The room was absolutely silent. Smoke, still drifting inside, partially obscured everything. Jana edged to the bathroom door and then popped out into the vestibule leading into the rest of the suite, her gun held in front of her at the ready as if she could still fire it. More smoke and mirrors, she thought. There was no way to fool the man in the room if he was alive; he would open fire immediately.
He was sitting on the floor with his back against the dresser, bleeding from his mouth, unable to move, ineffectually trying to reach the assault rifle on the floor two feet away. He saw Jana’s feet, his head tilted back slightly to look at her, his body shuddered, and he slumped over. One of her shots had hit him in the left center of his chest. She had managed to kill both men.
Jana sat on the edge of the bed, surveying the two bodies, the damage to the room, the blood pooling around both men. She coughed at the smoke, wiping her mouth with her forearm, still not quite sure that she had survived.
A hotel employee chose that moment to check to make sure all the guests had been safely evacuated. He stuck his head in the door, gasped at seeing the man in the doorway first, then let out a “Godverdomme ” in Dutch when he saw the second man, mumbled an incoherent short babble of words when he saw Jana, then darted out of the room screaming for help and ran down the corridor. His screams galvanized Jana into action.
She grabbed her bag, pulling clothes out of the closet, prodding the dead man out of the way with her foot as she emptied the drawers, piling everything into a suitcase haphazardly, hesitating only long enough to take her reserve bullet clip from the night table and slap it into her gun, which she tucked into her waistband at the small of her back. She picked up the bag and suitcase and sprinted out of the suite and into the hall, heading for the stairs. She passed two of the smoke bombs which had been used by the intruders. Jana had been right: there was no fire. It was all “smoke and mirrors.”
She took the elevator to the first floor. There was no reason to avoid the elevators. No fire, no danger. Then she took the stairs down to the lobby, in case the two dead men had backup on the main floor watching the elevators, then walked to the rear and into the massive shopping center behind the hotel. A huge crowd of both guests and passersby had gathered at the entrance to the mall to gawk at the firemen who were now pouring into the hotel. Nobody glanced at Jana as she pushed her way through.
She had to find another place to stay. Whoever was after her would eventually find her again, but she had to buy herself some time. They were determined, that was clear. And to an organization, as she now thought of them, that determined and with enough resources to find her, she presented a very large target. Two minutes later, Jana was headed to the only place she could think of where she wouldn’t have to register: the apartment that Kroslak had leased but never occupied.
When she got there, in case she’d been tracked, she took a tour of the entire building, familiarizing herself with the layout. The roof led to other roofs, which might provide an escape route; unfortunately, it was also a method of gaining entry to the building from adjoining structures without attracting notice, a strong negative. The only other portion of the building that she was concerned about was the basement. It was very small. But there was a locked door apparently leading to the building next door. At one time they had shared an understructure which now included a partitioned basement. It, too, was a possible avenue of escape if she needed it.
Having found out what she could, Jana went back up to her new apartment. The maid had done an amazing job of creating order out of the chaos that Jana had left. She silently thanked the young woman, then crawled into bed.
Chapter 18
In the morning, when she got up, aching from the stress and discomfort of the night’s battles, Jana puttered around the apartment putting her clothes away. She was not hungry, but she needed to keep up her stamina, which meant putting food in her stomach. Jana walked to the café where she had first met the Dutch police officer and sat at the same table as before, ordering a black coffee and toast, thinking about her predicament as she sipped the strong coffee. Jana was in a bind, no longer sure she was safe anywhere.
Why had the “enemy,” as she now thought of them, made her a priority? Most likely it was because they knew she was hunting Kroslak, which probably meant that Kroslak was still alive and that it was important for them to prevent her from reaching him. And Jana could not stop thinking about the murders in Bratislava. Peter’s death, of course … and the college student’s murder. In her mind, they had merged.
There was nothing that connected the two, really, except the professional aspect of the killings. Jana forced herself to focus on Peter’s killing, to break it away from the Carleton Savoy hotel murder in the hope that the intense focus on the one would heighten some aspect of it, some salient factor, which she could then compare with Denis’s murder.
There was one other item she had not given much thought to, the papers that she had found in the closet of her house where Peter had kept his things. Jana had them with her. She waited until she had finished her breakfast toast, then pulled them out of her shoulder bag. They were still encased in their clear plastic covers. Jana fanned the pages out on the table top. They were numbered one through four, and she began her examination in that order. On the first page, after what appeared to be an introductory section, there were graphs, each one with multiple plotted lines. The graphs had numbered indicators on the left and bottom. Jana eliminated years and weights in deciphering the mathematical markings. They were measurements or indicators of some other type. The language used was Western in origin, but not one of the major languages Jana was familiar with. She checked the word endings. There was enough Latin in their construction for Jana to eliminate everything except Portuguese and Romanian.
Not close enough to Spanish to be Portuguese. If you eliminate all the rest of the possibilities, no matter how improbable, you generally have your answer. The language was most likely Romanian. Jana immediately thought of Gyorgi Ilica, the Romanian cop in her section at Europol. She’d take a chance and ask him to translate.
All the pages were similar, with nothing she could decipher, until the last page, which was more curious than the others. The text ended about a third of the way down the page. There was a stamp with a signature and date: March 1, 1944. It had been written during the middle of World War II. Immediately below, but toward the left-hand margin, was another scrawled signature and date: March 17, 1944. The signature, which looked like it might be “Haider” or something close, had all the spiky earmarks of German script. The note, in German, which was more legible, was translatable by Jana. It simply read: “I agree. No further action recommended.”
At least as curious was a notation at the bottom of the page. This one was in Russian, also signed and dated. Jana had learned Russian as a child in communist Slovakia, so it was easy to translate. It read: “Further tests indicative of prior results. No further action recommended,” and it was signed and dated July 8, 1975. Romania was still a Soviet Socialist Republic then and behind the Iron Curtain that contained Eastern Europe. Jana put the papers back in her shoulder bag.
Someone had left a Dutch newspaper on one of the adjoining tables. Jana picked it up and read portions of the front page. There was a large photograph of two bodies being rolled out on stretchers from her hotel. Headline news. Jana could not see any reference to her name in any part of the article. They had to be looking for her, but they were keeping her name out of the paper. Why?
Jana used a public phone to call Slovakia. Trokan was back in his office, so she would have to be guarded in her conversation because of the possibility of a tap. However, she and Trokan were so familiar with each other that they could communicate almost in monosyllables without giving critical information to whoever might be eavesdropping.
Trokan immediately answered his phone.
“Colonel Trokan,” she said.
“Janka, how have you been?”
“Not so good.”
>
“I called the hotel.”
“So you know.”
“Yes.”
“From the Dutch or Europol?”
“I talked to the Dutch.”
“Someone we know?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I have nothing to give you. The cop was polite. He seemed to recognize that I had nothing to give him other than what he already knew. He didn’t even ask if I had heard from you. However, I volunteered that I had not. He was professional. I had some confidence and trust in him when I hung up.”
“Anything new in Slovakia?”
“Things are hectic here. There is a more-than-strong rumor, which has been reinforced by our minister, that the prime minister is going to nationalize the oil field. The other parties are taking positions, the nationalists on his side, the Europe or America worshipers taking the other side, and everybody in between making noises of one sort or another. We’ve been put on full alert in case there are disturbances, so everyone is working overtime out in the field looking for the first sign of trouble. I haven’t a man to spare.”
“I was thinking of taking a vacation.”
“It’s not the time for a vacation. Besides, I think you’ve used up the days you’re entitled to.”
Jana hadn’t used any days off. He was telling her that he was not pulling her back to Slovakia. Nor did he have any other specific plans for her, other than the orders she’d already been given. Which also meant that Trokan would not be sending her any assistance. She was to carry on with her assignment, to stay out in the wilderness until whoever was hunting her made themselves known. Then she was to act. He was not giving her any other options.
Jana didn’t like the “no option” approach. It left her hanging in the wind, vulnerable. Jana tried to press him to change his mind.
“I could have sworn I had days left.”
“Nothing, Jana. I checked. The records are very clear.”
Trokan had thought of pulling her in. He had asked the minister, but the minister had vetoed it. Trokan was saddled with this decision, and so was Jana.
“I have sightseeing I wanted to do, so I think I’ll take a day or two of sick leave and just wander around. Europol won’t miss me.” Whoever they were would be looking for her there. “Perhaps I’ll go to some other part of Holland and do some sightseeing.”
“Enjoy yourself.”
“I always like new experiences.”
“All good investigators do. I’m going to Vienna tomorrow.”
“A pretty place.”
“We’ve both been there before.”
Trokan would be staying at the same hotel he generally did when he went to Vienna. She could call him there tomorrow.
“Give my regards to your wife.”
“I’ll tell her you said so. Fact is, you can call her yourself if you want to.”
Trokan’s wife hated Jana. He was simply confirming it was all right to call in case she had missed his signal.
“Thank you, Colonel.”
“Good-bye, Janka.”
They terminated the call.
Jana found a reproduction shop and had three copies of the Romanian papers run off. They were bad copies but still legible. Jana put the reproductions in plastic sheets she bought from the same shop, put those sheets into separate plastic bags that were sealable, then went back to her new apartment. She took the originals out of her shoulder bag, checked the bag for airtightness by running water into the plastic that would contain them, then set the original, still in its container, into the tested bag, placing the bag into the cistern of the toilet.
The apartment had assuredly already been searched by the enemy. If they tried to search the apartment again, they might not think to look for papers in a toilet. For the moment, it was the best hiding place Jana could come up with. It was time now to get to work on her investigation.
Her first stop was to talk to Paola.
Her second would be Amsterdam.
Chapter 19
Jana called Paola on her cell, making the call brief so that anyone who attempted a tap would not come up with much. Paola suggested that she and Aidan Walsh meet her at Le Café Hathor, a neighborhood joint with good beer and tapas on Maliestraat, a narrow side street. They could sit on the terrace overlooking a small canal and nobody would give a damn who they were or who was looking for them.
They arrived at the same time, sat, and ordered beer and a plate of tapas ostensibly to sate Aidan’s large appetite. The beer arrived quickly.
“You made a big boom,” said Aidan. “My guess is that hotel will think twice about welcoming you back.”
“I didn’t lay down the smoke bombs.”
“You did the shooting.”
Jana shrugged. “I didn’t do all the shooting. They shot at me first.”
“Your shooting instructors have to be bragging,” Paola suggested. “I got a look at the photos the Dutch gendarmes developed. Your room was shot to pieces. The bad boys tried hard.”
“Who is after you, and why?” Aidan asked. He emptied his glass, holding it up for the waitress to bring another. She studiously ignored him. “The Dutch are great at making the beer, but they crap out on the service side.” He pushed himself erect. “I’m forced to go after my own lager.” He walked toward the bar.
“He eats a lot, drinks a lot.” Paola took another sip of her own beer. “But he’s a good man. His question was on point: who sent two goons to kill you?”
“I hope that you’re saying that the Dutch police have concluded that the two men I shot were trying to kill me, and not the other way round?”
“The Dutch want you to go through the numbers for them.” She eyed Jana. “So, are you going to traipse in to them and explain what it’s all about?”
“No.”
Paola was taken aback.
“Why not? You’ll walk away clean.”
“If I walk away at all. I think whoever is out to kill me is determined to do the job. And I think they will if I go to the Dutch police. I don’t trust cell phones; I don’t trust safe houses. Even more serious, I don’t know the police who will be dealing with me.”
Paola looked even more surprised.
“You think that our Dutch cousins are in on this?”
Aidan shouldered his way back to the table carrying his beer in one hand and a plate of tapas in the other. “The miracle man has succeeded.” He sat, pushing the tapas toward Paola. “Have you determined what in bloody hell the Slovak lady has got herself, and maybe us, involved with?” He took one of the tapas, biting into it. “They have good tapas here, which is strange ’cause they’re not Spanish.” He talked while he was chewing, peering over his beer at Jana. “Okay, so people are after you. We increase our chances of getting those people before they get you if we know why they’re after you. If we know that, then maybe we know them. And if we know them, we kick the crap out of them, or maybe take a cue from you, Commander Matinova, and blow the hell out of them before they do the same to you. Good plan, eh?”
“Not so good,” Paola responded, looking slightly glum. “She doesn’t have the vaguest idea who is after her, or why.”
“I think it has to do with Kroslak’s disappearance,” Jana told them.
“Have they killed him?” Aidan asked through a mouthful of tapas.
“I don’t think so.”
“But you’re not sure?” Aidan suggested.
Paola hit him on the arm. “She’s telling us we have to find out.”
“Okay, we find out,” Aidan agreed. He started on another tapa.
Jana handed them copies of the problem that she had worked out for her seminar on homicide investigation. She also pulled out the duplicates of the material she had recovered from Peter’s closet.
“You have other things to do,” Jana suggested. “Do we trust Gyorgi Ilica, our Romanian?”
Walsh and Rossi exchanged glances.
“He’s a good guy,” Walsh said.
Jana slid one set of the duplicates across the table to them. “I’m reasonably certain these are in Romanian. I need a translation as quickly as possible.”
“No problem,” Walsh said.
Paola fingered the copy of the problem that Jana had given her. “What do we do with this?”
“Use your instincts. The thing that jumps out at me, first, is identifying the shooter of the student. Go through the files. Look for professional shooters, killings where someone did the job with a close circle of shots. Then, look for technicians who fit telephones with explosives.”
“There are a few of those around,” Walsh affirmed. “The Israelis have some of them. The old KGB did. Probably the current Russian FSA. A few Lebanese I know of. Even a few IRA people. We’ll get a list and see who their last employers were and try for a geographic fix.”
Jana mulled it over. “One more approach: see if there’s an assassin in the files who’s current, an individual out there that has both characteristics we’re looking for: a good shooter as well as an explosives expert.”
“And the witnesses?” Paola asked.
“The insurance guy, Fico.” Aidan said, finishing off the last of the tapas. “See who he works for, see what his statements to your department’s people were. And who’s this investigator, Elias? The name doesn’t sound Slovak to me.”
“We’re a hodgepodge of names. The Slovaks have been run over and conquered so many times by other countries that we’ve been a breeding ground for everyone else in Europe. The names have lingered on.”
“The Roman legions and their sex drive rolled over you guys too?”
“If it wasn’t them, it was the Turks, or the Hapsburgs, or Nazis.”
Aidan playfully nudged Paola. “Very passionate, the Romans. Except for this one.”
“Piss off, Walsh.”
The Magician's Accomplice Page 12
