Why did they select her?”

  “A mystery we need to solve,” Ehsan added. “She’s here for a reason, one I can’t see.” He sipped his coffee. “Is it positioned?”

  “Later tonight. There were still police walking the campo. It will be properly placed when the police leave. Tomorrow, all we will need is your signal. The diversion will cause all the chaos we will need.”

  “Excellent, I will be ready.”

  Ehsan’s friends stood, said good night, and disappeared across the campo. As he watched them leave, Ehsan raised his right hand an inch off the tabletop and studied it. It was calm and steady. A day from now it would all be over, and, Allah willing, he would be free of this weight he’d carried since childhood. The memory of his home was a shadow, a shadow burning with fire. He still remembered the cold, wet ground, the stranger who took him from his mother, the strangeness of everything. One day he was playing with his sister; the next he was walking with a tall woman. There was a bus, then large buildings, then food he did not like, and a bed that felt as cold and foreign as the woods. The lady was nice, talked softly, smoothed his hair. But he mostly remembered wanting to go home.

  For many years, he had held this emptiness in his heart. When he was old enough, Marika had told him about his family and what happened. He met classmates who had also lost a parent or more during the war. Catholic and Orthodox children became his friends. They shared much, their memories his memories.

  By the time he was about to go to college, he thought he understood. He also hated everything Croatian. While he loved Marika, as a child loves their mother, there was always a chasm between them. When he chose to return to the religion of his family, she supported him. When he told her that he’d gone to the Lašva Valley and visited his home, said a prayer over his parents’ grave, and spent time with his relatives, she said she understood. She said she hoped it gave him some closure. At the time, he did not recognize what she meant; but over the years, he began to understand. Closure was what he wanted, what he needed. What he ended up with was a drive for vengeance, a visceral desire to kill the man who had destroyed his life and his family.

  When Marika showed him the photographs she’d taken the day of the massacre, his heart throbbed with pain. It beat fast, too fast. When he recovered from his faint, she was caressing his cheek.

  “I understand,” she said. “Take your time. Breathe slowly. This man cannot hurt you now. I’m sorry I showed you these—it was foolish.”

  “I’m fine,” Ehsan said. “I guess it was just the shock of seeing things I’d been watching in my head for years. Mother, please, do not worry.”

  “I hope to never cause this pain again. I will always take care of you.”

  He looked for the photos, but she had hidden them. For a time, he put his horrid past behind him.

  His mother knew that day in Lašva Valley as a dark shadow she could not escape. For ten years, she put her heart into raising him and developing her company. Every waking hour was focused on its growth and profitability. The small investment made by a European investor was repaid. The company’s stock, held by a few devoted friends, grew exponentially. When Attila Kozak announced he was running for the presidency of Croatia, Ehsan watched his mother remove photos from the small safe in the apartment and stare at the faces. The shadow now had a face, a face she had pushed out of her mind.

  “What are you looking at?” Ehsan asked.

  His mother turned the photos over. “They are nothing, something from my days at university.”

  “Are those the photographs you showed me?”

  She paused. “Yes.”

  “May I see them?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t. I have tried to protect you from these. They should not be seen.”

  “Mother, I am a man. I know what is behind those photos. I know what they mean to us.”

  His mother, at the urging of her stockholders, sold the company. She didn’t protest too strenuously; it was a company whose time had passed. And the pressure from other companies would soon make her decision moot if she didn’t sell. They made millions of euros. Ehsan understood why she sold it. He supported her explanation about new paths to follow, a new future with new opportunities. But he did not understand why those opportunities now involved digging up the painful past. He argued to leave it all alone, to set it aside. As Croatia settled into the European Union and the wounds of the war seemed to have healed for its citizens, she became even more involved in its past.

  “In time, Ehsan, I will leave this,” she said. “But now the murdered need a witness. I can be that witness. I can bring these killers to justice.”

  “You cannot bring the dead back,” Ehsan said. “Justice will only make those alive—those that survived—feel like they did nothing to stop the slaughter. It is about their guilt for not doing somet
hing when they should have. I want no part.”

  In time, he did play a part—an important role, in fact, that helped his mother find lost truths and lost souls and even reconnect lost children. With the expansion of international business interests on the Arabian Peninsula, Ehsan prospered, his talents in great demand. He held excellent positions in international firms and traveled extensively. He eventually took the NGO position in Milan. Yet behind his outward European appearance, a dark past followed him.

  It was Marika’s photographs that made the difference. Ehsan saw in those photos the face of the man who murdered his family—the man who would die by his hand.

  Ehsan’s cell phone buzzed. He looked at it as he set his coffee on the marble table.

  “Mother?”

  “The United States turned us down,” Marika said. “Agent Castillo left an hour ago. He explained that they will say nothing about Kozak or his crimes. They want it all to go away.”

  “We talked about this,” Ehsan answered. “I said this would happen. They are not who they pretend to be. We could never trust them. We will have to take matters into our own hands.”

  “I just talked with some journalists who appreciate what has happened. I have invited them to our morning press conference at the Palazzo Grassi. There I will make my points.”

  “Do you think that’s wise? Kozak may be there. He may be a problem.”

  “He’s a buffoon and a murderer. There is little support for his kind here—that’s what my friends have said. I will embarrass those who will not see what must be done. The press can be a powerful tool if properly wielded.”

  Ehsan paused and gazed across the campo at the few tourists bundled in their shiny puffy jackets, walking back to their hotels.

  “Ehsan?”

  “Yes, Mother. Tomorrow will be an important day. Maybe, for one day, the world will understand what happened to our countries when they were seized by madmen.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Asmir and Cvijetin walked arm in arm down the alley near the house they had visited earlier, looking for anyone that might be a cop or watching. They and the people inside understood that the house was probably under surveillance. Two tours around the block had exposed nothing, but they understood there were limits to their observations.