“How do you know it is your real name?”
“It’s on the card.”
Jana laid the card on the countertop, face down. “Not because of the card. You know your name because your mother told you so.”
The thug thought about Jana’s statement as if it were a new concept. “She told the government, and they gave me the card?”
“Good. Now, who told you the man who called up was the new owner, besides the voice on the phone?”
“The old owner. He said he might sell the business to a Ukrainian.”
“And the man who called you was Ukrainian?”
“He could be. Well, he had some kind of accent.”
Jana looked over at Seges. “Give him your card.” Seges pulled one of his cards out of his breast pocket, slapping it down on the bar in front of the man. Jana slid off her stool. “Have the new owner call Warrant Officer Seges when he finally arrives at ‘his’ new business.”
The man’s head bobbed slightly on his thick neck to indicate that he understood.
Jana walked out of the shop, Seges behind her. “This man, the ‘owner,’ will not call.”
Seges jerked his thumb back in the direction of the bar. “I don’t think that clod in the bar knows how to dial a phone, or read, or anything that was taught in primary school. That’s the reason we win, you know. It is not that we are so smart, but they are so dumb.”
“Perhaps.” Jana agreed, but didn’t like Seges’s patronizing tone.
They got in the car, Seges put it in gear, and they headed down the street toward the highway that would take them into Austria and to the airport.
Jana settled in for the ride, mulling over the new information, trying to fit it in with everything else. “The owner knew, before he died, if he truly was the one who died in the crash, that he was leaving and that someone else would become the ‘owner.’ Again, an organization is at work. Someone was prepared to take over. They didn’t want to give up that miserable little wine shop with the doctored bottles of wine. Why? Because it makes too much money for them.”
“Not from that wine.”
“They use the store’s account books to launder money, criminal proceeds from other activities. It costs them nothing for a crap inventory. They declare nonexistent, very large sales to their imaginary high-volume customers, and then bank sums of gray money, funds acquired from criminal enterprises.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Call the Financial Police, then the Tax Police. Tell them about the place and what we suspect. They need to do a workup on the records, registered ownership, licenses, books, past tax reports. Everything.”
“They will take months to act on my request, if they act at all.”
“Maybe there will be a miracle.” She looked back at the town as they swung onto the highway, still feeling fatigued from the last few days of nonstop turmoil. “A nice place, Bratislava.” She closed her eyes and sank back into her seat. “But, I think after all, I will be glad to get to Strasbourg.”
Chapter 15
It is not an error that has simply “occurred,” he thought, when the information came to him. Everything is deliberate, purposeful, as it always was at times like this.
He looked out the large French doors of the red-roof-tiled, white adobe-like building toward the Adriatic and the Dalmatian coast of the mainland hidden in the distance. Small whitecaps were starting to appear, pushed by an East-West wind, but it was still calm enough, he decided, for a swim.
The man opened the doors and walked down the steps carved into the island’s black lava base leading to the edge of the small inlet. There he shed his white pants and light blue sweater, laying them neatly at the base of a scrub bush. He paused for a moment—slim, streaks of gray in his hair, very tanned—to look back at the house once more, remembering when he had acquired it. Nothing had needed to be done to the structure, and the furniture had come with the house, enabling him to step through the front door and be comfortable.
It was good that way: no chores, no need for workmen to disturb him, nothing to be shipped in except the necessities of life. And, except for additional communication equipment he had acquired over the years, and the piece or two of furniture that use and age forced him to replace, or a tile on the roof that needed to be repaired, the place was unchanged.
He had appreciated it when he obtained it, so why change? In many respects, he was like an animal that maintained a consistent lifestyle. His usual routines had worked to keep him alive, and he would continue to follow them.
He slipped into the water, walking until it was up to his waist, then smoothly, silently, dove into the sea, effortlessly breast-stroking to the outer limit of the inlet. As anticipated, the water, cold by other people’s standards, was perfect for him. His metabolism had the uncanny ability to adjust rapidly to extremes of hot and cold.
When he got past the last protection of the inlet, the water began to exert a more insistent push. No matter, the exercise was good, toning up his already supple body; he merely lengthened his steady stroke to accommodate the swell. After stroking a kilometer beyond the inlet’s breakwater, he dove, swimming along the seabed to visit his Venus.
He had found the marble statue of a half-nude woman, a Venus, standing upright on the seabed a year after moving to the island. Of course, he had never mentioned her presence to anyone. That would have meant visitors and the disturbance of his interludes with her. Once in a while, he conjectured about her origin: She might have been part of some ancient shrine, but he thought not. She was probably cargo on a ship that had foundered eons ago, depositing her in the sea, the wreck and its other contents long since dispersed.
As he always did, he swam up to his marble “Siren of the Waters,” as he thought of her, kissing her on her water-warmed lips, then gradually left her below as he rose to the surface. When he broke the surface, he faced his island and immediately saw the two men darting from one part of the outside of the house to the other, depositing packages that somehow adhered to the walls.
It was clear to him what the men were doing; it was equally clear that he neither could nor would try to do anything about their actions. Finished on the side of the house within his vision, the two disappeared around the corner, and he heard the faint sound of a small boat engine starting, quickly passing out of his hearing. From the direction of the sound, he assumed that the men had been put ashore from a larger boat on the windward side of the island.
No matter for the moment. He turned his back to the island and, angling to his left, began swimming toward a very small islet barely visible, about two kilometers from where he was. Not a big swim for him, and he could rest on his back from time to time if he needed. Abruptly the sky lit up with a series of flashes, muted rumbles following the light. He paid no great attention. The house was over with; the island the house had stood on did not exist for him any more. The smaller dot on the sea he was swimming to was all that mattered—and, of course, the materials which he had providentially stored there. From that island, he would go to Dubrovnik, walk down its marble-paved center street, find a restaurant he knew where he would enjoy a fish dinner, then rest and do what he always did: Like Jesus Christ, he would resurrect himself.
Chapter 16
Strasbourg is a French town still leaning to Germany. It is an old town trying to pretend it is a new one, all the while trumpeting its ancient traditions. It is a small provincial town wearing the clothing of a large cosmopolitan one. And even though it is located on France’s border with Germany, and so is a backwater for much of France to its west, it is now the home of the European Parliament and the European Court of Human Rights. No fools when it comes to money, the French had the EU foot the bill for the modern edifices that house the bureaucracy and its showpiece necessities of fountains and statues and flags dotting the area to make it impressive to tourists.
Once again, France could legitimately claim to be the center of the world, albeit the EU structures of this capital
had been built through the good offices of other nations. The French had done one thing for themselves: They had slightly modernized the airport to take care of the increased traffic into the area, intending to make it easier for the traveler to find his way into the city proper. The innkeepers who were ever ready to sell travelers Strasbourg’s accommodations, particularly its well-regarded cuisine, appreciated their government’s efforts.
Jana arrived at the Strasbourg airport slightly over an hour after leaving Vienna, then wandered around trying to find out how to get to her hotel. She was finally pointed toward a minivan that took her to the small hotel that had been booked for the conference delegates near the central train station.
At the hotel, there was barely time for a brief bath. She had to quickly change into a simple suit and matching shoes she saved for events like these, then use a large over-the-bureau mirror to apply her makeup. She sighed, realizing once more that she had now crossed into that region that people called middle age. Nothing she could do about it, she sighed again; then she caught a taxi near the hotel. She showed the taxi driver her card, on the back of which she had written down the meeting’s location.
As the taxi pulled up to the Palais de l’Europe, Jana dashed out and into the building. The lobby guard checked her credentials, then called up to the contact person whose name Jana had been given. After a brief conversation, the guard looked up from her phone, smiling at Jana in a sympathetic way. She first informed Jana in French, then in English, to make sure that Jana understood, that she was very sorry but the meeting had been postponed until the next day at nine hundred hours.
Worse than the bureaucracy in Slovakia, Jana thought. She remembered the brief relaxation of the hot bath she had had to rush through. A simple call, a note left at the desk of her hotel to tell her not to come today, would have been nice. She looked around the lobby, trying to decide what to do with herself for the rest of the day. She had reread her reports on the plane, reviewed facts, and generally prepared for questions that might be asked in the meeting. She would not have to go over them again. That put her in the lazy category of tourist.
Jana’s eye caught that of a younger man. Decent-looking, but, she thought ruefully, out of her age bracket. Yet he kept on staring. Her recent inspection of her features in the hotel-room mirror had again disabused her of any notion that she was still beautiful, so why was he looking at her with so much interest? She stared back at him, and he quickly turned away, piqueing her interest. Bashful? Maybe. The man turned to look at her again. This time, he did not back off when he realized she was studying him.
He reminded her very strongly of someone she knew, but she could not yet quite place him. When the answer came, it jolted her. He looked like Dano, a little taller, his hair a little lighter, but his nose, eyes, the set of his chin, even the way he held himself reminded her of Dano. She started toward the man, than realized she was being crazy.
Jana willed herself to change direction, rushing through the doors and into the street. Off to one side was the Parc de l’Orangerie. She headed for the grass and trees, too many memories crowding her head, the need for open space and a brisk walk her immediate remedy for the momentary confusion she had just gone through.
She walked for a few minutes, not really seeing anything, finally angling through the park to the quay along the river, maintaining a steady pace for a good ten minutes, the water on one side, the trees on the other muting the traffic noises and the rest of the cacophony of the city. Then she slowed down, realizing that she had worked up a fine sweat, and was just about to change direction and head back toward the Centre Ville when she heard footsteps behind her. Once consciously heard, Jana realized that she had been aware of them keeping pace with her for some time. Now they were closing in on her.
Police officers naturally develop and refine a sense of caution over the years: Defense must be automatic, without thought, or the policeman loses the fight. Jana’s first impulse was to swing around and confront the pursuer head-on, to ward off any imminent attack. But she had passed through the park and was in the open, it was daylight, and there were other people passing by, so this was not the time or place an attacker would choose for an assault. She was not likely to be in danger.
However, a small amount of caution is a good thing. She was passing a bench. Jana walked behind it, turning to face her pursuer, keeping the bench between them. It would give her an extra moment to prepare a defense in case she was wrong.
Again, Jana was jolted. Her pursuer was Dano’s look-alike, the man from the lobby. He hesitated a moment, then came toward the bench.
Closer, he looked even more like Dano, down to dark shadows under his eyes which created a soulful look, that appearance of sensitivity that made women want to embrace him.
“I’ve been following you,” the man got out, seeming to be embarrassed. “I think I know who you are.”
“Who am I?
“Jana Matinova.” He watched her reaction, her response confirming that he was right. He finally smiled, a shy smile, which softened his face even more. “You don’t know who I am.”
Jana shook her head.
“I’m Jeremy Conrad. Your daughter’s husband.”
Chapter 17
It had been a different time; things seemed to be getting better for Jana. She was back in Bratislava. She had a charged-up ten-year-old who insisted on being called Katka, not Katerina. And she and Dano were trying to reestablish their relationship, which still suffered from Jana’s long exile in the hinterlands of Slovakia.
Katka had grown to be “Daddy’s Girl.” She had a sixth sense about when Dano was about to come home, running around the apartment to get everyone ready, making sure the house was neat, giving orders to her mother and her grandmother about items which, in her mind, needed to be prepared, from how to set the table to having a flower cut so she could give it to Papa, all the while running over to the window to see if Dano was walking up to the front door.
The years had not been good to Dano. He had been unable to get a job in state-sponsored theater since he had put Jana’s gun to the agent provocateur’s head. He had continued to act, but only in the nonfunded, unsponsored theater. These small, storefront troupes were always in trouble with the state authorities, and Dano’s participation in them, in turn, ensured his place on the state’s enemies list. There had been a minor benefit to all this: Dano had built a small following of people who would come to his plays and, at least for his ego’s sake, he had kept his name out there in the Slovak theater world.
There was one additional misfortune for Dano. Because his theater appearances earned no money, except for meager voluntary contributions from the audience, Dano had to go onto the “will-work list.”
To help all those made “nonpersons” by the state, the “will-work list” had come into existence. It was informal, passed on by word of mouth through people who needed workers and wanted to pay them less than scale, or needed people to work in unsafe conditions, or simply wanted a worker who could never complain, could never talk back, and could be terminated on a whim. The “will work” laborers were available for any job for a pittance and would never go to the authorities. Working on the “list” had left its scars on Dano. He’d had to clean out too many septic tanks without the proper tools, put up with too much abuse. It was not a good role for one of the premier actors in the country.
Yet Dano could not get or keep any legitimate job, no matter how menial, because the authorities checked on new hires and when his name came up, word was immediately communicated that he presented a potential problem for his employer. No employer could take the risk of irritating the state. Dano would be unceremoniously fired, sometimes with a surreptitious small payout to him from the more decent employers, who also didn’t want any fuss. Most of the time, when Dano was fired, he forfeited his wages. It was used as an opportunity to cheat him.
It was easier for Jana. She had been allowed to come back to Bratislava as a police officer two years earli
er. Trokan had tried to help her when she was in “exile,” throwing special assignments her way.
The Criminal Police had become notorious for their use of criminal charges filed for political reasons. Combining that with their corruption and their ineptitude, there was a need for an honest detective, even one who was in disfavor. So Trokan had first pulled Jana out of Preshov and sent her to Poprad, from Poprad to Zilina, then to Banská Bystrica, from there to Nitra, then to Trnova. And now she was finally back in Bratislava. The journey had been one of forgiveness and repatriation.
It had not been easy for her, but better than what Dano was going through. At least she was working in her chosen field. And she was climbing the ladder once more. Jana had worked case after case, establishing her credentials as a police officer who knew how to successfully investigate the most complex cases. Her nominal superiors thought she was hard to control, unconventional, perhaps better to stay away from because of her “contacts” in Bratislava. But they did have to respect her. The water poison cases, the Mafya killings in the Hungary and Ukraine border areas, the political killing of a mayor, they all fell to her and were solved. Promotions eventually began to come to her again, and she was now a sublieutenant.
Back in Bratislava she had to confront conflicting emotions. Her relationship with Dano had deteriorated. Perhaps too much time had passed, too many non-shared experiences; perhaps it had to do with the youth that they had left behind and the turns each had taken in different directions.
When Jana returned, Dano had begun to drink heavily. She had seen it on occasion, been warned about it by her mother and others. But the presence of Katka and Jana seemed to make a difference. Miracle of miracles, he stopped. Unfortunately, they were still not yet out of the woods. One trouble with incipient alcoholics is that they all too often use heavy drinking as a drug to shelter them from the perception of an unhappy reality. And when they stop drinking, that perception returns with a vengeance.
Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation, Vol. 2 Page 9
