Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation, Vol. 2

by Genelin, Michael

  “You want to read the paper?” he asked, in English.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “I thought only the Americans read over other people’s shoulders.” He thrust the paper at her, and started the engine. “Don’t forget to return it,” he barked as she walked back to the empty seat next to Levitin.

  The front-page photograph showed a body being carried away. A man had been murdered. Registered under a false name, he had been identified as Aram Tutungian, a delegate to a conference that had just been concluded in Strasbourg. Although the paper gave very few details about the killing, it was apparent that it had been a particularly nasty murder.

  She passed the paper over to Levitin, no doubt in her mind that Koba and the killing were intimately connected. There was also no doubt in her mind that Koba, if he was still in Strasbourg, would soon be in Nice, the city they were now traveling to. She wondered if she would be able to identify him when he came after her.

  Chapter 33

  Sasha took the chance of walking down the Promenade des Anglais because she loved the Baie des Anges. Angels had to live here; the blue of the water, the beaches, the palm trees, everything about Nice and the Cote d’Azur was so different from Russia. Even at the end of January the temperature was mild; it was slightly overcast, but she could walk outside wearing a light jacket. Yes, it was worth a little risk to walk, inhaling the sea air, after spending almost all of her days inside to avoid being discovered.

  Occasionally, Sasha would hug the jacket closer to her body, not because of the weather, but because she liked the comfort of the soft wool. It had been a casual gift from Pavel. They had walked by a store window, Sasha commenting on how pretty it looked, even on a window mannequin. Pavel had immediately gone in and bought it for her. It was not the rich-looking fur coat Pavel had later given her. However, her new life required a different look, and she was safer wearing wool.

  Her naturally light brown hair had been dyed, not blonde as she first intended, but an even darker brown-black. Blondes attract too much attention, and Sasha could not afford that. All her clothes had been left behind in their suite of apartments as soon as she heard that her protector had gone out of the window. The event itself had told her she had to run. They would be coming after her next. There was no chance that Pavel Rencko had killed himself. He loved life too much, and no matter what crime they were accusing him of, he would have fought back, kicking and screaming, rather than take a suicide leap.

  The old Russian couple who worked at the Queen Victoria had rented a room for her for a few days in their name so she could avoid registering. It was necessary. People leave their names in too many inconvenient places where other people can access them. Sasha had thought of leaving Nice, running to another city. Not a good idea, she had decided. She spoke imperfect French, and a Russian woman who traveled would leave a trail that was easily visible. In Nice, at least, she knew people, she knew the city. Her only real opportunity to escape was to become an invisible person, surviving until they gave up searching. Then, maybe Marseille, an easier, bigger city to hide in, but with the same light and sun she now enjoyed so much, might be the place for her.

  Damn the overcast. Sasha wanted the full, blinding light of the sun after submerging herself in the place she’d found. She’d been fortunate. A developer had put up an apartment complex in the old quarter of the city where Sasha could rent by the week or month. It was owned by an absentee landlord, so there was no need to register, but also no postal designation and no telephone. Other than that, the place was fully furnished. The tourists would flock back to the complex once the season started at the end of March; but with all the vacancies they currently had, the rental agency had been only too happy to let her take it at an off-season rate, no questions asked. Only she missed Pavel.

  Pavel had been fun. It was a business arrangement, yes. Yet it didn’t matter to him that she’d been a whore, an addict who would provide any sexual favor for a fix. He’d truly become her lover rather than the keeper of a “do-it-for-me blow-up doll.” He’d put himself on the line for her, telling the others to stay away. And he was enough of a threat to force them to back off. Then he’d helped her get the drugs out of her system.

  A trio of teenagers rollerbladed past her. There were two girls being teased by a tall boy. The boy would skate up to them, gently shove one of them, then they’d both chase him while he skated ahead, or back, leaving them to scream at him. It was all love play. Sasha wondered which one of the girls was going to end up with the boy. It was obvious they both liked him, and were playing at the game, while playing him.

  There were people on the plage: a pair of joggers, a circle of men kicking and heading a football. It was not like the beach would be in the summer, when it would be jammed, a place to stay away from. Her eyes drifted away from the beach, across the boulevard. It was then that she saw the dark Rolls-Royce with the blacked-out passenger windows and the pencil-thin red stripe down the side drive up to the front of the Negresco. She immediately felt acid in the back of her throat, forced up by the fear in her stomach.

  Sasha bent, as if adjusting her shoe, to lower her profile and half-hide behind a small car. She pulled her neck scarf off, tying it around her head babushka-style, to change her appearance even more. She managed this while keeping her eye on the Rolls.

  The chauffeur went to the trunk, pulling out luggage, as bellmen from the hotel ran to the car and the chauffeur handed them the bags. The driver then walked to the passenger door and opened it.

  The passengers didn’t immediately leave the car. They took their time, then made a leisurely exit. They had been finishing their drinks. One of the men handed the chauffeur his glass. The three passengers then walked up the hotel steps.

  Sasha recognized all three of them. The one she could not take her eyes off was the Manager. Again, here, in Nice. The Manager was supposed to have gone far away from Nice, so Sasha had felt safe again. Now the trembling started in her legs, and traveled in waves up her body. She tried to slow her breathing, to calm the feeling that her head was bobbing so hard that it might snap from her neck.

  No question, if the Manager was here, they would be discussing emergency measures, and she would be among the major items to be discussed. She was a large loose end they had to clip off. Pavel Rencko had used her for his errands, confided in her, given her access to his papers, made her an integral part of the business, and they knew it.

  Knowledge is safety, Pavel had told her. They can’t hurt you because they don’t know what you’ve done with the knowledge, where you’ve put it in storage, and how incriminating to them it is. They will want you to keep on living, Pavel said, until they know. Pavel was wise about these things. He had comforted her, pulling her close. “If you die,” he’d whispered in her ear, “someone they can’t control may obtain what you know. They can’t let that happen. So, you see, you are now safe.”

  Only they had killed poor Pavel. He was wrong: His knowledge hadn’t protected him. And it wouldn’t protect her.

  Sasha waited until the Rolls drove off and she was sure none of the three who had gone into the hotel were suddenly going to emerge before she’d walked a safe distance away down the Promenade. She tried to hum a song to keep her spirits up, but all she could think of was the Russian national anthem. It gave her courage. Strange, she hadn’t sung it since childhood.

  Sasha picked up her pace. The clouds passed, the sun came out, washing the street with its light. Everyone on the water-front responded, becoming more animated, more cheerful. Except Sasha, who no longer noticed.

  No reason to hurry, Sasha repeated to herself like a mantra. Keep calm. She still had her hole to hide in. They would not find her today. She put tomorrow out of her mind.

  Chapter 34

  On the plane ride to Nice, Levitin had immediately gone to sleep. Jana admired the facility with which certain people, no matter what the circumstances, could curl themselves up, put reality behind them, and rest. Jana tried, then
gave up, instead using the time to go over the phone numbers in Foch’s address book one more time. The telephone numbers stared back at her. Most she failed to recognize, while others like Jeremy’s and Moira Simmons’s waved at her in recognition. When she had the time, Jana would probably have to call the unknown numbers, one by one, perhaps see some of the owners, doing the one-step-after-another drudge work so much a part of solving cases. She then pulled out a copy of the coded book she and Seges had found taped to the underside of the couch in the dead pimp’s apartment. She browsed through it, hoping to see an item, a number, anything that would have make sense to her.

  Each of the pages had a different number on the right side, each number written as if it were a continuation of the name corresponding with the telephone number first entered at the top of the page. But the numbers on each of the pages were not in order and did not correspond to the correct page in the book. On the left side of the page, again corresponding with the first name on the page, appearing to be the beginning of a name, but, written smaller than the other letters in the name, there was a letter. Again, they were not in alphabetical order, but like the numbers, did not repeat themselves, and did not appear to reflect a page number.

  On the lower portion of each page, again on the same line as the last name and telephone number, the process was repeated, letter on one side, number on the other, each of them not corresponding to a page or to each other, and not in any order. They did not repeat the same patterns at the tops of the pages.

  Jana tried to make sense of the letters and numbers placed as they were. She spent time going over them backward and forward, up and down, crossing the pages, letter to letter and number to number. They did not relate to the entries they were juxtaposed with. No logical relationship presented itself, either internally or externally.

  The numbers, words, letters had to have a meaning, not necessarily with each other but by reference to an object outside themselves. Codes had to have a method that could be used to decipher them, a program, an Enigma decryption machine, a decoding book. The man who wrote the book found in the apartment would need a key in order to write in code, and so others in the organization would be able to decode it. It would be easy to decipher the book if you had the key. Unfortunately, if you were untrained, and didn’t have the key, you might never be able to do it.

  There was a key somewhere, a Rosetta stone allowing the message to be read. Names? Dates? Left to right? Front to back? Where did you start? On even days one set; on odd days the other? The key would tell her.

  She snapped the book shut. Now a code expert had to work on what they had, without a key. Maybe the Slovak code expert or the Americans could do it. Or maybe even Levitin, who’d boasted of his gift for numbers. She’d have to think about that.

  She tucked the book away, trying to doze, unable to stop mulling over the subject. She was sure that whoever had planted it in the apartment had wanted it found. Why? To suggest that the pimp was part of a large, complex organization? If so, who were the other people? A rival gang? A part of the organization the person who killed the pimp wanted to destroy? Was it evidence that could be used against them? Again, why? To have the field to himself? More conjecture without any real hope of reaching an accurate conclusion.

  She tried to make herself comfortable, concluding that airline seats give a promise of comfort that they never keep. She was forced to put a pillow behind the small of her back, and sit upright. Again, no rest. She began picking at the facts in the case.

  Foch? What part did he play in this series of events? Foch had been in Vienna, which was close to Bratislava. Was Foch involved directly in the murder of the pimp? Was Foch a member of the organization to be destroyed? Or a destroyer?

  Dead Tutungian of the slicked-back hair, the “reformed” gangster who was to give testimony at the meeting. Obviously he had not been reformed enough to prevent himself from being murdered. Was it because of his pending testimony?

  Jana was still thinking about Tutungian when she finally fell asleep. Not even the jarring of the aircraft when it landed at the Nice airport woke her. Her sleep was so deep that Levitin had to shake her awake.

  Chapter 35

  Mikhail Gruschov hailed a taxi. The taxi driver shocked Mikhail when he pulled over. The driver wore a wolf’s mask that covered half his face, a jovial wolf who was laughing at his own appearance when he beckoned Mikhail inside. Were French cab drivers crazy? Mikhail wondered what kind of lunacy he had gotten himself into.

  Even as he kept the driver at arm’s length, Mikhail pointed at a small map he had picked up. Using gestures, grunts, vivid exclamations, and muttered imprecations, they reached an understanding that Mikhail wanted to be dropped off at Chemin du Bois. When they arrived, Mikhail pulled out a handful of Euros, holding them out, allowing the driver to pick through the money to pay for his services. Better to remain safe, far away from the man’s teeth. The amount the driver counted out for himself seemed reasonably related to what the meter read, so Mikhail pocketed the rest and gladly eased his bulk out of the taxi, into the street, taking his small bag from the driver.

  Mikhail wore his wool winter suit. The mild climate of Nice generated uncomfortable warmth, and he wished that he had listened to Adriana and worn light clothes. The radical change of geography, and its weather, was still hard for him to credit. In less than one day he had come from zero-Centigrade ice and snow to a climate where plants were green and flowering.

  Despite his relief that the driver was gone, the taxi’s departure left Mikhail feeling deserted. Mikhail was like Yuri Gagarin coming in from outer space and landing on the wrong planet. He pushed his feeling of alienation away and studied the building before him. Unlike the rest of the city, it was one of a cluster of high-rise flats, concrete slabs displaying little French flair or design sensibility. It might have looked sleek and new at one time, but Mikhail doubted it.

  The occupants’ washing hung out to dry on every one of the balconies that ran up the sides of the buildings, just like in ugly Ukrainian high-rises. Mikhail decided the buildings in France, like those in Kiev, must have been designed by local communists who had struggled to build at the lowest possible level of human habitation. Their dreary construction truly represented the proletariat.

  Mikhail walked toward the entrance of the building. The kids playing in front were awed at his enormous bulk. Some of them wore outlandish masks and partial costumes.

  “Are you here for Carnival?” one of them yelled. Mikhail couldn’t understand them, so he ignored the question, walking on. Not a French giant, the kids concluded. Maybe a freak on leave from a circus? Clothes too drab to be French, his hair tousled, not in the careful uncombed look of the French males, he must be from some other place where style did not mean anything. A foreigner. They watched until he was inside, making unkind comments that it was fortunate Mikhail did not understand.

  He checked the mailboxes inside the vestibule. Boyar, his cousin, was listed; Mikhail pressed the bell for admittance. He waited for a voice to demand his name. No response. Mikhail eyed the confines of the little hall, wondering how to get to Boyar’s apartment. He thought of ringing another bell. That would never work. He spoke no French, and sign language would be an absurdity over a building intercom.

  A good ten minutes later, a little old lady walking a tiny dog on a leash came through the inner door. Mikhail stopped the door from closing, his huge arm reaching like a bridge over the woman’s head. Her little dog yipped once, rolling its eyes so you could see the whites, a warning to Mikhail to watch where he stepped. The woman, never noticing that Mikhail had stopped the door from closing, continued on her mission: allowing her dog to relieve itself by fouling the sidewalk with its waste.

  Mikhail went to the door marked ascenseur and, miracle of miracles, it worked, creaking its objections to the weight it carried all the way to the eighth floor. Mikhail stepped out, checking apartment numbers until he came to 809, then knocked. As expected, there was no answer. Hi
s cousin had had the bad grace to be out when Mikhail arrived. Boyar, as Mikhail remembered, had never been a considerate man.

  There was no choice. Mikhail sat down on the welcome mat, his back braced against the door, leaning an elbow on his knee, his head on his hand. With his massive head and shoulders he looked remarkably like Rodin’s The Thinker, except he was not stone, and, unlike the statue, he was truly thinking.

  Mikhail had to get to Jana, and get to her quickly. She had gone to Strasbourg, and he had made an attempt to contact her by calling her department. Then he’d become fearful about trying again. The telephone lines were suspect and the police were corrupt. Mikhail himself was one of the prime examples.

  Adriana and he had argued when he had told her about his concern for Jana’s safety. Jana was too smart, too dedicated. When she went to Strasbourg, she would soon realize she had to go on to Nice. The others would become aware of her arrival; they would then make her disappear. A magician with a wand would put her in a box, and poof, the lady vanishes!

  A small skiff, a fishing boat would put out to sea, and the captain of the boat would suddenly have new equipment, maybe even a new boat, one that he had always wanted. C’est la vie, he would shrug. He had a family to support, and the fish needed to be fed. So did his children. The box he would put overboard? Who cared what it contained?

  Adriana had listened to Mikhail’s tale of his own corruption, the car they now had, the apartment they now owned, the jobs for his brothers. When she called him to task for being so weak, he had agreed. The organization had made it so easy for him, and for the others. Mikhail had not counted on Jana being put at risk. He finally went to Adriana: Give me your advice. What shall I do?

  His wife had hesitated only for a moment, then handed him the phone to call Jana’s department. Which was why he loved her. He had her trust. She was his moral compass, and always had been. She made his life worth all its problems. It was decided: When the call to the Slovaks failed, he had to do what he most wanted to do when he first became a police officer: save lives, make the world better, keep the lions from eating the lambs.