by Otho Eskin
“All we know is that somebody has paid a huge amount of money to hire someone to off the prime minister. The payment’s been traced to a bank in Macao, and funds have been transferred to a local bank here in the States. The principals are operating through cutouts—standard trade practice. Names unknown.”
“Who’s behind the assassination?” I ask.
“The CIA believes Russia is financing the operation, but Goran Drach is doing the operational planning and execution.”
“Tell me about this Goran Drach.”
“He’s Mykhayl Drach’s brother, or was before Mykhayl was murdered by an angry mob in Chicago. Goran Drach hasn’t gotten over his brother’s death and the loss of power, and he’s determined to regain that power with Russian help. Putin, we think, wants to maintain control of Montenegro, using Drach as a pawn, but wants to keep his hands clean.”
“His hands clean from what?”
“The murder of Nina Voychek. This was supposed to be followed by a coup back in Montenegro and the installment of a pro-Russian regime with Mykhayl Drach as Supreme Leader. Now, with Mykhayl’s death, Goran plans to succeed his brother as Leader. Your job is to see that none of this happens. There have already been two attempts on Nina Voychek’s life; one just a few weeks ago. Her enemies are deadly serious.”
A waiter brings a plate heaped with pasta drenched with some sauce. A second waiter appears with a pepper grinder the size of a mortar that Carla impatiently waves away. A third waiter serves me my cappuccino. I was wrong about it being impossible to ruin a cappuccino.
“How do you know all this?” I ask.
“It’s naughty of you to ask, Marko, but seeing as how you are personally involved, I’ll share some information with you. The CIA has recruited one of Goran Drach’s lieutenants in Montenegro, and he’s been persuaded, in return for receiving a large amount of your taxpayer dollars, to share what he knows about Drach’s plans.”
“I get the picture.”
“Not quite. I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. In addition to Montenegro politics, a personal element has been added to the stew: Goran Drach is determined to avenge the death of his brother, Mykhayl. These are the traditions of the Black Mountain. Apparently, Goran has a very personal score to settle.”
“If I take on this assignment, there’s something I need in return,” I say as I push away my worthless cappuccino. I decide not to mention that I’ve already agreed twice to take on this same assignment. She doesn’t need to know all the little details.
Carla looks at me suspiciously, a fork full of pasta suspended in the air. “What do you want in return?”
“There’s a man whose life is in danger,” I say. “In serious danger. I want the FBI to provide full protection for him. At least for a week or so.”
“Why don’t you provide this fellow protection yourself?”
“Because he is, for the moment, in Chicago. And I am, for the moment, in Washington.”
“Who is this man and why is he in danger and why should I care?”
“His name is Milan Jovanovich.”
“So?”
“He’s originally from Montenegro and is now a US citizen and a resident of Chicago. He and an émigré group were involved in organizing that angry mob you mentioned that killed Mykhayl Drach in Chicago. Since then, two of his colleagues have been murdered. The Chicago police have CCTV pictures of their killers, and the FBI has identified one of the killers, as associated with the Russian Mafia in Brooklyn. Jovanovich is in hiding somewhere in the Chicago area. The same thugs who killed his associates are almost certainly searching for him now. When they find him, he’s a dead man.”
“That’s a problem for the Chicago police. Not the FBI.”
“I’m pretty sure the Chicago authorities have been penetrated by people responsible for these crimes. Carla, I really need your help.”
She eats some pasta. “And I should do this for what reason?”
“Because I’m helping you with Nina Voychek?”
She shakes her head. “You’re getting paid for that.”
“How about for old time’s sake?”
She rolls her eyes. “You can do better than that.”
“How about because the people who are after Milan Jovanovich are probably the same people Goran Drach is using to hunt Nina Voychek and are ultimately agents of the Russian intelligence service?”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.” Of course, I’m not sure about anything. I’m just guessing.
“I will not tolerate foreign governments committing crimes in our country,” Carla says. “I prefer to keep our crime in-house.”
“Does that mean you’ll give Milan Jovanovich protection?”
“Give me a name and telephone number. I’ll have our Chicago field office take him in and hold him in a secure place.”
“My man, Milan, is scared out of his mind and he won’t cooperate with just anybody who shows up at his door. He and I have agreed he’ll only answer to a coded name.”
‘You’ve been reading too many spy novels. What’s the code word my people will use?”
“Ostrog.”
“Never heard of him.”
I scribble Milan Jovanovich’s name, cell number, and the word Ostrog on a page from my notebook, tear it out, and hand it to Carla, who places it carefully in her purse.
“Thanks. I owe you one,” I tell her.
“I know. And I won’t forget to collect.”
Carla looks at her watch. “I’ve got to run. I have an appointment on the Hill.” She stands, clasping her purse. “Would you mind taking care of the bill?” She leans over and gives me a very quick, very chaste kiss on my cheek. “Do be careful, dear. Try not to die.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OFFICER BONIFACIO DRIVES me to the State Department, where I tell him I’ll be traveling with an armed security team for the rest of the day and he’s free until late this evening.
Within minutes after he leaves, two black SUVs pull up in front of the State Department diplomatic entrance. One of the back doors of the first SUV swings open, and Janet Cliff, the African American woman who is running security for the state visit, gestures impatiently for me to get in. A light rain is falling and I dash across the driveway area and jump in the car. In seconds we’re in motion, heading for Virginia. In addition to the driver, another man sits in the front passenger seat.
“Your crew?” I ask.
“Of course not,” Janet answers testily. “My crew’s already on site. This is my deputy, Rick Talbot.” A redheaded man in the driver’s seat gives me a friendly wave. “And that’s Marty.” Janet gestures at the older man in the front passenger seat. “Marty’s communications.”
We ride in silence for ten minutes until Janet turns to look at me. “Are you armed?” she demands.
“No.”
“Good. I don’t need any cowboys at this rodeo.”
We drive another few minutes in silence. “We better get something straight from the fucking get-go,” Janet announces as we cross the bridge over the Potomac River. “I didn’t ask for you. I don’t want you. I don’t think I trust you. Do I make myself clear, Officer? Be invisible and we’ll get along.”
“I get the—”
“Don’t bother to answer. I’m not interested in your thoughts on this or any other subject.”
We drive in silence through the Virginia countryside. Finally, I ask: “You ex-military?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Just curious.”
“Ten years in the Marines. Last four at Parris Island.”
“Drill instructor?”
“Damn straight.”
“I’ll bet you were good.”
“I was damn good.”
“Was it hard?”
“You mean for me or for the fucking recruits in my care?”
“I mean for you.”
“When new recruits arrived for basic training, they’d pile off
the bus in their civvies, with their civvie attitudes, mostly young punks who’d spent their growing-up years getting drunk, getting high on drugs, hanging out in malls and parking lots, getting girls pregnant, barely staying out of jail. They’d be taken to their barracks: their new home. And then I’d show up. That was always a dramatic moment. They were angry and scared and ready for a fight and they weren’t prepared to be ordered around by some …” She stops, searching for the right words.
“By some woman?” I suggest.
“By some fucking woman who looks like me. We sometimes had a difficult transition period but eventually we came to a meeting of minds.”
“How long did that transition period last?”
“About fifteen minutes. Then they were mine. These were fucking punk kids—pieces of shit—but by the time the Corps was done with them, they were men.”
“Why’d you leave the Corps?”
“I wanted combat. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life babysitting a bunch of crackers. Besides, the Corps’ training philosophy was changing. We were told to be nice to the trainees: I don’t do nice. It’s only a matter of time before these boys would demand fucking milk and cookies at bedtime.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s get this straight. I have a job to do; I know how to do my job. Let me fucking do it. If I need your help, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”
We drive for a while in more tense silence.
“You know this assassination plot makes no sense, don’t you?” I observe.
“I told you, I didn’t ask for your opinions.”
“Why would the prime minister’s enemies plan an assassination here in Washington? Why not in Montenegro, where they have resources and know the territory? Why in Washington, DC, where she’ll have massive protection?”
Janet doesn’t answer, but I sense I’ve hit a nerve.
“I’ve heard of you, Detective Zorn,” she says at last. “You have a reputation.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment. No more questions. Keep your nose clean and you’ll be okay.”
“Do you want my thoughts on the movement schedule you gave me?”
“Negative.”
“According to that schedule, there’s a reception at the Lincoln Memorial. That’s a serious mistake.”
“I know that. It’s crazy shit. It seems the lady’s a big deal. A reception for four hundred people—give me a break. Bars, an orchestra for God’s sake, and caterers. There’ll be Hollywood celebrities and people from human rights organizations from all over the world, members of the diplomatic corps and from Congress. I’d need the National Fucking Guard to provide adequate security and they won’t give me the National Fucking Guard. On top of all that, somebody has hired a professional assassin. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, just shut up.”
Fifteen minutes later, we arrive at the environs of Dulles International Airport. Instead of going to the main terminal, we drive via circuitous back streets to one of the satellite general aviation terminals and stop in front of a set of large doors guarded by two Virginia police cruisers. Several Virginia state troopers carrying submachine guns recognize Janet Cliff, raise the doors, and wave our SUVs into a large airplane hangar. We pile out and Janet joins her waiting crew. I stay back, out of the way, so I can study the security arrangements and look for trouble.
I watch how Janet organizes her people. She’s quick and efficient and it looks like her people respect her. I count fifteen people—ten men, five women. In addition to Janet and her redhead deputy, Rick Talbot, and the communications guy, Marty, that leaves twelve men and women who will provide the actual hour-to-hour protective services. I will get to know each one of them personally: which ones have been trained, which ones are new to the job, which ones are observant and have initiative, which ones just go by the numbers.
Standing in the middle of the terminal are two identical, gleaming, black stretch limousines: both the same year with the same trim. One limousine has two flags held in place by brackets on the front fenders: an American flag and a flag with the double eagle of Montenegro.
Vuk Lukshich, the Montenegro ambassador, stands next to one of the limousines, speaking to the man in the steel-rimmed glasses and a couple of others I assume are embassy staff. Janet talks briefly with Lukshich then disappears somewhere.
There are three men and two women who, judging by their outfits, are US government types.
I’m not wanted. Fine with me.
After ten minutes, there is nervous activity among those waiting in the hangar. The massive doors leading to the tarmac slide slowly up, and the US government types straighten their neckties, at least the men do. The women check lipstick and hair in pocket mirrors.
The deafening sound of jet engines shatters the night air as an aircraft approaches our terminal. The sound of the jet engines suddenly stops, and the welcome party disappears through the doors out onto the tarmac.
A few minutes later, nine men and one woman enter the terminal; somebody closes the doors to the tarmac and it’s quiet again. There are four in the arriving party who are clearly security types; others, I guess, are government officials accompanying their prime minister. I concentrate on two figures.
One stands apart from the others and is carefully examining the hangar and the people in it. He’s doing what I’m doing—studying the security arrangements. He’s obviously protection.
I can’t see the second figure well—a petite woman partially hidden by the crowd of the greeting party surrounding her.
“You are a police officer, I believe,” a voice just behind me says. He’s one of the security men who arrived with the delegation.
“That’s right,” I say.
“I am Viktor Savich. I have come with Minister Voychek. I am told you will assist in providing security.”
Savich is a short, muscular man with close-cropped gray hair and pale blue eyes. His face has bruise marks.
“I’ll do what I can,” I say. “Janet Cliff is responsible for overall security.”
“She seems competent.”
“She is. You are in good hands. You have nothing to fear.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Are you the prime minister’s bodyguard?” I ask.
“I am her driver.”
“You’re more than that, I think.”
“I try to look after her. But here I am not allowed to carry a weapon. None of my team are armed and that makes me nervous.”
“If it’s any comfort, I carry no weapon either.”
“That makes me even more nervous.”
There is activity within the greeting party. A State Department type gets into one of the limousines. The ambassador heads to the limousine flying the two flags. The security types fan out, ready for departure.
The woman I’ve been trying to observe separates herself from the others, crosses the terminal floor, and heads toward me. Janet hurries after her.
The woman stops directly in front of me and holds out her hand. “Nina Voychek.” She looks up and studies me steadily, no shifting in her gaze as she carefully evaluates me. “I think I’ve met everyone here this evening,” she says. “Except you. I like to know who the people around me are.”
She speaks with a slight accent but in perfect English. She is shorter than I’d expected from her photographs I saw on my cell phone—she’s maybe five feet six—and slender. She wears a white silk turtleneck sweater, a long, black lambskin coat and flats. Her hair is strawberry-blond and she has lovely, intelligent green eyes. Her warm, infectious smile reminds me of the pictures of the young student I saw on my cell phone.
What Cyprian Voss said is true: She’s extraordinarily beautiful.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” I say. “Welcome to the United States.”
Janet approaches. “Madame Prime Minister, it’s time we left for the residence.” Janet gestures toward the waiting convoy, obviously anxious to get away.
“Of course,” the prime minister says. She turns back to me. “What is your name?”
“Marko Zorn. I’m with the DC police.”
“Zorn,” she repeats as if to secure my name in her memory. “I will want to speak to you again soon.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“COME WITH ME,” Savich says and we walk quickly to the limousine stationed immediately behind the ambassador’s and we climb into the back. A member of Janet’s team takes the wheel, and within seconds we’re in motion, moving smoothly and quietly out of the terminal, a Virginia State police cruiser is in front, another is picking up the rear. It’s raining hard and the wipers struggle to clear the windshield.
“Have you served on a security detail?” Savich asks me.
In the dark his face is almost invisible, appearing only briefly in the light of the headlights from oncoming cars.
“I’ve never been a bodyguard before,” I answer.
“Why were you given this assignment?”
“Your government asked for me.”
“Don’t you think that strange?”
“I think that damn strange.”
“Have you reviewed the security plans for the prime minister’s visit?”
“Just the movement schedule. I haven’t seen the actual plans. Janet Cliff knows what she’s doing.”
“I’m sure she does, but I would feel better if you looked over the plans and gave me your personal assessment.”
We drive in silence. “Have you been in a fight?” I ask. Even in the darkness of the car I can see his nose is swollen. But not the large nose typical of many Slavs.
He smiles and touches the bruises on his face. “You are a cop. You know how things are. I had to break up a bar fight two nights ago. It could have been worse. At least they didn’t break my nose. If you think I look bad, you should see the other guys.”
“I don’t think you’re a regular cop. Like me.”
“Are you really a regular cop?” he asks.
I ignore his question. “Are you the prime minister’s bodyguard?”
He shakes his head. “Until a few days ago I was a ‘normal cop’—just like you. But there have been certain developments that required a change of plans.”