Requiem for a Gypsy

by Michael Genelin

  Jana gave a slight assenting nod to Smid’s breaking of the rules. “Sorry to interrupt your meal, Smid, but I want you to look at a photo and then tell me what you can about it.”

  “Sure, Commander.” He wiped his hands on a napkin, pushed his nearly finished meal to one side, and gingerly took the photograph she handed him by its corners, laying it in front of himself.

  “A tattoo that I think may have started out in Slovakia but that wound up on a dead man in France,” Jana explained.

  “One of our exports that went bad?”

  Jana smiled at the joke. “Possibly.”

  Smid studied the photo of the tattoo for a few moments and then nodded, looking up. “I recognize it.” Smid’s tone carried a sense of pride. “I always come through.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The Hlinka Guard. Second World War, under Tiso. Their salute was the same as the Nazis’, only the Hlinkas said Na Straz instead of Heil. The Nas Boj faction of the Guard was the worst of the worst. Ugly men. They operated under the SS and murdered anyone they could, given half an excuse. The Nas Boj led the roundups of the partisans and Jews and gypsies, all the while stealing everything they could get their hands on for themselves. Criminals; all of them murderers and thieves. Estates, jewels, money, gold … and women.”

  He looked more closely at the photograph. “I didn’t know any were still around. Most of them were killed by the Russians. Some of them on the Eastern Front. More at the time of the occupation. Others fled with the Nazis when they retreated. They didn’t survive either. Well, a couple of them here and there.” He looked up at Jana. “He also could have been one of their children. A number of the creatures were so proud of their nastiness that they had their own babies tattooed. As the old saying goes, ‘Like father, like son.’”

  He handed the photo of the tattoo back to Jana. “Did you get this man’s name?”

  “They didn’t know it.”

  “When I said they were thieves, I wasn’t joking. The few that did survive were known to continue practicing their criminal professions after the war. I had some of them in here. Check the records in the old files. We logged them.”

  “You and your son want to earn a few euros?”

  Smid knew the old records like no one else. He’d even trained his son, now the proprietor of an old and rare stamp shop. Lawyers, prosecutors, private counsel, or the department itself would occasionally pay the duo to go through the voluminous non-computerized portion of the police records to find the odd bit of information that was needed in a case.

  “My son can use it more than I can, but what the hell? It’s fun working together with him, so why not?”

  “I’ll approve it.”

  “Three days’ work,” Smid suggested.

  “I know the two of you. No extra day; no extra money. All you get is one day.”

  “Two days.”

  “A day and a half,” Jana countered.

  “Done.”

  She dropped the photograph in front of him.

  “Thank you, Smid.”

  Jana turned to go.

  “If anything’s there, I’ll find it,” he called after her.

  “I know you will.”

  She walked out.

  Chapter 3

  The financier Oto Bogan’s party was a high-profile affair for Slovakia, ostensibly put on to celebrate Bogan’s name day; but its real purpose was to flaunt his most recent acquisition, a small bank in Vienna, as well as to show off his growing international celebrity status. All the invitations for the gala carried the logo of the bank.

  The party was also about Bogan’s own flirtation with a political life. He had been floating the idea of a future run for a parliamentary seat. The coverage of the social event would keep the potential voters enthralled and bring into his ambit people who might consider involving themselves with him politically.

  His wife owned the only movie studio in Slovakia, a gift to her from Bogan, a rather dilapidated facility with two small soundstages on the edge of Bratislava. It was used, on rare occasions, by foreign film companies; but for the last year it had lain dormant, somewhat to the chagrin of Mrs. Bogan, who thought she’d be getting additional cash flow to make her husband an even larger force in national politics.

  The party was taking place in the smaller of the soundstages. The front of the building had been painted, but that hadn’t done much to make the building look like anything but what it was: a vaguely forbidding cracked-stucco box enclosing an uninviting interior. To try to cover up the drabness, balloons and ribbons had been strung inside the barn-like structure. A band was playing at one end. A dance floor, especially laid down for the party, was filled with couples; tables laden with food and bottles of cheap champagne occupied the other end of the stage.

  The one thing Slovaks cannot resist is a free meal with wine and music, so they had come in droves. Jana had arrived as late as she could without risking getting anyone angry at her tardiness.

  She had, as Trokan insisted, come in her dress uniform, to “wave the flag” of the police, entering the soundstage with a great deal of misgiving. Jana disliked this kind of event and knew she was going to be both bored and angry with herself by the end of the evening. She didn’t like being a functionary with no substantial purpose except as a spear-carrier in a soap opera.

  Jana put on her best face, the pleasant, nonthreatening “how can I help you” civil servant face, and consoled herself with the thought that the colonel was going to be suffering along with her. She looked for Trokan, hoping he was already with Bogan so that they could get on with their business and then leave the event as quickly and gracefully as possible. She pushed through the crowd, people moving out of her way as soon as they saw her uniform. She greeted the people she recognized, all the while hoping to spot the colonel. Ahead, she saw Bogan dressed in a tuxedo, surrounded by well-wishers, everyone trying to get their few seconds with him, all of them faithful followers or wannabes.

  Trokan was not in the group. Jana began to rove through the crowd in increasingly wider circles, trying to find him. She saw a former friend who was now a legislator, and the two of them nodded as they passed, neither of them wanting to pick up a conversation—or the friendship. She noticed a short man, rather garishly dressed, whom she’d put in prison a few years before, apparently now released and sufficiently rehabilitated to be invited to a political hopeful’s party. The man saw her, fear distorting his mouth before he quickly looked away. It aroused her police instincts. Perhaps the man had obtained entry with a stolen invitation? No, she told herself. He wouldn’t be stupid enough to advertise his presence in such attention-grabbing clothes if that were the case. Besides, she thought, rejecting her impulse to confront him, she was present tonight merely for show, rather than as a police officer on duty. She moved on.

  Jana continued to recognize others, but still no Trokan. She decided to have a glass of champagne. She eased her way over to the drinks table, where a bartender was pouring plastic flutes of champagne and setting them on the table for the guests to help themselves. She took one of the flutes, then turned and surveyed the room. It was rapidly becoming more crowded, to the point that there was very little room for people to move without treading on some other guest’s toes. She caught a glimpse of someone across the room, a slender man with an erect, alert posture. She saw him only for an instant before he was concealed by the shifting groups of people between them. Seeing the man gave her a shock. If he was who she thought he was, she had a right to be shocked.

  Jana began shouldering her way through the intervening crowd. People reluctantly moved aside, giving her withering stares for ignoring party etiquette by being so aggressive, the most aggrieved throwing out angry comments behind her. After skirting the dance floor, she could no longer see the man. Jana grabbed a chair that had just been vacated by a woman going to the dance floor and stood on it, peering over the crowd. She spotted the man’s head wedging through the swell of people, moving toward the lar
ge front doors. Even though she could not see his face, she was more convinced than ever that it was him. Jana jumped off the chair and began weaving through the crowd more aggressively than before, angling toward the front doors. The man was now clearly in sight as he went through them. Thirty seconds later, Jana cut through the same exit.

  She glimpsed his head inside the right rear of a black sedan as it drove off. It had to be him. Jana started to run after the vehicle, but there was no way she could have caught up with it. She stopped just as Trokan drove up, parking in a spot reserved for him near the door. He got out, looking smart in his dress uniform, and stood still, watching her. Jana tried to cover her frustration at not being able to stop the man in the sedan and confirm his identity. Taking a deep breath, she walked over to Trokan, pasted a genial expression on her face, and gestured at the façade of the soundstage.

  “Bogan’s had the front painted and left the other sides drab, peeling and ugly.”

  Trokan grimaced, checking out the building.

  “A Potemkin palace. Just the façade prettied up. Very Slavic. And still drab.” The colonel looked back at Jana. “You seemed about to chase after that car. Remember, you’re a commander. Commanders don’t give out traffic citations.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, taking off his greatcoat and folding it over his arm. “You think you can catch the car, just go right ahead.”

  “I believe it was Makine. He was at the party.”

  Trokan was visibly jolted by the news.

  “Are we talking about the Makine who is also called Koba? The criminal Makine? The murderer Makine?” He reflected on the possibility. “I find it difficult to conceive of Makine coming to this party. Wanted men generally like to keep low profiles.”

  “I know what Makine looks like.”

  “You’re absolutely sure that it was him?”

  “I only caught a glimpse of his face, but for me it was enough.”

  “So we think it was him, but there’s a doubt.”

  Jana hesitated. “… Yes.”

  “Brief looks and questionable identifications aren’t enough to start a general manhunt.” He eyed her. “You really believe you saw the man in the flesh?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay.” He paused, looking uneasy. “When was the last time one police agency or another reported him dead?”

  “A year and a half ago. In Belarus. He was reported cornered in a building. There was a shoot-out. They hit the structure with a pair of shoulder rockets. It started a fire. Afterward, there was half a body found. Nothing really positive on the ID of the corpse, only the word of an informant who led them to the location. He collected a reward.”

  “How many times has our friend Makine/Koba been pronounced deceased?”

  “Eight or nine times, maybe more. But, he always turns up alive. We should act on this.”

  Trokan considered what to do. He knew that Matinova was rarely wrong. However, starting a massive search on the basis of split-second recognition was not practical. He decided to compromise.

  “Put out a bulletin on the man. Say he is reported to be in Slovakia, possibly in Bratislava. It will at least alert the street cops.”

  “Koba has to be after something that’s worth the risk of showing his face at a gala in Bratislava. He’s obviously into something important.”

  “If he’s here,” Trokan reminded her.

  “He’s a risk-taker. It’s the kind of thing he’d do for a sufficient payoff.”

  “Maybe.” Trokan shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in this crazy world, particularly in his mind?” He walked toward the entrance, Jana falling into step with him. “Everything we do has a touch of insanity in it, and he’s even more insane than we are.” They went inside, the sound of the party hitting them suddenly. “Lots of people. It must have cost a treasure chest full of money.”

  “Bogan has enough.”

  “Never. Rich people always want more. Where is he?”

  “The man is holding court on the other side of the room.”

  They began their effort to get through the crowd.

  “I want to check with my sources on what they have on Koba being in Slovakia,” Jana said. “Any problems with that?”

  Trokan shrugged again. “If you want to make more work for yourself, that’s your business. As usual, keep me apprised.”

  He glanced at Jana, noting her sober expression.

  “When we meet Bogan, for God’s sake, put a smile on your face. Hang on his every word. Use the feminine wiles that all you sisters are so famous for. I want him to talk to the minister about how much he likes our community policing concept. Perhaps we can even suggest that Bogan supply the department with a small gift of capital that we need for opening that community storefront as a real program. Right now it’s just a proposal on a piece of paper. So, show your pearly white teeth.”

  “I’m a police officer. Police officers aren’t supposed to smile, and I’m certainly not good at seducing businessmen.”

  “Try, Matinova!”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  They got to the edge of the group clustered around Bogan. The colonel, as politely as possible, edged his way through with Jana following until the two of them finally reached Bogan. As soon as he saw them, his face lit up. He took a step toward them and shook the colonel’s hand.

  “Congratulations on your name day,” Trokan told him.

  The financier swung to Jana, shaking her hand as well.

  “Best wishes, Mr. Bogan,” Jana got out.

  “Did you know that my name day is the same as … ?” He tried to think of the man and failed. “Too much to drink,” he apologized. “I’m doubly celebrating, for both him and me.” He cackled at his joke. “My wife, who is somewhere back there …” Bogan waved toward the rear of the room. “She says that I’m doubly lucky, not only because the name days coincided, but because I also have her.” He pointed to an area up in the rafters. A banner hanging from a large crossbeam read: KLARA IS MY DOUBLE LUCK.

  The financier laughed again. “She loved seeing her name hanging in the rafters.” He took both Jana and the colonel by the arm, excusing himself from the group around him by citing the need to talk about police business, and walked them some distance away to a small space behind one of the food tables so they could talk with a degree of privacy. The colonel had barely started in on his speech about the virtues of the new community policing program when Bogan’s wife, an extravagantly dressed full-figured woman with an air of aggressive sexuality, came bustling up.

  “Oto.” She kissed Bogan on the cheek. “I think everything is going splendidly, don’t you?” She was wearing a flowing evening gown with a large rope of semiprecious stones plunging into extreme décolletage. “It’s time for the cake, and then we’ll all sing, and everyone will be very happy for you, particularly me, and we will have started you on your way to becoming the newest member of parliament,” she said in a single breath. Hardly pausing to inhale, she patted Trokan on the shoulder, deliberately ignoring Jana, and then continued talking. “I’m so glad to see you, Colonel Trokan. I trust you’re here to respond to the death threat against my husband.”

  Trokan looked from Klara to her husband, then back again. “I haven’t heard about any death threat against your husband, Mrs. Bogan.”

  “I was just going to tell him, Klara.” Bogan put a hand on his wife’s shoulder in reassurance, turning to Trokan. “I was informed a short time ago that a story is circulating that I’m about to be assassinated. Why would anyone want to assassinate me, you ask? I haven’t the vaguest idea.”

  “Some people just don’t like famous and powerful men, darling,” Klara said. “So, Colonel Trokan, what are you going to do about protecting my husband?”

  “This was not a joke, Mr. Bogan?” the colonel asked.

  “I didn’t think so,” said Klara, a slight tone of offense in her voice as she answered for her husband. “My husband and I were shocked.”

  “I am a little con
cerned,” Bogan admitted.

  “Of course you are, darling.” Klara stroked her husband’s arm. “I certainly am.”

  “Who told you that you were being targeted, Mr. Bogan?” the colonel asked.

  When Bogan hesitated, Jana chimed in. “Were you given any specifics, Mr. Bogan?”

  There was a sudden fanfare from the band, then a long drumroll. The lights in the massive room blinked on and off. Finally, a spotlight swept over the guests and came to rest on a huge multitiered birthday cake being towed into the room by a small tractor. A second spotlight found Bogan and his wife. The guests applauded, and Bogan waved to the darkened audience. Klara pulled him by the sleeve, laughingly towing him through the crowd toward the cake. People clapped him on the back, and both husband and wife shook hands with friends and acquaintances as they passed, the spotlight staying on them the whole time.

  “For a man who has been told that he may be assassinated, he doesn’t seem to mind walking under a spotlight,” Jana ventured.

  Trokan grimaced. “The wife will blame it on us if it happens. So will everyone else.”

  “Of course.”

  They exchanged glances, knowing what they had to do, and they began moving after the Bogans, gaining ground on them thanks to all the well-wishers slowing the Bogans down.

  “They’re not going to like it if we pull the name-day boy out of his dream life,” Trokan muttered.

  “It’ll be worse if we have to cart his body out of here.”

  “Go easy when we get to him.”

  “They won’t go easy.”

  “We act like we’re his bodyguards, the prow of a ship moving them through this sea of people,” Trokan said.

  “Very poetic, but not very effective. It won’t work.”

  They caught up with Bogan and his wife. The colonel leaned toward Bogan. “If you’re the target of an assassination attempt, putting yourself in the spotlight is very brave, but not very smart.”