Jana waited to let them get settled and involved in selection from the menu, then casually walked in, peering around for a table. The café was small enough that any table she took would give her a good view of her quarry. Jana quickly chose one at the rear. The waitress came over, setting a small plastic holder with the specials of the day in front of Jana, who picked it up to study, while looking over the top at Kamin and the woman. Then she ordered a Kaffee mit Schlag.
They had been joined by a bullet-headed, pig-featured man with a scruffy blond goatee that was more a flag of challenge than an asset. They were arguing with him. Kamin was gesturing angrily. His voice did not carry, but she saw him snarl. The newcomer leaned forward, threateningly, and knocked Kamin’s hand off the table, then shoved Kamin back in his chair and stood, towering over him.
Kamin did not appear fazed. He stared up at the man intently. The bullet-headed man, as a last defiant gesture, took his own chair and tossed it across the floor. The few customers in the restaurant got to their feet at this disturbance of the fabled Viennese Gemütlichkeit. The manager scurried over to pick up the chair, but was afraid to bring it back to the table.
The bullet-headed man mouthed a curse and stalked out of the restaurant. Almost immediately, the woman rose to her feet and followed him. Kamin remaining seated. Jana’s instinct urged her to follow the woman. She had a quick sip of the coffee the waitress had set in front of her, then dropped a bill on the table in payment. As casually as possible, she got to her feet and went after the woman.
Outside, she saw the woman catch up to the bullet-headed man. He heard her coming and swiveled around to face her. As soon as he turned, another man came up behind him and smashed him across the back of his neck with what looked like a pipe, hit him again, this time on the head, and continued to beat him as he lay on the sidewalk.
As soon as the fight started, the pedestrians began to flee, interfering with Jana’s view. She ran forward, only to stop short when she saw the woman turn to face her and point a gun directly at her. She gestured with it for Jana to retreat; Jana backed up without taking her eyes off the woman and her partner. He went to the driver’s seat of a car that had been parked at the curb. The woman casually approached the passenger side of the vehicle. They drove off.
Jana went to the man on the sidewalk. His skull had been fractured and he had been beaten to death. Nothing could be done for him, so Jana raced back to the café. The waitress told Jana that Kamin had left through the rear door.
Jana ran out the back door. As she had expected, Kamin was gone.
It is hard for a police officer to witness a murder and not be able to do anything about it. It’s even worse to have an opportunity to apprehend the man responsible, and miss that opportunity as well. The Austrian police said they could take no action against Kamin. How could they prove he had sent the man and woman to do the killing? Kamin was not a resident of Austria as far as they knew. As for the man and woman, who were they?
No arrests.
No charges.
Jana liked Vienna even less after that.
She had to go to Vienna on police business on a regular basis. Austria and a number of other countries shared a border, so a regional liaison group had been established to deal with the prevention and suppression of cross-border crime. There were other meetings, higher-level meetings than the one Jana was now going to attend, that dealt with matters of policy, working agreements, treaties on mutual cross-border needs in criminal prosecutions, and the like. Jana only participated in those events as a briefer, an expert behind the scenes. The meeting today involved a fairly convivial group, professionals in law enforcement who generally believed in what they did. Jana had been struck by how their national characteristics were reflected in the way the individuals interacted. The Swiss seldom talked; the Hungarians always seemed to be talking; the French punctuated most of their communicating with facial expressions and extravagant gestures. The Germans were always suspicious of police representatives from the other countries; they might themselves be involved in criminal activity. The others knew how the Germans felt, but, for the sake of appearances, tolerated them. Despite all their differences, they managed a substantial degree of cooperation and assisted each other when the need arose.
Today the group discussed communications, methodology of selected crimes, and trends in cross-border crime. Of course, like cops everywhere, they always discussed the cases they were personally involved in after the agenda was covered. After the official business was over, the troop converged on a local beer hall to swap stories, drink a glass of pilsner, briefly mention their families, and then return to their own home country. That meant catching the last train to Bratislava, which was only sixty-four kilometers from Vienna, for the Slovaks. Today, the group had selected Grosslik’s, an old beer hall and eatery whose menu boasted that Hitler used to enjoy its wonderful breakfasts. By unspoken agreement, they studiously avoided commenting on this fact to the Germans. They settled in with their mugs of beer, enjoying the others’ old war stories and telling a few of their own.
They were well into their second beer as Andras, the Hungarian, held forth on his personal brilliance in breaking up a criminal ring.
“Two groups were involved, both Hungarian, and they met a third group’s representative, a Slovak. It was set up by another Slovak, a man they called Midi.” Andras inclined his head to Jana in acknowledgment of her countrymen’s participation. “They met in an up-market chocolate shop. When we finally broke in, they didn’t understand how we could have overheard them. They must have felt like idiots when they found out we were listening in on their conversations via a mike concealed in an elephant made of bittersweet chocolate.” He laughed. “I took a photograph of the elephant and showed it to my children.”
They laughed at his story. After that, there was a moment of silence. Most of them used this opportunity to finish the last of their beer and stood, ready to call it a day. Jana gestured at Andras to stay as the others said their good-byes. She ordered another round of beer for the two of them. Something Andras had said earlier had engaged her interest.
“You mentioned the man who set the scheme up, a man called Midi. That doesn’t sound Hungarian or Slovak. Italian, perhaps?”
“We never found out.”
The waiter set two beers down; Andras sipped his. “A very clever man, Midi. He put up the money for the venture, planned it, but stayed away from meetings, using the Slovak we caught at the chocolate place as his representative. The Slovak gave us Midi’s name.”
“What else did he say about this Midi?
“Not much. Our Slovak was afraid of him. We had to drag the facts out of him, which means you always miss something. He said this Midi helped him get out of prison early but didn’t know why he was selected. Perhaps it was because he had been sent to prison for smuggling and Midi wanted a professional in that line.”
“How did Midi arrange to get the smuggler get out of prison early?”
Andras held his hand up and rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. “Remarkable what people can do with dollars, euros, pounds, Swiss francs, or whatever. Greed is universal.”
Jana smiled. “Did they speak English together? Hungarian? Maybe even Slovak? What language were they comfortable in?”
“Midi spoke good Slovak. But the smuggler said that Midi also knew English, a little Hungarian, and, on at least one occasion, spoke German.”
Jana mulled it over: four languages, but one thing seemed important. “English and German are in common use all over Europe. The smuggler said Midi spoke a little Hungarian, but he spoke Slovak well. There are only five or six million Slovaks. And Slovak is not spoken by the rest of Europe. Which means to me that Midi was probably Slovak.”
“So?” Andras asked.
“It puts this man called Midi in my jurisdiction, someone for me to watch out for.” She continued, “You said your bad guys made a number of trips into Slovakia?”
“And into Austria
, and back to Hungary, and the Balkans, even to France. They delivered goods to others in France and Italy, which they thought were destined for Canada and the U.S. They said one shipment went to Mexico on a Spanish ship. They were delivering packages all over the fucking place.”
“Not so hard to understand. It’s easy when there are no border controls. But what were they shipping out of the Euro area?”
“When the group was first set up, one condition was laid down: the goods were prepackaged, waiting at a pickup point. The instructions were explicit: nobody was to open a package. If a package was opened on the job, no matter who tampered with it, they would be held responsible.”
“Being thieves, I’m surprised they didn’t look anyway.”
“One of the teams may have. Our Slovak smuggler told us that two of the original group were found floating in Lake Como early in the game.”
“Italy?”
“Yes. Everyone believed that Midi had arranged their deaths because the team had fiddled with the contents of one of the packages.”
“What was in the packages?”
“Nobody knew. After the killings, they never asked. They were paid very well, and they left it at that.”
“Were the packages all the same size?”
“No. Some were very small, some not so small. The wrappings were not alike, so there was no clue there. And the addresses for the pickup and delivery were varied.”
“So what did you arrest them for, if you didn’t even know what they were carrying?”
“You said it yourself: thieves will be thieves. They couldn’t just transport the goods they were scheduled to carry. They got into the transportation of narcotics to make a little extra money. There are too many informants in the narcotics trade. That’s what led us to them.”
“And Midi’s description?”
“Your Slovak was all over the place in his description of the man. The most trustworthy part of the picture that he painted was that there was nothing really outstanding about the man, except for his eyes. He said the man had cold eyes, eyes the color of wet ashes.”
The description jolted Jana. “Wet ashes.” She probed her memory, remembering. “I once knew a man like that: a Slovak.” A picture popped into Jana’s mind. “Did he have a scar through one of his eyebrows?”
Andras looked surprised. “You know him?”
Jana sat back in her seat, mulling over the information. It had to be him. Kamin! Sofia’s rapist. He was close.
She finished her beer.
“Ever hear of Midi again?”
“Not Midi. Three days later, the Slovak smuggler was murdered in jail. Throat cut.”
“You had no leads?”
“Nothing.” He dropped his voice, leaning closer. “He was in a locked cell. We never figured out how the murderer got in or out.” He shifted nervously in his seat. “Maybe a jailhouse guard was bribed?” He laughed. This time there was an edge of nervousness to the sound.
They finished off the remainder of their beer; Jana paid for the last round. She left quickly, glad to be going home.
Chapter 15
Jana and Peter decided to spend a few nights out of town together. It was one of those intervals when each had a lull in official responsibilities. They jumped at the chance to get away.
A relative of Peter’s was the manager of a hotel in Piešt’any, a spa town that claimed miraculous cures for its hot mineral baths. It catered to not only the Slovaks but also to tourists from a dozen other countries, particularly Germans, Czechs, and Russians, who had a long tradition of patronizing the waters. Their vivid testimonials about the curative value of the spa’s thermal pools and sulfurous mud were advertised in international magazines, bringing in a constant flow of new pilgrims intent on experiencing miraculous cures.
Despite a certain cynicism about what the curative waters of the spa did for people, Peter’s cousin Vilem took pride in the way his hotel treated its customers. He claimed that the staff, which he had trained, was attentive; besides, he bragged, although the hotel was one of the oldest of the numerous hotels in the city, it sat next to a small, bucolic stream, and, despite its age and Spartan decor, it was charming. To further induce Peter to come, his cousin offered them free immersion in the steaming hot springs, glorious mud baths, and all the free massages they wanted, from morning until just before midnight.
It was an easy eighty-kilometer drive from Bratislava. Before Jana and Peter arrived, they had decided that since it would not be seemly for the two of them to room together, they would get rooms on different floors, each paying for his own. However, they also made sure that one of the rooms came with a king-size bed.
They each insisted on taking up their own bag to their own room, where they quickly put belongings away and freshened up, then met in Peter’s suite. He had ordered a bottle of Russian champagne. They were too much involved with teasing and kissing and slowly undressing each other to be critical of their surroundings, making glorious, undisturbed love for the next two hours.
They lazed around for another hour, drank the rest of the champagne, and decided to try the mud baths. Changing into their bathing suits, they went down to the baths and had themselves coated with the soft, brown sulfurous goo. The experience ended with showers, topped off with a luxurious massage. After that, they were both so agreeably tired that they went back up to Peter’s room and fell asleep, not waking up until dinnertime, both now ravenously hungry.
Since Cousin Vilem and Peter had not seen each other for a while, they decided to all go out to a Hungarian restaurant to have dinner. It was a small place but comfortable. Cousin Vilem provided the entertainment. He was a very pleasant man, almost chivalrous in his courtesy to Jana, complaining about the terrible girls that Peter had dated when they were both young, and complimenting Peter for finally bagging a lady who was not only good-looking and bright, but who had a gun that she could use to protect him. He laughed uproariously at his own joke.
The small talk continued through dinner. They began affectionately calling Peter’s cousin “Groucho” because his moustache and wry humor reminded them of one of the Marx Brothers. Groucho’s jokes began tapering off just after dessert, when Peter’s cousin, a perceptive man, claimed that he had to get back to his duties at the hotel.
The two of them sipped their after-dinner drinks, glad to be alone together. With some trepidation, Jana decided that it was also time for them to talk more about themselves and their pasts, particularly hers.
“We have to recognize who each of us is, and where we have come from. No,” she stopped herself, “it’s more important that you know about me. If nobody’s told you or if they have said something, I want you to know my truth. How it actually was with me before, and how it is now.”
“What’s there to know? I love being with you. We fit together. We talk and have fun, and you let me tell stupid jokes and stories and laugh at them, and I think you love me, which is even more important. So what else is there to say?”
“I was married.”
“You told me you’d been married. You said he was dead.”
“Did you know he was a criminal?”
Peter’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“Ah, you didn’t know.” Jana thought about how she should phrase this, then plunged ahead. “He was not a criminal when I married him. He was the love of my life, I thought. And he was, for a while. Then he went off somewhere. It was not because of me; it was because of how he saw himself, the government, the whole world. He decided he wanted to be a man who robbed the rich and gave to the poor. I loved him, but I couldn’t help him. No one really could. It was heartbreaking. Along the way, the man he was disappeared. And, when there was nothing left of him, he died. By his own hand.”
Peter took her hand, pressing it to his mouth to reassure her.
“You think his being a criminal would hurt me, or have some effect on me? The answer is no. And, since you’re still a commander in the police, I imagine the government agrees.�
�� He held his hands up, as if to surrender. “The past has to be let go of . . . by both of us.”
Jana thought about the next problem. It was harder to talk about than the first one, and more serious.
“Another truth to tell: we had a child, a daughter.”
Peter did not let go of her hand. “Then he left you with a wonderful present. I hope you’ve told her about me. What did she say?”
“My daughter married an American. They were both killed in an auto accident.”
Peter felt her anguish. “Hard. So hard! I am sorry, Jana.”
“She had something wrong with her . . . approach to life. Maybe she was too much like her father.” Jana grieved for her daughter’s life, and her death. There was a void, a deep hole inside herself, because of that death. “She also had a daughter.” Jana forced a laugh. “You didn’t know you were making love to a grandmother, did you?”
“Is that all?”
Jana managed to get out a weak “Yes,” waiting for his response.
He kissed her hand again. “The youngest, prettiest, and sexiest grandmother I have ever seen.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think that I’m surer than you are.”
Jana had to continue, the words tumbling out. “I may be a good police officer, but I couldn’t help my family.” She grimaced. “Peter, please believe me, I truly loved them both. It didn’t help. They died anyway.”
“Anyone who knew you would know that you loved them. Where is your granddaughter?”
“She lives with her father’s parents in the United States. Right now, they’re in Switzerland for a time.”
“Have you seen her lately?”
“We talk at least once a month.” She laughed, a little shaky and embarrassed. “She doesn’t speak Slovak except for a few words; but she wants to come visit me. My daughter’s in-laws have refused. I think I’m ready to visit her in Switzerland without going into hysterics when I have to leave. I believe her other grandparents will let me see her there.”
Dark Dreams Page 9