by Otho Eskin
“You mean the plot to assassinate Madame Voychek?”
He nods, seemingly surprised. “You know about that? Our ambassador here decided the prime minister needed additional protection.”
“Have you known Nina Voychek long?”
“We met for the first time on the flight coming here. I’m a last-minute addition to the delegation.”
“Why you?”
“I was for many years a non-com in our army, and I know how to use weapons. And maybe because I speak some passable English.”
“You’re a cop but today you’re carrying luggage and opening car doors.”
“Today I’m trying to save my country.”
Forty minutes later, our convoy pulls up to the Montenegrin embassy in downtown Washington. The two stretch limousines are guided into a two-car garage, its entrance flooded with brilliant lights; the remaining convoy cars park on the street.
“Come to our suite,” Savich tells me. “The prime minister wants to talk to you.”
Janet, surrounded closely by her security team, hustles the prime minister quickly through a door at the back of the garage and into the embassy residence.
I follow the entourage to the third floor and into a sitting room crowded with delegation officials, security types, and embassy staff. The prime minister has disappeared into her private quarters.
I mix among the embassy staff, Janet’s security team, and the security group who came with the prime minister. I learn names and attach names to faces and faces to functions. Marty, the communications man, has disappeared. I guess his job is done for the night. I learn that Janet’s security team is broken up into three teams of four, each who will work eight-hour shifts while Nina Voychek is in the country. Janet and her deputy, Rick Talbot, will supervise and coordinate with police, the White House, and the State Department in twelve-hour shifts. They have all worked together before and appear to be a smoothly functioning team.
There are four security men from Montenegro. I can’t really assess them. Most speak no English. I look for Viktor Savich but am told he’s with the ambassador and the prime minister. I try to get a fix on the embassy personnel, but they’re cautious and circumspect.
Viktor Savich takes a seat in the chair next to me. “What have you concluded about security?”
“How sure are you of your own people?” I ask.
Savich studies my face intently. “They all work for the Ministry of the Interior.”
“I’ll bet none of them is paid much.”
“Very little, of course. Ours is a poor country.”
“Be careful then.”
“You mean our people can be bought?”
“I mean anybody can be bought. Trust no one.”
“Anything else?”
“Where is the prime minister’s car kept?”
“In the garage attached to the residence. Both official limousines will be parked there at all times. The doors to the street are kept locked. No one can get in.”
“What about the keys to the cars?”
“They are kept in a lockbox secured by a cyber lock. It’s located just inside the door to the garage.”
“Who has the access code to that lockbox?”
“The State Department security team.”
“Will you have access?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll need to have the access code myself.”
“You think that’s really necessary?”
“It’s really necessary.”
Savich hesitates, then takes a notebook from his pocket, scribbles some numbers on a page, and passes the notebook to me. “I ask that you commit this to memory. We don’t want this piece of paper to fall into the wrong hands.”
Savich has written the numbers: 821914. I study the note long enough to memorize the code. I’ve had a lot of practice memorizing this kind of thing, and it’s not as hard as it looks. Unless the code has been generated by a computer, these codes are often based on some real world events or object: a birthday, an address, something easy to remember. You just have to figure out the mnemonic clue the creator used.
“The day Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sofia, were assassinated in Sarajevo,” I say.
“Very good, Detective, you know your Balkan history well.”
“Nineteen fourteen was the giveaway.”
Savich tucks the notebook back into an inside jacket pocket. “The day that launched World War I and led to the collapse of the great empires of Europe. The end of our old Europe.”
Why is it, I wonder, that people in that part of the world always seem to celebrate dates marking tragic events and national catastrophes? Maybe it’s the slivovitz.
“Have you inspected the cars the prime minister will be using?” I ask.
“You are concerned about a bomb?”
“I’m concerned about a bomb, about someone tampering with the brakes, about gas tank leaks. I recommend that you post a security guard with the prime minister’s car twenty-four hours a day, and I’d have the car inspected thoroughly before she uses it.”
“I will attend to that myself.”
“Next item. According to the movement schedule, there’s to be a large reception for the prime minister at the Lincoln Memorial: Cancel it.”
“I would love to,” Savich replies. “It’s a security nightmare. The embassy arranged the reception weeks ago. Invitations to very important people have been sent, and the ambassador says it’s too late to cancel.”
The door to the inner suite opens and the prime minister enters in casual clothes, a towel wrapped around her head. She crosses to us, pulls up an ottoman, and sits facing us. She wears a soft silk scarf around her neck—pale yellow with a delicate pattern of spring leaves.
“Excuse my appearance,” the prime minister says to me. “But I had to take a shower and wash my hair. I feel almost human now.” She has a bright, cheerful smile. She is still young and I can easily imagine her as a student going out for a beer after classes.
“It’s time I left,” I say. “I don’t want to prevent you from relaxing.”
“Please stay,” she says.
“Where did you learn English so well, Madame Prime Minister?”
“I attended college at Columbia but bailed before I got my degree. And please don’t call me Madame Prime Minister, it’s pompous and stuffy. Please call me Nina.”
“Does Janet Cliff call you Nina?”
“I asked her to call me Nina, but she refuses. Everyone on my staff calls me Nina.”
“Nina it is. Then you must call me Marko. Why did you leave college?” I ask.
“You’ve heard about the ethnic cleansing in my country? The Oak Forest Massacre, the atrocities perpetrated against my people by Mykhayl Drach and his brother, Goran?”
“I’ve heard something about that. I believe you may have lost someone close to you,” I say, remembering what I’d seen about Sasha in her bio.
Something about her manner suddenly changes. She no longer looks like a carefree college kid. Her smile vanishes. Her face becomes hard. She reminds me a little of the dangerous men I met in Chicago.
“How could I stay away and do nothing?” she says. “I returned and became involved in the pro-democracy movement—taking part in demonstrations, handing out protest leaflets, printing underground newspapers. One thing led to another.”
“Including the attacks on your life.”
“The last one was just six weeks ago when a bomb was placed in my car. It failed to explode, but I’m told it was a powerful bomb and had it gone off it would have destroyed my car and everyone in it.” She clenches her jaw, all hints of a smile gone. She’s no longer the young and innocent college student. I see hatred flash in her eyes. She pauses, takes a deep breath, and regains her composure. “I tell you this so you understand: my enemies are dangerous. If you are anywhere near me, you are in danger. I can face these threats. I am prepared to pay that price for the survival of my country. The same is true for my sta
ff who have come with me.” She nods toward Viktor Savich. “The future of my country is at stake. But it’s not your country. It’s not worth you dying for. I’d understand if you withdrew from your duties.”
“Thank you, but I’m committed to seeing that you’re protected.”
“Even at the risk of your own life?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“This time, you’ll face more dangerous opponents than you have in the past.” Again, I see that flash of anger and hatred in her eyes. She’s a dangerous woman when she has to be. I wouldn’t want to get in her way.
She shakes her head as if to clear her mind. “Do you carry a weapon, Detective?”
“Only if necessary.”
“What happens if you face a deadly, ruthless opponent without a weapon?”
“I can usually manage.”
My cell phone rings, and the caller ID reads: “Baltimore Homicide.”
“Excuse me, Nina, but I must take this.”
“Of course. Go right ahead.”
I move away from Nina and Savich to take the call.
“Detective Marko Zorn?” the voice on the line says. “This is Lieutenant Marvin Price, Maryland Criminal Investigations Command. There’s been a murder you may be involved with. A woman’s body has been found in a culvert just off Route 95 North. We’re pretty certain it’s a homicide.”
“Can you tell when the homicide took place?”
“We can’t be sure yet, but our best guess is between nine and midnight.”
“What’s the victim’s name?”
“We don’t know; she has no identification. But she had your business card in her pocket.”
This murder victim might be anybody, but my instinct tells me it’s the frightened young woman I saw in the embassy just yesterday afternoon. “Where are you?” I ask.
Lieutenant Price gives me a location on Interstate 95 North just beyond the Beltway.
I return to Nina. “I seem to have an emergency, Nina. Something I must attend to. I’d like your permission to leave.”
“Of course,” she says. “I’m quite safe here inside the embassy. I hope nothing is wrong.”
“I’m afraid something is very wrong.”
Lieutenant Bonifacio drives me to the crime scene. When we arrive, I tell him to wait for me in the car. There’s no point in him getting wet. The highway is clogged with police cars and emergency vehicles, their bright lights flashing in the heavy rain. Ambulances are parked diagonally across the highway blocking two lanes of traffic, and the Maryland State Police have set up flares and closed down part of Interstate 95 North. Glaring floodlights illuminate the east side of the road while a dozen Maryland highway patrol officers swathed in dripping rain gear try to control the congestion of trucks, busses, and cars.
“I’m looking for Officer Price,” I call out through the dark rain to a uniformed officer. He points to a man in civilian clothes standing at the edge of a steep ravine a dozen feet from the highway. The grass and vegetation are soaking wet and I slip and slide down the embankment.
“I’m Marko Zorn. DC Homicide,” I say. I show the man my police badge.
“Marvin Price,” the man says, wiping rainwater from his face. “Sorry to bring you out in crap weather like this, but we need your help.”
I pull my raincoat tight around me and adjust the collar, but I can feel cold water trickling down the back of my neck. Price leads me through a wet thicket of bushes and vines to the edge of a culvert where the body of a young woman lies at the bottom.
Price is young and badly shaken. He’ll not forget what he’s seen here tonight.
“Do you recognize the victim?” he asks.
“I saw this woman for a few minutes earlier yesterday,” I say.
“What did she tell you?” Price asks.
“She said she needed to talk to me, and I gave her my number. She was going to call me but she never did.”
Price gives me a heavy plastic envelope. Inside is a single business card. Even through the semi-opaque, rain-soaked plastic, there’s no doubt it’s the card I gave the girl at the embassy.
Three men and two women are lifting the body onto drier ground. Someone focuses a bright light onto the girl’s face and I almost gag. The face is swollen, covered with blood. Even in the dark and rain I can see the deep cut left by a rope or wire around the girl’s throat. The same wound I’d seen around the throat of the security guard at the theater.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PICTURE OF the girl appears on my cell phone at six thirty in the morning. Somebody at the Maryland Criminal Investigations Command has tried to clean her up, but there isn’t much anybody can do to repair what was done to her. Her face has been battered, her tongue extended through her broken teeth, a black band cuts into her throat.
“God, that’s awful,” Lucy says as she studies the photo on my phone.
I tell Lucy about the girl I spoke with in the embassy, about the phone call from the Maryland police, and my visit to the crime scene late last night. I don’t tell her about the attempt on my own life. It’s too soon for that. And I don’t mention the paper with the mysterious numbers the girl gave me. Some things Lucy doesn’t need to know yet. Some things are too dangerous to know.
“She was beaten before she was killed, wasn’t she?” Lucy says, holding the phone at arm’s length as if the picture were poisonous. “I’d guess there was more than one person involved. Maybe two to hold the girl—a third to do the killing. Are they going to find the people who did this?” Lucy asks. “Are the killers going to pay for what they did to her?”
“I’ll find them. And they’ll pay.” I wish I were as confident as I sound.
“I don’t mean to badger, but I have to see the note you said Victoria West sent you.”
I take the letter from my desk drawer and slide it across the desk to Lucy. The page is covered by a neat script written in purple ink.
Dearest Marko,
I hope this voice from the past does not cause you pain. I would understand if you threw this note away without reading it. I did not intend to contact you while I was in Washington but something has come up I think you should know about. It may not be important but it bothers me.
I’m in Washington for out-of-town tryouts for Hedda Gabler. A week ago, while in the middle of rehearsals, a man contacted me. He said his name was Jonathan Drew and he claimed he was a freelancer working on a profile of me for The New York Times. He insisted he interview me at the theater and during rehearsals. To get atmosphere, he said. You remember, I’m a sucker for free publicity. So I agreed. He followed me around the set during the interview and asked questions about the production. He wanted to see the drawing room I use for my entrances and exits; he took photographs of me and the set and of some members of the cast and crew. The strange thing was he asked very few questions about me or my preparation for the Hedda role the way reporters usually do. He did ask questions about you. About our relationship. I told him that was none of his business, but he kept pressing me for insight into our relationship, about why we broke up, and whether we were planning to see each other while in Washington. He even asked whether I knew where you lived and how he could reach you. I became suspicious and I closed down the interview. I called Harry Moll at The Times—he handles most theater assignments—and he said The Times had never hired a freelancer to do a story on me and if they wanted pictures, they would have sent their own photographer.
The next day one of the guys hanging lights told me he knew the man who’d interviewed me. They both live in Williamsburg in Brooklyn and he told me my visitor’s name was not Jonathan Drew. His real name is Oleg Kamrof. He warned me that Kamrof was dangerous and had a criminal record and he advised me to avoid the man. I’ve not heard from him since.
Now that I write this all out it seems trivial but at the time I was freaked out and I thought you should know. Probably it’s nothing.
With All My Love,
P.S. I almost tore up
this note. It seemed such an abrupt way to reconnect with you after all these years. I certainly never intended it to be like this. I almost asked you to forgive me a bit, but you know I never ask for forgiveness. There, I have done just that, haven’t I? Am I getting soft and sentimental? Maybe we could get together for coffee. I would like that. I have some wonderful news I’d like to share.
The letter ends with an illegible scrawl: Vickie’s signature. Lucy reads it through twice. “Did you reply?”
“No.”
“Not even a phone call? A text message?”
“Nothing.”
Lucy studies me and tries to figure out whether I’m lying. I can see she finds it hard to believe I made no effort to contact Vickie. But then she knows she’s never been able to understand me.
“I’ll see that you get this back,” Lucy says.
“I’d appreciate that.”
“I’ll speak with the Maryland police,” she says, “and offer what help we can in their investigation.”
After Lucy leaves, I consider telling the Maryland police about the message the young woman gave me: I assume it may be related to her murder and is therefore evidence and, by not informing the Maryland police, I’m withholding evidence, which is probably a crime. But I’m pretty sure I have more serious things to worry about than an infraction of the rules. Besides, I’m not big on rules.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I CLIMB INTO a police cruiser and Lieutenant Bonifacio drives the cruiser smoothly out of the police department garage and onto the street.
“Take the first right,” I say. “Then speed up so we can lose anyone who might try to follow us. Then take the next left.”
“You think we’re being followed?”
“I don’t want to find out the hard way.”
The lieutenant almost laughs.
“What do I call you, Lieutenant?”
“My name is Santiago Bonifacio. My friends call me Sandy. Lieutenant Bonifacio is fine.”
The lieutenant seems a bit stiff and formal, and I suppose he wants to keep our relationship strictly professional. I can live with that.