Venice Black

by Gregory C. Randall

“Thought so. You’re falling for the guy.”

  “Stay out of this, Simmons. You know I can hurt you.”

  “Just saying. So, have a nice time and stay out of trouble.”

  “It may be way too late for that.”

  Agent Castillo sat in the safe-house office, feeling less like a special agent and more like a fool who had been tricked into blowing a simple job. He’d been trained not to do this. He’d been on dozens of operations where this did not happen. The post-op review was written out, all neatly formatted on the computer. All he had to do now was push the “Enter” key.

  Nox stood in the narrow doorway. “Does it need to go out right now? A day won’t make a difference.”

  “It might, Master Sergeant.”

  “To what end? There’s a lot of other crap going on here, and my learned experience says we should wait until all the cows come home.”

  “Really, cows?”

  “I was raised on a dairy farm in Iowa; cows come naturally to me. Nonetheless, you see my point. Those two led you to the Palazzo Grassi for a reason—to find out if there was a tail. You confirmed it. It will change how they act, but there’s still something going on with the conference. There’s more than a discussion of the euro in Croatia going on here.”

  “Yes, with Kozak and his people in town, it’s politics more than economics.”

  “They are often the same thing, flip sides of the same euro, you might say.”

  “Anything on that woman who was with Kozak?”

  “One sec.” Nox left the doorway to walk down the hall to his office, where soon a printer could be heard.

  Nox returned, his eyes on the printout. “Washington says her name is Maja Stankić, Bulgarian. Runs a public relations firm in Budapest, mostly for politicians—right-wing politicians. Also says she has a string of fancy escort operations in Budapest and Zagreb. Some of her clients, when they are in town, are Russian oligarchs.”

  “High-class hookers and low-class millionaires?”

  “Maybe not so high class. She’s forty, arrest record for minor infractions, mainly dealing with solicitation and prostitution. Most of those were more than fifteen years ago. Kozak is listed as one of her PR clients; she left Croatia earlier this week on a train from Zagreb. Her passport was scanned on Monday when they entered Italy.”

  “I assume that Kozak was also listed as entering the country then?”

  “Does not say, but we can assume that. She has been advising him on his presidential campaign.”

  “Wonderful. What a tangle of snakes.”

  “Stankić’s connection to Kozak goes back almost ten years. She’s provided legal assistance through a firm in Budapest. Its lawyers are mostly Croats, Slovenes, and naturalized Italians from the old Yugoslavia.”

  “As I said, snakes. What is the connection to Jurić?”

  “Not sure,” Nox said. “But since Jurić lives in Zagreb now and has a reasonably high profile fighting these people, this firm may provide some of Kozak’s legal muscle challenging her. Jurić comes across as a pretty tough woman.”

  “Yeah,” Javier said. “I got that from the first time I talked to her. With what we know about Kozak and Colonel Vuković, they are here to shortstop anything that might pop up regarding Washington’s stand on Kozak’s criminal past. Especially anything that Jurić comes up with. And this Stankić woman only adds spice to the mix.”

  “I agree, but it is way out of our jurisdiction—your jurisdiction. That’s something for the Italians and Interpol—should they decide to intervene.”

  “I don’t disagree, but Jurić is my responsibility, or is until this all shakes out tomorrow. I’ve been ordered back to Milan on tomorrow night’s train. I’m already behind on my paperwork.”

  “See, that’s why I’m just a cook and housekeeper—no paperwork.”

  “Right, and I’m the agency’s director.”

  For the next two hours, Javier and Nox went over the setup for the Palazzo Grassi conference, then called their counterparts in Europol and the Italian police who were in charge of security. Javier’s activities earlier that day had already reached the ears of Europol. They were not amused by his confrontation. An offhand remark about American CIA meddling brought a smile to Javier’s face. He was beginning to understand there was a lot more to this conference than what showed on the surface.

  As they were wrapping up their review, Javier’s phone rang. He looked at the number. “Washington,” he said to Nox. “Castillo,” he answered. He listened for the next two minutes, saying “yes, sir” three times, then hung up.

  “Langley isn’t happy?” Nox asked.

  “Correct, Langley and the State Department are not happy. They also said no to Marika Jurić and her whole exposé. They have demurred for now. In fact, they are not going to go public with any of this, and according to Langley, the paperwork never arrived. The Secretary of State is stopping in Zagreb in two weeks to show support for the Socialist candidate as well as issues dealing with the refugees and migrants. They want nothing to do with Kozak. By ignoring him, they hope he’ll just disappear.”

  “Marika won’t be happy.”

  “And I have to tell her not to say or do anything that might cause a problem.”

  “That, I’m sure, will be impossible.”

  “No shit.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Maja watched as Kozak fumed and banged around the hotel room. Two empty bottles of Croatian Akvinta Vodka stood on the bar; two more waited their turn.

  The bill for damaged furniture and knickknacks will be substantial.

  “This cop Polonia, she’s unimportant,” Maja said. “I know her kind. Hell, I’ve bribed her type so many times, I know she’s not worth the effort. Forget her. The real problem is Jurić and what she intends to do. Obviously, the Americans want us to think that they are not involved, but it’s apparent they want to substitute this woman for Jurić, make her a stand-in. Why, I don’t know. That’s where the real problem lies, with the Americans. Attila, just sit down. We will work through it.”

  Kozak just stared at Stankić, took another shot of vodka, and then threw the glass at the fireplace.

  “Feel better?”

  “Fuck you. You got me into all this, you and your Russian friends. I was quite happy in Split until you arrived and waved all these wonderful things about.”

  “Millions of euros are a lot more than wonderful things.” She pointed to the aluminum briefcase. “We needed you to pull the opposition together, and it is happening, particularly with these waves of invading Muslims. The people now understand that they need a strong leader to turn these refugees away. That is why they want you.”

  “To hell with the millions of euros. This is all falling apart.”

  “The Americans will stay away. It is not in their interest to take Jurić’s side,” Maja continued. “They will make an effort to show how supportive they are of the Socialists, but it’s all bullshit. I know them; they wish we would all go away. They play big-boy politics. We are nothing, which is why we have the advantage. The people want a strong leader. You, Attila Kozak, are that person.”

  Kozak unscrewed the top of the next bottle, retrieved a glass from the bar, and poured another glassful.

  “You know what I’ve said about your drinking,” she continued. “It is not appropriate for the next president of Croatia to be a drunk. Set the glass on the bar and come to me. You need your rest. Tomorrow is a big day. The future of Croatia will be determined before the sun sets, and you need to be ready. I’ve laid out your suit, the English one; your shoes are polished; the tie from Savile Row is in our national colors—subtle but patriotic.”

  Kozak took a deep breath, set the glass on the bar, and dropped onto the couch where Maja sat, her legs curled under her. She took his unshaven chin into the palm of her hand.

  “See, that was not hard. Now just relax. When Colonel Vuković returns, you can sleep. I will make sure you are up in time. The launch to take you to the conference
leaves here at nine thirty. The press will meet you at the campo.” She stroked his thick, gray-streaked black hair. “There will be time to review your statement in the morning. It will all go as I planned it.”

  The liquor had worked its way into every synapse and muscle. Kozak’s eyes began to slowly close.

  “That’s it, just close your eyes. Tomorrow will be a day to remember.”

  She waited until Kozak’s heavy breathing turned to a soft burbling, then laid his head on a pillow and covered him with her shawl. She walked to the bar and shot back the glass that Kozak had filled, then retrieved a phone from her pocket, scrolled down the address book, and selected a number.

  “He’s out for the evening. I have about two hours before he wakes and I have to put him to bed . . . Yes, I understand, it is exactly like I told you . . . You do not trust me?” Stankić waited for a reply. When none came, she said, “Of course you do, that is why you hired me. He will be there, you can be sure of that. But can your people do what is intended—what is necessary?”

  CHAPTER 30

  Alex ran her hand over her right hip and smiled. Just an inch above her panty line was a tattoo of the Venetian lion of St. Mark. She’d had the mark inscribed when she was in high school. It had faded, but every time she took a shower, slipped on a bathing suit, or slid her bottom against a lover, she saw it.

  Standing in front of the hotel room’s mirror, she looked at the smudge—now almost a birthmark—that reminded her of why she had come to this confusion of a city sitting in the middle of a lagoon at the north end of the Adriatic Sea. That tattoo was indelibly etched into her heart as well as the soft white skin of her hip.

  She slipped on a black sweatshirt, “Rock & Roll Hall of Fame” stenciled on the front, the last world tour of Led Zeppelin listed on its back. The sweatshirt was long enough to hide her tattoo. It was the same shirt her ex-husband had bought her the day they toured the museum, and it was the same shirt she had on the morning her house was raided.

  At least they had knocked.

  Fourteen Months Earlier, Cleveland, Ohio

  When she opened her front door, a small army of men stood on the front porch and down the steps. Other than the three men in suits at the door, the rest of the officers were dressed in black SWAT uniforms and carried MP5s. It was snowing.

  “What the hell is this, Lieutenant?” she demanded. “What the hell’s going on? It’s six in the morning.”

  The lieutenant waved a folded paper. “Sorry, Alex, can’t tell you. We have to search the house.”

  For the next three hours, they completely ransacked her home. They pulled out and flipped over drawers, pulled furniture away from the walls, tugged up corners of the carpeting, inspected every inch of the closets, and even melted the boxes of ice cream in the freezer. They spent an inordinate amount of time in the office she and her husband shared in a front bedroom upstairs. They piled records from filing cabinets into legal boxes that mysteriously appeared, and placed the two computers and one laptop in another box; and every thumb drive they found went into plastic evidence bags.

  Afterward, they took her downtown, and for the next four hours, she was grilled by Internal Affairs, the Cleveland police drug-investigation unit, and the district attorney’s office. Not once did her husband’s name come up. From the sounds of it, she had been implicated in some type of drug-manufacturing operation as well as something to do with three drug dealers found dead in the past two months. She knew about the dead dealers. In fact, she and her partner had covered the second murder: a Felicidad Lopez found dead in an alley under Interstate 80, shot in the back of the head, execution-style.

  “He was one very bad actor,” she told the DA. “We found nothing else. No shell casings were discovered. His sheet was long, the usual gang history and involvement with the Easterlies, the local connection to a Mexican cartel.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Nothing, we wrote it down as a retaliation.”

  “Did you discuss the case with Ralph?”

  This was the first mention of her husband.

  “No, we make it a point to never discuss our cases. We seldom even bump into each other on the street. I’m here—my desk is downstairs—but then you know that.”

  The DA made a note in his book. “Do you know where your husband is?”

  “No, he left late yesterday, mentioned that he’d received a call.”

  “About what?”

  “I haven’t a clue. Screw you.”

  “Detective, please keep this civil.”

  “You have got to be kidding me. Civil? After this morning? Not going to happen. I want my union rep, and I want him now.”

  The DA and his assistants left the interrogation room. She stewed for an hour before her union legal beagle arrived. Except for a stack of folders under his arm, he was alone. She was pacing the room when he walked in. The officer outside let him in, then closed and locked the door.

  “Detective, I’m Walter Slatkin. I’ll be your representative through all this, until you find appropriate counsel.”

  “Why the hell do I need counsel? What the hell is this all about?”

  For the next half hour, Slatkin explained everything he knew. When he was done, Alex recognized that her world, the life she’d lived for the past fifteen years, was now an unmitigated disaster and sinking faster than a brick flung into Lake Erie.

  They found Ralph Cierzinski at a Tennessee rest stop. He was asleep when the state police knocked on his car window. He put up no fight. The extradition was a mere formality—he waived his rights. Alex saw him for five minutes as he was charged with running an illegal drug-manufacturing operation and employing unnamed men in the killings of three members of the Easterlies. Two other defendants were also charged, both cops, cops she’d known for twelve years. Cops she’d made dinner for, cops that had sat in her living room watching the Browns and the Cavaliers, cops she’d trusted with her husband’s life.

  She was eventually cleared of any connection to her husband’s operations and actions. Most of the exculpatory evidence came from her husband’s testimony. When the DA dropped the charges, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or just pissed. She stuck with pissed.

  Even when she went back to work, she knew she was marked. The only man who would talk to her was Bob Simmons. He told her he had her back. When she said he should get a new partner, his comment was simple and straight: “Not a chance in hell.” Regardless, she was pulled off the street and given a desk and a two-foot-high stack of folders for follow-up interviews on unsolved but active cases. And Bob Simmons was given a new partner, a troubled kid a year out of the academy.

  This continued until the trial ended and she and her husband agreed to a divorce. After the papers had been signed, she did two things: booked a ticket to Venice and got drunk. She would decide on her career while in Venice, someplace a half world away from all the confusion and chaos that had totally taken over her life.

  Alex mixed a gin martini, took a sip, and looked at the clothes she’d packed. She wished she’d brought at least one more full suitcase. Being kidnapped had put a serious crimp in her shopping for a replacement dress, not to mention having quashed her date with Javier. She laid out a fresh blouse, her best pair of slacks, and underwear. At least she did not have to wear nylons. She had one pair of black high-heeled dress shoes that she also set on the bed; they would work with the slacks. She would wear the only coat she had brought, the long black polished-poplin one.

  When she was done, the martini was history. She thought about making another but decided it would be better to not be tipsy when her date showed. She rearranged her hair, pulling it up into a tall, full confection, and put on her makeup. In her limited case of jewelry, she located a pair of diamond studs that would fit the mood—her mood—as she anticipated the evening. She opened her black patent-leather clutch and put the euros and the phone Javier had given her into it. She missed her large handbag, and she missed, even more, her wallet with he
r old pictures and credit cards. The thought of her bag sitting in Kozak’s hotel room and being searched by that Maja woman annoyed her.

  The mask Javier had given her Monday night sat on the dresser, seeming to smile at her. For the first time in more than fifteen years, she looked forward to going out on a date.

  A date, a real goddamn date with a good-looking guy—how my world has changed in three days.

  The room phone rang at exactly five minutes to eight.

  And prompt.

  Once she reached the lobby, she found Javier dressed in a dark suit, black shirt, and black tie.

  “I love a man dressed in black,” she said. “With the right hat, you could pass for a river gambler.”

  “And you look breathtaking,” he replied, his cheeks brightening. “And a gift.” He held up a small envelope. “The State Department came through. Your passport. And your American Express card as well, nice service when there’s a little pressure from Uncle Sam.”

  “Thank you, my liege.”

  He took her coat and helped her put it on.

  “Is it chilly?”

  “A bit, but the restaurant is not far. I think we can make it without freezing.”

  “I’ll snuggle.”

  CHAPTER 31

  The walk was short, maybe four meandering and crowded Venetian blocks. A light drizzle had begun by the time they reached the restaurant, a narrow storefront not much wider than the two front windows flanking the door. After a warm greeting, Javier and Alex were shown a table in the far corner.

  “This is a little more private than up front—safer too.”

  “It is nice to be on the arm of a man with influence,” she said. “Not sure if safer is what I look for in a restaurant.” She inhaled deeply. “The aromas are scrumptious.”

  “It reminds me of an osteria in Washington, DC—simple and delicious.”

  He waved to the waiter, who stood off to the side. “Hugo, a bottle of Chardonnay from the Alto Adige. I can’t remember the name.”