by Glenn Meade
“You spoke with Baize?”
“She called me today. I guess she’s worried about you. She said you went to see the therapist who once treated you. That he gave you a diary to read.”
“You read my mother’s diary?”
“No, but Baize told Jan and I you had it in your possession when they found you.”
“Did Baize ask you to speak with me?”
Paul toyed with his swizzle stick.
“No, she didn’t, Carla. But I wanted to remind you.”
“Of what?”
“That the men who killed Jan are hard and violent gangsters.”
“Come on, Paul, don’t you think I know that?”
“You seemed noncommittal the last time we spoke.”
“So?”
“Afterward I had a funny feeling. Call it an intuition.”
“Intuition about what?”
“That you might try to avenge Jan’s death in some way.”
“Why did you think that?”
“You’re a lawyer. Injustice enrages you. Jan always said that.”
“What else did he say?”
“That you’d walk over broken glass to ensure that justice triumphed over the guilty.”
“The law doesn’t always triumph. Killers are not always caught. Sometimes they get away scot-free.”
“That’s the part that worried me.”
“Why?”
“That somehow you might decide to take the law into your own hands.”
“What gave you that impression?”
“You’ve always been a determined woman, Carla. You loved Jan. Loved him enough to want to see his killers punished.”
“Want is not a crime.”
“No, but I felt I had to make it absolutely clear you understand these people won’t hesitate to kill you and your baby if you make trouble for them.”
“Listen, I’ve read all I need to about the Serb mafia’s involvement in drug smuggling, prostitution, human trafficking, murder, and fraud. Enough to do me a lifetime.”
“Then please, steer well clear of them.”
“I heard your warning the first time, Paul. Is that why you wanted to see me?”
He took a big mouthful of Scotch. “No. It’s something I didn’t tell you when we last met. I guess you know that to this day there are still digs going on to unearth massacre sites?”
“Yes, I know.”
“The International Commission on Missing Persons, the ICMP, in Sarajevo oversees many of the forensic excavations. They keep DNA data banks of the victims they’ve discovered.”
“I know that, too. I spoke to them the other day.”
“You did?”
“Baize gave them a sample of my DNA years ago in the hopes they would find a link to my family. I wanted to check up on it. The woman said she’ll get back to me.”
“And did she?”
“Not yet. Why?”
“Jan often kept in touch with the commission, hoping they might eventually turn up news about your family. Baize had told him about giving your DNA sample.”
“Spit it out, Paul. I’m not in the mood for suspense.”
“Jan was planning to fly to Europe this week.”
“Why?”
“Carla, I didn’t tell Baize, and I think it’s best we don’t until we know the facts. But no doubt the commission will confirm it to you.”
“Confirm what?”
“Jan learned that a mass grave site was discovered near Omarska recently.”
“I know. The woman told me.”
“That’s all you learned?”
“Like I said, she promised to get back. Why?”
Paul put down his glass. “No doubt she’ll get around to telling you what they told Jan. I thought it only right to tell you, face-to-face. I figured maybe you’d want to make travel arrangements.”
“For what reason?”
“They’ve got a DNA match to your family, Carla.”
29
* * *
NEW JERSEY
That same afternoon a Lufthansa Airbus A340 touched down at JFK from Frankfurt after a bumpy eight-hour flight across the Atlantic.
Two hours later passenger Boris Arkov was cruising in his GMC Denali along Highway 9, past Atlantic City, and heading in the direction of Cape May.
America’s oldest seaside resort was popular since the early 1800s. Turreted Gothic mansions, charming summer cottages, and rambling Victorian townhouses with white picket fences. He turned off the highway and drove toward a row of impressive beach houses overlooking Delaware Bay, yachts and sailboats riding the water.
Arkov’s cell rang. He answered gruffly. “Yeah?”
A male voice said, “It’s about the woman.”
“I’m listening.”
The caller spoke for several minutes, until Arkov said, “Good job. Keep on it. I want to know if anything else important turns up.”
And Arkov flicked off his cell phone and grinned to himself.
• • •
The Cape May property was a large terra-cotta-colored stucco built on a sandy inlet facing the bay. It was ringed by a high wall, the entrance from the main road protected by tall steel gates with security cameras.
Arkov pressed the intercom buzzer.
Moments later the motorized security camera swung left and right as a bodyguard inside the house observed the visitor’s arrival, and then the gate yawned open.
• • •
Arkov moved through the impressive marble hallway and walked out to the back of the house, past the swimming pool.
A rockery with steps led down to a wrought iron gate, inlaid with the design of an imperial eagle. Past the exit was a private boardwalk.
The property had its own boat dock jutting into the inlet. A polished black powerboat with a massive Mercury engine was tied up.
All part of the owner’s contingency plans, Arkov knew.
If ever a hasty getaway was needed, the powerboat was just one of several ways of escape. A quick call to a trusty clan member farther up the coast and a safe house was at their disposal.
He entered the code and slipped out the gate.
A burly middle-aged man stood at the edge of the boardwalk, a fishing rod in his hand.
Mila Shavik wore white linen trousers rolled up to the knees, and a pale blue Tommy Bahama shirt. He jerked the rod a few times, trying to entice a bite.
“Any luck with dinner?” Arkov asked, joining him.
Shavik kicked at the blue plastic bucket beside him on the boardwalk, and it splashed water. “Today is not a good day. You don’t have the patience for fishing, do you, Boris?”
Mila Shavik’s English was fluent but his accent unmistakably Slavic. His tanned, lived-in face had deep creases. His pale gray eyes were washed out looking and his mouth was set hard with discontent, almost as if he’d seen too much of life and was wearied by it.
“It never was my thing,” Arkov replied.
Shavik flicked the rod again. “You should try it sometime. You’ll learn that skill and patience have their reward.”
Arkov lit a cigarette, took a drag. “Give it a rest. You’re beginning to sound like my old man.”
Shavik was acutely aware of the sullen tone in Arkov’s voice, a hint of the uneasy resentment that existed between son and adopted son.
“Well, did you enjoy the wine? What did your father have you try? Red or white?”
“The white.”
“Last year I tried the white. I had stomach cramps for two days. When I got back to New York, I didn’t need a limo, I needed an ambulance.”
“He’s happy with the figures; that’s all that’s important. He’ll meet us when he flies in to do the pickup.”
“And the other business?”
“He thinks we need to lie low.”
“Any lower and I’ll be on my back.”
“He wants us to be ready to leave the U.S. as a precaution.”
“What?”
“It
worries him the woman could create problems.”
“Why?”
“She’s a trained prosecutor.”
“So?”
“She may start sniffing around. If she does and there’s the slightest hint that the police or FBI are on to us, we’re to do our disappearing act.”
“Explain.”
Arkov held up his cell phone. “I got a call while I was on the way here. One of the guys I’m using to tail her.”
“What about it?”
“She was seen talking with a well-known New York Times journalist in a coffee shop in New York. He’s written about the Serb mafia before, and covered the war back home. Talking to a journalist like that, she’s got to be making connections to us. That makes me nervous.”
Shavik slammed a fist hard on the boardwalk’s wooden rail.
“I’m going nowhere.”
“It’s an order, Mila.”
“No stupid woman is going to destroy the life I’ve made here.”
“I’m just telling you what my father said.”
“And I say my running days are over.”
“You’d defy my father?”
“I’ve put over fifteen years into growing the business here.” Shavik laid the rod on the rail, and held up his hands. “Worked these fingers to the bone day and night to build Ivan’s empire for him. There’ll be no more running.”
“Then we better be prepared to take care of the woman.”
Shavik switched to his native Serbo-Croat, speaking more rapidly. “Get all the information you can on her.”
“We still have some stuff on the husband.”
“Use that, too. What about the musician’s brother in Arizona?”
Arkov grinned. “Billy cut the throat of the guy’s dog, as a friendly warning. I don’t think he’s the kind who’ll bother us. But the woman’s a different matter. A former prosecutor’s bound to be plucky.”
“Find out everything—her phone numbers, her favorite restaurants, her employer, who her relatives are. Every detail, I don’t care how. Right down to the name of the man who mows her lawn. Does she have kids?”
“Not that we know of. You want me to find out if there’s anyone we can use as leverage? A close relative or friend, parents, a family member . . . ?”
“Whatever, but it must be handled skilfully, so it doesn’t look deliberate. If it looks like someone’s harmed the wife or relatives of Jan Lane so soon after the explosion it could alert the feds.”
“Any other thoughts?”
“Try to focus just on the woman for now. She’s a grieving wife. If need be, we can always make it look like suicide.”
Shavik’s rod jerked violently. He reeled in the line. Seconds later he had a mackerel wriggling on the end of his hook.
He flicked open a long, frightening-looking blade. There was the sound of gristle and bone being cut, and a wash of blood as the mackerel’s head was severed, and the fish expertly gutted.
Shavik flung the fish in the bucket of water, tossed guts into the sea near the powerboat. A rare smile creased his lips as he turned back to Arkov.
“See. All things come to a man who waits.”
30
* * *
KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE
11 A.M.
She hired a car from the Hertz desk at McGhee Tyson Airport and drove north on Interstate 75, the Smoky Mountains in the distance.
When she reached Union County it was after lunch, the sky cloudless and hot. She came around a bend in the narrow road, passing a clutter of lakeside cabins and camping trailers, some of them in need of a little more affection, and maybe a lick of paint.
A notice on one of them proclaimed, “Welcome to a little bit of Hillbilly Heaven.”
Another said, “Banjo lessons. Treat those fingers to a good plucking!”
Up ahead she saw a sign: KILGORE’S UNION COUNTY MARINA.
The marina was a little tired-looking in places, but that seemed all part of its charm. The lakeshore was very beautiful, peppered with wooden holiday cabins and more trailers. Pontoon boats and leisure craft bobbed out on the water or were berthed under metal-roofed docks, and a few dozen houseboats floated out on the lake.
As Carla parked the hire car she saw a blond woman busy working one of the dock’s gas pumps, filling a customer’s boat.
She looked about thirty, very pretty, and wore jeans and a white cotton top.
Next to her was a pale-looking boy in a wheelchair who was no more than twelve or thirteen. He wore beach shorts and a heavy metal T-shirt.
After the blond woman noticed Carla, she finished pumping gas, wiped her hands on a rag, and came over. The boy followed her, palming the chair’s wheels.
“Can I help you, honey?” the woman asked.
“I’m looking for Ronnie Kilgore.”
“Who’s asking?”
“My name’s Carla Lane.”
The woman put her hands on her hips. “Ronnie expecting you?”
“No. But I need to talk with him.”
“About what?”
“It’s private?”
“He a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly, but we’ve met.”
The woman raised an eye. “You’re not with Internal Revenue, are ya?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Ronnie ain’t here right now. He’s gone to Knoxville on business.”
“Is there somewhere I can wait?”
“You could be doing some waiting, honey. He usually doesn’t get back until after eight, or even later.”
Carla sensed an instant dislike in the woman’s tone. She noticed a sign in one of the cabin windows. ASK ABOUT OUR SPECIAL WEEKLY RATES.
“You have a cabin for hire?”
“You fixing on staying?”
“I may.”
“Come into the office.”
She led Carla to the dock office. The boy followed, maneuvering his wheelchair through the widened door.
On the office desk was a plaque with a dummy grenade. A ticket that said “Number 1” was tied with string onto the grenade pin, and a sign on the bottom of the plaque said: COMPLAINT DEPARTMENT. PICK A NUMBER.
The woman consulted the black leather-bound guest book. “I’ve got a cabin. It’ll be a little cheaper if you stay more than one night.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Just one night?”
“It depends.”
“On what, honey?”
“On when I get to talk to Ronnie.”
The woman shrugged, turned to the boy. “Go get the lady some fresh sheets and towels, Josh.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The boy wheeled himself toward a storeroom at the back.
The woman slapped shut the guest book. “There’s a Food Lion and a Dollar General nearby where you can get some groceries if you need them, or there’s a restaurant here at the dock. We fix breakfast and snacks. For dinner, you’ve got a couple of bars in the area, or you can drive into Harrogate or LaFollette. Let me show you the cabin.”
• • •
She led Carla across the gravel to one of the A-frame wooden cabins, steps leading up to the front door.
The rooms were simple, fresh and clean, and there was a small balcony. A panoramic window looked out onto the lake.
“This one’s got a pretty view if you like sunsets. Where you from?”
“New York.”
“I thought so. We don’t get too many New Yorkers in these parts. Most of our customers come from Kentucky, Ohio, or Tennessee.”
“The cabin’s fine. I’ll take it.” She wrote on a slip of paper.
“Could you give this to Ronnie when he gets back, and tell him I’d like to see him?”
The woman nodded, took the note. “I’ll get the paperwork done and you can sign in.”
Carla looked out at the view. It was exceptional. A smoky haze swathed the forested slopes, the lake calm as a mirror. There was something about the landscape that brought back echoes of her
mother’s homeland: misted mountains and deep gorges, thick forests and calm lakes.
“It’s really very beautiful.”
The woman smiled for the first time. “Yeah. We call it the Redneck Riviera around these parts.”
• • •
Carla signed the guest book, and the woman led her back to the cabin, where she changed the bed linen and left fresh towels. “I’ll give you a holler when Ronnie gets back.”
“What’s your name?”
“Regan Kilgore.”
“Thank you.”
“Sure.” The woman nodded and was gone. She seemed a little more pleasant, but Carla sensed a wariness about her.
When she finished unpacking her overnight bag she showered and washed her hair, then went out onto the balcony. Regan and Josh were busy getting ready to give a lick of paint to an old houseboat.
A couple of bass boats drifted by lazily on the lake as fishermen flicked their rods. She felt tired after the early start and the drive, and decided to nap for a few hours.
First, she phoned Paul. He answered on the second ring.
“Carla? Have you booked your flight?”
“I fly out to Dubrovnik tomorrow night, via Rome.”
“I contacted the International Commission on Missing Persons; they’re overseeing the excavation.”
“And?”
“A guy named Kelly will meet you at the airport and drive you to the site the next morning. I guess you’ll need to book a hotel in Dubrovnik.”
“Did you find out the location of the site?”
“It’s only a couple of miles from the Devil’s Hill.”
Her heart instantly felt as if it was dropping into a bottomless pit.
“Are you okay, Carla?”
“Y—yes.”
“I know it’ll be difficult.” Pause. “Are you still there, Carla?”
“Yes.”
“You take care. Give me a call at any time if you need me. Okay?”
The line clicked.
• • •
She shut off her phone and laid it on the nightstand.
The very thought of what she had to do made her quake. To have to go anywhere near the Devil’s Hill again . . .
It was a nightmare she was dreading.