“You were lucky,” Radić said. “That woman could have killed you. It’s not too bad, just a groove cut through the top of your shoulder.”
“What happened?” Ehsan asked, his clothes soaked in water and blood. “The explosion was supposed to be just enough to startle people, not overturn boats. Dammit, others may have died because of us. We only wanted Kozak.”
“We were tricked,” Radić said over the roar of the motor. “The bomb was more powerful than they said it would be. We were used. This is not what we wanted.”
“No one will believe us!” Fazlić yelled. “We are now what we hate the most—terrorists.”
As they exited the Grand Canal, two police boats passed them heading toward the site of the explosion. In minutes, they crossed the lagoon and approached the mainland. Fazlić slowed the launch and eased it into a boat slip buried within the industrial harbor of the Venetian municipality of Marghera. Three other rental boats, identical to the one they tied off, rocked in slips next to them. A large sign, visible from the lagoon, said “NOLEGGIO BARCHE.” Below it, in small letters in English, it read “Boat Rentals.” Across the lagoon, the ancient skyline of Venice etched itself against the late-morning sun and cold blue sky.
Radić placed the two AK-47s in the blue duffel bag. When he asked for the pistol, Ehsan shook his head and reloaded a full magazine, then placed the pistol into the shoulder holster under his bloody jacket. Radić shrugged and slipped the gun bag over his shoulder. The three walked the length of the narrow pier to the parking lot where Fazlić had left the rented white Toyota Corolla. Radić put the bag on the floor of the back seat and climbed in, Fazlić took the driver’s seat, and Ehsan slipped into the passenger seat. Fifteen minutes later, after driving through the industrial neighborhoods of Marghera, they were on the A57 heading to Trieste and, later, Slovenia.
CHAPTER 39
To Ernesto Giuli, the three men looked like neither tourists nor watermen. They were dressed in dark clothes and had looked furtively around the marina when they walked past his cruiser. He’d seen two of the men earlier, when they left the boat rental office and walked down the ramp to one of the company’s rental launches. He hadn’t given it much thought then. To rent the boat for the day was expensive, five hundred and fifty euros. It wasn’t his concern or even his money. Now, just a little less than two hours later, they had returned. Instead of two men, there were now three, and the new man looked wet. All very strange, especially to a man who had spent his entire career driving water taxis and barges around the lagoon. He thought of himself as a fair judge of people and these three made him curious, extremely curious.
His wife, a stout but attractive woman, set a cup of coffee on the console.
“Something happened on Grand Canal,” she said. “The radio said a bomb exploded near the Palazzo Grassi. Many people are hurt.”
Giuli looked at the rented motor launch and then the white car pulling out of the parking lot. He picked up his cell phone.
Three senior Venetian police officers, dressed in blue fatigues, blue ballistic vests, and dark-blue berets, stood in the corner of the Campo San Samuele, interviewing Alex and Javier. One of the officers had interviewed the two Americans the previous afternoon. It was not going well.
They spoke Italian very fast and very loud. Javier understood only every other word. He tried to explain what had happened, who the shooter was, who may have set off the bomb. The police were only interested in what America’s and, more specifically, the CIA’s roles were in this casi di esplosione di bombe. Who the men were on the paving, now covered with blue plastic tarps, was secondary. “They are not going anywhere,” one of the officers said.
Just as Javier retrieved his cell phone to call Milan, one of the officers’ handheld walkie-talkies squawked. The man listened and then said something to his team. They all ran to a police boat, maneuvered through the chaos, and sped up the canal at high speed.
“They have a lead on where Ehsan may have gone,” Javier said to Alex. “There’s a report that three men just landed in Marghera, across the lagoon.”
“My God,” Alex said. “All this just to kill Kozak?”
“Looks like it. Sometimes the answer to the most complex problem is a simple one.”
Alex kneeled next to the stretcher holding Marika. She was conscious, and color had returned to her face.
“Did you know about this?” Alex asked.
Marika shook her head. “No. I saw him. I saw him shoot Kozak. Then the bomb. No, I had no idea. Why?”
The attendant said something in Italian. Javier answered, “Un momento.”
“We need to find him. Do you know where he is?” Alex asked.
“No. But you must find him before they kill him.”
“We will try,” Javier said as he kneeled next to Alex.
Other than the dead, Marika was the most injured of anyone in the campo. Others still moved around shaken, confused, but relatively unhurt. Javier walked alongside the stretcher as they placed her in the water ambulance.
“You need to give me the pistol,” he said after the boat sped away. “I will dispose of it.”
“It was your idea,” Alex answered.
“And you thought today would be a good day to carry it?”
“Yes, I guessed right for a change.”
CHAPTER 40
In addition to Kozak, Vuković, and the bodyguard, three other people were confirmed dead, and one person was still missing. All four were tourists with a travel group from Australia on the vaporetto. The initial news reports said that a radical Islamic cell, located in Bulgaria, claimed responsibility for the explosion and the killing of the hated war criminal Attila Kozak and his second-in-command, Oskar Vuković. Within hours, three other groups claimed responsibility too. All of them said it was in retaliation for the crimes committed against the peace-loving people of Bosnia and Herzegovina. One group, located in Syria, announced it was also a message to those European crusaders that wanted to stop the refugees from fleeing the corrupt regimes in Syria and Iraq. This was a warning that more Croatian and Serbian war criminals would be found and executed.
After two hours of interviews with the police, Alex and Javier returned to the safe house.
“That is so much crap,” Alex said as she, Javier, and Nox sat in the office, watching the CNN International broadcast. “Bullshit. Dammit, we were there—that’s not what happened. We know that those people had nothing to do with it.”
“There is too much propaganda to be made from this,” Javier said as he sipped his bourbon. “Spin, it’s all about the spin.”
“How?” Alex said.
“Ms. Polonia, it is all about prestige and marketing, even among terrorists,” Nox said. “Whoever gets the first word out, wins the PR battle. And these people have become good at that. Look at the radical Sunnis’ international recruitment programs for Syria and elsewhere in the Middle East. Their use of the Internet, social sites, and the darknet is impressive.”
“That does not change the fact it was a terrorist attack,” Javier said. “And Ehsan is responsible—he and those friends of his.”
“They had a lot of time to prepare for this. How about the house we saw them enter? The one with the Muslim woman.”
Nox reread an e-mail he’d printed earlier. “When the police went to the house, they found it empty. Some materials that could be used for a bomb were recovered, but no explosives or residue. If that is where they picked it up, the bomb was made elsewhere. By it exploding underwater, it is hard, if not impossible, to find the parts that may help to identify the builders. C-4 or Semtex would be my guess. It is available everywhere, most notably in some of the old Eastern Bloc countries. They made it by the kiloton before the breakup of the Soviet Union.”
“Pleasant thought,” Alex said.
“I don’t like being used,” Javier added, placing a piece of paper on the table. “Ehsan set this up as a way to publicly get to Kozak. It was as much about the theater of the ac
t as the act itself. The United States will have to respond; the president will have to say something in support of Venice and Italy. Marika will make an issue of the US not supporting her demands on Kozak. This may provide a one-up to the Islamic terrorists—cleaning up a mess our government wanted nothing to do with.”
“He put his mother in jeopardy,” Alex said. “She’s lucky. She could have been killed. How could he do that to her?”
“His hate and desire for revenge trumped everything,” Javier said.
“Are they going to let her return to her hotel?”
“I don’t know, and I have no control over what the Italian authorities do,” Javier said. “If I could, I’d walk away from all this. That e-mail is from Langley, and they want me to liaison with the locals. I guess I’m here for a few more days. Have you decided against returning to Cleveland?”
“No, I’m going back. I had a chance to call my hotel, and they’re looking for airline alternatives and standby options. Leaving this last-minute makes it difficult and expensive. No matter what my captain says, I think Ralph is in the wind. If anyone knows how to use the system, it’s him. He really stuck it to me.”
Javier’s phone buzzed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Another martini, Ms. Polonia?” Nox asked.
“Please call me Alex. After the last few days, Mr. Nox, I believe that you can call me by my given name.”
“It’s Albert.”
“I know. So, we have a deal?”
Nox smiled. “A fresh one, Alex?”
“Yes. Thank you, Albert.”
Javier returned. “This is the latest: There was a witness at a marina across the lagoon, shortly after the explosion. Three men returned a rented motor launch and hastily left in a white Toyota. The witness looked at the photos I gave the Italian authorities and identified all three. A camera at the marina office was able to capture the license number of the car; it’s being checked. They are also looking at highway camera feeds to find the car. Maybe something will pop up.”
“A little spooky, don’t you think?” Alex said.
“Technology is a blessing and a curse. Here in Europe, I guess, they are ahead of us when it comes to license-plate scanning.”
“Not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing,” Alex said as she took the martini from Nox.
“Just tools. If the three stay off the main roads, it will be more difficult.”
“Didn’t you say one of the men lives in Trieste?”
“Yes, Asmir Fazlić. He works for a logistics company. Requires him to travel throughout the Middle East. He has property in Bosnia as well. They are asking authorities there to help stake out his place. The other, Cvijetin Radić, has an apartment in Zurich, also being watched. Switzerland will be too difficult to get to—too far.”
“No reason for them to go to any of those places. They have been working on this a long time—just like Ralph. They have looked at every contingency, every escape route. They are not crazy Islamists with suicide belts. I think these guys want to live as much as anyone. They will have a safe house, somewhere they can lie low for a while, then, my guess, try to get out of Europe. Would they try to get to Iran?”
“Iran is Shia,” Nox said. “These fellows are Sunni and are more connected to Saudi Arabia. That’s where they might go. The help they received was probably from a Saudi Wahhabi group, different yet just as radical as ISIS and al-Qaeda. The major differences are their loyalties. The Wahhabis tend to support the House of Saud, now running Saudi Arabia.”
“They have to get to Bosnia or Turkey first, then on to Saudi Arabia,” Javier said. “No trains, no planes, at least for the next few days. Everything will be covered.”
“From my experience dealing with illegals and immigrants in Cleveland, the world is a lot more opaque these days. Governments claim transparency, yet if you are off the grid, you can hide in plain sight. If there is no electronic trail, you do not exist. It’s easy to disappear in the crowd,” Alex said. “Look at those trying to join ISIS from Europe. They don’t seem to have trouble entering back into Syria and Afghanistan, and their victims are fleeing the region by the hundreds of thousands. If they get that far, they will disappear.”
Javier’s phone buzzed again, and he left the room for a minute. “Marika is okay,” he said when he returned. “She’s at the hospital. Bruises and a couple of cuts to her legs. X-rays and scans are negative. The police are questioning her, and she wants me there. Care for a walk?”
“A walk would be welcome,” Alex said. “What about Ehsan and his friends?”
“The Italians and Europol have just hours to find them. If not, they will be gone.”
CHAPTER 41
The three friends said nothing as they drove eastward on the lesser-used Italian back roads. Their detailed planning estimated that they would have just two hours after leaving the marina before they became the focus of an all-out search across northern Italy. Two hours to reach the Italian port city of Monfalcone and the border to Slovenia. Three times during the past month, they had tested this back door, and there had been no problem. The radio blared news reports of the explosion and the assassinations. When the reports of the civilian deaths and injured began, Ehsan turned off the radio.
He looked out the window. Farm fields, barren and waiting for spring, rolled past. “Our so-called brothers used and screwed us.”
“It was a good plan,” Cvijetin said to Ehsan.
“All plans are good until they are not,” Asmir said, watching the road ahead for any signs of police or military vehicles. “How is your shoulder?”
“It burns, but I can deal with it,” Ehsan said. “The bleeding stopped.
“Try to keep it stable, we’ll get a bandage on it later.”
Ehsan glanced at his watch. “One hour, one hour before we reach the border.”
Weeks earlier, while Ehsan worked with his mother to assemble the documents against Kozak, Asmir and Cvijetin had prepared their escape. The most difficult and dangerous leg was getting out of Italy. Near the hillside Slovenian border town of Opatje Selo, they told him, they’d found an unguarded road that allowed them an escape route up and through the mountains. There, in that Slovenian village, they had stashed a dented and rusted blue Volkswagen Rabbit several days earlier. They had left it with an old woman they found tending a garden next to the last house on the Slovenian side. They had told her they were going hiking for a few days, and they had given her one hundred euros to watch the car.
“No problem, just leave it there,” she’d said as she lit a cigarette. “It will be okay. The mountains are a favorite hiking area, but there’s not much to see. Just old rubble and concrete from the war fought here a hundred years ago. But go, enjoy yourselves.”
“You two go on to Slovenia,” Ehsan now said. “I’m going back to Venice. I must get back to my mother.”
“No, Ehsan,” Asmir said. “We agreed to see this through together.”
“I need to protect her. The police will try to connect her to all this. I have to go. You two will do better without me. You know the route, and besides, I never did like the heat of the desert.”
Cvijetin sat quietly in the back seat, then said, “Where do you want to stop?”
“There’s a station at San Giorgio di Nogaro. I’ll take the train back. Drop me a few blocks away; they may be watching the station for the car.”
Near a small city park in the center of the village, Asmir pulled to the side of the road.
“You can’t be seen in that bloody jacket,” Asmir said. “Take mine. I have another in the backpack.”
Cvijetin looked at the wound. “You’re okay, for now. But it does need dressing.”
“And take this,” Asmir said, handing his long wool scarf to Ehsan. “It will help to keep you warm and maybe even hide your face.”
“Thank you, my dear friends,” Ehsan said. “I’ll do what I can in Venice. As-salamu alaikum.”
The three friends hugged and said goodbye.
Ehsan adjusted the shoulder holster under the coat and secured his pistol. He watched as Asmir turned the Toyota around, crossed over the railroad tracks, and disappeared over a rise. To the west, a fast-moving front had darkened the horizon, and a sharp, cold wind swirled with snowflakes. He zipped his coat, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and slipped on a black ski cap. He looked again up the road, in the direction his friends went. He knew he would never see them again in this life.
CHAPTER 42
Marika sat in a wheelchair in the small room off the lobby of the Hospital SS Giovanni e Paolo. Her wrist was wrapped in a white bandage, but nothing was broken or severely damaged. Her shoulder had taken the brunt force of the lectern, leaving a deep bruise.
Two uniformed police officers flanked a gentleman in a wrinkled black suit. His tie, a narrow bureaucratic black, was held in place with a fashionable silver clip. He sat directly across from her. For five minutes he said nothing, just scribbled in a notebook, unnerving her.
“I’m Detective Lugano, with the state police,” he began. “Ms. Jurić, you may be in a lot of trouble. It is my job to figure out how much.”
“There must be a mistake. I had nothing to do with this.”
Lugano made a note. “What do you know about the explosion?”
“What explosion?”
Lugano made another note in his little book. “Earlier today you were injured during an explosion at the Palazzo Grassi. You were lucky—many died.”
She looked up at the guards and then to her bruised hands. “I know nothing about what happened. I don’t remember anything. Look at me. I’m a victim too.”
“Where is your son—your adopted son—one Ehsan Abdurrahman?” The detective looked up from his notebook.
“I have no idea.”
“Do you know Asmir Fazlić and Cvijetin Radić?”
“Yes, they are friends of my son’s. They are also from Bosnia. They went to school with him.”
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