“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.”
“What is your involvement with the CIA?”
“How do you know about that?”
“We have talked with Agent Javier Castillo. He was there. He told us about your relationship. He was in the campo—he saw it all.”
“Was he with that woman?”
“Which woman is that?”
“Alex something or another. They say she looks like me. I don’t think so, but . . .” Her thought trailed off.
“There was an American woman in the campo with the agent.” Lugano lifted a page and studied the text underneath. “She may have been the one who wounded the assassin. It says here that she took a shot at the man.”
“She shot my son? That bitch tried to kill my Ehsan?” Marika looked at the investigator and softly added, “She’s an agent working for the CIA. She says she’s a detective on vacation from someplace called Cleveland. I don’t believe it.”
Lugano made another note. “She said she shot him to stop him from killing anyone else.”
“Why?”
“Your son shot and killed Attila Kozak just as the bomb exploded.”
“Kozak is dead? Bomb? My son?”
“Kozak was shot as he stepped onto the campo from a water taxi,” the detective said. “Witnesses tell us it was your son. He shot two other people as well.”
“No, it cannot be,” she said. “He is not a murderer. He would hurt no one. If I had known, I would have stopped him.”
“We have photos, news film, CCTV, and the word of a CIA agent to prove that it was him.”
“They would not do this. I would not let them do this,” she protested. “You are wrong. That’s not what happened.”
“They were seen leaving the scene of the explosion in a motor launch. So, Ms. Jurić, where are they?”
She stopped and turned her head away from the detective, then put her hands together on her lap. “I have no idea.”
“What do you know about an Arab terrorist group in Venice?” Lugano pressed.
“I don’t know anything about terrorists in Venice. I’m here to show that Kozak is a war criminal, he is the terrorist. Ask Agent Castillo. He will tell you that.”
“What I want to know is where your son is and where the terrorists are.”
“I do not know,” Marika protested weakly.
The questions continued for another hour. Twice, the nurses came in to check on Marika. She waved them off both times.
“Where is your son?” the officer asked for the umpteenth time.
“I don’t know. Please stop. I have no idea. I don’t remember anything that happened.”
Through the glass window of the room, Marika saw Javier and Alex. “Ask him, he knows what happened.” She raised her bandaged arm and pointed at Javier.
The detective left the room, closing the door behind him.
Alex watched Marika through the window. The woman glared at her.
“She has told us nothing new,” Lugano said to Javier. Seeing Alex, he did a double take. “Who are you?”
“A tourist,” Alex said.
“What’s your relationship with that woman? Are you her sister?”
“No. And no relationship at all,” Alex said. “It’s just a coincidence that we look alike.”
“Passport, please.”
Alex removed the new document from her bag and gave it to the officer. He checked it.
“No customs stamp, no entry stamps. In fact, this passport looks new.”
Javier explained the theft of Alex’s purse and the loss of necessary documents but conveniently left out the Kozak kidnapping and the rescue. “The government of the United States tries to help its citizens the best it can,” he added.
“Since when?” Lugano huffed. “This is all too strange.”
“You’re telling me,” Alex answered.
“My inclination is to arrest Ms. Jurić and hold her until her side of the story can be verified and her son is caught. She says she is staying at the Ai Reali. Is that correct, Special Agent Castillo?”
“Yes. She has a suite. She needs to rest. I believe that she was caught up in this and that her son used her as a cover for Kozak’s assassination. I will vouch for her and make sure she doesn’t leave.”
“I’ve already taken her passport; she can’t leave the country. In fact, I would ask you to ensure that she does not leave Venice.”
“I have been assigned by my government to help as best I can,” Javier said. “Is Ms. Jurić free to go?”
“For now,” Lugano said. “I will have more questions tomorrow.” He continued to stare at Alex, a question forming on his lips.
“What?” Alex said, exasperated.
“Nothing, Ms. Polonia. Stay around. I may have more questions for you as well.”
Javier signaled a water taxi in front of the hospital. In the dark of the evening, the taxi then circumnavigated the island and entered the Grand Canal and the side canal that fronted the Ai Reali. Alex, Javier, and Marika disembarked. Marika hadn’t said a word since they left the hospital. Alex could see that she wanted to ask about Ehsan but was never able to get past his name.
In Marika’s suite, a news video of the San Samuele dock exploding and the boat overturning played over and over on the flat-screen TV sitting above the honor bar. It was mesmerizing without the sound.
Alex watched as Marika lit a cigarette, inhaled, and turned to Javier. “What happened, Agent Castillo? All I can remember is seeing Kozak arrive, then waking up in the hospital. Was what that detective said true? Did Ehsan do those things?”
“Yes. After he shot the bodyguard, Kozak, and then Vuković, he turned toward Alex. It looked like he was going to shoot her too.”
“Is that when you tried to kill my son?” Marika said, turning to Alex.
“Yes,” Alex said. “I had to stop him. I could not let him leave. Or kill me.”
“Yet, as I’ve found out”—she pointed to the television—“he did manage to escape.”
“One of his friends began shooting an automatic weapon from the canal,” Alex said. “There was nothing else we could do.”
“There it is. I knew that the two of you are CIA agents. This whole ruse of you being a tourist, it did not fool Ehsan or me. He knew, and now I’m sure. Were you going to take my place after this and then have the United States take all the glory?”
“What? You are crazy,” Alex said. “Maybe as crazy as your son.”
Marika swirled the drink that Alex had made and stared out the window into the canal. Smoke from her cigarette swirled around her head. “How could I have been such a fool? He left clues every time we talked about the war, subtle things about revenge and justice. I thought he was talking about his work, making sure that the criminals were eventually caught and prosecuted. I never imagined . . .”
“Vengeance can be a powerful motivator, especially if it is your family,” Alex said. “In my profession, I have seen it more times than I want to remember.”
“For the first few years he was with me, he was a lost child,” Marika said. “I did everything I could to make him happy. We traveled, he attended good schools, he made friends—children like him who had lost so much because of the war. When he was fifteen, we took a driving trip through Bosnia and Herzegovina. When we passed through the Lašva Valley and stopped in Ahmići, he just stared out the window—wouldn’t leave the car. When I asked him why, he said it was the ghosts. He could see the ghosts, and they wanted him to stay. Later, as an adult, he told me he did go back.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex said.
“Why are you here?” Marika asked Alex. “Why you, why us? Ehsan believes you are a spy working with him.” She pointed the cigarette at Javier. “Who is this woman?”
Alex looked at Javier, then back at Marika. A hundred thoughts bounced around in her head. None landed.<
br />
“A very confused cop on vacation in Venice,” Alex said. “That is it. Really—that is all it is. My life is a disaster. I came here to escape, to put it all behind me, even if for a week. Even in Venice, as I’ve found out, that is impossible.”
Marika smiled. “Yes, that might be true. Maybe you are telling the truth. Like I believed that the Americans would help me.” She glared at Javier. “Now Kozak and his jackals are dead, and you tell me my son and his friends are murderers and wanted as terrorists. I fear that the authorities will not let them live long. My heart is shattered.” She crushed out one cigarette and lit another. “This is all my fault, not theirs. I should have let the dead lie in whatever peace they could find. There will always be men like Kozak; we have no way of cutting them out of society, short of what my son did. They are worse than cancer—cancer kills the body, but these vermin poison and kill the soul. Yes, I understand why Ehsan had to do it. He did it because the civilized governments failed him; they failed the ghosts of his family.”
Marika reached for her phone and punched in a number.
CHAPTER 43
After leaving Ehsan near the train station, Asmir and Cvijetin headed east. Their only hope was to disappear into the ragged hills along the border between Italy and Slovenia. The Toyota wound its way among the roads flanked with patchwork fields of cornstalk stubble and barren vineyards north of Sagrado. After crossing the Isonzo River, they climbed the narrow road toward the village of San Martino del Carso. Signs along the road pointed to dozens of World War I memorials erected to the insane battles in these mountains a hundred years earlier, between the Italian armies and the Austro-Hungarians, that left more than a half million dead.
The midafternoon sun was now disappearing into thick clouds drifting in from the sea; the bare tree branches overhanging the road obscured the light. A gray haze of snow and fog rapidly developed as the temperature dropped and they ascended into the hills. Three miles beyond the village of San Martino, they began to look for the dirt road that would lead them to the Slovenian border and Opatje Selo.
“It was along here,” Asmir said. “The odometer said three point six kilometers from San Martino when we drove it last month. It’s along here.”
“Everything is different now,” Cvijetin said, staring out into the thickening fog and the snow dusting the ground. “Everything.”
Asmir looked into the gloom. “There, the sign to Gorizia and Trieste. Only a little farther.”
He slowed to a stop at the next intersection. He looked right, then left, into the thick murkiness; he could barely see the road ahead. As Asmir began to accelerate, bright headlights came up suddenly from behind, and a blue light flashed on the roof of the car.
“Police, dammit,” Cvijetin said. “Go, go!”
Hundreds of dark-green Italian cypress trees—like tall black sentries—flashed by in the gloom to their right, and a granite slope, covered with scree and boulders, climbed upward to the left and disappeared into the fog. The police car kept pace behind them; there was no siren. They flew past the turn they needed to take to reach Opatje Selo.
“We can’t outrun the police radio. We have to find a way off this road. There will be a dozen cars here in minutes,” Asmir said.
Cvijetin reached between the seats, dragged the blue nylon bag toward him, and retrieved one of the AK-47s. He pulled the magazine, checked it, then jammed it back in place. He then lowered the window. “When I say ‘now,’ slow down. I’ll try to disable it.”
“Damn!” Asmir yelled as the rear end of a truck suddenly appeared through the fog directly ahead. He slammed on the brakes. “Now.”
Cvijetin pulled himself through the window, aimed the rifle, and fired a burst into the grillwork of the blue-and-white sedan. The bullets instantly sheared coolant hoses and cracked the block of the engine. Steam forced its way through the edges of the hood. Cvijetin fired again; the left tire began to deflate. The driver of the police cruiser jerked the car to the side of the road. Its blue light was instantly lost to the fog. Cvijetin returned to his seat.
Asmir accelerated and drew close to the truck. The large shipping container secured to the trailer all but blocked the view of the road ahead. The truck began to slow. A highway median split the road on the left; a steel guardrail hugged the right side.
“Maybe he’s just going to turn,” Asmir said as more blue flashing lights appeared in his rearview mirror. “Police.”
The truck came to an abrupt stop.
“Could be a roadblock,” Cvijetin said. “What now?”
Beyond the truck, blue lights intermittently flashed. The fog and snow flurries enshrouded them.
“I’m going to try the other side. Hold tight.”
Asmir turned hard left and sped past the truck, bounced through the soft median, and felt the undercarriage scrape the gravel. He turned into oncoming traffic. More blue-and-white patrol cars appeared in the middle of the road. He aimed at a gap between two of the cars and pushed the accelerator. The opening, only as wide as the car, allowed him just enough room to accelerate through.
Instantly, holes began to appear in the windshield to his right, and the rear window crashed. More bullets passed through the car, just missing his shoulder and head and puncturing the windshield. Then the shooting stopped. Using the side mirror, he looked back; the snow had completely hidden the roadblock from view. He turned to Cvijetin. His boyhood friend stared at him, blood over his hands and arms. With each beat of his heart, a small spurt of blood from his neck showered the dashboard.
“My God!” Asmir screamed and pulled to the roadside. He ran to the passenger’s side and carefully helped his friend to the ground. Pushing against the wound was no use—the bullet had ripped away a quarter of Cvijetin’s throat. His friend looked imploringly at Asmir, fear on his face. He grabbed Asmir’s hand and squeezed it hard, then lay still. Asmir continued to push against the wound, screaming, “No!” Blood covered his arms.
Asmir released the pressure on his dead friend’s neck. The wailing of sirens pierced the thick, snow-filled air. He reached into the vehicle, pulled the rifle from the floor well, and took a position behind the car. He braced his arms in the V between the open door and the car’s frame, and waited.
The police suddenly pushed through the fog like angry white wraiths flying and screaming from hell. Asmir intentionally fired into the roadway ahead of the vehicles. Bullets exploded off the pavement, leaving sparks as they ricocheted into the oncoming cars. The police cars pulled to the left and right and slid to a stop on the roadside. Officers dismounted and took defensive positions behind their cars. He continued to fire, every bullet aimed twenty feet over the heads of the police.
Asmir heard the return fire hit the rental car, heard the side windows explode. He raised the rifle and fired once more. When he pulled the trigger again, nothing happened; the magazine was empty. He kneeled to the side of his friend, kissed his bloody fingers, and placed them on Cvijetin’s cheek.
“For our families,” he said. He raised the weapon to his shoulder and began to walk into the falling snow and toward the police cars.
CHAPTER 44
From his seat, Ehsan watched the lagoon pass on both sides of the train. To the right, paralleling the railroad tracks, was the Via della Libertà, the vehicular causeway that led to Venice. As the train slowed and approached Venice’s Santa Lucia terminal, three black SUVs roared by on the roadway, their blue police lights flashing through the front windshields. The falling snow swirled in great billows behind them. There was no other vehicular traffic entering Venice. He took a deep breath and wrapped his wool scarf around his face, hoping that his luck would hold and they would be looking at those trying to leave, not enter, Venice.
He swiftly walked through the station. Hundreds of passengers, stranded by the order to stop all outgoing trains, milled about. Some talked with police in military uniforms, distracting them as he walked past. More than once he saw people imploring the police to allow them to
move toward the idling trains, trains that were not going to leave the island that day.
Ehsan found a small, half-filled coffee shop on the far side of the canal that fronted the train station. He ordered an espresso and took a seat in the corner farthest from the door. A muted TV hung above the back bar. On the screen, a microphone in his face, a policeman was talking to a reporter. Two dozen people stood at the espresso bar, cell phones to their ears, their individual voices lost in the babel of excuses and explanations. Occasionally, they would look up at the ongoing report of the bombing on the canal. The crawler at the bottom of the screen read “Six Dead.” He slipped the scarf low enough to take a sip, his eyes never leaving the door. After turning on his cell phone, he saw ten messages—all from his mother.
His mother—she was alive. The last thing he remembered from the campo was her lying on the stone pavement, the wooden lectern on top of her. He shuddered to think how cruel he’d been to leave her—such an arrogant and stupid fool. The shock on Kozak’s dying face did seem to make it all worthwhile; yes, vengeance was sweet, yet with a caustic, bitter aftertaste. Kozak and Vuković were now ghosts, the latest victims of a war a quarter-century dead. Yet, remembering how he’d left his mother—the woman who had saved his life and raised him as her own—cut sharply into his heart.
Then the paranoia returned. Maybe it isn’t her; maybe someone else is using her phone to trap me. Perhaps that woman who looked like his mother—Alexandra something. Why was she here? And that fool CIA agent. Ehsan knew they could find him using his phone when it was on. Were they tracking him now? Were they just outside, waiting for him?
Then his face appeared on the TV, his passport photo along with photos of Asmir and Cvijetin. Next he saw the image of a white car silhouetted in bright camera lights, where a reporter stood facing the camera. The white car’s windows were shattered, and the door was riddled with bullet holes. Flashing blue police lights reflected off the wet surface of the car; snow lay on the ground. A blue tarp covered something on the ground next to the car; a portion of one leg and shoe was left uncovered. The camera zoomed in on the ghoulish sight of the shoe. Ehsan recognized the black-and-white running shoe; it was the kind that Cvijetin loved to jog in. Crawling across the bottom of the screen was a message that read “Due bombe esplose, sospetti mortar durante la separatory con la polizia.”
Venice Black (Alex Polonia Thriller Book 1) Page 22