The Greed

by Scott Bergstrom

  I throw down a 5-euro note for my iced tea and circle around the men in the other direction to get a good look. Lovrenc Zoric is even better-looking than in the photo I saw, taller, and somehow more commanding with the added element of kinetic movement. None of the three so much as glance in my direction. I cross the street, start the motor of my rented scooter, and watch as they climb into an idling Range Rover. I wait until the SUV is a half block ahead before I pull into the street after them.

  With the thin off-season traffic, I have to hang back farther than I’d like. The Range Rover climbs a little hill, and I nearly lose them as they cut in front of a bus before taking a left onto a narrow side street. I turn at the last second, cutting through a knot of pedestrians who shout angrily after me. The path Lovrenc’s driver is taking is circuitous and designed to prevent exactly what I’m doing, but my scooter is agile and quick and the big SUV is anything but. Exactly as I was taught in Orphan Camp, I use larger vehicles as camouflage, vary the distances, and try to stay out of their sight lines.

  After twenty minutes, the SUV pulls up to a busy open-air restaurant next to the beach—MARISCOS DE STAVROS, says the sign. I park my scooter, duck into a public restroom, and change into my cocktail dress and ballet flats. In lieu of jewelry, I put on the other souvenir from the flea market where I bought the binoculars: a five-inch filleting knife in a metal sheath, slim and frighteningly sharp. This goes on the underside of my left forearm, beneath the sleeve of the dress in a strap I fashioned by separating two layers of a leather cuff bracelet.

  I carry my backpack over one shoulder and look around like a wandering tourist searching for a place to grab a bite. Mariscos de Stavros is lively and loud, with a trio of Greek musicians making their way around the floor, the bleating melody rising and falling on the wind. Pausing at the stand out front, I pretend to look over the menu as I scan the tables inside for Lovrenc. All I need is five seconds within arm’s reach of him. A trip to the men’s room, stepping outside for a cigarette—any opportunity will do.

  He’s in a back corner of the vast patio, seated with a man in a gray suit who’s older than Lovrenc by at least twenty years. Lovrenc’s two guards join those of his dinner companion at an adjoining table, drinking coffee and keeping wary eyes on the room. I take an empty stool at the bar, where I can see them.

  It’s very early for dinner in Spain, but whatever meal this is for Lovrenc and his associate, it drags on and on. Soup followed by lobster followed by an enormous fish served whole on a platter. It’s a business meeting, though. That much I can see. An intense negotiation about something, with both parties angry, taking turns being offended by something the other says.

  By the time Lovrenc picks up the check, however, the two have kissed and made up. The men embrace warmly, and Lovrenc starts toward the door, his guards only steps behind him like the overbearing parents of a toddler. They make a stop at the restroom, but both guards remain outside the door. I duck out of the restaurant, recalibrating how to get close.

  The Range Rover is at the curb, waiting, and it’s unlikely I’ll get the chance here. I climb onto the scooter, wait for Lovrenc and the guards, and once again start following them. But evening traffic is too thin, and I simply can’t risk it. I peel away from them and head back to the marina.

  It’s livelier there, with people strolling and taking dinner at the cafés. A juggler and an accordion player with a monkey on a leash compete for children’s attention. A teenage couple leans against a lamppost, making out. I hang around, waiting for Lovrenc’s return and formulating a plan. I don’t know where they went after leaving the restaurant, but it wasn’t straight back here. They show up two hours later and begin walking toward the marina’s entrance.

  I stop at an ice-cream seller and buy a teetering cone three scoops high, chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry, and start toward them slowly, just a young woman on a stroll, absentmindedly people-watching. Just as they’re about to pass me, I sway a little into their path, colliding with the larger of the two guards, and crushing the ice-cream cone against my chest. The guard looks down with a growl, then gives me a little shove as he pushes past.

  “Gilipollas!” I call angrily at him. Then I switch to Judita’s accented English. “Stupid asshole, you ruined my dress!”

  This gets their attention, particularly Lovrenc’s. He stops in the center of the sidewalk and looks at me over the rims of his sunglasses, then swats the guard in the chest with the back of his hand. “Obrad, you stupid ox. Look what you’ve done.”

  The guard’s eyes shift from me to him as if trying to figure out if it’s a joke. Then Lovrenc comes toward me, smiling, pulling a handkerchief out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket. He rests a hand on my shoulder, dabs at the ice cream on my chest.

  “I apologize,” he says. “Let me help you get cleaned up.”

  I reach toward my left sleeve, touch the handle of the filleting knife, then stop as the two guards appear by Lovrenc’s side. They produce handkerchiefs of their own and try to follow the boss’s lead, but I bat their hands away. “Hey, stop it!”

  Lovrenc gives them a smile. “Really, you two. Manners.”

  I back away from all three of them, knowing the opportunity is gone. “Never mind,” I say to Lovrenc. “I’ll clean it at home.”

  “But my yacht is very close,” Lovrenc says softly. “We can have a drink while the crew takes care of your dress.”

  There’s inherent menace in the idea, and it’s said with such suave charm that I’m certain he’s used the line before. Risky to go with him, but on the yacht he’ll be relaxed, off his guard. I flash to Nikko Kucheto in Buenos Aires, the fury I’d felt at his intruding into the one private corner of the world I’d carved out for Terrance and me. Now I can return the favor.

  “A yacht?” I say. “I don’t know.”

  “Come on,” he says. “I promise I don’t bite.”

  I smile shyly. But I do.

  * * *

  He walks slowly beside me down the pier, interested in everything the local girl has to say. The guards linger behind a few paces, too close for me to use my knife.

  “So what’s your name?” Lovrenc says.

  “Judita.”

  “Judita,” he repeats. “In English, that’s Judith, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you ever read the Bible, Judita? The forbidden stories, not in the official version?”

  “The Apocrypha,” I say. “No, only heard of it.”

  “There’s a story about a woman called Judith. Israel is at war, and she seduces an Assyrian general.” He rests a hand on my shoulder and grins. “Then she uses his own sword to cut off his head. Good stuff.”

  Beads of sweat blister on the back of my neck. “Like I said, I’ve never read it.”

  We reach the Erebus, and Lovrenc steps over the wide gap between the pier and its stern. Right away, I see my mistake. On the yacht, I’ll be frisked and the knife found. There’s no possible explanation for it besides the obvious one.

  “Obrad,” Lovrenc calls to the guard. “Give me her backpack, then help her aboard.”

  I slip my hand under my sleeve and undo the cuff. Lovrenc is worth the risk, and I can always improvise with a fork, a broken wineglass, my bare hands.

  Obrad tosses the backpack to Lovrenc, but it turns in the air, sending my boots tumbling out onto the deck. All three men move quickly to keep them from bouncing overboard, and I make a flash decision, dropping the knife into the water between the boat and the pier.

  * * *

  The open deck at the very tip of the yacht is paneled in honey-colored wood polished to a high shine that gives it the appearance of plastic. Soft white light from the lamps embedded in the overhang make the table and china and wineglasses below it glow. The guards have left, but we’re very noticeably not alone, either. A female server in a white shirt and black pants stands against the wall, a pressed white towel over her arm.

  “Your dress,” Lovrenc says, as the server
opens a closet and removes a folded blue robe. “Take it off, please. You can wear that in the meantime.”

  “Take it off here?”

  “Yes. Now.”

  His tone is very plain, businesslike. Nothing predatory about it. Maybe that’s the way he operates, like there’s never a need for anything but direct orders, casually given.

  I pull the dress off over my head, and stand there a moment in bra and underpants as the server helps me into the robe. It’s lovely silk, the real thing, with embroidered birds over the breasts. Lovrenc, for his part, doesn’t stare or ogle but just looks on indifferently as if I were no more or less interesting than any other object passing through his field of vision.

  Then the boat starts to move.

  Lovrenc smiles radiantly. “I thought, why not a little cruise? Valencia by night?”

  “Stop the boat, please. I’d prefer to stay here.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be back in a few hours.” Lovrenc gestures to a chair. “Sit. Let’s talk awhile.”

  I look for something I can use as a weapon. There’s a plate on the table. Pickles and fish and cheese and bread—finger food, no silverware. But there are wineglasses, useful in a pinch.

  The reverse motion of the Erebus slows, then the yacht shudders as the powerful engines jerk us forward. The server catches me as I stumble. She’s a woman a few years younger than Lovrenc, heavy-breasted, and thick through the body, with her face half covered by black hair that hangs down at the sides.

  I glance to the side of the boat, estimate four meters to the railing of the deck. I can sprint and be over the side in a few seconds. But Lovrenc knows what I’m thinking and preempts me by pulling a small pistol from beneath his suit jacket. He holds it loosely against his thigh, as casual as a threat can be.

  “Plenty of time until the boat turns back into a pumpkin,” he says. “That clever thing you did with the ice cream. That’s when I knew it was you.”

  The other yachts, docked for the night, are slipping past as we head toward the exit of the harbor. In minutes, we’ll be in open water.

  “Knew it was me?” I say.

  “The one following us on the moped, the woman at the restaurant bar.” He taps the muzzle of the gun on his chair, as if the pistol were an extension of his hand. “Please, you’re making me feel like a bad host.”

  Slowly, I take my seat, ready to burst forward as soon as the gun is down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He gives me a tired smile. “Tell me: Why did I have you change into that robe?”

  “To clean the dress.”

  “No. So that I could be sure you didn’t have a second knife on you. Like the one you dropped in the water.”

  The boat picks up speed, and I cross my arms against the cold. “I’m not who you think.”

  “Don’t be ashamed,” he says, as if trying to comfort me. “Gwendolyn Bloom should never be ashamed of who she is.”

  Sixteen

  Remember this, always: Your cover legend is the only friend you have. So hold on to it as long as you’re physically able. Through interrogation. Through torture. And if necessary, die with it. If you can’t save yourself, you can at least save the operation. That’s what they taught us in Orphan Camp.

  But they also taught us this: Rules, held to regardless of circumstances, will kill you. Improvise. Read your gut. Even if it contradicts your training. To surprise your enemy is to subvert him.

  Thus, my dilemma.

  “Don’t you find it tedious, the little narrative they tried to set up?” Lovrenc says, gesturing expansively with the gun, to the boat, the world beyond it. “Your father kills my father, so now we have to kill each other. Amateurish. Amateur bullshit. Please tell me you see that.”

  I glance over my shoulder to find the server still standing there, face blank, unbothered by her employer’s pulling a gun on his guest. “Like I said, I’m not who you think,” I say as calmly as I can.

  Lovrenc slams the gun down onto the table, hard enough to rattle the wineglasses and plates. I jump at the sound.

  “I’m so—disappointed,” he says. “Look at you, acting the coward. A monster, they said. Killed a dozen men in Prague, they said. Pfft.”

  He reclines in his seat, gun hand tiredly rubbing the back of his head, daring me with his eyes to go for the pistol on the table. I reach forward tentatively and take my wineglass.

  There is, I see now, no way out, no tidy answer to my dilemma. Admit who I am or not, this yacht is where it ends. The fear melts away and is replaced by a not-unpleasant sort of certainty. Getting shot on a yacht off the coast of Spain. So much more interesting than getting hit by a bus or dying from the flu. And the wine really is excellent.

  The lessons from Orphan Camp be damned. Lovrenc knows. And more, he knows I know he knows. The labyrinthine circuit is complete, so there’s nothing to be gained from pretending. Besides, I may have more to gain with the truth than by continuing a cover story neither of us believes.

  I raise my glass in a toast. “To our heroes,” I say. “May we never have the disappointment of meeting them in real life.”

  A relieved grin breaks out across his face. He toasts me, takes a long drink, then looks past my shoulder to the server behind me. “You can take it from here,” he says to her in English.

  She approaches the table and extends her hand. Perplexed, I rise and take it.

  “My name is Dragoslava Zoric,” she says. “Lovrenc’s sister. Viktor’s daughter.”

  * * *

  Dragoslava tucks the pistol from the table into the waistband of her pants and says a few words to her brother in Serbian. Lovrenc replies with something that makes her laugh, then he disappears through a door that opens onto a staircase to the lower decks.

  “Poor Lavro,” she says. “He likes the clothes and the money and the girls, but he never had the appetite. Not for this.”

  “And what is this?” I say.

  Dragoslava brushes back the hair from the left side of her face and I see a quilt of scar tissue running from her temple to her jawline, some faded to white, some inflamed pink. “If someone came to kill you, how would you answer them?”

  “Same way I answered Nikko Kucheto.”

  “Ah,” she says. “Poor, stupid Nikko.”

  “Your employee,” I say.

  “Always the idiot of the group,” she says sadly. “Did you do it yourself? Personally?”

  “Yes.”

  Dragoslava sighs. “Well, I’m sorry you had to kill him. Sorry, too, for the path that moron put us on.”

  “Nikko put us on that path?” I say. “And here I thought it was you.”

  She takes some bread and cheese from the plate, makes a little sandwich. “The CIA trash who came here—well, they never said they were CIA, but one knows. They painted a little picture for us—your father oversees the killing of our father, so now we should continue the pattern.”

  “The difference is, my father isn’t a monster.”

  She looks at me without emotion. “You’re right,” she says finally. “The man the world knew as Viktor Zoric was a monster, even if the Viktor Zoric I knew was not. The world is a better place without him in it.”

  “So why did you send Nikko Kucheto after me?”

  “I didn’t. Revenge is a silly business. That’s what I told the CIA, right before I kicked them off my boat.”

  A lie. Obviously. But since it ends for me the same way, why bother? I take my glass, take a long drink of wine. “Wish I could believe you,” I say.

  “No, I suppose you shouldn’t,” Dragoslava says. “By the way, who was it that sent you? Israelis, I assume.”

  “I don’t work for the Israelis. I came on my own.”

  “Right,” she says. “Well, if you happen to run into them, maybe you could pass on a message.”

  “Sure,” I say, playing along as if there’s any way she’ll let me off this boat alive. “What is it?”

  “That the Zoric family is out
of the arms business. We don’t sell to Hezbollah. The PA. Al Qaeda. Anyone. Can you do that for me?”

  “I’ll pass it on.”

  “You don’t believe me,” Dragoslava says.

  “Does it matter?”

  Dragoslava rises to her feet and gestures to the staircase. “Come. Something I’d like you to see.”

  * * *

  The thrum of the powerful engines on the inside of the boat is a constant roar but not unpleasant. I walk ahead of Dragoslava a few paces, conscious of the gun in her waistband. Conscious, too, of Obrad following behind her. I’d gotten a good look at him as he shoved me aside. Shaved head, a roll of fat on the back of his neck, but sharp eyes, like the intellect inside him is badly represented by the outside.

  Dragoslava directs me down a staircase to the level below and along another hallway toward an open door at the end, where I see the gleaming steel of an industrial kitchen. The men inside are speaking in Serbian and laughing until I appear in the doorway. From their card game at a table littered in beer bottles and ashtrays, they look up and stare. Then Dragoslava appears behind me a second later, and they all rush to their feet.

  Dragoslava surveys them, then points to a heavy man with a blond crew cut wearing a leather jacket and track pants. “Sergei,” she says. “Let’s talk awhile.”

  The others look away from her as they scramble to leave, even Obrad, who shuts the door behind him, leaving the three of us alone. Sergei stands nervously at attention, shoulders straight, eyes forward.