by Di Morrissey
TAKE SEVENTEEN . . .
Ali had capitulated and agreed to host the private retirement dinner for John O’Donnell’s general manager – provided John added several names to the invitation list, even though it was short notice.
‘I only planned on including company people,’ he protested mildly.
‘How boring. Let the office do that at their official farewell party. It will be helpful for the guy to meet people outside the company. He might latch onto a bit of consultancy work or something. It’s a bigger compliment to gather a few heavies together for him than toasts from people he probably loathes by now. The gold watch is an add-on,’ said Ali emphatically.
John O’Donnell caved in and marshalled an impressive guest list that made even Ali catch her breath. She’d insisted on doing the invitations for him. ‘Handwritten is far more personal.’ She’d cleverly worded them so it sounded like the Friday night dinner was a business function that didn’t include spouses. They’d been couriered to the men’s offices.
Ali had Belinda call on the morning of the dinner to confirm each was coming. ‘And if they mutter about a companion, sound hesitant, a little surprised but polite, and utter something like, “Well, of course, if you want to bring so and so, we’ll make a place for her. Leave it with me.” And hopefully they’ll back down, understanding it to be a men-only affair.’
Ali didn’t want to state this outright in case it found its way back to John, who was quite happy for wives to come along. Ali was not.
She’d pre-planned the evening, especially the seating arrangement, putting her choices on either side of her. The head of a big international cosmetic company on her right, the CEO of an international airline on her left, the biggest luxury car importer opposite. These were potential advertisers she wanted to target for Blaze. She had worked out a strategic plan to wrest the power from Reg Craven and undermine his credibility within the company and out in the marketplace.
Two weeks previously, Ali had approached a young gay man, Eddie Kurtz, recommended by the headhunter agency. She had read about him in trade magazines as being one of the new breed of advertising IT whiz-kids working for small niche agencies that were challenging the top-heavy established organisations. People like Eddie Kurtz were dubbed the hot new contenders of creative advertising. Ali called him, offering him the job as director of promotions for advertising, answering directly to her. It was a vague title she’d deliberately coined for someone she wanted to push her barrow and keep Reg in his place.
Eddie had thought about it for a day, then accepted. Ali explained he would work with her in attracting big new advertising clients and then book their ads directly through her. With Eddie designing and managing the account, doing the blueprints and passing it onto the advertising department as a fait accompli, Ali would earn kudos for bringing in clients with money, and totally ride over Reg Craven, hopefully putting him in an intolerable situation. Ali and Reg shared equal status in the power hierarchy, but Ali intended to tip the scales in her favour. She had wanted a gay man who would stay loyal to her camp and not be lured over to the male management network.
It added to Ali’s workload, but through John O’Donnell she had an impressive calling card and access to the men who controlled big budget advertising accounts.
The dinner had been a success, though the guest of honour and the occasion of his retirement was somewhat overlooked, apart from a heart-warming toast from John O’Donnell. The GM made a small vote of thanks especially to Ali for organising the evening. Ali was not expected to reply, just smile graciously, but she was on her feet in an instant, fully prepared for this.
She thanked John for making her so welcome and for the support he’d shown her and Blaze and she hoped they had enjoyed the evening, which was her way of returning John’s kindness.
She carried it off impressively, on one hand a bright, charming and gracious hostess, while references to her professional life made it clear she was an independent, successful woman in her own right and not attempting to merely replace the late Mrs O’Donnell. It was a speech that cleverly trod a fine line between not usurping the retiring guest of honour, nor taking the limelight from John as host, but, as she candidly admitted with a broad grin, ‘I can’t let this opportunity pass when confronted with such a prestigious and charming group without mentioning I do have under my wing an eminent publication . . .’ There was an acknowledging response that they would all do the same, indeed subtle networking had been active during the evening. Ali continued, ‘I believe I can provide more than simply competitive and creative thinking – a platform which would be highly suitable to presenting your corporations to the public. I would be honoured and delighted to go into further detail at an appropriate time, so I look forward to continuing the friendships begun here this evening.’
She’d stayed the night and the next morning. Despite John preferring to stay home with the Saturday newspapers, swim in his pool and potter in the garden, Ali had dragged him into cosmopolitan Double Bay. They were soon mixing with an international crowd of wealthy socialites. This was a crowd who wore name-dropping designer weekend wear, a uniform they all recognised, accessorised with heavy gold and carefully casual hair. John felt uncomfortable, he was a private man who – unlike this company – hated seeing his name in the paper or mixing with people who wanted to impress people who considered they had gone one better than their neighbour and never let you forget they had overcome incredible odds . . . real or imagined. They all read Blaze.
John’s family was ‘old money’ and he was culturally a world removed from the weekend café latte set. For Ali’s sake, he tried to appear as if he were enjoying the scene.
Ali’s boldness in speaking up at the dinner had brought in her first client, Small World, a new international travel corporation recommended by the airline company CEO seated near her at the table. The head of the company, a charming Italian, Signor Sergio Bristini, was visiting the Australian office and had asked Ali about advertising the company’s launch.
Ali ran through suggestions of advertising and promotional tie-ins, special rates and dedicated attention from her team headed by the newly appointed Eddie Kurtz. She sparkled with professional enthusiasm, making rapid notes about the clientele he wanted to attract, persuading him Blaze was exactly the right venue to use to reach the target market. She won over the courtly Italian who’d hoped he’d be meeting Nina Jansous. But when it came to smart business opportunities, Signor Bristini recognised the opportunist in Ali and, after a short sparring round, where he wanted a cover-line thrown in as well, he clinched the deal by asking Ali a subtle question, ‘And will you be travelling in the near future, Signorina? Perhaps my company can look after you. I would say you are a lady who only travels first class.’
‘When someone else is paying,’ she laughed. ‘And, as a matter of fact, I’m about to fly to New York.’
‘Let me handle the details,’ he said pointedly.
‘Thank you, Signor Bristini. I’ll arrange for Eddie to bring a presentation to your office before you leave Sydney. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with his ideas.’
Eddie understood he was not to talk about what he was doing. Reg had regarded his appointment as another Ali indulgence in raising her profile, that Eddie would be promoting Ali more than Blaze, looking for the loan of couture clothes and booking her the best tables in restaurants. Reg dismissed Eddie as an Ali accessory that Nina would sort out on her return. Meanwhile, he went on with the important business of being an executive. His staff were cowered by him, he made a habit of reducing women to tears and had once made an account executive who’d displeased him carry a client’s briefcase and mobile phone to the car like a trainee porter. It hadn’t endeared Reg to his young executive or the client. But Reg saw it as a display of his power and position.
Ali briefed Eddie, who wolfed up the idea of a major travel corporation with delight and said he’d have a packaged campaign with creative concept and costs ready in a few days.
Ali felt
more than pleased with herself as she packed for her trip. The next issue would carry a double-page spread for Small World Travel which would bring in big dollars, but what pleased her most of all was the fact Reg wouldn’t know about it until the last possible moment. He was going to run a seminar in Melbourne and Ali hoped he wouldn’t hear about their new client until the ads were at chromaline stage. That would cheer up Reg’s staff to see him so undermined and bring her a lot of credit.
She called Belinda. ‘No more dates in the diary, I’m going to New York.’
‘Oh. Which airline and hotel do I book?’
‘It’s being taken care of, Belinda. It’s business. I’m meeting with Baron Triton.’
Lucien’s encounter with the hotel manager had proved another dead end. The man claimed to know nothing of Nina’s whereabouts and said the hotel was happy to hold the room for madame while monsieur was staying.
Lucien made his next move. The Australian Consul had been sympathetic and concerned, and he’d recommended that they consult the American Consul as well, because of Nina’s long-standing business interests in that country. The more help, the better, he told Lucien. They rang and were told the consul was at a trade presentation in a country town. An appointment was arranged at the US consulate the next morning. Time, Lucien realised, ran very slowly in Zagreb, even where Westerners were concerned.
After they were ushered into his office next day, the young American listened to Lucien’s story and shook his head. ‘It’s a bit vague. If it were anyone else, I would say wait and see. But Nina Jansous . . . I had no idea she was visiting here. I would have organised a welcome for her, a cocktail party . . . We would have rolled out the proverbial red carpet for her.’
‘She wanted her visit to be low key. Just a family affair. She was hoping to find some link to her grandparents . . . property, personal belongings . . . But after all these years . . .’
The consul held up his pen. ‘No, wait. That could be very dangerous. If she was discovered with family documents that were . . . sensitive . . . and that’s very possible with Croatia’s recent history, she could well have been detained by security officials for questioning about espionage activities. The authorities would not want such documents to leave Croatia.’
‘Nina Jansous hardly falls into that category,’ said Lucien.
‘Maybe . . .’ mused the consul. ‘If she has been detained, it could also cause internal troubles here and these things usually take ages to resolve. The more progressive leaders have done a couple of very big deals with the US recently. A powerplant, telecommunications setup, a highway between here and Dubrovnik, the Sports Recreation Centre, which is a big up-market tourist complex of hotels, a marina, sports facilities, that kind of thing. A lot of US money is backing the rejuvenation of tourism here. I doubt some in the government would want to upset a top US publisher, especially someone as well known as Nina Jansous. But, as in all countries, authorities don’t always communicate, you know.’
‘They should be claiming her as a wonderful expatriate. These security people, if they have her for questioning, they won’t harm her, will they?’ worried Lucien, thinking of how the nearby Serbs had treated a number of international aid workers during the recent Kosovo conflict.
The consul shrugged. ‘I doubt it. I can’t imagine she’d have serious information they’d want. Unless you know anything else about her family?’ He raised his eyebrows, inviting Lucien to reveal anything else he might not have mentioned.
‘I really can’t say. She told me she was planning to visit her grandparents’ old home. Then she left me a message that she’d found something, but didn’t say what. And she said she was leaving the country . . . and she wanted to come back here again, with me.’
‘Why leave the country then come back?’ asked the consul.
Lucien had no answer and the question alarmed him. Nina must have found something important for her to want to leave the country so fast. ‘What do we do now?’
‘I’ll brief our embassy on what you’ve told me, you’ll no doubt be briefing yours,’ he said to the Australian Consul. ‘We’ll work together on this since Mrs Jansous is a resident of both our countries. But I’ll have to warn you, Monsieur Artiem, these things take time, sometimes weeks, sometimes months. We will talk again as soon as I have news.’
The American Consul’s casual attitude had changed to a serious and slightly concerned manner when Lucien and the Australian returned.
‘I’ve spoken with the ambassador who has just been informed of Mrs Jansous’ whereabouts. The people holding Mrs Jansous have made contact with the US Embassy . . .’ he held up a restraining hand as Lucien almost leapt from his chair. ‘She is, unfortunately, being held by the special investigation unit of the Security Department, who stopped her leaving for the airport with potentially incriminating wartime documents. Those documents, I’m told unofficially, could also be very embarrassing to a certain local official today.’
‘What! That sounds like a trumped-up charge,’ exclaimed Lucien.
‘It seemed the same to us. However, our embassy and the Australian Embassy have just recently been made aware of Mrs Jansous’ detention and the contents of the documents. Mrs Jansous could be facing very serious charges. Both embassies have advised that no information about this very delicate matter should be released publicly. It would seem that we must make some agreement with these people. It is therefore my task to act as intermediary and negotiate the compromise.’
‘Can I see her?’ asked Lucien. ‘Where is she?’
‘That we’re not sure about. We have asked that she be released into our custody. They now realise they have a rather valuable person on their hands, so I’m sure they’ll milk it for all it’s worth. They can delay her release while the everlasting paperwork is being prepared – a form of blackmail over us, and over Mrs Jansous.’
‘Money? Can we pay them money to release her earlier?’ Lucien figured if he couldn’t supply enough, Oscar Triton would contribute to whatever the price on Nina’s head. But he wouldn’t contact him yet. Better to play it quiet, Lucien decided. It would give him more control in the negotiations for Nina’s release.
‘In these cases a payment of some kind is generally extracted,’ commented the American with a wry grimace.
Lucien studied the classic Ivy League young man opposite. Button-down Brooks Brothers shirt, plaid jacket, navy tie, an air of having grown up on the East Coast among political and intellectual heavyweights. He’d do things by the book. It was his job.
‘Listen, these people are outsiders, rebels, people with a cause – they’re not going to play by the rules,’ said Lucien. ‘Why don’t I step in as negotiator? Then we could be a little more, er, flexible. Then the embassy is saved any embarrassment.’
‘I’d have to speak to the ambassador . . .’ the consul looked unsure.
Lucien pressed the point. ‘I am sure I could at least sound matters out, before it all became too official. Please, let me step in. It can’t hurt at this early stage. This woman is the love of my life, I will do anything to help her.’
‘A cool head, not emotional involvement, is called for in these circumstances . . .’ began the consul, but Lucien cut him off.
‘I’m here, I have access to all Mrs Jansous’ friends, she will do as I advise. Please, tell me where she is. Help me to see her. Tell these people holding her that I’m your representative.’
The consul rose, speaking in a brisk voice. ‘I’ll contact you at your hotel when I’ve spoken to the embassy.’
Lucien paced his hotel room, tried to sleep, picked at room-service food and counted the hours until the consul called the next day.
‘Very well. One meeting initially. You are an independent negotiator familiar with the situation. Do not make any promises on behalf of the Australian or American governments, try to ascertain what the detaining officers want in return for releasing Mrs Jansous immediately, and find out anything she has on them. Okay?’
&nbs
p; Nina was tense but hopeful. Molnar and Puskar had finally allowed her to make one phone call – and only to the US Embassy. Her conversation with the American official was at least a big step forward. They’d told her someone would visit her at the security headquarters as quickly as it could be arranged.
Nina wished someone would turn off the overhead light. She’d lost track of the time she’d been trapped in this awful room. The clean but utility-type clothing she’d been offered, when her clothes needed changing, did nothing to raise her spirits. She’d been taken once a day for a shower by a surly woman who spoke no English and wouldn’t make eye contact. She’d come to dread the rattle of the door handle, whether it was Molnar and Puskar, the woman or the silent man with her tray of plain food.
The door rattled again, but she didn’t bother to lift her head, and sat on the edge of her bed with eyes closed, resting for a minute from the bright light.
‘Mrs Jansous, I am from the American Embassy.’
The voice! She must be dreaming. Her eyes flew open and there was Lucien standing in the doorway looking . . . subdued.
She jumped up, but he quickly stepped through the door, putting himself between her and the guard behind him. Lucien was frowning and sending signals to her. She caught his message and said nothing.
Lucien continued, ‘I’m here to advise you on behalf of the embassy.’
Nina sat back down, letting Lucien lead. He glanced back at the man.
‘Leave us, please.’
Nina repeated the request in Croatian and the man withdrew, closing the door. ‘They can watch us, be careful.’ She pointed up at the tinted mirror on the wall.
Lucien sat and put his briefcase on the table. Nina rose and sat opposite him.
‘I want to kiss and hold you,’ said Lucien in a low voice while opening his briefcase, not looking at her.
‘Me too. How on earth did you find me?’
‘Through the embassy. Be careful. What the hell did you find?’