by Alex Lukeman
"That sounds like a good bet."
"Does Selena speak the local language?"
"I don't know," Elizabeth said. "Let's ask her."
She made the connection to Macedonia. Nick answered.
"Yes, Director."
"Nick, I'm going to send you to the western part of the country. Ask Selena if she speaks Albanian."
"She's right here." Nick handed her his encrypted satellite phone.
"Elizabeth."
"Selena, do you speak Albanian?"
"Which dialect? There are two main ones. I speak some Tosk. That's the most common one. The other is Geg, but I only know a few words."
"As long as you speak one, that's what counts. You might want to brush up on it."
"Are you sending us to Albania?"
"No, but I'm sending you to a part of Macedonia that might as well be in Albania. Put Nick back on the phone."
Selena handed the phone back to Nick.
Elizabeth said, "You're going to a city called Debar in the western part of the country. It's a hotbed of Albanian anti-government activity. Find a hotel for a couple of days. Talk to people. Find out what you can about this group that is supposed to have set off the bomb. Use your cover as reporters. Since Selena speaks the language, it shouldn't be too hard to convince people to open up a little. Everyone likes to give their opinions. Your cover fits with the increased border tension. It gives you a good reason for being there."
"Does Langley have anything?"
"No. That's another reason why it's suspicious. No one wants another Bosnian war and CIA has been monitoring everything in that region for some time. There hasn't been a hint of the Albanian National Front planning something like this."
"Copy that, Director. Anything else?"
"That's it for now. Keep me informed."
Elizabeth broke the connection.
Stephanie said, "If they find anything out, it could be dangerous."
"It's possible."
"You do remember that they don't have weapons?"
"Then we'd better hope they don't need them."
CHAPTER 12
The drive through the heart of Macedonia was scenic and coldly beautiful. The road from Skopje was modern and wide. They drove their rented VW west to Tetovo and south to Gostivar, past Kicevo, then west again to Drugovo, names that spoke of the Slavic heritage of the country. From Drugovo, a secondary highway led to Debar.
Western Macedonia was a land of mountains, lakes, rivers and wide valleys, scenery straight out of a 19th-century landscape painting. In warm weather the forested slopes would be green, the roads lined with orchards and crops. Now winter had set in and everything was coated with white. Black outcrops of rock broke through the snow, hinting at the essential hardness of the ancient land. The temperature outside hovered below freezing. The air felt raw and wet.
"Reminds me of survival training," said Ronnie. "I'm glad I'm not running around out there with all my gear."
"Not exactly Hawaiian shirt weather," Lamont said.
Twice they pulled over to make way for a military convoy of covered trucks hauling troops and equipment.
"We should be coming into Debar soon," Selena said.
"Not soon enough for me." Nick yawned. "We'll need a hotel."
"I already made a reservation. We're staying at a hotel right in the middle of town."
"I hope they've got a restaurant," Lamont said.
They reached the hotel after dark. From the outside it looked modern and fairly new. Streetlamps marched along the façade, throwing light over a row of snow coated evergreens across from the entrance.
The lobby was deserted except for the desk clerk. He looked bored. He took their passports and handed them their keys.
"The restaurant will be closing in an hour. If you are hungry, the food is good here."
"Thank you," Selena said.
The clerk watched them head for their rooms. When they were gone he picked up his phone and dialed.
"Yes."
"Tell Josef a group of reporters has arrived."
"Let us know when they leave the hotel."
The clerk hung up.
In the hall outside their rooms Nick said, "Let's meet in the restaurant in ten minutes."
"Man, I'm hungry." Lamont rubbed his stomach. "I could eat a horse."
"Might be what they've got," Ronnie said.
Nick looked at them and shook his head. "See you down there."
The hotel room was large and clean. The walls, doors and closets were white. The floor was polished, dark wood. There was no carpeting. The lighting was subdued. No one staying here would think they were in a hotel in America.
"I don't like the way that clerk looked at us," Selena said.
"What way?"
"He had a sneaky look," she said. "Like he was saying one thing and thinking another."
"All he did was give us our keys and take our passports."
"He was looking at our press passes."
They were still wearing press credentials on their jackets.
"So?"
"How come he didn't ask us what we were doing here? Or who we worked for? It can't be every day they get reporters staying here."
"Maybe he didn't want to be nosy."
"I don't believe it. It would've been natural to ask us, especially with the situation the way it is. Albania is right across the border and most of the people living here are of Albanian descent. If a war starts, this city will be on the front line. It will be an uncomfortable place to live. If I were him, I would have asked us if we knew anything about what was happening."
Nick set his carry-on down on the bed and opened it up.
"It could be that he doesn't like foreigners. They can't get many Americans here. This place is really off the beaten track."
"I suppose so. All the same, I wish we had our weapons with us."
"You really are worried about him, aren't you?"
"Worried isn't the right word. Something doesn't feel right about him. He makes my skin crawl."
"You ready to go downstairs?"
"Give me a minute."
Selena went into the bathroom and closed the door. She looked in the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. There were dark circles under her eyes and what might be new stress lines forming at the corners. Her age was beginning to show.
Not a spring chicken any longer, she thought.
She used the toilet and splashed cold water on her face. Maybe Nick was right and she was overreacting to the clerk. But something still bothered her.
CHAPTER 13
In a wealthy enclave outside the city of Leipzig, Germany, a deeply disfigured man sat in a wheelchair in a darkened room staring out at the distant glow of the city. A morphine drip was plugged into the back of his left arm. His face and neck were scarred by terrible burns. The fire had left a face that could give you nightmares.
He wore a tailored silk robe of purple silk embroidered with gold thread. Under the robe most of his body was covered with scar tissue. His left arm was held up close to his chest. He had been burned so badly that the muscles had contracted and the arm was now all but useless. The room was always dark. In daytime, the blinds were kept closed.
People knew him as Johan Kepler, a retired businessman who had suffered an unfortunate car accident. His real name was Johannes Gutenberg. He had been the leader of AEON, a group of powerful men that had been accumulating wealth and manipulating events since the time of the Knights Templar.
Now he was the leader of nothing.
AEON was gone, brought down by the Project and by the Russians. Gutenberg's wife was dead, killed in the same fire that had left him hideously scarred. His name was gone. His beloved Swiss château was gone, a charred ruin. What wasn't gone was his enormous wealth, the secret accounts and hidden contacts. His power had been reduced but he could still make things happen on the world stage.
He'd almost made it to the end of the escape tunnel under the château befor
e the flames blasted down the passage and over him. The tunnel had ended in a detached garage set apart from the main building. His chauffeur had been polishing a Bentley in the garage when Gutenberg stumbled out of the hidden entrance, his clothes on fire. The chauffeur had pulled an extinguisher from the wall and put out the fire but the damage was done. Gutenberg had gasped out instructions before he lapsed into unconsciousness.
The pain had been agonizing, the treatments as bad as the injuries. Even now, the burns were not completely healed. Several times a day a nurse covered them with a foul-smelling ointment to keep the skin from cracking.
He was alive in Hell.
The Leipzig house had been built in the middle of the eighteenth century by a prosperous merchant as a country retreat, in the middle of extensive landscaped grounds and surrounded by a stone wall. Nothing of the exterior hinted at what was within. One wing of the house had been turned into a barracks and given over to a squad of former special forces soldiers turned mercenary. They provided twenty-four hour security and were paid well to ask no questions. Cameras monitored everything. No enemy was getting close to him again.
No one thought anything about Gutenberg's reclusive existence. All it took was one look at that face to understand. It would've been bad form to display such horror in public. It helped that the man everyone knew as Kepler seemed to have unlimited funds at his disposal.
It was amazing that he was still alive. The power of hatred and the contemplation of revenge was strong motivation. Planning revenge kept him going through each day, through the unending pain, the looks of pity he caught when no one thought he was looking. Elizabeth Harker's Project had put him in this chair, in this body. Along with the Russians, they had destroyed a glorious plan that would have given him control of the world's future.
What had kept him alive through the agony of the surgeries and skin grafts was planning his revenge. He would have it, no matter what. He and many others would die in the process but that was of no concern to him. Death would be a welcome release. Before he died, he would see to it that Harker and her team and their Russian counterparts were annihilated.
He was no longer able to move about freely in the outer world but technology and money made that unnecessary. Everything could be arranged with enough money. You could even buy a government like Russia's. Of course it couldn't look like that. Gutenberg had co-opted important players in the Federation. Through them he had propelled Orlov into power. Through one of them he would drive Orlov to make a fatal mistake. Only one man in Orlov's inner circle had actually met with Gutenberg. Through him the others were drawn in without realizing where they were being led.
Gutenberg knew Orlov dreamed of a new Russian empire, one to rival the czars at the height of their power. His towering ambition had blinded him to the ways he was being shaped by Gutenberg's hidden intermediary.
Gutenberg dabbed with a tissue at the constant drainage from his left eye, the movement of his right arm awkward and painful.
In the old days, before the Project had ruined everything, Gutenberg and his secret organization of conspirators had been close to achieving world domination. In the modern world that meant control of the global economy. He'd been on the verge of success when everything had come crashing down around him. Now he couldn't care less what happened to the economy. What mattered was his revenge.
He had been burned and suffered unspeakable pain. Before he was done he intended to see his enemies suffer the same fate.
He would destroy them all.
CHAPTER 14
Morning sun streamed through the windows in the lobby of the hotel in Debar. The day was clear, the sky a pure blue that could have been painted by Michelangelo. The temperature had warmed to around fifty. Selena came away from the reception desk where she'd been talking with the day clerk. She held a tourist map in her hand.
"I told him we wanted to find a place where we could shoot some background information about the city and its people. There's an outdoor market that sells just about everything, not too far from here."
She pointed at a spot marked on the map.
"It's a park with a square. It's Saturday and the clerk says everybody goes there on a Saturday morning to trade or buy or sell. If there are any rumors about what happened in Skopje, it's a good bet we'll hear them there."
"Looks like it's a mile or so from here," Nick said. "We'll take the car."
Debar was located in a spectacular setting, surrounded by towering mountains covered with evergreens. The population of ten thousand made it a good-sized town. Snow was piled along the sides of the narrow streets. The pavement glistened with melting runoff.
Competing spires of mosques and churches dotted the roofline. The town was picturesque in an old Europe, postcard way. The photogenic buildings and people hid a dark reality of poverty and hardship that most tourists never thought about.
They drove up a hill past a mosque and reached the park with the market. Nick squeezed the VW into a spot and they got out. Ronnie and Lamont took a steady cam and a recorder out of the trunk, part of their cover.
Lamont held up the camera. "Lamont Cameron, ace reporter. This baby ought to take some great pictures."
"You actually know how to work it?" Ronnie asked.
"I know this high tech stuff is a little hard for you to grasp, my man, but don't worry. I've got it covered."
"Yeah, I can see that. It might help if you took the cap off the lens," Ronnie said.
"You guys want to focus on why we're here?" Nick said.
The market sprawled out over the park. People had placed tarps on the wet ground or brought folding tables to display their goods. It seemed as though there was a little bit of everything for sale. One corner was devoted to winter vegetables. They looked scrawny, unappetizing, a far cry from what you found in a Western supermarket. Women in shawls and long dresses huddled together around a fire burning in a barrel.
As they started to work their way through the market, Selena's use of the language brought smiles and an occasional correction. She asked people how they were doing, if they were selling well today, what did they think about what had happened in the capital. As soon as she mentioned the bombing the smiles disappeared. When she got to that point most had nothing more to say.
"They're worried," she said. "Nobody wants to talk about it. I think they're afraid."
Nick said, "Afraid of what?"
"I'm not sure. It hasn't been that long since this country was a dictatorship. They might be afraid of being reported to the police."
"For talking about what happened?"
"For talking to us about what happened," Selena said.
Word had spread throughout the market about the foreign news reporters. People began to turn away as they approached, pretending to be busy or simply turning their backs.
"I think we're about done here," Nick said.
"Maybe not."
Ronnie nodded at a dark-haired man walking toward them. He was about Ronnie's height and wore a quilted jacket against the cold. He had worn army boots, Ray-Ban sunglasses and baggy trousers. A wool watch cap completed his outfit. His ears stuck out under the edges. He came up to them and stopped.
"Hello. My name is Viktor."
He spoke to them in accented English and held out his hand. Nick hesitated for a split second and shook it.
"Nicholas," he said.
"A good name," Viktor said. "You are American reporters?"
"That's right. We're doing a special on Macedonia for public television back in the states. We thought Debar would give us some great pictures. More like the real Macedonia, not like the big cities."
"You have come to the right place. But if you really want to get the best pictures and, what is the word, location? Then you will need a guide."
With a flourish, Viktor produced a card offering his services as an experienced tour guide. Ronnie rolled his eyes.
"I don't think..." Nick began. Selena put her hand on his arm.
"
Nick, I think it could be very useful to have a guide."
Viktor beamed. Selena continued.
"He could show us around. It could save us a lot of time. I'll bet he knows about everything going on here."
"That is so," Viktor said. "Simply tell me what interests you. I also know the best restaurants and cafés. This alone is worth hiring me."
Selena nudged him. "How much?" Nick asked.
Viktor gave him a calculating look. "Very cheap. Fifty dollars American a day."
"Thirty," Nick said.
Viktor sighed. "There is much to see. Forty."
"Done," Nick said.
"Good. Perhaps you would like coffee before we start?"
"I could use a coffee," Lamont said.
"You have a car?" Viktor asked.
"Over there." Nick gestured.
"There is a very good café on the edge of town. It is near the ruins of a church built during the Crusades. It would be a very good place for your pictures and the food is the best in Debar. It is owned by an uncle of mine."
"I don't know," Nick said.
"Oh come on, Nick, let's go. It's almost lunchtime anyway. Perhaps Viktor can tell us something about the history of the area while we eat."
As they left the market and walked back to the car, a man wearing a black leather jacket and standing near a vegetable stall took out his cell phone and dialed.
"They're leaving the market," he said. "They're with Viktor."
"He'll take them to the café," the man on the other end of the connection said. "Follow them there."
"On my way."
The man with the jacket put away his phone.
CHAPTER 15
Valentina's hotel room was across the street from where Todorovski was staying with his band of supporters. Since the bombing, the leader of the 11 October movement had surrounded himself with bodyguards. Four large men formed a living wall to protect him against any threat. Her assignment had become more difficult. She could no longer get close enough to inject the poison. She was considering the challenge when a call from Vysotsky changed everything.