Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

  “Jesus Christ, the CIA? Kidnapping, DEA jerks Turner and Damico, and Croatian criminals—are you sure you are all right?”

  “I’m okay. But this has gotten all out of control.” She looked at the clock on the end table. “What time is it there?”

  “Almost four in the morning. I’m on my way in.”

  “Even if there was something I could do, there’s nothing I can do from here.”

  “Don’t worry. Keep out of this. Can you trust this Agent Castillo?”

  “Maybe. I’m working on it.”

  “You be safe. Can you get to e-mail?”

  “Yes, I have my tablet with me. Use my other, personal e-mail account; you know the address. When you can, send me an update. It’s too risky for you to call again. If anything else pops up about Ralph, can you e-mail me?”

  “Done. Not sure you’re going to like what I find.”

  “Thanks, Bob. You be safe.”

  “Me? Dammit, Cierzinski, it’s your ass on the line right now.”

  “Simmons, I go by Polonia now, remember?”

  “Be safe, partner. Watch your butt.”

  She clicked off the phone, set it on the counter, and poured the rest of the champagne. What a totally screwed-up day, and it’s just ten o’clock in the morning.

  She dressed and called back down to the desk to thank Sonia for placing the call. She needed time, time she wasn’t sure she had. She knew the Ohio State Police and her own Internal Affairs would be calling. She wondered if Javier knew. Is that why he needed to get back to the safe house?

  At the front desk, she retrieved the envelope. She assumed that Mr. Nox was the delivery boy, after Sonia described the man. A note inside from Nox said that she would receive new credit cards and her passport the next day. If there were issues, she was to contact the American consular office in Milan. There were also a new cell phone and two hundred crisp euros. Thankfully, the man from Waco was true to his word.

  Alex returned to her room, still fuming over her ex-husband and his escape. One more fucking thing to add to this stupid trip, she thought. Leave it to Ralph to keep messing up my life.

  Nine Months Earlier, Cleveland, Ohio

  “You are a complete asshole. You know that, don’t you?” Alex said to her husband across the table in one of the interrogation rooms of Cuyahoga County Jail. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  Ralph rubbed his hands together, and the handcuffs clinked on the metal surface. “You should not be here, Alex. They want to pin this on you as well.”

  “I have five minutes. The guard took a break. I’ve known him a long time.”

  “That is one thing about you that makes you a good cop: you know people, and you treat your friends well. Me? You are right. I am an asshole.”

  “Agreed. Why? Five years more and you could pull your pension. We talked a lot about the future.”

  “What future, living check to check? The pension is a bust; you know that. Getting pissed on by both the politicians and the public. However, you are right as usual—it’s all fucked.”

  “My contacts in the DA’s office say you left your partners out to dry?”

  “Partners? They were opportunists, like me. I just jumped to the front of the line and got the deal. I was making good money, in fact a lot of money. Had I known how much, who knows, I might have started earlier.”

  Alex just stared at her husband. She noticed for the first time how old he’d become; his gut had settled into a middle-age paunch that the orange prison jumpsuit couldn’t hide. The wire-rimmed glasses and the receding hairline added to the “going to seed” effect.

  “They want the money,” Alex said.

  “No. It’s mine. I worked hard for it. Someday I’ll get it. Until then, screw ’em. Even my business partners don’t know where I’ve stashed it. It was my insurance against them. They knew if they turned on me they wouldn’t get a dime. I assume there are a few pissed-off people out there.” Ralph smiled.

  “Yeah, that’s the rumor.”

  “But you see, I’m loyal too. I’ve protected you. The others couldn’t stand the heat, that’s why they took the easy way out. C’est la guerre.”

  “Don’t be flip. It wasn’t easy for Lockerby. His death was slow and painful.”

  “Told him to cover his butt,” Ralph said with a laugh.

  Alex could only stare. “You know there’s a contract on your head.”

  “So I would guess. We handled a few of those contracts ourselves, sort of like urban housecleaning. I’ll be fine. If I’m dead, no one will find the money.”

  Ralph smirked, looked at Alex, and squinted. “You look tired. You getting enough sleep? You need your sleep; it’s extremely critical for good health. I try to get at least eight hours in here. Never could before. Schedules are easier in here. They plan every hour, you know.”

  “Bastard, your trial is in a month. From what I hear, there is zero chance of you pulling a not guilty.”

  “Most probably.”

  “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I have no control over any of it. I do what they say. Maybe I’ll plead guilty and throw myself on the mercy of the court.”

  “Dammit, Ralph, why the hell did you do it?”

  “The money, lots and lots of money. Why else? Catering to people’s needs is all we did. First-class product too. No complaints, good service, and we paid our distributors right on time. It is all a grand capitalist venture. Hell, we were even asked to expand, go regional. I had some contacts in Miami who had contacts in Mexico and the Far East. We were thinking about it when the operation fell apart. Someone squealed—not sure who. I got away with an hour to spare. Too bad that I needed to sleep; I would have made it to Mexico. I paid a lot for that passport and the papers. I think they just might have worked.”

  “Asshole.”

  CHAPTER 25

  “I apologize for storming off last night,” Alex said, her hotel room’s phone to her ear. “It was all too crazy. I was tired. I was rude and tired.”

  “No, you weren’t rude,” Javier said. “My falling asleep and the call from my mother? Now, that was rude. Marika and Ehsan are a handful, as you can see. Especially Ehsan.”

  “What was that crack about my being some kind of agent?”

  “He has become overly cautious and distrustful since our meetings in Milan, almost fearful. He was the initial go-between with his mother. My people say he’s been seen at some pro-Islamic political rallies in Milan, and now he seems to be taking his religion more seriously. Probably means nothing, but we don’t take anything for granted anymore.”

  “Paranoid is what I would say.”

  “There’s that too.”

  “Javier?” she said after a few moments.

  “Yes?”

  “We need to talk. Something has happened in Ohio that may wreck what’s left of my screwed-up vacation.”

  “What?”

  “Still processing it. Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Yes, a light lunch would be better. Completely forgot until Mom called—it is the start of Lent. Care to join me?”

  “That would be nice.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to receive ashes, so I’ll pick you up.”

  “You are such a surprise. May I go with you? Still a Catholic girl at heart, and after the last few days, I need all the help I can get.”

  Lines of tourists and Venetians stood for twenty minutes waiting for the priest’s blessing and the placement of the Lenten ash on their foreheads. Afterward, as Alex and Javier walked the block to the restaurant they’d eaten at two long days before, Alex could not help but notice that many of the people wore a smudge on their foreheads.

  “I see less of this in Cleveland. Mostly older people and only a few of the younger generation take Lent seriously. Like many things in the States, the traditions are dying out, particularly the religious ones. Sad, I think.”

  “Yes, it is very sad. My mother is as devout a Catholic as one can find. Sh
e is proud to be from an old Texan family. She keeps the traditions. The family Bible is like a time capsule going back more than two hundred years, even before the Alamo. In my family, the women seem to be the caretakers of our history. The things Mother says about the newcomers, like the Bushes and the other carpetbagging politicians . . . Well, she does go to confession often.”

  “I think I would like her. Is that where you get your attitude?”

  “My attitude is a combination of my mother and Texas.”

  They sat at a café table. He ordered a cup of bouillabaisse, she a croissant and a glass of Chardonnay.

  “What happened in Ohio?” Javier asked.

  She told him everything she knew. He could only shake his head.

  “Incredible. Did he have help?”

  “Not sure. Ralph is resourceful but trusts no one. Opportunistic, saw an opening and took it.”

  “They want you back?”

  “Not sure. My partner will let me know.”

  The waiter soon arrived.

  “That soup looks wonderful,” Alex said.

  “One of the best in Venice—light, low in calories.”

  “I draw the line at fasting,” Alex said. “I found my hours were so screwy, it was hard to be a fasting Catholic during Lent. Made me ornery. My partners hated it. I eat when I can, mostly on the go. Not a good way to remain slim and sexy. Same with the church. After everything that’s gone on during the last year, I should attend more often. Maybe all this is God’s way of kicking me in the ass.”

  “We all need traditions and roots of some kind.”

  “Any word from the State Department?” Alex said, veering the conversation in another direction.

  “No, and I don’t expect any until late this afternoon or evening. Marika wants a lot, especially after last night. I’ve talked to her twice, trying to calm her down. The rumor from Milan is that the United States wants to stay away from this fight. But Marika has been very public about wanting our involvement, so we’ll see what happens.”

  “Suppose they declare Kozak a war criminal. What then?”

  “Marika also wants the international community to condemn the man and have him arrested and put on trial for war crimes. Her demands haven’t been met with a positive reception by the European Union. It’s not a fight they want either, especially now.”

  “Now?”

  “With all the refugees and migrants fleeing the Middle East and Africa, the EU prefers to have a more malleable government in place in Zagreb. They want to ignore Kozak—wish he would just go away. I think the Europeans want the migrants to stay in the Balkans, not push on into Europe, and they want Croatia to be part of that wall. That’s hard. The migrants want jobs, and with the financial difficulties in Greece and other countries in the Balkans, they know the best jobs are elsewhere. You can’t stop this flood from washing over Europe without—”

  “Bringing back old reminders of the past.”

  “The Muslims are called Turks in the Christian parts of the Balkans. The Ottomans were the dominant political and military power in the region for hundreds of years, until the end of World War I, when they lost much of their power and their empire. It didn’t help that in World War II the Nazis formed a division of mostly Bosniaks that fought in Yugoslavia. The Bosnian War of twenty years ago was just one more chapter. Many historians believe this relative peace won’t last.”

  “Kozak?”

  “Yes, and others like him. Now, with all the anti-Islamic political rhetoric flying around Europe, Kozak is not alone. There’s sympathy in France and even in the Nordic countries to keep the Muslims out. The political right wing is rising. Those countries have their troubles with the migrants and Muslims too.”

  Across the small piazza, three men strode out from a narrow break in the stucco-and-brick façades. Well dressed, they walked with confidence.

  “Isn’t that Ehsan?” Alex said, looking over Javier’s shoulder.

  He turned. “Yes, I don’t know who the others are with him.”

  “Maybe those are the friends that Marika mentioned. Powerful-looking men. Almost have a military bearing.”

  To Alex’s surprise, Javier pointed his cell phone at the men and took a series of photos. She started to say something, but Javier put a finger up, signaling her to hold her thought. He quickly typed a message into his phone.

  “You are not sure about him either, are you?” she said.

  “No. I’ll see what Milan might have on the other two.”

  “You can do facial recognition?”

  Javier smiled. “Yes, the wonders of technology and instant messaging. Probably nothing will come of it, but doesn’t hurt to check.”

  At the far side of the courtyard, Ehsan stopped and talked with the men. All three looked around the piazza. Ehsan’s friends went one way while he retraced his steps across the courtyard to the passageway.

  “Something fishy’s going on,” Javier said.

  “Your CIA spider-thing tingling?”

  “I do not have a spider-thing, whatever that is. I use my intuition and years of experience.”

  “You’re guessing.”

  “Yes, but I’m often right.”

  “Very Special Agent Castillo, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Probably. Is that your spider sense?”

  “No—ten years of chasing bad guys.”

  They hastily paid the bill, crossed the nearly empty piazza, and searched for Ehsan’s friends. They glanced down the alleys that intersected their passageway—nothing. A few minutes later, as they neared the Rialto Bridge, they caught up with the men. Hanging back in the shadows, Alex and Javier watched as the men crossed the canal and walked into the San Polo district.

  Alex and Javier followed at a discreet distance. Neither of the targets acted suspicious or nervous. Near the church of San Cassiano, the men stopped at a small building that fronted a narrow street. One knocked while the other nonchalantly acted as a lookout. The door opened, and a woman in a black hijab addressed the two. They said something in return, and she let them in.

  “There are no mosques in the historic center of Venice,” Javier said. “So, it’s possible they’re meeting up to pray.”

  They watched for ten minutes until two more men, Middle Eastern by appearance, walked up the street, looked around, and knocked. Each carried a large shopping bag. This time, a man met them at the door. As they entered the building, Ehsan’s friends shook hands with the new arrivals at the door and disappeared inside.

  Ehsan’s friends walked out onto the street another ten minutes later. Each carried blue nylon duffel bags over their shoulders.

  “Interesting,” Javier said.

  The men headed back toward the Grand Canal, taking a different route than earlier. They didn’t speak and walked with an obvious purpose to their gait. Alex and Javier had to move quickly to keep up with the men’s strides.

  At the canal, they watched the two men expertly board one of the gondolas used to ferry commuters across. Javier waved at a gondolier and told the man in Italian, “Follow that gondola.”

  The small boat with Ehsan’s friends crossed the canal and dropped the men near the San Samuele vaporetto stop. The station was on a small campo next to an impressive four-story stone building, the Palazzo Grassi. A towering campanile stood in the background. After leaving the gondola, the men stood in the piazza as if waiting for someone. They carefully set their bags on the stone paving. One man pulled out his phone, punched in some numbers, and put it to his ear.

  “Damn, what’s happening?” Javier asked.

  “They look like they are waiting for someone.”

  From the bow of their gondola, Alex and Javier watched a woman walk out the doorway of the palazzo and head directly toward the men. She shook their hands and handed the man on the phone a large manila envelope; he nodded. The woman said something, then turned and walked back to the palazzo.

  “What the hell was that?” Alex said.

&
nbsp; “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  Alex and Javier leaped from the gondola as it bumped against the stone bulkhead, and walked toward the men. Javier drew his pistol and held it to his side.

  Tourists and Venetians strolled about the campo, taking photos, and a vaporetto with a dozen passengers stopped at the station. Alex guessed there were maybe thirty or forty people in the square. She looked at the bags, then the people, then Ehsan’s friends. One turned, looked directly at her, and started to smile.

  “Bomb!” she yelled. “Bomb!”

  “Where?” Javier yelled. “Where?”

  Alex, looking past him to the people in the campo, yelled again, “Bomb, terrorists!” She pointed at the blue bags sitting on the stones.

  A woman screamed. Bomb sounded enough like the Italian word to throw everyone in the plaza into a panic. The two men just stood there staring at both Javier and Alex, totally nonplussed. The man who had been on the phone continued to smile at Alex. Both lowered themselves to their knees next to their blue bags.

  Javier raised his weapon. “Alex, check their bags, slowly. Be extremely careful.”

  Alex looked at the men. Both were composed. The one had stopped grinning, which unnerved her. She grabbed the bags and dragged them away from the men.

  “If these are bombs, Javier,” she said, “there’s a good chance they are booby trapped.”

  “I think they would have already set them off.”

  “Thinking, or hoping they wouldn’t?”

  “One and the same.” Javier held his weapon with both hands. A commotion from across the campo caught his eye. Two Venetian cops were running directly at them. Dressed in dark-blue uniforms, with SWAT-type weapons belts and black boots, they yelled and waved their Berettas at the group. Javier lowered his weapon all the way to the paving and set it gently on the ground. He rose with his hands in the air.

  “This is not good!” Alex yelled at Javier.

  “No shit. What’s in the bags?”

  Taking a deep breath and saying to herself that she was glad she’d gone to church, she pulled the zipper on the first bag. Then she pulled the zipper on the second, slowly stood, and raised her hands. The police were shouting at Javier, and Alex did not understand anything being said. The agent said something that sounded like “Americano, Americano, posso?”