The professor yelled a few last words at Marketa: “Your husband says hello.” Then he darted behind Jana, the two of them backing toward the hall containing the private elevator.
Someone saw the gun in Jana’s hand and screamed. Others screamed, causing mass confusion, giving the two of them the cover they needed as people darted between them and the two advancing gunmen.
They reached the corridor, passing the restroom doors. A woman emerged from the ladies’ room; a small noise came out of her mouth when she saw the gun. She retreated. A second later, they reached the elevator. As soon as its door opened, Jana hit the thug she was holding behind the ear. The man crumpled. Jana’s next move was to fire two shots down the corridor, into the floor so she wouldn’t hit any of the nightclubbers with a stray bullet. It created a hesitation in their pursuers that she and the professor needed. Once inside the elevator, the professor pushed the parking button, the doors closed, and the car started down.
Jana put her gun back in her shoulder bag. The professor frowned at her.
“Marketa asked that you not fire the gun in the club,” he scolded Jana. “Didn’t you hear her?”
“My hearing is very good.”
“Then why did you shoot?”
“Would you rather we were dead, Professor?”
“No.”
Within minutes, they were driving Marketa’s BMW sedan out of the garage.
Almost as an afterthought, the professor asked, “Why didn’t you activate the alarm the police gave us?”
Jana glanced at him.
“I did. Three times.”
The professor’s mouth fell open. “They didn’t come to our rescue.”
“No, they didn’t, Professor.”
“They didn’t want to come to our rescue.”
“Unfortunately, you may be correct, Professor.”
They drove on in silence, contemplating their situation. It was not good.
Chapter 33
Jana drove to a residential side street on the outskirts of Prague. There were lots of trees, the secure feel of families around them, and a quiet that suggested safety. She pulled under an overhanging willow tree that made them less obtrusive, satisfied she had done what she could for the night. They slept in the car.
Jana awakened before the professor, got out, and did stretching exercises for a good ten minutes trying to get the cramps out. During the course of her exercises, the professor climbed out of the car, heeded a call of nature by going into a bushy area a few meters from the car to relieve himself, then stiffly walked back to the car. He eyed Jana with a skeptical look as she finished her workout.
“Stretches would do you good, Professor,” Jana suggested.
“I’d rather rust.”
Jana could feel the beginning of a light rain. The sky was clouded over, with even darker clouds coming. It looked like they were going to get a heavy downpour. Jana climbed back into the car. With an audible groan of pain, the professor got in.
“The last time I had to sleep in a car, the lady I was with was more obliging.”
“You were younger.”
“More virile might be a better word. After seeing the young man that Marketa is now so enamored of, I realize that I lack a certain sexual aura.”
“It happens.”
“Maybe I should have stayed in Prague? Show business is attractive to a certain type of woman.”
“Marketa would have moved on, anyway.”
“You think so?”
“She has that look.”
“Perhaps you’re right.”
“She still loves you a little, Professor. She wouldn’t have given us the car if she didn’t.”
He smiled, then winced. “Even my jaw muscles hurt.” He very carefully shifted his position.
“Marketa will report the car stolen soon,” Jana suggested. “She’ll want to make sure she gets it back. Or at least the insurance money.”
He sighed. “She always loved money.” He thought about it for a moment. “She won’t report it for another twenty-four hours. She will want to give us time to get away. It’s an old show-business custom. If an act skipped on the rent, nobody else would give any indication to the landlord until they were sure the act had made a clean escape. Remember, they used to put us in debtor’s prison if we owed money.”
“Did they ever put you in jail, Professor?”
“No. I was the one who always fled first.”
Jana opened her shoulder bag and pulled out her last copy of the Romanian report, examining the signatures at the bottom of the page.
“The Nazi’s name was Haider.”
She handed him the report.
“It appears to be.” He checked the Russian name. “This one I can’t make out.”
He handed the report back to her.
“The Russian communist bureaucracy was convoluted and kept miserable records. Checking Cyrillic on the Internet will also be a task, so we’ll stay with the German for the moment.”
“The Internet?”
“The Nazis kept good records. Lots of them have been posted.” She put the report away. “I think we may be able to identify this man and find out what his job was. That may key us into the report and tell us where Kroslak was heading when he came to Prague.”
She put the car in gear, and within five minutes they were parked outside of a small café that advertised Internet access with a big “@” in the window. They had to wait for a half-hour before it opened.
Once inside, the professor looked nonplussed. “I don’t know how to use one of these,” he confessed.
“I thought you were a magician,” Jana chided him. “It’s a magic box.”
Jana went on the ’net.
She searched for Czechoslovakia, the old union between the Czech Republic and Slovakia, then went back to the Second World War period, searching a variety of headings that included the Nazi Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia and the puppet Slovak Republic that was created by the Nazis immediately before the start of the war. Her primary interest was the officials who had been appointed by the Nazis to oversee the governing of the puppet states. It took several hours, until, by a lucky accident, she found Haider listed in the body of a report on German wartime need for war materials from the occupied countries.
“Bruno Haider,” she pointed out to the professor. He was Administer-Adviser of State Material Reserves for the Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia. There was an asterisk after his name, the reference at the bottom of the page indicating that he was also Special Adviser in Resource Management to Josef Tiso, the President of Slovakia under the Nazis.
“What does it matter, now that we know who he is?” a growingly impatient professor asked. “My stomach needs food.”
“This is a café. Order a pastry,” suggested Jana. “They’re better here than they are in Holland.”
“What are you looking for now?” he asked.
“Someone has the Nazi wartime records. The questions are: who, and where?” She continued with the search. “Haider was involved with material reserves, which might mean anything from tanks and planes to salt and pepper.”
After spending another half-hour on futile searches, Jana decided that during the war, Haider, as an overseer to the Czechs and Slovaks, would have had nothing to do with tanks or guns. The Czechs had none, and the only Slovaks who had been conscripted for the German side were on the Eastern Front fighting the Soviets. The Nazis would not have been concerned with food supplies for the Czechs and Slovaks. As far as they were concerned, all the Slavs could die and the world would be a better place for National Socialism. Haider’s jurisdiction had to be items vital to the Nazi war effort—iron ore, coal—anything that would benefit their war machine and which they could plunder from a subservient nation.
Kroslak had told his lover Willem Albert that he was coming to Prague to find a record. He could not have meant anything but an official record, considering the report that he had left behind him, a record that was so imp
ortant that a series of murders had probably occurred because it had been found. Who would be the successor, the heir and keeper of all the Nazi records abandoned in the Czech Republic?
Jana finally zeroed in on the present-day Czech Department of Industry and Trade, and then the Ministry for Regional Development. Under the subheading of Administration of State Material Resources she saw an additional subheading, Records Management and Archives. It was as close as she could come.
They drove back nearly to the center of Prague, found a parking place to leave the car, then walked into the Stare Mesto area, stopping to have a quick hot chocolate to keep Jana’s stomach from growling. When the rain became a heavy downpour, they purchased a large man’s umbrella and shared it while walking to Staromesteke Namestie, the center of the area, and entered Number 16, an ornate Gothic structure like most of the buildings in this sector of Prague. The signs in the building directed them to the basement and a warren of offices. They finally found a small sign that announced records and archives. It led them to the rear of the basement.
There appeared to be no one tending the archives. The professor loudly called for a clerk. An extremely short woman came from deep in the shelves of records that filled the cavernous back area.
“Prominte,” she excused herself. Her voice was high, almost like the chirping of a bird. “We have a buzzer on the door to announce visitors, but the system has a short.” She climbed up on a special ladder-stool. “You’re here to see a record?”
“It may be in the archives,” suggested Jana. She handed the little lady the report that had been signed by Bruno Haider. “We’re looking for the original and any communications that might have originated from or to Mr. Haider around the period of the date near his signature.”
The woman scanned the report and looked up, slightly bewildered. “This isn’t in Czech. I can’t read it.”
“Neither can we. So we’d like a name search for him. Hopefully, some of the documents may be catalogued under his name. Perhaps under State Material Reserves for the Protectorates of Bohemia and Moravia, or perhaps under Special Adviser in Research Management to Slovakia. Both would be under the Nazi occupation.”
“Some years back, we put everything for that period of time on microfiche.” She looked a little doubtful. “You want all of the microfiche for that period?”
“Just the ones that might be associated with Haider or the Adviser for State Material Reserves or Special Adviser for Slovakia.”
“Odd you should ask about this. In the three years I’ve been here, we’ve had two requests for these items: one by a man about two months ago, and another by a woman just yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe the woman who inquired yesterday?”
“Taller than I am, but most people are. Let’s say petite. A little too much makeup. Dark skin.”
A picture of Paola appeared in Jana’s mind.
“Was she blonde?” Jana asked.
“Blonde,” the clerk nodded. “You know her?”
“Perhaps. Did she speak with an Italian accent?”
“We spoke in English. I can’t distinguish one accent from another in English, except for people in American movies who are supposed to come from their South. Soouuthh,” she drawled, trying to imitate the accent.
“One of them?” the professor whispered.
“Yes,” Jana reluctantly agreed. “Did she go through all the records on microfiche?” she asked the clerk.
“She didn’t have to,” the clerk responded.
“Why?”
“She asked me for the microfiche that the man who was here two months ago had viewed.”
“Do you know the man’s name?”
The woman checked a sign-in log. “His name was Kroslak.”
“Did the blonde-haired woman leave a name?”
The woman again checked the log. “Donna Bourg. She had Austrian credentials.”
“False,” said Jana.
“False?” parroted the little woman.
“The fiche you pulled, that’s all she looked at?”
“Yes.”
“Did she copy anything?”
“She did. But not this report. She copied everything on the fiche using our reproduction machine.” The woman edged off her stool, then copied a list of numbers from a large ledger, went to a row of wall cabinets in which the microfiche were stored, and pulled out several box containers.
She came back to Jana and the professor with a stricken look on her face.
“These microfiche are missing,” she announced.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Did you put them back yesterday?”
“I put everything back.” Her hand went to her mouth as if trying to stifle what she was about to say. “I’m going to be held responsible for their loss.” Tears appeared in her eyes.
“I’m sure it was not your fault,” the professor tried to reassure her.
“Did you make any other copies of the material that was reproduced?” Jana asked, hoping against hope that there might be even a partial record of what had been taken.
The woman thought about it, then nodded.
“I automatically make one copy to ensure the machine is functioning properly. The reproduction machine makes a record of all copies, so I have to keep the proof copy and save it with the other proofs. We charge for all copies, and the administration wants to make sure we’re not cheating, so I have to account for all copies with either money charged for the copies, or the proofs.”
She ran to a pile of papers next to the reproduction machine, then pulled out a sheet, hurrying back to them. She thrust the single sheet of paper at Jana.
“Here it is.”
There was a small sign on the wall indicating the amount charged for the reproductions of a single sheet of paper. Jana dug out some change, laying it on the table.
“For this copy.”
The woman examined the coins, then scooped up the change. “Thank you. But what am I going to tell my supervisors about the lost records?”
“Report the person who stole them to the administration. They’ll tell the police,” suggested the professor.
“A pencil and paper, please,” Jana asked the woman.
The clerk slid a small sheet of notepaper and a pen over to Jana. Jana wrote Paola’s name, the full name of Europol, the address, and the telephone number on the piece of paper, then slid the pen and paper back to the clerk. “That’s the thief.”
The woman read the word “Europol.”
“Why would she steal?” the woman asked. “Isn’t she a police officer?”
“Ask her,” the professor volunteered.
“A good idea,” Jana agreed.
Jana stepped away from the counter, standing directly under a ceiling light to read the copy the clerk had given her. It was in German, so it took Jana a few minutes to understand what was written. It was the beginning of a query letter to a list of German personnel asking for an assessment of the natural resources that were available in their countries. The list included virtually everything the German war machine needed. The Nazis were searching the occupied countries for booty, ready to seize their natural resources to keep German industry going.
Jana checked the date on the document. It was two months earlier than the other “Romanian” report that had been signed by Haider. Jana was sure that the document that Peter had hidden away was at least one of the responses to the original order that they’d just uncovered. Jana explained what she had translated. The professor was perplexed.
“What does it all mean? Why are people still hunting for these documents, so many years later? Why kill for these pieces of paper?”
Jana still had no answers to these questions.
Chapter 34
Jana and the professor entered the lobby of a five-star hotel two blocks away from the records center. She wrote down the number of one of the hotel’s publi
c telephones, then from another of the phones in the hotel called the general who had set up the sting operation that had gone so badly the day before. When he got on the line, she told him to call her back as quickly as possible, using a telephone other than his own office land line or his cell phone to avoid any possible taps. She gave him the other number she had copied down, then hung up.
Within five minutes, he was on the second phone, using the interior minister’s personal phone. Just to make sure to avoid any “quick” taps being made on that line, Jana told him they could only talk for five minutes.
“What happened yesterday to the guardians you said would watch over us?”
“Defective equipment.”
“I don’t believe that,” Jana informed him.
“Neither do I,” he responded. “The tracking equipment failed after it had been checked out. It had to have been tampered with.”
“You know all the people who had access to it?”
“Yes.”
“It had to be one of them.”
“I concur.”
“Do you have photos of the people involved?”
“I can get them.”
“Bring them when we meet.” She related what had happened the night before. “We were attacked by three men.” She gave him the names of the two Europol cops who had participated in the attack. “There was a third man with them. I haven’t seen him before. I think he may have been one of your men.”
“The way things have gone, that’s possible.” He muttered a quiet curse. “No, judging from everything, it’s quite probable.”
“I struck your man on the head. Did any of your men come in with a wound? Perhaps one of your officers was in pain, acting as if he had a hangover?”
There was a moment of silence. “One of my men called in sick. He had access to the equipment. I’ll bring his photo.”
Jana told him about what had occurred at the archives unit, giving him Paola’s name.
There was another quiet curse from the chief. Jana looked on the bright side of events. “The sting wasn’t a complete failure. We now have three of them identified, with a possible fourth if the photo fits.”
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