The Magician's Accomplice

by Michael Genelin

  The news of this assignment jolted Jana.

  “Assistant Director, I think a mistake has been made.” She felt annoyance build inside her. “I’m not a specialist in that area. That section needs investigators who are experts in accounting, property records, stock and bond transfers, insider trading. I’m a homicide investigator.”

  He looked at her, then scratched his head. “The person we asked your government for was to be a replacement for the man who has gone missing. They sent you. I assumed they knew what they were doing. However, because we do have intergovernmental problems, the language barriers, the differences in systems, it’s possible they may have made a mistake. I’ll check on it. In the meantime, you are assigned to Financial and Property Crime.” He pulled out a large loose-leaf volume bearing the Europol and European Union logos from a credenza behind him, then slid it over to her.

  “Please familiarize yourself with everything that’s in here: your obligations to this office, the do’s and don’ts, procedures, the limits of your authority, our rules and regulations, chain of command, and, of course, the powers vested in us through mutual treaties with all the signatory countries.”

  “I’d like to repeat, I’m not a specialist in the area you are assigning me to.”

  “I heard you the first time,” he said with asperity. “Let’s see how your office responds when I fax them.” He paused, as if trying to remember what he had to do next. “I think that’s it. Please check in with your section. My secretary will direct you. You can probably use your ex-colleague’s desk. Perhaps even his apartment. I understand the rent is paid through next month.” His eyes lit up as if he were now about to do her a favor and was pleased with his own generosity. “Take the rest of the day off after you’ve checked in with your section. Work can wait until tomorrow.” Mazur held his hand out for Jana to shake. “Welcome to Europol.”

  The secretary described how Jana could get to SC 4. As Jana followed the woman’s directions, she passed a row of vacant offices, some of them no more than just cubicles. A receptionist told Jana that most of the investigators were probably at a conference on illegal immigration. No, the woman replied to her questioning look: none of the officers from that section were involved in illegal immigration, but they were encouraged by Europol to participate in order to broaden their expertise.

  A short, older woman, with dyed-blonde hair at odds with her dark complexion and eyes, stepped in from the corridor. She glanced at Jana, then entered a cubicle. Jana knocked on the door frame. The woman looked up.

  “Can I help you?”

  “My name is Jana Matinova. I’ve been assigned to the section.”

  The woman nodded, closing a drawer; then sat back in her chair. “You’re the Slav we were expecting.”

  “I’m also a Slav, but I think you mean ‘Slovak’.”

  “Slovak, Slav, all the same. I’m Paola Rossi.”

  “Italian?”

  “Yes. A southern Italian, but trying to look like I’m from Northern Italy. Lots of Austrian and German intermarriage there. So, behold, a blonde Italian.” Rossi seemed to relish the fact that her hair was obviously dyed. She leaned even further back, putting her feet on the desk.

  “They told us you would be taking the other guy’s desk. It’s the room next door.” She cast a thumb in that direction. “I cleaned out what was left in his desk. You want the stuff?” Without waiting for an answer, she sat up far enough to be able to reach into a bottom drawer and pull out a clear plastic bag. “All his papers were gone; nothing personal was left. Just the junk that we all collect in our jobs.” Paola dumped the contents of the bag onto her desk, then sifted through the small pile of bits and pieces. “One stapler, a box of plastic paperclips, three pencils, a fountain pen, several half-used packets of tissues, and a small pocket notebook.” She stuffed them back into the plastic bag. “Take it, it’s yours. It’s easier than trying to requisition items from this organization. They make you account for everything in triplicate.”

  “Did you know Kroslak?”

  “Sure. A decent sort. Polite enough. Sometimes too polite. Kind of secretive. Kept to himself.”

  That didn’t sound like the talkative Kroslak that Jana knew.

  “He wasn’t always trying to talk your ear off?”

  “Nope. A hard worker, though. Always sifting through papers and printouts.”

  “So I can use it, do you have the password for his office computer?”

  “He used his name spelled backward. K-a-l-s-o-r-k.”

  “How do you know the password he used?”

  “The ass who’s our assistant director gave it to me so I could search the data on it. He wanted me to see if it held material which would clue us into where he’d gone. There was absolutely nothing in the computer. We even had to re-program it. Data gone, wiped. No,” she corrected herself. “Just clean.”

  “What do you mean, ‘just clean’?”

  “If you know how to do it, data can always be pulled up even if you erase it from a drive. We tried to pull it up. The computer’s hard drive had been replaced with a new one. So, no data at all. We figured Kroslak had replaced the drive himself so that no one could ever access it.”

  “Maybe someone else replaced the drive?”

  “Could be. Easy enough to do if you have access.” She reached inside her pocket. “I forgot something.” Paola tossed a key ring with a pair of keys onto the desk. “His apartment keys. After he didn’t come in for a second day without calling I went over there. His clothes, all gone, nothing of a personal nature left. Everything was spick and span. Nothing even in the wastebasket.”

  Jana picked up the keys, examined the contents of the bag containing Kroslak’s desk remnants, then pulled the pen out of the bag. “A fountain pen.” Jana uncapped it, testing the nib with her thumb. “Not many people use these things any more.” She screwed the cap back on. “A Mont Blanc. They’re expensive.” She waved the pen at Paola. “See, he left a personal belonging after all.” Jana tapped the pen on the desk. “I wonder why he would leave this kind of pen behind.”

  Paola shrugged. “Maybe, in his hurry to get out, he overlooked it.”

  “He was meticulous about his personal things.”

  Paola shrugged again, dismissing the issue.

  Jana nodded. “Thank you, Paola.” She turned to go. “I’ve been given the rest of the day off. See you tomorrow.”

  “My pleasure. Good to have another woman in the section.”

  Jana walked out carrying the plastic bag without bothering to enter her new office. She would be here tomorrow. Time enough to get settled. There was another destination in her mind for the moment. Nobody ever succeeded in completely cleaning up a location. There was always something left behind. She walked a block before she could catch a taxi to take her back to her hotel. After she finished unpacking, she’d head for Kroslak’s apartment.

  Chapter 8

  Between the plane ride and her visit to Europol, Jana had developed cramps in her joints. She needed exercise. Inspired by the large number of bicycle riders on the streets, she decided to rent one. Changing into slacks, windbreaker, and walking shoes, she went to the lobby. The concierge was polite and drew a route on her map in red pencil which would take her to the Statenkwartier neighborhood near Kroslak’s apartment. Then he directed her to a bike rental shop where, knowing she was never going to qualify as a professional cyclist, she selected a basic three-speed with a large sideview mirror and pedaled out into the light traffic.

  She stretched her leg muscles as the exercise worked some of the kinks out of her body, becoming more and more adroit as she weaved in and out of the traffic. The trip was fairly quick; it took her a little over fifteen minutes to get to her destination, a neighborhood located between the city center and the dunes facing the North Sea.

  When she reached Frederik Hendriklaan, the main street in the area, Jana stopped at a small café, the Kaffé Hayden, sat at a table, and relaxed. She drank a café filter and w
atched a small but steady stream of people pass her by. Another cyclist, a man dressed in a business suit, stopped almost as soon as Jana did, parked his bike next to hers, and took a seat at an adjacent table. He ordered a small pilsner, sipped at it when it arrived, then looked over at her, raising his glass in a half-toast.

  “Nothing like a cold beer, is there, Commander?”

  Jana had already made her evaluation of him before he sat down. Some people can’t help revealing what they are, she reflected. The man had first assessed his surroundings, including the patrons in the café; then taken his seat and continued measuring everyone who passed on the sidewalk. He had what most professionals in her line of work called “cop’s eyes.” The man was a police officer.

  “I take it that you’ve been following me?” Jana couldn’t help the irritated tone in her voice. “You did a good job.” He nodded, pleased she hadn’t observed him tracking her. “Not your fault for missing me,” he assured her. “You were too busy weaving through traffic. You were better than some, but the combination of sightseeing and caution set you apart. Easy for me to track you; hard for you to see me.”

  “It’s always flattering to have a man follow you, even though he’s just an officer doing his job. Please join me.” The man shifted to her table. Jana watched him as he moved. He was her age, a few centimeters taller than she was, blond hair receding slightly, slim waist indicating that he kept himself in condition. “And your name is?” she asked, as he put his beer down.

  “Jan Leiden, Commander.”

  “Why would an investigator with the Dutch police follow me?”

  “We were told by Europol you were arriving. I went to registration at your hotel and they pointed you out just as you were leaving the concierge’s desk. I decided to see where you were going, watched you rent a bike, and followed you.”

  “If you wanted to talk to me, you had the opportunity at the hotel. Why not then?”

  “It’s too beautiful a day not to get some exercise outdoors. And I didn’t want you to miss it.”

  “That’s not why you followed me.”

  Jana was not angry, merely stating a fact.

  “I like tailing women.” Leiden grinned at her. “However, you’re right, that’s not why I followed you.”

  “Then please answer my question.”

  “Are you aware that all police who work for Europol are totally immune from prosecution, except for minor offenses: traffic tickets in England, for example? Can you imagine, immune from criminal acts but they have to pay traffic citations? The British have always been odd.”

  “I haven’t had the opportunity to commit any crime yet, Investigator Leiden. Not even traffic violations.”

  “And we don’t want you to, Commander.”

  “I don’t need to be advised of that, Leiden.”

  “We always try to vet people who come into the country and work with Europol, particularly when there has been trouble. We also want to make sure they’re protected.”

  “I don’t need security, Investigator Leiden.” She thought about his “offer” of protection. “You’re talking about my predecessor, Kroslak. Was his disappearance linked to a crime? Was he killed? Kidnapped? Dumped in a Dutch canal, perhaps?”

  “Perhaps all of the above. We don’t know.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing. No girlfriend we could find; no bank accounts; no signs of violence. He walked away, or someone walked him away. Police officers simply don’t leave a job without telling anyone.”

  “Unless it’s planned.”

  “Why would he plan it?”

  “Investigator Leiden, you would have to tell me. I just arrived in The Hague.”

  He sat silently, then finished his beer, laying money on the table. “I’ve bought your coffee.” He winked at her. “Welcome to Holland.”

  “Thank you, Jan Leiden.”

  “You’re in this neighborhood for a reason: to see Kroslak’s apartment.” He hesitated for a moment. “Unless I’ve not been informed correctly, Europol has not taken jurisdiction to investigate Kroslak’s vanishing act, correct?”

  “Investigator Leiden, I have permission to live at the hotel for only a limited time. I’m just going to look over the neighborhood and Kroslak’s apartment to see if I might like it enough to take it, considering that Kroslak doesn’t seem to want it.”

  Leiden laid a business card on the table. “If you need a guide in the near future, please feel free to give me a jingle. And, if you find anything, well, you know, the same number.” He walked to his bike and rode away without looking back.

  Jana finished her coffee, then remounted her bike.

  The apartment was just two blocks away from the Kaffé Hayden. Jana made a circuit of the building before she entered it. It was apparently a nineteenth-century house that had been converted into four apartments; the façade had been left intact so it would not jar with the style of the neighboring houses. Jana checked the mailboxes at the front door. Kroslak’s name was still displayed. There were a few fliers inside the box but no personal mail. She keyed herself into the building, then went to the stairs. Kroslak’s apartment was on the second floor. Jana ascended the red-carpeted steps to his door. Even the welcome mat was still in place.

  Inside, the apartment was decently furnished. A living room led to a small dining area, with a kitchen off the dining area. There was also a bedroom with a connecting bathroom, and a second bedroom on the opposite side of the bathroom. It was immaculately clean but for a slight patina of dust which had accumulated, Jana concluded, since Kroslak had left the place. She began, methodically, to search, starting with the master bedroom, carefully working each wall from the top to the bottom, making sure that the baseboards had nothing concealed in them. Then Jana stripped the beds, checking all the seams of the mattresses to determine if they had been pulled apart and re-sewn. Then the closets, top to bottom, paying special attention to the floors. Finally she checked the dressers, behind the mirrors, beneath the drawers. Again, nothing.

  The bathroom was next, the shower first, then the drainage pipe as far as she could determine without tools, then the sink and medicine cabinet. Nothing. The dining room followed, then the living-room area. Every piece of furniture was explored, even the fringes of the rugs examined and the large couch stripped of its slipcover so she could finger every inch of the cushions. Again, nothing. By the time she was through, two hours had passed, the place was a mess, and Jana was tired.

  There was a hesitant knock at the door. Jana did not have her sidearm and considered not opening the door. After all, the prior tenant of the apartment had disappeared. Jana didn’t want whatever had happened to Kroslak to happen to her. She went to the door and, to surprise whoever was outside, quickly pulled it open. The young woman who was standing outside jumped back, letting out a squeak of fear.

  Her eyes wide with shock, the woman backed away as if she was going to turn and run. Jana quickly stepped outside, touching her on the arm to reassure her.

  “Sorry. My fault. Everything is all right. No need to be afraid,” she said in English.

  The young woman nodded, unable to find her voice.

  “Why did you knock?” Jana asked.

  “I heard you inside,” the woman answered slowly. Her English was good enough, but halting.

  “So?”

  “Well, I wanted to know if you’d changed your mind and wanted the place cleaned. Except, you’re not him.”

  “Mr. Kroslak?”

  “The man who was here before. I met him when he rented the place.”

  “He told you he didn’t want the place cleaned?”

  “It was in the lease, a service as part of the rent. He said he didn’t want to be disturbed, ever. So, no cleaning.”

  “You haven’t been in the apartment since then?”

  “No.” She looked concerned. “It wasn’t my fault he didn’t want it cleaned.”

  “Clearly it wasn’t your fault.”

  “So
, do you want it cleaned?”

  Jana considered her request. She had searched the place thoroughly. There was nothing more to be found. She gave the woman a friendly smile.

  “I think the apartment could stand tidying up a bit.”

  She stood aside so that the cleaning woman could see the mess Jana had made.

  “I guess it does need … tidying,” the young woman stammered.

  “Good. And thank you.”

  Jana picked up her shoulder bag and walked down the stairs and outside. As she got back on her bike, she looked up at the second floor. The maid was looking down at her, hesitantly lifting a hand in “good-bye.” The friendly Dutch, Jana thought, returning the gesture.

  Jana reflected on Kroslak’s apartment. There was no shaving equipment in the bathroom, no soap in the shower, no shampoo. There were no cleaners under the sink in the kitchen. The plates were neatly stacked in place in the cupboards, as if standing at attention hoping someone would reach in and use them. There was nothing of any personal nature except Kroslak’s name on the empty mailbox. The sheets and pillow cases on the beds were clean, the corners of the sheets evenly tucked in. If he had left his apartment suddenly, as he had left Europol, he would not have taken the sponges, the mop, the vacuum cleaner, the detergents. Everything would not have been that neat. And, finally, Kroslak had not wanted anyone to enter the apartment, not even the cleaning lady.

  The more Jana thought about it, the more convinced she became. No one had been living at the apartment. Certainly not Kroslak. It had been a blind, a front, an address to put on his records at Europol and nothing else. Kroslak had been living somewhere else. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know where that place was. Whatever it was Kroslak had been doing, he had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden.

  And now Kroslak was gone.