Venice Black (Alex Polonia Thriller Book 1)

by Gregory C. Randall

  One of the men pulled out a cell phone, hit a speed-dial number, listened, and said something she did not understand. He turned to the other man, said something else, then clicked it off. Continuing to stare at Alex, he slipped it back in his pocket. In one quick motion, the second man seized her arm and held it in a viselike grip.

  She heard the man with the phone say something that sounded like a command.

  “Let go of me, or you will regret it,” she said. Her English seemed to confuse them for a second. “Now,” she demanded, grabbing the hand of the man holding her other arm. His grip tightened. “Let go!” she said loudly and swung a fist quick and hard toward the man’s right cheek. She was shocked when all she found was his left hand now completely enclosing her right fist. His reaction was like a snake’s.

  “Marika Jurić, you come,” the man said in broken English. “Come now, no trouble.”

  “Like hell.” She stomped on his toe. Nothing. His shoes had steel toes.

  Professionals.

  The first man grabbed both her arms. She lifted her knee to employ a woman’s strongest defense. He turned to the side, and all she got was the side of his thigh; it felt as hard as the toe of his companion’s boot.

  “I said you must go with us.” The two men began to pull her up the alley.

  Seeing an opening, she grabbed the first man’s middle finger and pulled it back and away from her forearm. Her move was as quick as the second man’s when he had grabbed her fist. She pulled it back farther, hoping to hear it snap, the pressure forcing him to release his grip. Then she drove her elbow into his face, which dropped him to the stone paving. She released the finger, now broken she was sure, and turned her attention to the other man. As he reached inside his jacket, she slammed her fist into his throat, then spun past him and jammed her knee into his lower back as he tried to catch his breath.

  She kicked the first man in the knee, surely damaging his cartilage. “Asshole.”

  The gagging man withdrew a Glock. Using her boot toe she caught him in the wrist and sent the pistol clattering across the stone. Her back was now to the canal.

  The first man was slowly standing, regaining his wits. He smiled at her as if excited that she wasn’t a defenseless woman, after all.

  Shit.

  He lunged, his arms wide. She waited a split second, then ducked, turned as the man rushed by, and shoved him toward the edge of the canal. With nothing to stop his momentum, he tumbled head over heels into the frigid waters.

  She grabbed the Glock and spun back to the other man. Still trying to catch his breath, he straightened and raised his hands when she pointed the pistol at his face.

  “No, please. Do not shoot.”

  “What the hell’s going on?” she said, listening with some pleasure to the sloshing sounds of the first man struggling to climb out of the canal. “Who is this Marika? Talk, you asshole.”

  “You—you are Marika, bitch.”

  Not waiting for the floundering man to reach the paving, Alex turned and started running toward the end of the alley. She jammed the Glock into her jeans’ waistband under the back of her leather jacket. After three turns, and more confused than ever, she stumbled into an odd-shaped courtyard. A hundred tourists wandered in and out of the four openings at the corners. A small café with bright-yellow awnings filled the far corner. In its windows were displayed hundreds of cookies, bread, and pastries. She saw a table to the far side and, still breathing hard, walked toward it.

  “Marika, wait. Marika Jurić, wait a moment.”

  Alex turned and saw an incredibly good-looking man with Latin features, a head of black hair, and dark eyes. He was walking toward her.

  “Who the hell are you and what was that all about?” she said to the approaching stranger.

  A confused look on his face, the man said, “Ms. Jurić, I did not know that you spoke English so fluently. In fact, it’s quite good.”

  “That’s twice in the last ten minutes someone’s called me Jurić or Marika—you and those jerks.” She pointed toward the courtyard opening she’d just used. “I’m not Marika, whoever she is.”

  The man studied her face for a moment. “What jerks, where? Did something happen? Are you all right?”

  “Get away from me,” she said once she’d reached the café table.

  The waiter walked up to her. “Signora, is this Gypsy bothering you? Should I call the polizia?”

  “The police will not be necessary,” said the man who’d called her Marika. “You sure look like her, in fact too much like her. What’s your name?”

  “Wait just a goddamn minute. Why should I tell you my name? You know those guys that tried to grab me? What is this all about? And who the hell are you? I’m taking a leisurely stroll on the vacation of my life when two of you fools try to jump me. Now you, whoever you are, say I look like someone else. So, answer my questions—now!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t have the time. I have—”

  “Ma’am?” She pulled her cell phone from her coat pocket and snapped a picture of the man’s face. “You speak English like an American, so I’m sure you’re in some felony database. I can start there.” She spun around and started to walk away.

  “Wait a sec, okay. Sure, a cup of coffee, that’ll be fine. Please sit.”

  She turned back and, without taking her eyes off the man, sat down at the table.

  “Due espressi,” the dark-haired man said. The waiter, still with a serious and concerned look on his face, nodded and walked away.

  Alex waited as he sat. She flashed a look at the gun inside his open jacket, also a Glock.

  “Name,” she asked.

  “You first.”

  “No, you tell me yours. You seem to think I’m somebody else, and I assume that person knows you. So, since I am the one at a loss, you first.” She crossed her arms. “Or should I wave over the gendarmes there?” She pointed to two policemen who had just arrived and were standing in a strip of warm sunlight beneath the campanile. “Hell, maybe I will, there’s something else I’d like to tell them.” She started to rise.

  “They are called carabinieri, and they are good at their jobs. We do not need them. My name is Special Agent Javier Castillo. I am assigned to the Milan branch of the Central Intelligence Agency. And you look a lot like someone I am to meet with later this afternoon.”

  “CIA? Here in Venice? Really?” Alex said with a snort, and then examined the man. “I look like someone else? I pity them. Show me your creds, Mr. CIA.”

  Agent Castillo retrieved a small wallet from the inside of his coat and opened it. Alex inspected the picture, the gold badge, and the information. She nodded and glanced up, then slouched in her chair. Across the piazza the two men who tried to grab her had arrived. They stared at every face and, like stalking cats, worked their way across the square. Using the CIA man as a shield, she hid from their line of sight.

  “You know those two?” Agent Castillo asked. “Were they the earlier trouble? One appears to be wet.”

  “Yes, they were the trouble. One accidentally lost his footing, and I helped him fall into the canal.”

  He smiled. “You were lucky. They are paramilitaries from Croatia or Serbia, hard to tell them apart. Not very nice, only the Albanians may be worse. So, now your turn.”

  “You said I remind you of someone?”

  “First, your name.”

  “Not nearly as exciting. Alexandra Polonia, police detective from Cleveland, Ohio. I assume you know where that is. By the way, you sound like a Texan.”

  “Yes, and I’ve even been to Cleveland. Born and raised in Waco, Texas, though.”

  “Thought so. Aren’t we a long way from home?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Alex sipped her espresso. She watched the mysterious CIA agent drink his like she’d seen the Italians in the café drink them: in one swallow.

  “I was on my way to lunch from my hotel when those thugs attacked me,” she explained to him. “Why, I have no idea.
Now I’m on an adrenaline rush and famished. My stomach sounds like Friday night at a Parma bowling alley. So, Mr. CIA Man, do you have any restaurant ideas? Even with my map and cell phone, I’m totally and utterly lost. When those thugs found me, I was heading toward the Grand Canal to a restaurant the hotel suggested and got all turned around.” She pointed in one direction; he pointed in the other. “That way? I am all turned around.”

  “You are not the first,” the agent said. “This island will do that. Yes, I know a great place for lunch, ten minutes away, tops.”

  “That’s what the concierge said just before I left.” She finished her espresso, stood, and peered into the dark eyes of the good-looking guy that had literally dropped in on her. “Care to join me, Mr. Tour Guide?”

  Special Agent Castillo looked at his watch, then Alex.

  “Places to go, things to see, nations to spy on?” she said.

  “Something like that, but after those two Croatians, I’m intrigued. So, yes, I’ll join you.”

  “Lead on.”

  Mr. Tour Guide strolled next to Alex the whole way, pointing out various churches, museums, shops, and places to eat. He said fabulous more than three times; her stomach said a split with the seven and ten pins still standing. They turned a corner. He stopped and waved out his hand like a conductor. The whole of the Piazza San Marco spread before them. She stopped. The crowds and the noise faded away, and soon all she saw was the campanile and the white façade of the basilica beyond, lit by the early-afternoon sun.

  “I take it you’ve never been here?” he asked as Alex wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “I have never been anywhere. Venice? Only in my dreams and in movies. It’s more than I imagined—larger, grander, more wondrous.”

  “Lunch is a little farther on, just off the colonnade. I know the owner. Good guy. He can whip up an excellent omelet. The seafood is also wonderful.”

  Openmouthed, Alex rubbernecked the surrounding colonnade and arcades, and followed the agent as they wove through the tangle of tourists. Some wore masks and outlandish, brightly colored costumes. The pigeons, harassed by children, flew in all directions. Even the cold wind off the canal failed to dampen her excitement.

  After her tour guide had exchanged niceties with the restaurant owner, they took a small table in the front window where she could watch the theater of the piazza. The owner pulled a “Reserved” sign off the table.

  “He knew you were coming?”

  “No, but he does hold this for special guests.”

  “Nice to meet a special guest on my first day—and a spook as well.”

  “Dominic, the owner, likes to tell the story of when Hemingway would stop here for breakfast. His grandfather owned the place then. It is one of the few restaurants that serve a full American-style breakfast. Seems the Venetians like to eat a quick colazione. Dominic lived in Brooklyn for some years before returning home to Venice, so he knows all about Americans and their big breakfasts. The Venetians save themselves for a grand lunch and a late dinner. So, I suggest a grand lunch. And I am not a spook, just a middling special agent on assignment. Now, Ms. Alexandra Polonia, did you leave your husband at the hotel, are you trying to ditch your travel friends, or are you traveling alone?”

  Before she could answer, the owner walked back to the table and said something in Italian. Castillo answered, pointing to her. The owner left.

  “What was that?”

  “I ordered for you. He makes an incredible omelet, and you look like you could use one right now. Also, a bottle of Soavé, is that okay?”

  “First of all, Special Agent—”

  “Javier to my friends.”

  She paused and studied the man. “Javier, first of all, I’m a Cleveland cop. I’m here alone because my ex-husband was also a cop—and is now in prison. He ruined my reputation. Now I’m on my first vacation in so long, I don’t remember when, or how many years. And this morning, after arriving in this fabulous city—a place I’ve dreamed about my whole life—I am accosted by what you call Croatian paramilitaries, I throw one of them in the canal and nearly crush the throat of the other, all because, according to you, I may look like a woman named Marika wanted by those same Croatians.”

  “Actually, they may be members of a Croatian paramilitary group that some say murdered thousands of Bosniaks during the Bosnian War. Nasty killers. Did you see a wolf’s head tat on their necks?”

  Alex thought for a moment and recalled that when she’d thrown her elbow into one man’s face, she’d seen a tattoo of something on the side of his neck. “Yes, there may have been,” she said.

  She was already on her second glass of wine when lunch arrived. It was as good as Javier said it would be.

  “So, you think I was mistaken for this Marika Jurić woman?” she asked.

  “Probably,” Javier answered. “I’ve never met her, but you look a lot like her picture—in fact, amazingly so. We have talked by phone a few times.”

  “And why are you here?” she asked.

  “That is confidential. Needless to say, if these guys are after her, it has become much more serious.”

  “Were you also following me?”

  “No, that was coincidental. I was walking through the piazza, and your blonde hair caught my attention in the sunlight. And we were a block from where Marika is staying, so naturally, I thought you were her. The Croatians did the same and followed you until you were someplace less crowded.”

  “Can’t say I’d have liked my chances with those guys. I only had a second to surprise them. I’m resourceful, but they outweighed me by three hundred pounds. And that one fella was stupid fast with his hands. My hand still hurts.”

  “They’re well trained through years of practice—it was an awful civil war. And a war that is just the latest chapter in a long story of religions and people hating each other.”

  “Is that why you’re here? Does this woman have information the United States wants?”

  “Good guess, Detective. But as I said, it’s all confidential.”

  “Not really a guess. I could tell from the passion in your voice. I’ve been a detective for a long time. My job is to put two and two together and get five.”

  “So, your ex-husband is a scumbag, in jail, and you’re free. Now this—life just isn’t fair, is it? These guys still think you are Marika Jurić, and that’s not going to change until she comes forward. Until then, keep your head down.”

  “Do you think I’m going to hide in my room?” Alex said. “I survived interrogations about Ralph—he’s the ex-husband—interrogations by my friends, no less, and two days on the stand during his trial. I’ve dealt with gangbangers, white supremacists, Albanians, Bulgarians, and a few Russians during my days in Cleveland. I’m on so many hurt or kill lists, Guinness might call to see if I hold the record. The crap with my husband brought out a lot of old shit and new opportunities for payback. I have wanted to see Venice my whole life, and this is my first chance. Do you think a couple of thugs are going to interfere with my fun?”

  Javier smiled and shook his head. “These guys are nasty—very nasty. Just keep your wits about you, okay?”

  Alex leaned back and felt the Glock muzzle’s sharp edge. “So, when are you meeting my twin?”

  “In about an hour.”

  She laughed. “Need backup?”

  “No, you go and enjoy Venice. Where are you staying?”

  “The Aqua Palace, seems nice.”

  “It is, and it is just a block from Marika’s hotel. I can see why the Croats were confused.”

  Alex signaled to the owner and waved like she had a pen in her hand.

  “My treat,” Javier said.

  “No way, I pay my debts.”

  The owner walked to the table and said the bill was already paid. Alex looked at Javier, who said, “Done and done. Remember, I’m the one working and on a government expense account. You are on vacation.”

  “So, how do I get back to my hotel?”

  �
�Let me have your map.”

  She handed it to him.

  “From here walk past the campanile, then turn toward the canal. A few hundred yards beyond is the San Marco vaporetto stop. Buy your ticket, get on, and ride up the canal until you come to the Rialto stop. You can’t miss the bridge. Then go this way.” He marked a trail even she could follow.

  After Javier had left, Alex spent an hour strolling through the grand arcade of shops that surrounded the most famous piazza in the world, then went into the Basilica di San Marco. Her Catholic upbringing gnawed at her, and her current lapse in the world of Catholicism had drifted into a longing that seemed hard to come to terms with after the past year. She’d been raised a good Catholic: Saint Ann’s Catholic School, communion, confirmation, and the usual sacraments. But being a cop made being devout difficult. The basilica brought her to her knees, and she lit a votive candle for her grandmother. Looking up at the glorious ceiling, she was taken in by the rich, ornate art created in religion’s name. Then she remembered the cynical remark Javier had made about Bosnia and the war and realized it could also be said about countless dead from other senseless wars where religion was the excuse.

  She took an open seat in the vaporetto and reached back into her childhood and her dreams of navigating the Grand Canal toward the Rialto Bridge. Granted, the dream didn’t include the forward compartment of a crowded vaporetto, but the dream was strong enough that even the whining of a tired child sitting next to her couldn’t steal away the magic. She stepped off the boat and walked onto the Riva del Ferro, pulled out the map, and rotated it. She noted the Rialto Bridge to her left and the street sign reading “Calle Mazzini.” She dived back into the passageways, or calli. She passed a hotel named Ai Reali and wondered if that was where her doppelgänger was staying. Ten minutes later, she walked into her hotel. Sonia was at the desk.

  “Did you find the restaurant?” Sonia asked.

  “No, but I found something even more interesting.”

  “And what was that?”

  “An enigmatic Texan.”