by Otho Eskin
“As you may be aware, Detective Zorn,” the Secretary of State says, “there has recently been a major political upheaval in the country of Montenegro. You know about ethnic cleansing? The Oak Forest and other massacres?”
“I’ve read about them.”
“It was a bloody mess and many people were killed, but, in the end, the forces of democracy prevailed. The man most immediately responsible for the ethnic cleansing was a man named Mykhayl Drach. Have you ever had any contact with a man by that name?”
That’s an awkward question.
“Mykhayl Drach?” I ask. “I can’t say I know the man.” It’s probably against some law or other to lie to the Secretary of State, but I have other, more serious things to worry about. And being lied to is part of his job, isn’t it?
“Janet, please fill Detective Zorn in on why we think there may be a connection.”
“We’ve received reports from the Chicago police that Mykhayl Drach was recently located in Chicago. Your name has come up in that connection.”
“I can’t imagine why,” I say.
“We were wondering if that could have anything to do with why you were requested as liaison by the new prime minister’s government,” the Secretary says. He pauses, hoping I will jump in with something helpful to say. I don’t. Does Leland Cross know more about the Chicago business and is he lying to me? I suppose lying is part of the Secretary of State’s job description, too.
I’m tempted to ask how my name came up with the Chicago business. I decide not to pursue that line. Who knows where it might lead.
“Mykhayl Drach was, to put it bluntly, a mass murderer,” Secretary Cross says. “Nina Voychek was his principal political opponent, and Drach had her arrested several times and brought before a special political tribunal where she was sentenced to death. The sentence was canceled each time at the last minute. When Drach’s regime fell, Nina Voychek was sworn in as the new prime minister of a democratic government. Mykhayl Drach escaped at the last minute from Montenegro and was, until recently, in hiding.
“We have reliable intelligence that Goran Drach, Mykhayl Drach’s brother, plans a coup d’état that is to begin with Nina Voychek’s assassination. Drach is acting, we believe, as the surrogate of the Russian Federation. Nina Voychek’s assassination while she is a guest of our country would not only be a major embarrassment to the US government, it would also be a significant setback to US interests in the region as it would open the doors to Russian influence in that country.”
“Do you know how the assassination is to be carried out?” I ask.
The Secretary looks at Janet Cliff. “Unfortunately, no. I’ve asked the CIA to keep me informed. In the meantime, all we know is that the attack is supposed to take place here in Washington in the next few days. We believe Goran Drach has recruited a professional assassin to carry out the …” He pauses while he tries to find the right word.
“Assassination,” Janet volunteers.
“Thank you, Janet. Please fill in Detective Zorn on your security arrangements.”
“The delegation arrives tomorrow evening at Dulles Airport,” she says. “While traveling to the US, the prime minister’s security is the responsibility of her own people. The moment she steps off that plane, she’s my headache. Our people have already secured the arrival site. Officials from the State Department and the Departments of Defense and Treasury will be there to meet her as will the Ambassador of Montenegro. Arriving with Voychek will be a small delegation.”
“What’s the drill when she arrives?” I ask.
“There will be a few moments of protocol to meet and greet, after which the prime minister and her entourage will be taken by convoy to the residence of the embassy of Montenegro here in DC, where she’ll be staying. While she’s inside the residence her security is the responsibility of her own people. The US government is responsible for the embassy perimeter and for her travel in and around the city and to and from Dulles Airport. Your role is limited—stand by and stay inconspicuous until called upon.”
“I’m good at being inconspicuous.”
“Try real hard.” Janet takes a single sheet of paper from her briefcase. “This is the prime minister’s movements schedule.”
The paper is marked “Secret” in red at the top and at the bottom. I consider taking out my reading glasses but decide against it; there’s no point in adding to the list of my inadequacies I’m sure Janet Cliff is compiling mentally. It’s dated today, Saturday. The delegation from Montenegro arrives tomorrow, early Sunday evening. I skim briefly through the appointments: the State Department; the White House, with photo op; the Pentagon; appointments on Capitol Hill with members of Congress; several press interviews at the Montenegro embassy. She’s scheduled to depart on Friday. One item toward the end of the visit schedule means serious trouble. On Thursday, her last official day in Washington and the day before she leaves the US to return home, a large reception is scheduled to take place at the Lincoln Memorial. I don’t like that at all.
“I’m going to Dulles Airport tomorrow evening to meet the delegation,” Janet Cliff tells me. “Come with me and I’ll give you any last-minute information about the arrangements. Meet me at the diplomatic entrance at five.” She speaks to the Secretary of State. “With your permission, sir.”
“Yes, Janet. Go ahead.”
Janet gets quickly to her feet and looks at me intently. “Don’t be late.”
“I can’t emphasize how important this visit is,” Cross says after Janet Cliff leaves. “It’s vital that Nina Voychek be unharmed. Perhaps you should familiarize yourself with Montenegro and its history: It might give you some perspective.”
I’m really sorry the Secretary of State said that last bit. Montenegro has been a nation, sort of, for three thousand or more years. It’s been the victim of war, revolution, and invasion: the Hittites, Scythians, the Egyptians, Alexander the Great, the Greeks, the Romans, the Crusaders, the Turks, Napoleon, and the Nazis have all stormed in and out of that tiny country.
Now it’s Russia’s turn; the latest chapter in the country’s sorry history. And I’m supposed to prevent it?
Changing the course of human history is not part of my job description.
CHAPTER SIX
THE HOMICIDE DIVISION’S conference room is dreary and dispiriting this morning. The rainstorm that swept into the city last night shows no sign of abating and the streets glisten as cars and buses run with their headlights on bright. Rain spits against the dirty windows, and the room still smells of tobacco, although no one’s been allowed to smoke in here for years.
I call a car rental agency and arrange for them to drop off an inexpensive vehicle for me near police headquarters.
“Good morning,” I say as Lucy enters the conference room.
“Good morning,” Lucy says, sitting opposite me at the conference table. “Were you and Victoria West in love?”
She must have picked up on my reaction when I first saw Vickie’s body last night and must sense that Vickie once meant a great deal to me. Just the same, I’m startled by her question. Lucy and I have an unspoken understanding: we don’t ask about each other’s private lives. When she first joined homicide, I asked her whether she was married; she said no and told me her parents didn’t approve of the men she was seeing. But we never pry into matters unrelated to police business.
“Vickie and I were once very close,” I tell her. “We were both young. She wasn’t much more than twenty when we met; I was twenty-five. It didn’t last long and didn’t end well.”
“What do you mean, it didn’t end well?”
“Vickie was a force of nature: passionate and wild and fervent and she never did anything by half. Whatever captured her attention, she did with full force. That included falling in love. And falling out of love.”
“Since then?”
“We’ve had no contact in years. I haven’t even thought about her.” That part is not entirely true, but Lucy doesn’t need to know th
at. That’s a very personal thing.
“When Miss West was here in Washington, did you meet with her?”
Why is Lucy asking me these things?
“No,” I say.
“You’ve had no contact at all?”
I don’t think Lucy believes me.
“Vickie did send me a note about a week ago. I never replied.”
“I’ll need to see that note.”
“Okay.”
“Did you see her perform at the theater?”
“After our breakup, I never saw her in any performance: on stage or in her movies.”
Lucy looks skeptical but says nothing as Frank Townsend, chief of homicide, arrives. He looks unusually cheerful this morning, despite the weather. He’s followed by a dozen men and women homicide detectives, most clutching coffee containers, some carrying the sports section of The Post. They take their seats, nurse their coffees, and look up sports scores.
“I better let you all know,” I say. “I’ll be away for the next few days. I’ve been put on a special assignment to the State Department as police liaison with a VIP mission.”
“Like hell you are,” Frank says.
“I’ve just come from the Department of State. The Secretary of State said he cleared this with the mayor.”
Frank mutters something rude into his coffee mug.
“What kind of temporary duty?” Roy Hunt asks. Roy is a recent transfer from burglary to homicide and is out to make a name for himself. He’s good-looking and wears an annoying, pencil-thin black mustache and has a big, manly chin. His dark hair is slicked back, and I’m sure he uses product although he hotly denies this. He has an objectionable habit of smoothing his thin mustache with the little finger of his right hand. I’m almost sure he dyes his mustache. I know he’s after my job.
The secretaries think he’s adorable.
“I trust your performance will not reflect poorly on the police department,” Frank says to me.
“No more than usual.”
“I should take over the Victoria West case,” Roy Hunt announces eagerly. “What with Marko off flitting around with the elite.”
“Lucy can handle the investigation just fine,” I cut him off before the discussion gets out of hand.
Frank turns to Lucy. “It’s open and shut: a suicide. Right?”
“I guess,” Lucy replies.
“We don’t guess in homicide: this isn’t vice.”
Hanna, the police forensics expert, enters the room clutching a thick file folder. “Good morning, buckaroos.” She’s not smiling as she takes a seat at the table, opens her file, and pulls out a fistful of glossy photographs. “I’m afraid I must spoil your morning.”
The photographs show Victoria, lying crumpled on the floor of the small drawing room just as I’d seen her last night. It still pains me to look.
“Victoria West did not commit suicide,” Hanna announces. “There’s no gunshot residue on her head, hands, arms, or clothing. She was shot from a distance: a minimum of ten feet. Miss West’s fingerprints were not on the weapon.”
“Anybody else’s prints?” Lucy asks.
“Nothing. The weapon was wiped clean. She was murdered.”
“Which gun was used?” I ask.
“The Smith & Wesson .38 Special. A single shot fired.”
“The one she was holding in her hand?” Lucy asks.
“That’s right.”
“But she was alone in that room,” Lucy says. “No one went into that room except Victoria West. No one came out.”
“You know what this means, fellas,” Frank Townsend announces. “Instead of a tragic but simple suicide, we have a major, high-profile murder case. The victim was a world-famous celebrity. The violent death of a beautiful woman always gives the media a hard-on, so we’ll have every news organization in the country covering this story. Until something worse comes along, this murder will dominate the news cycle. I’m going to speak with the chief now.” Townsend rises to his feet. “I’m assigning every available detective to this case. Detective Tanaka is in charge of the Victoria West investigation. Until we have enough evidence for an indictment, all leave is canceled.”
A muffled groan goes around the table.
Townsend scoops up his files and notes and leaves the room, followed by the detectives crowding through the door after him, clutching their coffee containers, leaving Lucy, Hanna, and me alone.
“Tell me about the rifle round I gave you last night,” I ask Hanna.
“It’s from a high-velocity round; probably 338 Lapua Magnum cartridge.”
“The kind of ammunition used in a SAKO TRG 42 sniper rifle?”
“Among others. Where did you get it?”
“I found it lying in a gutter in my neighborhood.”
“I don’t think I’d care for your neighborhood. Anything else you need me for?”
“Not this morning.”
“Then I’ll get back to the lab.” Hanna picks up her photos and notes and leaves.
“What was that shell casing Hanna was talking about?” Lucy asks.
“Nothing to do with the Victoria West case. It’s something else I’m working on.”
Lucy looks at me with concern. This has happened before. She knows I get involved in activities not strictly called for in my police duties—sometimes I’m out of the office for several days at a time—but she doesn’t pry. And she suspects Frank Townsend and I have some kind of understanding about this, but she doesn’t ask. Which doesn’t mean she’s not curious and doesn’t mean she’s happy with the situation.
I’m about to get up and leave when Lucy gestures for me to stay.
“Last night,” she says, “Arthur Cantwell told us Victoria West was seeing someone when they met in the New York production of Hedda Gabler. He said that she dumped some ‘loser’.” Lucy takes a deep breath. “Were you, by any chance, that ‘loser’?”
“Is it relevant?”
“Of course it’s relevant. A spurned lover, bitter and angry, seeking revenge. That person always goes right to the top of our suspect list. That’s what you taught me.”
“That breakup was years ago. I’m not bitter nor angry.”
“I think you are angry, Marko.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“Naturally you’re a suspect. I go by the book, you know that. That’s what you trained me to do from the first day when I became your partner.” Left unsaid is: I never go by the book despite what I preach. I make up my own rules as I go along.
“Where were you at ten minutes after nine last night?” Lucy asks. I can tell she’s uncomfortable asking me these questions, but she’s a good cop and she’ll go by the book.
“At home.”
“Do you have any witnesses?”
“I was alone.” I can’t really tell Lucy about my meeting with Cyprian Voss: she would not understand Cyprian. “You’re going to have to trust me.”
I know what must be going through Lucy’s mind. For the first time since we became partners, she’s asking herself: can I trust Marko? Do I really know who Marko is?
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS I’M ABOUT to leave the conference room, my cell phone rings and the caller ID reads “Embassy of Montenegro.”
“I wish to speak to Detective Marko Zorn,” a voice says in a pompous, irritating tone.
“That is I,” I say, trying to sound more pompous and irritating than the other guy.
“Ambassador Lukshich wishes to speak to you.”
“And who may I ask is Ambassador Lukshich?”
“Ambassador Lukshich is the Ambassador Plenipotentiary of the Republic of Montenegro,” the voice at the other end replies, offended. “It is in regard to the delegation that arrives this evening. The Ambassador is expecting you at the embassy now.”
“Would you be so gracious as to inform me where the hell your embassy is?”
The voice on the phone grudgingly gives me an address on Sixteenth Street.
Lucy catches up wit
h me as I’m about to leave police headquarters. “It’s raining hard,” she says. “Do you want to borrow my umbrella?”
I decline. Male homicide detectives do not carry umbrellas. Maybe in England they do, but not in this country. Certainly not an umbrella with pictures of fish in pastel colors. I thank her warmly. Lucy is obviously trying to take the sting out of the questions she asked me earlier.
As I leave police headquarters, a cab is pulling up to the main entrance to pick up a man holding a folded newspaper over his head to keep the rain off.
“We can share the cab,” the man calls out to me, gesturing for me to join him.
The man is about thirty, tall and lean, with a narrow face and small eyes set close together. He has sandy close-cropped hair. You don’t often run into this kind of goodwill on the streets of Washington, particularly in the rain.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ve got my own wheels.”
He shrugs, climbs into his cab, and disappears. I find the car the rental company left for me, and I head for my appointment.
The embassy of Montenegro is housed in a modest building compared to its grand and stately diplomatic neighbors. Above the front door flies a flag with a red field featuring a double eagle under a crown. To one side of the front door is a plaque that reads: “Embassy of the Republic of Montenegro.” An inscription in Cyrillic lettering that says the same thing is on the other side of the front door. Two CCTV cameras are placed above the entrance.
The outer door is glass and is protected inside by a heavy iron gate. There’s a small canopy above the door that gives me some shelter from the rain while I press the brass doorbell. A small man wearing steel-rimmed glasses unlocks the outer gate.
“Detective Zorn?” He smiles a pretend smile.
“At your service.”
“Please do come in,” his eyes blinking rapidly. “I will take you to the ambassador.”
The entry area is adorned with a Ficus tree and a photograph of a woman I recognize from last night’s internet search: Nina Voychek. She’s wearing a smart business suit and a white turtleneck sweater. Her clothes are stylish and cut in the European fashion and she’s very attractive. She looks to be about thirty and has blond hair worn in a chignon.