The Domino Conspiracy

by Joseph Heywood

  An American named Briarly was on duty in the liaison unit when the report came in. The Austrians discussed it briefly, decided it was unimportant and consigned the information to the appropriate file. As one of the CIA’s liaison officers to the presidential Secret Service detachment, Briarly was trained to question everything. Having read the report, he called Washington; Arizona had thought about little else since then.

  He poured a double shot of whiskey, stared at the wall map of Europe and imagined lines between the sites where Frash had appeared. Why the hell was he sticking to the Continent? With the money he had now he could disappear into the Middle East or Africa and never be found. The living would be bad but he would be free and clear, and with money you could buy a lot of comfort in either region. If he can go so easily, why does he stay? Why did Briarly see spooks in some podunk Austrian town? He knew why; it was Briarly’s job to see patterns in shadows. Briarly had once been one of his people: once one of his, always one. Except Frash, who had never really been one of his; he had Venema to thank for that. And Valentine; only God knew who he belonged to. Austria, for Christsake, a good country for a nut case. Hitler had leaned heavily on his own kind to erase the Jews because he imagined they had treated him badly, rejecting him as an aspiring artist in Vienna. Or maybe it wasn’t something that real; a nut case didn’t need real reasons. Like Frash and that woman in California. He had blinded her for trying to do something sane, getting the hell out of his life. Venema’s report made it clear that even now, years later, she was still scared shitless of Frash. It’s a sign of good mental health to be afraid of things that can hurt you. Especially in Austria, which gave us Hitler, who stuck to Europe with the persistence of Frash. Or was it vice versa? A dead woman in Austria wasn’t much to go on, but in this business you have to play your hunches.

  Venema’s report lay open on Arizona’s desk. “The late-stage paranoid schizophrenic may be driven by voices imploring him to kill. Most patients with advanced symptoms are intent on righting an imagined wrong.” He read on, closed the folder and put his feet up on the desk. Austria. “The Vienna summit,” he said out loud. Sylvia and Valentine had learned from the Yugoslavs that the Russians had killed Frash’s contact. A payback for an imagined wrong. Lumbas was a Soviet agent. Vengeance? It would be crazy with so much security, but if you were a fruitcake maybe it made sense. But the dead body in Austria just as easily might have nothing to do with Frash. Briarly said the local police report called it an accident, probably a fall. All right, don’t get worked up. Check it out. Lean on Briarly’s instincts. If he thought it important enough to call, the least you can do is have it checked out. Cover your ass.

  Valentine answered the telephone halfway through the first ring. Bored or edgy? It was hard to tell, but either way it was good.

  “This is your fairy godfather,” Arizona said.

  “Send us back to Kansas,” Valentine shot back.

  “How about Austria instead? I presume by the long silence that you two are dead in the water.”

  “You’ve heard from the Russians?”

  Had his voice perked up? “Yes, but this is a separate matter. There’s a place called Nauders; it’s spittin’ distance from the Eye-tie border. They’ve got a body up there.”

  “Left-eye signature?”

  “Don’t know. Fell off some rocks is how I heard it. A female. Nobody with her. Some Kraut hikers found her. No ID. Weird for a woman to tramp around in the mountains all by her lonesome. What do you think?”

  “Wild goose chase. What about the Russians?”

  “They’re headed for Vienna. Should arrive tomorrow and they want a meeting the next day.” Arizona read off two telephone numbers. “Tell them you’re with Eagle Casualty of Miami. Meanwhile, get your asses up to Nauders. Head cop there’s named Petermann. Tell him you’re with the summit security team. Our Vienna unit will provide the cover.”

  “We’ll drive up and get there before morning.”

  It was probably nothing, Arizona told himself after hanging up. It didn’t make sense that Frash would elude them so that he could go to Vienna amid what would be the heaviest security concentration in the world. It made no sense at all, even for a man on a long walk down Looney Tunes Lane.

  157THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1961, 1:05 A.M.Bajraku Hotit, Albania

  Lt. Col. Methat Dishnica moved slowly along the man-high coils of concertina wire, feeling his way through the rocks, his duffel bag over his left shoulder. This was risky, he knew, but there was no choice; family honor was at stake, an oath to his dying father.

  Dishnica guessed it was another kilometer to the rendezvous point. The army guards captain he had rousted at the border station had been so shocked to find a Sigurimi officer beside his bunk that he had been unable to talk for several seconds. Dishnica had explained that an illegal border penetration was expected. Where were the Sigurimi troops? the captain stammered. A unit from Tirana was on the way, Dishnica lied. They would be along at any moment; meanwhile the captain should concentrate all of his men in a position 1.5 kilometers east of the official crossing point, but they should take no action until Dishnica arrived with his team. “There’s no need for you to take risks others are trained to handle.”

  The captain was a good officer, which translated to a frightened one; he immediately suggested that they also station a token force west of the border road, but Dishnica dismissed this idea; in matters of this sort it was the Sigurimi who gave orders, not border guard captains. Cowed, the officer called his men in by walkie-talkie. Dishnica saw that they were young, no more than boys, and for a moment he felt ashamed. When Shehu discovered his defection, the guards would pay for it. But he reminded himself that honor was at stake, blood honor, and this took precedence over the lives and the suffering of strangers. If they were truly competent in the discharge of their responsibilities, they should have known that he was violating established procedures and challenged him. If they suffered, he rationalized, it would be their own fault.

  When he reached the crossing point, Dishnica quickly checked the nearest bunker to be certain it was empty, saw that it was, slipped downhill to the wire, stood on a boulder, pointed his flashlight into the darkness and blinked it three times. The answer came from the right. One blink, then two more. He replied with a single and got three more in return. As arranged, they were waiting for him on the other side. He felt unexpectedly calm.

  Using a chart of the minefield and a small light, he slowly made his way north into the frontier; the border guards would wait a long time before realizing that something wasn’t right, and longer still before their captain got up his courage to do something about it. Discipline built on fear obliterated tactical flexibility, which made such people easy to manipulate.

  The crossing of the mined area required forty minutes. When Dishnica finally emerged from it he flashed his light once and waited. For six months he had vacillated, but when word had come from his cousin that his father was dying, the issue was settled; a son had no choice in such matters. He had gone into the mountains to see the old man, who looked more worn out than terminally ill. His father reminded him that years ago he had arranged a marriage for him, and that a good son did not question such decisions. The bride’s family had gone over the border to Kosovo after the war. Dishnica had tried to reason with his father; if the bride was in Yugoslavia, the arrangement was null and void. In any event, the girl was now a thirty-year-old woman and no doubt already married or even dead. His father raged at him. Political borders did not affect commitments of honor. The girl had been promised; he had promised; the union must occur or there would be a blood feud. Every life was connected to others. But he was Sigurimi, he argued. You are family and clan first, the old man countered. Dishnica argued, If I leave, then you and everyone here will be in danger; Shehu will retaliate. The old man laughed. Let the bastard try. He had always relished a fight, and often bragged that during the war he had personally killed forty Nazis. If Shehu comes into the mountains we’ll feed
his balls to the dogs. A son should do what he’s told and keep his family’s honor intact; nothing else matters. Besides, if the marriage was to be a good one, there must be children. As an only son it was Methat’s duty to ensure the continuation of the family name.

  In the end Dishnica swore an oath to his dying father, and it was this that decided the outcome. He would have to defect, and now he had the information to trade for sanctuary and a new identity in Yugoslavia.

  Though there was no moon, he now saw two silhouettes moving toward him. He recognized Admiral Pijaku by his height and peculiar gait.

  “Not very often that the Sigurimi loses such a distinguished cog in its machine,” the old officer said, his voice still strong. A long time ago when he had been a cadet officer, Dishnica had been one of Pijaku’s students. He had distinguished himself and Pijaku had predicted he would have a fine military career. He had not seen the admiral since, and in the interim the man had been declared an enemy of the state by Enver Hoxha, forcing him to flee Albania. Now Pijaku was collaborating with the Yugoslavs and had sworn to bring Hoxha down. It had not been difficult to get a message to him.

  “Some decisions make themselves,” Dishnica answered.

  “We had an agreement,” the admiral said. “You got this far on your own, but to get any further you need me, and I require payment.”

  Dishnica quickly laid out the information he had gathered: Shehu’s henchman, Haxi Kasi, had left the country.

  “You can confirm this?”

  “He was seen at the airport in Tirana.”

  “He was alone?”

  “No, there was a woman with him.”

  “His wife?”

  “You know he never married. The woman is the daughter of a political prisoner named Llarja, who is said to be one of the conspirators.”

  “In what?”

  “You should know. You’ve been identified by Shehu and Hoxha as the architect.”

  The admiral laughed softly. “Shehu sees me as the architect of all his nightmares. What about the woman?”

  “Mid-twenties, dark hair, trim. She speaks English.”

  “Kasi’s lover?”

  “Not likely. She faced the dogs.”

  Pijaku nodded to let Dishnica know that he understood that this was the sort of test given to assassins. “What makes you think such information is worth sanctuary?”

  “To get Kasi would be to rip off Shehu’s right arm. You can do serious damage to the regime. He can’t be replaced.”

  He’s correct in his assessment, Pijaku thought. They had been after the brutal Kasi for a long time; perhaps now they would finally get him. “This information is of interest, but Shehu’s man could be anywhere.”

  “Vienna.”

  “You’re certain?”

  Dishnica handed an envelope to the admiral; it contained a receipt for a fortune in Austrian schillings from the Sigurimi paymaster, a hand-scribbled flight itinerary and a photograph.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “From one of his hideaways.”

  The admiral stared at Kasi’s photograph; he had aged, but he still had the eyes of a night dog. “You didn’t get these papers without great risk.”

  “Risk is offset by need. Only Kasi and Shehu have the minefield charts, and there was no way to cross without them.” He gave the chart of the northern sector to Pijaku.

  “They’ll discover they’re gone.”

  “By the time they realize it, I’ll be beyond their reach.”

  “You have family?”

  “Only cousins, and they’re in the mountains. Shehu doesn’t have enough manpower to dig them out of the rocks.”

  “Who knows that you’re defecting?”

  “Only my father, and he’s dead.”

  “You’ve planned well,” the admiral said solemnly. “I said a long time ago that you would be a competent officer, and you’ve proven me right.” He took a step to the side. The man with him raised a revolver and fired three times into Dishnica’s chest, the muzzle flashes traveling almost as far as the bullets, then bent down and put a round through his head. Gunpowder hung in the night air. “It would have been more prudent to have taken him in for interrogation,” the man with the revolver said.

  No, the admiral thought. If Dishnica were allowed to defect there would be an investigation and Shehu might discover that Kasi had been compromised. “Get the charts and take him back to the other side. This way it will look like he encountered a border penetrator.”

  At daylight the guards found Dishnica sprawled on a coil of concertina wire on the Albanian side of the frontier. Later he would be given a hero’s burial.

  158THURSDAY, MAY 11, 1961, 10:05 A.M.Nauders, Austria

  Nauders was a small, neat town with wooden houses and brightly painted balconies. The police station was in a red-brick building in the center. A small arched gate and wall ruin marked a onetime Roman outpost. Valentine glanced at the arch as they went into the building. “Duty here must have been like a transfer to Greenland,” he muttered.

  Petermann was a small blond man who smoked fat cigars, parted his hair in the center and spit-shined his knee-high boots. His voice was soft, his choice of words economical, and he tended to bow his head sharply after making a point. “I gave complete information to Vienna,” he told the Americans. “Everything was correct and in accordance with the directive.”

  “Bah,” Valentine whispered, mimicking a sheep. Sylvia elbowed him gently and began asking questions. Had the woman been identified? No. Were there any leads? Nothing.

  “What about hunches?” Valentine asked.

  The Austrian didn’t understand. “Theories,” Sylvia said.

  “Ah,” Petermann said with a nod, “hypotheses.”

  They waited for him to gather his thoughts. He led them to a wall map and showed them a red pin. “The woman’s body was found there. This area is frequently used by Gypsies to make illegal border crossings.”

  “Since when do Gypsies recognize borders?” Valentine asked.

  “In the past they moved around, but circumstances are different now,” Petermann said. “Most Gypsies don’t move from country to country anymore. They’re nationalized, a nation within nations, not like the old times when nobody claimed them.” He tapped the map. “There’s a clan of Italian Gypsies who make a business of escorting gadje, non-Gypsies, across the borders. It’s a lucrative undertaking. Their customers are mostly criminals or men trying to escape bad marriages.”

  “Is there some way to talk to these people?”

  Petermann smiled. “One can talk, but about what? They don’t advertise such services. Clients are referred to them by other Gypsies.”

  “Can we see the body?” Sylvia asked, shifting the direction of the conversation.

  Petermann looked at her impassively. “If you wish.”

  The morgue was in the same building. It had six metal drawers in two rows of three. The police chief pulled out one of the middle drawers and unzipped the gray bag that contained the remains.

  The dead woman had black hair and dark skin blanched by death. The left side of her head was shattered and bones stuck out of her upper left arm. Sylvia lifted the sides of the bag, examined the rest of the body, looked at Valentine and shook her head, which meant there were no bullet wounds.

  “Her spine was broken in the fall,” Petermann said. “Death was more or less instantaneous.”

  “You’ve classified it as an accident?”

  “Preliminarily, but there are many possibilities ranging from simple accident to suicide.”

  “Or homicide,” Sylvia said.

  Petermann executed a crisp bow. “Of course nothing has been ruled out, but neither is one more probable than another. These mountains are experienced, dispassionate killers. We have no medical examiner here; the body was handled by our mortician, whose clients are mostly old people. However, her injuries are consistent with a fall.”

  “Unless she was pushed,” Valentine said.
“Did you get photos at the site?”

  The police chief spread them out on the table. They were Polaroids, not 35 mm, and fuzzy, with poorly defined details. Petermann seemed to sense potential criticism and moved to blunt it. “We’re a small town with no crime. We took more professional photographs, but they require more time for processing. The Polaroids are insurance,” he explained. “My idea,” he added with obvious pride.

  Sylvia picked up one of the photographs. “She was unclothed?”

  “Yes. Her clothing was found on a ledge approximately one hundred meters above the body.”

  “That seems a bit unusual,” Valentine said. “I wouldn’t think that nude hiking would be the rage here.”

  “Of course not, but in and of itself her nudity proves nothing. Suicides sometimes do bizarre things, and our mountains attract some peculiar people.”

  “Was there evidence of intercourse?” Sylvia asked.

  “There appeared to be semen, but there was no evidence of violence.”

  Valentine bored in immediately. “Doesn’t semen suggest that she had company up there?”

  “To be candid,” Petermann said after a cough, “suicide is not the best conclusion.”

  “Why?” Sylvia asked.

  Petermann smiled. “Gypsies drive others to suicide, not themselves.”

  “The woman is Gypsy?”

  “Of course,” the police chief said, surprised that they had to ask.

  “How do you know?”

  He fetched a cloth bag and emptied the contents on the table. There was a white silk blouse with smudges and a red silk scarf. The lavender skirt was of heavy material, embroidered ornately at the hem; no brassiere, white cotton panties and flat red shoes with small buckles. Petermann held up the scarf. “A Gypsy emblem,” he said. “Single women wear red, married women black.”

  Valentine frowned. “A red scarf is hardly conclusive.”

  Petermann gestured to the body. “The Gypsies are an old race, largely free of other genetic influences because they rarely breed with gadje.” He obviously enjoyed lecturing. “Look at her hair, the size and coloring of her eyes, flesh color, head shape, her size, her clothes. Gypsies are small people, always small. The scarf simply confirms what my eyes and experience tell me.”