Requiem for a Gypsy

by Michael Genelin

  Jana walked over to Truchanova, passing several of the BKA people who had been present at part of her interrogation. The men didn’t bother to acknowledge her. Arrogance, all too often an unfortunate trait of law enforcement personnel. The nearsightedness created by self-importance would always get in the way of finding evidence, particularly in a case like this.

  Jana sat down in an empty chair next to Truchanova.

  “They’re finished with you upstairs?” Truchanova was merely making conversation as she finished packing her papers away.

  “For the moment.” Jana watched the last of the participants going out the door. “Was it a good meeting? Is it all solved now?”

  “Don’t be a comedian.” Truchanova snapped her briefcase shut to emphasize her irritation.

  Jana felt her own surge of annoyance at the prosecutor. “Be civil, Madam Prosecutor.”

  “I’ll be whatever I want,” Truchanova barked back.

  This late in the day, and as tired as she was, Jana wasn’t about to let the challenge inherent in the prosecutor’s tone go without a response. She matched Truchanova’s truculence.

  “Madam, today I’ve been shot at, and a police officer who I think of as a good man was nearly killed. Instead of being congratulated on killing one of the thugs who tried to murder both of us, I’ve been interrogated for hours by police who should instead have given me a medal. Then my pistol was taken away. The Germans told me that I was wrong to bring it into their country; that I may be prosecuted for that; and that it is evidence, so I may never get it back. This means I’m now defenseless against people who have tried to kill me on at least two occasions. Hence, I’m not feeling at all comic.

  “However, I’m feeling no small amount of anger, and a large amount of frustration, at dealing with a prosecutor who is deliberately concealing information from me, which is preventing me from moving forward with this case.”

  “I don’t like your attitude, Matinova. The reality is that I don’t like you.”

  “Wonderful. We can now mutually dislike each other. Unfortunately, this doesn’t help me in investigating my case. So, first things being first, what was this meeting about, Madam Truchanova?”

  “I have other things on my plate besides the case you’re investigating, Matinova. You have no interest in what was discussed at the meeting.”

  “A lie, Truchanova. You came to Germany on one case and one case only. Then, here you are in conference with a room full of German police, including the BKA who generally handle cases of national importance, and you look me in the face and tell me it’s none of my business.”

  “You’re forgetting yourself, Matinova.” The prosecutor’s voice had gotten louder. “Your attitude is inappropriate. It’s thuggish rather than professional. You’re not being helpful.”

  Jana matched the woman’s volume, her anger at all the troubles she’d experienced that day now compounded by the prosecutor’s intransigence. “You’ve accepted my aid but won’t aid me in return. You’re busy concealing and dissembling rather than sharing. And, to top it all off, you think that I will cheerfully lap up the crap that you’re laying out for me to eat. Well, think again!”

  Jakus began to move forward, signaling to Jana that in case there was violence, he would support Truchanova. Jana swiveled in her chair to confront him.

  “I’ve already killed one man today. I wouldn’t think twice about killing another. Take another step toward me, and I will break your leg off and beat you to death with it.”

  Jakus stopped, not sure what he should do, looking to Truchanova for guidance. The woman slowly held up a hand for him to stop.

  “I think we should discuss this on more convivial terms,” Truchanova managed.

  Jana shifted her attention back to the prosecutor, lowering her voice while still maintaining her intensity. “Let me tell you what the German police gave you on your case: nothing. Worse, you’re all withholding evidence from me: the possible motive for these crimes. What I can see—whatever that motive is—is that it worries both our government and the German government. Which leads me to the question: why are both our government and the Germans so afraid or ashamed to let the motive become public?”

  Truchanova’s face told Jana that she was on point. There was an agreement between the two governments, tacit or explicit, that whatever was being concealed would stay under the covers, at least for the moment. Truchanova was operating under orders to keep her mouth shut. That had to be why the woman seemed so stressed. She was in a bind and was trying to find a way to deal with it, without much success.

  Breathing heavily from the anger, Jana decided to try to moderate her own tone, realizing that her resentment was not going to pry any more information out of the prosecutor. At least Jana had laid her complaints on the table. Maybe some official back in Slovakia would listen. Maybe even Truchanova.

  Jana went on, her voice more normal, although still edged.

  “I’m being asked to go forward with my investigation without real assistance from either the Germans or the Slovaks. Not a good place for me to be in. My position is tenuous. There have been two attempts on my life. Am I being required to simply walk into danger without the slightest precautions? Where’s my armor? My support systems? Just what are my government’s officials asking me to do, Truchanova? Even more, what’s the illustrious Truchanova asking me to do?”

  Truchanova was now subdued rather than angry, slumped in her chair, her face slightly pale. She sat, not moving, as if the glue that held her together was, at the moment, not to be trusted. When she spoke, it was in a whisper.

  “I can’t give you any advice.”

  “None at all?”

  “None.” The prosecutor chose her words very carefully. “You’ve stirred things up, and that’s good. And you’re right: today, I didn’t learn anything more of real substance than I knew before I came to Berlin.” She appeared ready to say something else, then stopped. When she spoke again, her voice was slightly stronger. “I’m leaving Berlin, going back to Bratislava. I’ve been called back. After today, I’m glad to be returning home.”

  She got to her feet, picked up her briefcase, and walked toward the door, Jakus following her.

  “I sincerely wish you luck,” Truchanova called over her shoulder. She stopped at the door, looked back at Jana, then stared for a few seconds at Jakus, mulled something over in her mind, then decided.

  “Jakus, leave her your gun.”

  The investigator stared at Truchanova as if he couldn’t quite believe what she was ordering him to do.

  “You heard me correctly. Leave her your gun!”

  Very reluctantly, Jakus reached under his jacket, extracted his gun, and laid it on the table with a harsh thud. He then walked out, not happy with what he’d had to do. Truchanova nodded at Jana, and Jana nodded her thanks back. The prosecutor left, quietly closing the door behind her.

  Jana walked to the gun, checked to make sure that it was loaded, then tucked it into her pants.

  It wasn’t much, but it was a small protection against whatever force was out there trying to prevent her from surviving. Thank God for small favors. Jana checked her purse for one other item that she’d secured earlier in the day. It was still there: Albrecht Konrad’s badge and identification. She’d palmed it, slipping it into her purse just before the ambulance had carried him away from the scene of the shooting. A small increment of her own to add to Truchanova’s largess. Besides, for some reason known only to God and her own scruples, she wanted to personally give it back to Konrad when he was awake.

  Chapter 32

  Jana hailed a cab, giving the business address of Bogan’s son, Zdenko. Jana had no real information on the man except for the few lines in the murder book. He’d been conspicuously absent from all the events in Slovakia, including his mother’s funeral, which pointed to a possible family breach. The business address was on Zimmerstrasse near Checkpoint Charlie, that vestige of the Cold War, the former entrance to East Berlin when it
had been the capital of a Communist government.

  The sky was bleak, washing out the color from the buildings, making even the most daring and novel of them shadowed and bleak-looking. The mostly steel-and-glass structure where Zdenko’s office was housed looked more like a distorted skeleton than the light and airy construction it was supposed to be.

  The cab dropped Jana off at the front of the building. Inside, her shoes were loud on the hard floor as she followed the signs and the red velvet chain that led to the reception desk. All incomers were stopped at the desk and required to produce identification and sign in before they were allowed into the building. Jana pulled out Albrecht Konrad’s identification, the word Polizei written in big letters across the top of it, and held it in one hand so that Konrad’s photograph was obscured by her fingers, then ducked under the chain, heading directly for the elevators. A guard near the desk immediately moved to intercept her. Jana flashed the ID at him without pausing, and he turned back to the desk area, not interested in stopping a police officer.

  Jana took the elevator to the tenth floor and followed the suite direction arrows in the corridor until she came to a set of double doors with the words SHECKKARTE INTERNATIONALE across them in raised gold letters. Just below that caption, centered in smaller letters, was the word KREDITBANK. An international credit card bank, Jana translated to herself, wondering why the world needed a new credit card or another credit card system. She pulled the door open and walked in.

  Inside, instead of the posh décor she had expected, there was an office that looked more like a dentist’s waiting room: a few magazines on a side table, a couch covered with a plastic sheet, a pair of side chairs that still had their shipping covers on them. There were also two desks sharing a common credenza, the whole office being warmed by a pair of rotating floor heaters humming along at maximum capacity to ward off the noticeable chill.

  One of the desks was empty. On the credenza was a small radio that was, incongruously for the setting, broadcasting a static-filled version of Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana. Seated behind the other desk, working at a computer, was a woman Jana immediately recognized. It was Elke Rilke, the receptionist who had been working the front desk of the IEB in Vienna when Jana had met with Radomir Kralik.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Rilke.” Jana realized her voice sounded as surprised as she felt. The woman stopped working and looked at Jana quizzically, not recognizing her. She gave Jana a reproachful look. “People are supposed to stop at the desk in the lobby and call us. You didn’t call.”

  “I was afraid whoever was here might not be here any more after I called from the lobby.”

  “Why wouldn’t I stay here?” Rilke stared at Jana, still unable to place her; then, finally realizing who Jana was, her face lit up. “Ah, you’re the police commander from Slovakia who came to visit Mr. Kralik.” She looked puzzled. “What are you doing here?”

  Jana moved further into the room, looking it over.

  “This doesn’t seem to be the IEB, and we’re not in Vienna, are we?”

  Rilke jumped up and turned off the radio. “I need company when I’m alone. I get a little uneasy.” She appeared self-conscious at revealing a weakness. “Too many creaks and other strange noises. So I play the radio very loud.”

  There was a door that looked like it led to an inner office just to the rear of the desk next to Elke Rilke’s. Without waiting for permission, Jana walked to the door, putting her hand on the door handle. “What’s back here?”

  “Nothing.” Rilke shrugged. “You can go in if you want.”

  Jana opened the inner door and stepped through it. There were no offices there, just an unfinished suite where offices would be built, bare plaster walls, uncovered cement floors, electrical wires dangling, construction discards scattered around the floor, and absolutely no signs of habitation. It was very cold, the exposed heating ducts not yet functioning. Jana could see her own breath in the air. She quickly went back into Rilke’s office, making sure the door leading to the frigid unfinished offices was completely closed.

  Elke Rilke had moved to the couch, trying to relax. She was rubbing her hands together in unease.

  “Not very hospitable, is it?” she said, a rueful expression on her face. “That’s the reason I get so uncomfortable here in the office. Nobody to talk to, and that thing with all that empty space like a haunted building behind me.”

  Jana stripped the cloth shipping cover off one of the incidental chairs, moved it near the couch, and sat in it. She rubbed her hands together in sympathy with Rilke. “I wouldn’t like working here.”

  “It’ll be good to be through and back in Vienna. I’m here just to close everything down.”

  “Who brought you up here?”

  “Zdenko Bogan asked me to come.”

  “I thought you worked for Kralik at the Vienna bank.”

  “The two organizations are connected.”

  “What does Zdenko do?”

  “Well, he runs this part.”

  “It can’t be open for business yet, not in this condition.”

  “It isn’t open to the general public. We service banks.” Her face lit up. “It’s a brilliant concept by Zdenko Bogan. He’s incredibly bright.”

  “Please tell me about it, Ms. Rilke.”

  “‘Elke,’ please,” Rilke suggested, trying to find a friend for herself in the cold, unappetizing environment she was working in.

  “Thank you. And I’m Jana.”

  “Jana, then.” She smiled at the establishment of the friendship. “Zdenko got the idea of offering individual banks credit cards. Not for use by the employees, but for the bank itself. They could use the cards when it came to making loans, or posting security for obtaining additional supplies of hard currency from governments, perhaps to finance buyouts of large corporations or underwrite huge stock issues. The subscribers to the credit card system that need an immediate influx of cash or credit merely use the credit card, and the money is immediately credited to that bank. In this way, small banks can compete with large banks that may already have that kind of cash, and larger banks can use their cash for other purposes, for example to bail themselves out if they’ve made a grand investment that’s gone awry.”

  Jana considered the concept. “Your credit card employers are guaranteeing that they’ll be able to hand out enormous sums if a credit card user bank calls for the increment of cash or credit it needs. It sounds wonderful, except where does this huge resource of ready cash come from?”

  “Subscriber banks. Not just one or two, but a network of banks committed to the system and profiting from the huge credit grants. They earn interest on the money and share in the profit. Which is how most banks survive.”

  Elke Rilke positively glowed with pride as she continued to describe the project. She was now part of something momentous, and she loved it.

  “Subscribers here eventually means banks all over the continent and into Asia and then North and South America and Africa. Competitors who can participate in each other’s investments and profit, all the while knowing that their own investments are secure because of the little card that each bank has in its pocket. It’s just like the individual who goes to the automated teller and uses it to get immediate cash, or the person who goes to the supermarket and pays with a plastic card instead of cash. You see how much can be done with this concept for the banks.”

  Rilke smiled at Jana, waiting for her admiration and approval, a little child delighted at being allowed to participate in a game for adults.

  Jana gave Rilke the approval she needed. “It sounds like a great enterprise.”

  “All from the mind of Zdenko Bogan. Absolute genius. I’m so happy that they picked me to participate in the process. Naturally, I’m just doing the paperwork for the moment. I’m not a great industrial giant striding over the world like Zdenko.” She tittered at the idea that she might be mistaken for a central figure in this grand plan. “It’s wonderful enough for me just being on the edge of it.�
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  Jana thought of the unfinished part of the office that she’d just been in. It was a mess of half-completed construction that looked like it was going to stay that way. That conclusion was backed up by the floor heaters that were sweeping back and forth in Elke Rilke’s office. Their glow cast a pink smear of conflicting shadows around the room, giving the place an eerie look of impermanence, undermining Rilke’s talk of financial empire. The space was not glowing with success.

  “Why all this then? It rather looks like it’s failing.” Jana watched Rilke’s face fall. “The rather modest furniture allowance and you having to fly here from Vienna don’t quite give me the same sense of confidence that you have. Why are you up here? Why not another secretary? Why aren’t the offices completed?”

  “Why hire another secretary in Berlin, or finish the offices here when the whole back office is moving to France?” Elke explained. “Why complete these offices when they’re being given up?”

  “Why is the firm moving?”

  “Mr. Bogan thought we would do much better in France. France has a number of smaller banks as well as a few larger ones. Zdenko thought they would be amenable to subscribing to the system. Not like London, which is old-line and clubby and will take some persuading to join. We’ll go to them later. Remember, the more banks we have subscribed and using the bank’s credit card, the more pressure there will be for the British to join us. And then we persuade the other banks around the world.” She brightened up again. “In fact, I just had his and Mr. Kralik’s belongings picked up from their Berlin residences and shipped to France.”

  “Do you have an address for them in France?”