by Chris James
“It was too dangerous to take you to the house,” Vaalon said, meeting them at the door with a coldness uncharacteristic of the man. “It’s been beseiged by photographers since December. Ludwig−this is his apartment− is in Europe, so we have the place to ourselves.” The look of disdain on Vaalon’s face did not bode well, Pilot sensed.
Vaalon came straight to the point. “What on Earth were you thinking of in meeting with those people?” he said. Pilot had never heard such disgust in his mentor’s voice and it shamed him. “Nonaligned. Nonaligned. That’s the word we use. You’ve been sloppy, Lonnie. Tell me, did you put your little initiative to the vote before you went?”
Pilot paused. “Yes and no. I described it as a fact-finding mission, but didn’t mention the meetings. Only Mara and Bradingbrooke argued against my making the trip, for the very reason you mentioned. I should have listened to them. The moment Dasching, and then Williams, walked out the door, I knew I’d cocked up. Mea culpa.”
Serman squirmed in his chair as the silence in the room grew thicker. “Apology accepted,” Vaalon said eventually. “We have another more immediate problem to address.”
“What’s that?” Pilot asked.
“It’s called Mirko Soldo.”
XVI
Vaalon led Pilot and Serman into Ludwig’s study. “This could take a while. Sit down.” He poured three small glasses of brandy and made himself comfortable in a leather wingback armchair. “First of all, it’s my turn to say mea culpa. I owe you an apology for inadvertently appointing a traitor as one of your specialists. Our vetting in this case was lamentable. Mirko Soldo began arousing our suspicions around November when he made two trips to Dubrovnik in as many weeks. On his third visitation in December, I put some of my people on his tail. They followed him up to a small house in Bosanka, overlooking the City, where some sort of meeting was taking place. We got the licence numbers of the three cars parked outside and were unnerved when we traced the drivers.”
Pilot couldn’t begin to guess where this was heading.
“One was a rental in the name of the CEO of the Flamanville Nuclear Power Plant in France. One belongs to Stanko Jerić, a Croat with underworld connections a mile deep. And the third is owned by Dragan Dragić, head of a not so secret nationalist group called The Knights of Blasius, and by nationalist, I don’t mean Croatia, but the City-Republic of Ragusa.” Pilot and Serman looked at each other blankly. “I’ll tell you all about Ragusa in a minute. The following day, we managed to photograph the contents of Dragić’s briefcase. But first, some background.” Vaalon adjusted his posture in advance of the history lesson.
“The site of Dubrovnik – Ragusium – was first settled by the Illyrians about two and a half thousand years ago. It began as an insignificant encampment on an inhospitable shelf of rock, not unlike Nillin I should imagine.
“Centuries later, they were joined ten miles to the south by a Roman settlement – Epidaurum, where Cavtat is today. Epidaurum thrived and soon eclipsed Regusium as the power in that area. When the Roman Empire began coming apart at the seams, rule of Epidaurum passed to Byzantium. The city thrived further until the Slavs swept down from northern Europe. In the process of taking the entire Dalmatian coast, they sacked and destroyed Epidaurum. The survivors fled to Ragusium.
“The refugees were traders and seafarers, and breathed new life into the city. By the Thirteenth Century they had made it a major trading force in the Adriatic. This was about the time that Venice was emerging as a power. Control of the Adriatic was essential for the Venetians to achieve dominance, and Ragusium was a thorn it took them a long time to remove. Excuse me a moment.”
On his return from the bathroom, Vaalon picked up where he’d left off. “During their spell under the wing of Venice, the Ragusans built up their city’s defenses to a level where they were impregnable – be it from land or sea – and it was only a matter of time before they acquired the confidence and the strength to extract themselves from Venetian domination. At the beginning of the Fifteenth Century, Ragusa declared herself a republic.
“She was in the right place at the right time to do so. The young city-state became an important staging post between the caravan routes of the East and the major ports of the West, trading with the world of Islam, while maintaining good relations with the Pope, who more or less ran the show on the other side. It was a juggling act that made Ragusa and her leaders very rich indeed. Ragusan ships were trading everywhere – Portugal, England, Flanders. Their tiny republic had become a leading maritime force with consulates and influence all over the Mediterranean and beyond. They picked the wrong horse, though, when they agreed to support the Spanish against Elizabeth the First and lost an enormous number of ships in the Armada.” Vaalon pulled his aged frame up and ambled towards the kitchen. “We’ll continue this after you’ve tried some of Ludwig’s kopi luwak.”
“Kopi what?” Pilot asked.
“Kopi luwak. The most expensive coffee in the world.”
After they’d finished their cups of money, Vaalon resumed his lesson. “The discovery of America, or rather, the discovery of its gold and silver, had a disastrous effect on the value of money back in Europe. It fell like a stone, sending prices up and making less and less cash available for investment in shipbuilding, seafaring and so on. Merchant shipping declined throughout Europe, but was felt more in Ragusa, because they had no other resources to fall back on. Seeing the writing on the wall, the inhabitants withdrew from trading, invested their money in banks and started living off the interest.
“That was the beginning of the end, and in 1667 an earthquake destroyed the city and killed half the population. If it hadn’t been for her money in foreign banks, Ragusa would have died there and then. The place never regained its health and became easy prey for, first, Napoleon, then the Austro-Hungarians. Today, Dubrovnik, which is the Croatian name for the city, is little more than a tourist curiosity− a town with a colourful past, but very little present and no future. International trade, if you can call it that, is what people can pick up in Dubrovnik’s tourist shops. Dragić and Soldo see modern day Dubrovnik as the Epidaurum of a thousand years ago and its hordes of German entrepreneurs and property developers as the invading Slavs. Nillin is the logical refuge for the survivors of Ragusa/Dubrovnik – a New Ragusium in which to rekindle the Byzantine-Ragusan culture. Saint Balsius was the protector saint adopted by Ragusa. Blasiusis also the codename Dragan Dragić uses in the secret brotherhood of New Ragusans he founded and leads. Soldo’s codename is Buvina, after Andrija Buvina, a 13th century Croatian sculptor and builder. Theirs is an organization not without funds and connections, and it is deadly serious in its intentions.”
“Which are−?”
“In modern parlance, a coup is planned. I’m sure you’ve already guessed as much. The Knights of Blasius, as they call themselves, have set a time within the next four months for their takeover of the island in the name of Byzantium and old Ragusa. In Eydos, The Knights of Blasius see a golden opportunity which, under your policies, they feel will be lost.”
Vaalon consulted one of the photographed documents on the table.
“Dragić and Soldo aim to base their Novi Ragusa on the old Republic’s specialty of trade and banking, coupled with Dubrovnik’s current pursuit of tourism. They will milk the invading hordes for all they’re worth. As with old Ragusa, banking will be new Ragusa’s lifejacket, but with a difference. The Knights’ version will be more like a laundry than a bank.
“The Knights’ blueprint also calls for the largest gambling and entertainment resort in the world,” Vaalon continued. “I’ve seen the plans for it right here in New York. The contractor for both the resort and the international airport to service it is based three blocks from here – a major Mafia-controlled developer. One of my operatives visited their offices with a camera one night and returned with some very interesting pictures. The Las Vegas valley was just a desert before Bugsy Siegel had his dream, and the Knights want to breath
e life onto the barren rock of Eydos in the same way, fashioning a powerhouse of hedonism and exploitation the likes of which have never been seen before.”
Pilot was staring at the floor, shaking his head more in disappointment with his friend Mirko Soldo than in the Knights’ evil intentions.
“To the world’s shipping community, the Knights plan to offer not only an alternative flag of convenience to those of Panama and Liberia, but also an alternative insurance to that of Lloyds of London. That’s not all. The world’s largest oil refinery and storage depot will be sited eighty miles north of Nillin, with a pipeline direct to France. Then there’s nuclear waste disposal. The highest bidder will gain the right to bury theirs on Eydos alongside that of the French nuclear industry, which has been given priority.”
“How do Soldo and Dragić plan getting around us?” Pilot asked, more in anger than angst.
“We don’t know that yet. We tracked Dragićto the estate of a retired French general in the Ardêche and are trying to gain access to the property as we speak. Dragić left there with your old friend Major Domaigne. It looks as if they’re putting together a mercenary army.”
“Do we know when all this is likely to happen?” Pilot asked.
“No. But I think you have at least a month.”
“As little as that?” Pilot was finding it difficult to marshall his thoughts. “What if they succeed in taking Eydos?”
“Whatever world opinion might say in your favour, Britain and France will do nothing to help you retake at. They’ll be gaining plenty from the change of management. Your only immediate ally seems to be Ireland, but I doubt if they have the power to help you.”
Pilot winced. “So, France gets exactly what they always wanted without any guilt being attached to them by the outside world.” He was shocked by the conniving nature of the plan. “What are we going to do about it, Forrest?”
“Split the problem down the middle. You deal with Soldo and I’ll see what spanners I can throw into his arrangements with the contractors here. Surveillance on Dragić and the French general will continue and I’ll let you know of any developments there. What passports did you use on your journey here?”
“Both of us were Canadian,” Pilot said.
Vaalon leaned over and pulled two passsports from his attaché case. “Best not to use the same ones on the return trip.” He handed a Dutch passport to Serman and an Irish one to Pilot, each with their respective photos and spurious stamps from fabricated trips. “Better get some sleep. You’re flying out in the morning.”
Pilot opened his new passport and smiled. “Ollie Bolling. You remembered.”
At Newark Airport, Pilot found an abandoned copy of People magazine on a seat and began to read it while waiting for their flight to be called. He was soon engrossed in an article about the nine Americans on Eydos – the six ‘crew’ and the three specialists, arborist Harvey Giles, geologist Bart Maryburg and nutritionist/agronomist, Dr. Steven Schwartzman. The latter, according to the article, had earned the nickname ‘Weedmaster’ amongst the settlers because of his cultivation on the island of a variety of plants, which he maintained provided an important and unappreciated source of proteins and vitamins. Three acres of valuable sediment pit had been put aside for growing flax, barley and ‘Doctor Steve’s weeds’. ‘The Islanders can hardly wait for the first harvest,’ the article sneered, ‘when the barley and linseed from the flax will be mixed with pale persicaria, black bindweed, gold of pleasure, fat hen, kemp nettle, wild pansy, corn spurrey and other exotic-sounding plants to produce a kind of hippy porridge that Colonel Sanders would do well to keep out of Kentucky.’
When he’d finished reading, Pilot handed the magazine to Serman. “There’s a profile of you in here, Aaron. I didn’t know you played the cello.”
The flight from Newark went smoothly enough, but Pilot’s false identity had fooled no one at Dublin Airport. Upon opening Ollie Bolling’s passport, the officer looked straight through the holder’s excellent disguise and said matter-of-factly, “Will you come this way please, Mr. Pilot?” In the VIP lounge where they were taken, ‘Ollie Bolling’ was told that the President’s car was waiting to drive his party to Phoenix Park.
When they reached Áras an Uachtaráin, the official residence of the Irish President, they were led directly to his private study for informal talks. The Prime Minister and half the Cabinet were there, all wishing to meet Eydos’ wind-blown leader. After his miscalculation in meeting Dasching and Williams, Pilot was coy to the point of frigidity. As a result, his hosts knew as little about him at the end of the meeting as they did at the beginning. A naval patrol vesssel was placed at his disposal for his return to Nillin, along with a promise. Whatever assistance was within the power of the Irish Government to render, would be given gratis and without strings. To prove their sincerity, the President informed Pilot of the proposal one of his ministers had received the day before from a Croat named Dragić, offering Ireland strategic concessions and a partnership in a new Atlantic oil refinery in return for her support for a group of ‘enlightened individuals’ wishing to establish a commercial base on Eydos.
“We’ve asked Dragić for more details and will forward our intelligence to you as and when we receive it,” the President promised.
Aaron Serman had spent most of the two-day voyage wringing his insides out over the rail. Now, he had nothing more to give. It had been a rough haul from Dun Laoghaire and both he and Pilot were exhausted.
It wasn’t policy at Nillin to post guards or stand watches. If they were invaded, they were invaded and there’d be nothing they could do about it, so the Irish patrol boat was able to tie up at the quay, deposit her two passengers and cast off again unbeknown to anyone.
Exhausted though they were, Pilot and Serman headed, not for bed, but for the mess hall and some breakfast.
With two bowls of porridge inside him, Pilot was beginning to revive. “Anything interesting happen while I was away?” he asked Bradingbrooke who had joined him.
“We acquired our first asylum seeker, Lonnie,” the Baronet said, pointing out a man sitting at a far table. “He’s French. Gilbert Cafard. We were waiting for you to get back before deciding what to do with him.”
Pilot stood up and walked over to the Frenchman’s table. “Where are you from, Gilbert?” he asked.
“I am French.”
“Where in France?”
“The Ardêche.”
Pilot returned to his table. “He’s a spy, Henry.”
“A spy for whom?”
Pilot finished his coffee and proceeded to tell Bradingbrooke about the Knights of Blasius, Dragan Dragić, the French general from the Ardêche and Soldo’s complicity.
“Mirko’s involved?”
“Up to his beard. Not sure yet how to handle this, but for the moment, we’d better keep it within the Pentad.”
Bradingbrooke stared down at the table, spinning his spoon. “Have you ever heard of Agent Zigzag, Lonnie? Eddie Chapman, the World War Two double agent? If Cafard is a spy, we should work on him. Try to turn him like they did Chapman. He seems vulnerable and a bit wobbly.”
“Vulnerable and wobbly…” Pilot let the idea settle, then lit up. “I know just the person to turn him,” he said. “She could convert the Pope to Islam. I’ll talk to her. What’s Soldo been up to while I’ve been away?”
“Hard to say. He’s had three visits from a lady who flies here in a private helicopter, stays a few hours with him, then leaves. We call her ‘Oilslick’. Head soaked in Brylcreem, make-up like gloss paint. A human Jessica Rabbit. Mirko says she’s just a rich German heiress who fancies him.”
“My guess is that she’s his fifth wife-to-be,” Pilot said. “I also think she’s more than just a sexy caricature.”
Bradingbrooke thought for minute. “A cliché with a brain?”
“A female Knight of Blasius.”
Pilot spent the evening in Odile Bartoli’s room discussing the tactics for molding Cafard into
a double agent. “Expose. Befriend. Turn.” Bartoli was a psychology graduate with psychiatric training. She had worked with troubled children for many years, and over dinner with Cafard that evening, had clearly detected a childlike vulnerability in the young Frenchman.
“He’s a tormented soul, Lonnie,” she said. “If I can get inside him and work with his demons−”
“I’ll leave it with you, Odile. I’m going to bed.” Ten minutes later, Pilot was dead to the world – both his and Mirko Soldo’s.
The next morning, Bartoli poured two mugs of coffee, took them to Cafard’s room and knocked on his door. “Gilbert, we know who you are,” she said. “Let me in.” No response. “Does the word Blasius mean anything to you?” Still no response. “Gilbert. We know who you are. But is that who you want to be?”
“What do you mean?” Cafard said, opening the door cautiously.
“Your heart isn’t in this, is it? You’re better than that. May I come in?” He stepped to one side, then closed the door behind her.
When Pilot saw Bartoli and Cafard enter the mess hall to join the others for lunch he noticed tears in Cafard’s eyes and compassion in Bartoli’s. It looked like things were going well.
Later that afternoon, Bartoli found Pilot working at one of the sediment pits and pulled him to one side. “Agent Zigzag is ours,” she said. “And he is very cute. When I exposed him as a spy, he was mortified. He couldn’t give me one good reason why he was doing what he was doing. He’s a lost soul− a rudderless ship grateful to be towed by anyone who throws him a line. I told him that if he cooperated we were prepared to throw him a better one than the Knights’. I told him about us− why we had come here, what we were all about and why the planned invasion should never be allowed to happen.” Bartoli took on a mothering expression. “Gilbert has never before felt valued, Lonnie, anywhere or at any time in his life. He’s just a petty thief from Privas. He has promised to work with us and will do anything we ask. I’m one hundred percent sure of that.”
