by Otho Eskin
“Is that your prime minister?” I ask. I figure it’s time I started to do my homework for this job.
My escort stops and looks at the picture, blinking. “That is Madame Voychek.”
I shrug off my raincoat, which is dripping on the nice parquet floor. I had to park my rental car almost two blocks away. Parking in this part of the city is a bitch, so I was caught in the rain and I’m pretty well soaked.
I follow the man through a lobby where there are more flags and pictures of mountains.
“We’re going to the chancery,” my escort explains. “Where our offices are. The chancery is ordinarily off-limits to outsiders.”
He seems to think he’s given me some special honor by allowing me to visit this part of the embassy. “The other part of the embassy is residential, you understand. And for receptions. That is where our prime minister will be staying.”
He leads me up a flight of marble steps into a waiting room. A middle-aged, heavyset woman with white hair sits at a desk to one side of a set of large, ornate double doors. She studies me thoughtfully.
“Inform His Excellency his visitor is here,” my guide tells the woman. She presses a button on her desk and says something in a low voice.
“Please take a seat,” she tells me. “The ambassador will see you shortly.”
The door we’d just came through opens, and a young woman enters. She clutches several file folders and seems timid, even frightened, as she glances nervously at the secretary and at my escort. She can’t be more than twenty.
The white-haired secretary says something, and the girl crosses the room anxiously and passes one of the file folders to the secretary who looks through it quickly, then rises. She says something to my escort and, grasping the file tightly, she and my escort disappear through the double doors, leaving me alone with the young woman.
There is a moment of awkward silence while I smile reassuringly at the girl. She stares at me, then abruptly pulls a sheet of paper from her file folder, tears it in half, and scribbles a note on the back. She presses the paper urgently into my hand. She’s trembling.
“You are police.” She speaks in a whisper. “Your name is Zorn.” These are not questions: they’re statements. How does this woman know my name? How does she know I’m police?
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“There is danger.”
“Are you in trouble?” I ask.
“I must speak to you.”
This young woman isn’t shy; she’s terrified.
“I’m listening.”
“Not here. Private. I call you. Your telephone number, please.”
I give her one of my cards with my name and cell number. “Do you need help?”
“I call tonight,” she whispers, looking over her shoulder at the double doors to the inner office. “At midnight.”
“What is your name?” I ask.
She looks as if she doesn’t understand my question and walks away quickly. The ornate double doors open, and I slip the paper she’s given me into one of the outer pockets of my raincoat. My escort with the glasses returns to the waiting room, followed by the secretary, who studies the young girl intently, then me. The girl bows—as if ducking from a blow—and hurries out of the office, closing the door behind her without looking back at me.
“Excuse the delay, Detective Zorn,” my escort announces, his eyes blinking rapidly. “We have important communication from our ministry. His Excellency will see you now.”
He knocks on a door, opens it, and I follow him through. The outer doors are of carved oak; a set of inner doors is covered with thick black leather. The leather padding, I assume, is to make the office soundproof. I wonder what kind of secrets the Embassy of Montenegro wants to hide.
Beyond the doors is a large office with more flags and an impressive antique desk decorated with lots of ormolu doodads. Seated at the desk is a distinguished-looking man with a thick black mustache; his hair gray at the temples. He looks like an ambassador from central casting.
“That will be all,” the man says, rising from his chair. My escort backs out of the room silently, through the double doors, closing them behind him, leaving the ambassador and me alone.
“I am Vuk Lukshich,” the man says, holding out his hand. “Ambassador of the Republic of Montenegro. You must be Detective Zorn.”
“I must be.”
“Please have a seat.” He gestures at a large wingback chair. “May I offer you a slivovitz? Or is it too early in the day for you?”
“It is never too early for a proper slivovitz.” I sit in the armchair the ambassador indicates while he goes to a liquor cabinet behind his desk, fills two small glasses with a clear liquid, and brings them across the room. He passes me one of the glasses and takes a seat across from me.
“To the success of our mission.” He raises his glass and drains it: I do the same. The slivovitz is good quality, well-aged, and goes down smoothly.
“Our mission?” I ask, trying not to sound stupid.
“I understand you are to be the police liaison with our prime minister’s delegation for the next few days,” the ambassador says.
“I am.”
“That is our mission. That is your mission.”
I can’t seem to get the frightened young woman out of my mind and I think about asking the ambassador whether something’s wrong in the embassy. He seems friendly enough. But then he’s a professional diplomat. He’s paid to be friendly. I decide against asking about the young woman. There was something that makes me think that asking the ambassador would only make matters worse for her.
“Do you know why you were designated to be police liaison?” the ambassador asks.
“I have no idea.”
“Do you have any connections in Montenegro?”
The Secretary of State asked me the same question. What is going on here?
“None I know of,” I answer.
“You are a man of mystery then.”
“I’m just a simple policeman.”
The ambassador raises a skeptical eyebrow. “I doubt you are a simple policeman.”
The ambassador somehow looks a little less friendly now.
“As you know,” the ambassador goes on, “our prime minister arrives tomorrow evening for a state visit to the United States.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You should know there are people deeply opposed to Nina Voychek and to her new democratic regime. There are those from the former regime who will stop at nothing to remove her from power, including having her assassinated. Our responsibility—yours and mine—is to prevent that from happening. That is my duty and, for the next few days, your duty as well.”
“I understand.”
“I’m not sure you really do. I want to be clear. The prime minister’s enemies are implacable and dangerous.”
“Do her enemies include Russia?”
He shakes his head slightly. “Russia? That is only gossip, Detective. Baseless gossip. Leave international politics to us professionals.”
“Are Russian gangsters from Brooklyn involved?”
The ambassador laughs softly. “Certainly not. Why would such people be interested in the internal affairs of my country? Would you care for another slivovitz, Detective?”
I would like one but decide I should keep a clear head, and I decline the offer.
“The threat to our prime minister comes from discontents and criminals in our country,” the ambassador is saying.
“A domestic affair?” I say.
“Precisely. Your assignment may sound routine; I assure you it is not. You yourself may even be in some danger, Detective Zorn.”
The Secretary of State neglected to tell me about that part.
“You are to be in the greeting party at Dulles Airport tomorrow evening,” the ambassador says. “I wanted to meet you before the delegation arrives. These events are always chaotic, and there will be no time for polite conversation. I like to get the measure of t
he man I work with.”
“Have you got the measure of the man?”
“I believe I have. I remind you; we are dealing with dangerous and determined opponents. Be most careful.”
That was strange, I think, as the twitchy man with the glasses escorts me out of the office, down the marble staircase, and to the front entrance. The ambassador could have told me on the phone about the dangers I’ll face and saved himself some slivovitz. There is only one thing the ambassador could want from this meeting: he wanted to see me face-to-face and he wanted to get my photograph. As my escort and I walk through the embassy, I look for cameras but see none. That doesn’t mean there aren’t any, it just means they’re small and well concealed. There are the two CCTV cameras above the front entrance, but those cameras, oriented as they are, would not produce a clear head shot of somebody waiting at the front door and that, I assume, is what they need. By now I’m thoroughly annoyed: I don’t like photographs taken of me, particularly by hidden cameras controlled by people I don’t know for reasons I can only guess at.
It’s still raining as I leave the embassy. I dash for my car, an old Honda Civic. No fun to drive, but it’s at least inconspicuous.
Once inside the car and out of the rain, I study the note the young woman gave me and remember the fear in her eyes. The paper is a bit smaller than letter size and is perforated at the side as if torn from a Teletype machine. On one side is a single handwritten word in shaky block letters: “opasnosti”.
On the reverse side are a series of numbers.
19602 34978 62974 42379 29374 89762 42981 39576 37465 28051 38964 43865 72861 94275 75429 68452 97531 29465 74531 92640 25431 56241 33217 25196 48371 29432 53428 76194 76154 92137 84316 78164 92865 43298 76417 25487 65318 72491 75319 86534 29178 42694 72985 96435 24765 45018 87326 22913 56920 11813 67897 97451 08596 54832 41697 53219 75321 89147 39741 56318 92541 72615 32937 43812 63592
The bottom of the page has been torn away.
The numbers appear to be random, and I can make no sense of them. I study one side of the paper, with the numbers, then the other, with the single word, “opasnosti”, turning the page over and over again.
I don’t know the language they speak in Montenegro, but I’m pretty sure I know what this word means. It’s much the same in Russian. And it means “danger.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A TALL YOUNG man with a stiff military posture is waiting for me at my desk when I return to police headquarters. He has close-cropped blond hair cut in a crew cut, military style.
“Matt Granger,” he announces, holding out his hand. “Chicago police. You’re Detective Zorn.”
“Bingo.” We shake hands. Not warmly.
“Didn’t we recently talk on the phone?” I ask, in a nice way. I don’t want to alienate him. You never know when you’ll be in Chicago and might need a friendly cop.
“Correct. We did talk on the phone,” he says.
“And you’ve come all the way from the City of Broad Shoulders to continue our chat. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I didn’t think our chat went all that well. May I?”
I indicate he’s welcome to sit down.
“To be honest,” Granger says, taking a seat stiffly. “I don’t think you’ve been completely honest with us.”
“I’ve told you what I know.”
“I’m investigating the murders of two men. I asked you whether you knew the name Milan Jovanovich. You said you knew nothing about him. I find that surprising.”
“Life is full of surprises.” I’ve been assuming all along the Chicago police want to talk to me about the mob killing of General Drach. I don’t want to go there. This would lead to awkward questions about what I was doing in Chicago and who I was working for. But the murder of two other men: that’s different, and I think I’d better find out what’s going on.
“We believe whoever killed these men were professional hit men,” Granger says.
“What makes you think so?”
“The victims were playing chess in a club on the South Side. Two men walked into the club and shot them. Point-blank. Then the killers walked calmly out. It sounds like the hit was carefully planned and the victims were targeted.”
“That sounds like a Chicago mob hit.”
“If it was the Chicago mob, we’d know about it. We have well-placed snitches in the organization.”
“Who do you think it was, then?”
“We’re pretty sure these men were out of New York. We have CCTV films of the killers entering and leaving the chess club. They’re not locals; we’re sure of that. We sent the tapes to the FBI, and they have one of these guys in their database.”
“Do they have names?”
“No names yet. The Bureau identified one man as definitely associated with the Brooklyn branch of the Russian Mafia.”
“What has New York got to do with a shooting in Chicago?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. We thought maybe you could help us.”
“Who are the victims?”
“The two chess club victims were members of an émigré organization of people originally from Montenegro. Milan Jovanovich is secretary of that organization.”
“They sound harmless. Why would anyone want to harm a couple of chess players?”
“We believe all three victims were involved in a violent killing that took place a few weeks ago in Chicago. The shooting at the chess club, we think, was some kind of payback. Now the third man, Milan Jovanovich, is on the run. Probably hiding out. We need to question him.”
“I wish I could help.”
I’m lying to Granger, and he probably senses it, but I have no choice. He’s getting into a sensitive area. “Send me the CCTV tapes of the two killers,” I say. “And I’ll have them thoroughly checked out at this end. If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate your cooperation.” His jaw is tight.
I don’t think he really appreciates my cooperation at all.
“Why do you think the Brooklyn Russian mob sent these men to Chicago?” I ask. “I would have thought Chicago had plenty of local talent.”
“We have no idea why the Russian Mafia was involved. And we don’t like outside organizations sending people to our city to do their dirty work.”
“Tell me about this violent killing that took place a few weeks ago,” I say. Why am I asking this question? I should be getting rid of this cop, not drawing him out and getting into a discussion about an incident I really don’t want to talk about. But I’m curious about how much the Chicago police know about what happened.
“A man named General Mykhayl Drach was brutally murdered on a street in the East Side. In the middle of the day. In broad daylight. He was attacked by an angry mob and almost torn to pieces.”
The first time I saw Mykhayl Drach, he was coming out of an Orthodox church called Sveti Stefan, where he’d been hiding for a week or more. He stood, blinking in the bright sun, as if he’d come out of a cave, and was suddenly surrounded by a large, angry crowd: Mostly old people, men and women, some carrying canes, some on crutches, some even on walkers. They shouted curses at him. Some were crying. I recognized Milan Jovanovich and the two other old men I’d met that morning.
“Are you saying the name Mykhayl Drach means nothing to you?” Granger demands.
“I’ve never met the man.”
Drach disappeared under the mob, his face white with terror. Our eyes met for a second as if he were pleading to me for help.
“Chicago’s a tough town,” I say.
“This man Drach was the former dictator of the country of Montenegro. Do you know anything about that country?”
“Never been there. I hear it has nice beaches. What was this former dictator doing in Chicago?”
“We think he was hiding out while trying to raise money for his cause. According to our sources, Drach was planning on a coup d’état to overthrow the present government. Jovanovich and his friends were politically
opposed to General Drach and his regime and were trying to stop him. They got a tip where he was hiding, and we think they organized the mob that attacked him.”
“Some organization.”
“We know you were recently in Chicago, Detective.”
Oh, oh. Here we go, I think. “That’s possible. I may have spent an afternoon at the Art Institute.”
Of course I was nowhere near the Art Institute. Instead, I was meeting with three elderly strangers.
Granger’s phone rings. “Hello,” he says, his voice low. “Yes. Yes.”
He covers the speaker with his hand. “It’s my commander,” he says to me. “I’ve got to take this call.” Granger moves away, his back to me, and continues speaking in a voice so soft I can’t hear a word. I think back to that first meeting with the men in Chicago.
It was a little warm for the season and a pleasant breeze was blowing off Lake Michigan. I met with the men in a room in the back of a hardware store, all three smoking Camel cigarettes, their fingers stained by a lifetime of smoking.
The man who was the spokesman was Milan Jovanovich, an emaciated man of about seventy, his sparse white hair slicked over a bare scalp. He and the others all wore dark suits and ties as if they had dressed up for this occasion. Maybe they always dressed that way.
“You’re telling us you know nothing about this General Drach. Or Milan Jovanovich?” Granger asks, putting away his phone and returning to me.
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Jovanovich had contacted Cyprian Voss through a complex network of obscure and nameless intermediaries and contracted with him to find Drach somewhere in Chicago. That’s the kind of thing Voss does. For a substantial fee. Voss sent me to Chicago to do the job.
Jovanovich gave me an old business card, bent at the edges and soiled. I suspect he must have carried it in his wallet for years. It read: MILAN JOVANOVICH with a street address and cell phone number.
“We believe you were in Chicago when all this was going on,” Granger says.