by Dean Carson
Once I was around the corner, I stopped limping and moved swiftly into the shadows. The stakes had risen considerably now. This morning I thought I was waiting to sneak out of a country without papers. I thought I was broke, weapon-less and safely away from Mostar. Now I knew differently. Whoever had tried to kill me in Bosnia was still on my trail and knew exactly where I was. It was no longer a waiting game. I was the prey and I didn’t know who was hunting me. But I knew he was close.
EIGHTEEN
It took me nearly an hour to get back to the hotel. I must have walked every street and alley in the centre of Dubrovnik, many of them twice or three times. I paused, reversed, ran and hid, checked windows for reflections. I dived down behind dumpsters, passed in and out of the walled section twice, ducked into two bars and out back doors and finally went into a restaurant toilet. I got out through the window and climbed a wall. By that stage, I was fairly sure I wasn’t being followed. I’m good and if anyone was still on my tail, he was very good. No one was that good.
I didn’t walk into the hotel. Not tonight. Instead, I waited until the street at the rear was empty, then pulled a dustbin under La Donna’s window. That left me only about three metres short. Shit. I got a hand on the mounting of the satellite dish and a foot on a drainpipe. Neither was very secure, but I got enough of a boost to get a hand on the windowsill and, once I got that, I was as good as in. Luckily, the window was open.
I stripped off the damp clothes and had a shower. I wrapped a towel around my waist and sat on the bed. Then I fell back, put my hands under my head, closed my eyes and lost myself in my mindfulness exercises. Despite all that had happened here last night, despite the shot fired at me this afternoon, I felt safe in the small room. This was La Donna’s lair. She scared the hell out of me, but then she would scare the hell out of anyone else in the game too. I was safe — at least until she arrived.
I would like to say that I maintained perfect mindfulness for the next hour, but I suspect that I fell asleep. The reason I suspect this is because I was suddenly aware of footsteps in the corridor outside and the sound of a key scratching in the door. I sat up in the bed and looked relaxed when La Donna walked in. She looked stunning, in tight leather trousers and a scarlet blouse that emphasised her cleavage.
“Hi dear. I hope you didn’t mind. I forgot to leave you the keys when I left this morning.”
“Not a problem,” I smiled.
She looked at the end of the bed and grinned broadly. “You never lost it. So, did you have a good day?”
“I relaxed, saw the sights.”
“Really?”
“Of course not,” I said. “I have a mad warlord on my tail and no papers to get home. And a mad woman tying me up with cuffs and ropes.”
“That was for your own protection.”
“And the cocktail of drugs?”
“That was for my amusement.”
At least she was honest.
She sat on the bed beside me and ran a finger slowly up my thigh, towards the edge of the towel. My skin tingled. I thought of the list of heavyweight champions since Larry Holmes retired, and nothing more stirred. I don’t think she was looking for a reaction, but there was electricity in her touch. I needed to focus. If she helped me, I might make it out in the next day or so. But if she didn’t…
“Have you any news on a passport for me?” I asked.
She looked at me ruefully, almost disappointed. “Straight down to business. No kiss for your lady? I explained to you last night, I am under orders. No one will help you.”
“We go back a long way, La Donna.”
“We do. And we will talk later. But first, dinner. And put on some clothes.”
“Someone took my clothes before she left this morning.”
“Nonsense, dear. They are in the case under the bed.”
I looked under the bed and there was a rough suitcase, ages old. I pulled it out and inside were my clothes, neatly folded. My wallet was there too, with the money I had taken after the bar fight. And my phone. Everything was in order.
“I must have missed that this morning,” I said. And I had missed it for a very good reason; it hadn’t been there. Which meant La Donna had returned during the day and knew I had escaped her bindings. She was playing games but, as I said, we have a history and I knew all about her dramatic tendencies. So I went along with it.
Twenty minutes later, we strolled down to the bar for dinner as if we didn’t have a care in the world. She had steak, served blue, and a salad. I went for the fish. She had red wine. I had water. I wanted to keep my wits about me. After the meal we had a coffee and she had a Grappa. I think she was a bit disappointed I wasn’t drinking but, to be honest, I was more concerned about keeping alert and alive than keeping her happy.
Finally she suggested we go for a walk. So we did. We left the hotel and walked about two hundred metres, where we found a deserted bench overlooking a wide street. The whole time my eyes were scanning the buildings around us, but I could see no immediate threats. We sat. No one could overhear us. The time had finally come to talk. But I wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction of seeing me worried; I would let her make the running. I sat in silence, outwardly patiently, inwardly in a stew.
“I suppose you’d like to get home?” she finally said.
“No. Dubrovnik is growing on me. I love it here. I might buy an apartment overlooking the harbour and wait out my golden years.”
“With your tall brunette?”
That brought me up. How did she know? Had I been followed all day?
“I have my sources,” she grinned. “Let’s just say a little bird told me about your little bird.”
“Did the little bird tell you how to get me a passport?” I asked. There, I had done it. I had broken first and brought up the topic we were both here to discuss.
She grinned. “You aren’t listening. I can’t help you on that. I have my orders.”
“Damn your orders. We’ve known each other for years. We’ve worked together, got drunk together…”
“Bumped uglies together?”
“That too,” I added reluctantly.
“Don’t worry. I can’t officially help you. But I’m not going to leave a friend out on a limb. I might be able to point you in the right direction. There is nothing stopping me doing that.”
I sighed in relief. This was progress.
“All you need is a passport, and I know a guy who does the best passports in Croatia. In all of this part of Europe, in fact. And the good news is that he is based right here in Dubrovnik.”
I was finally catching a break. “How much?”
“It’s not that simple. You don’t have money and he, like everyone else, has been told not to help you. But there are ways. You need some leverage, something to convince him that it would be a good idea to help you out.”
“Any suggestions? Maybe he will just fall for my boyish charms.”
“Chérie, he doesn’t swing that way,” she said gently. “Not all of us are bowled over by your smile. But Milosz does have his weaknesses. And when a man is vulnerable, he can be persuaded.”
I looked off into the distance. I thought for a few minutes. I could wait for Bill to ride to my rescue, and a few hours ago that would have seemed like an attractive proposition. But now I knew my location was compromised and I could be killed at any time. Without a gun I was vulnerable. So La Donna was my only hope. I looked all around me. This part of the street was deserted. I could see no dangers any place.
“So tell me about Milosz,” I finally whispered.
“He is the best forger in the business,” she said proudly, as if he was one of her protégées. “His parents were Poles who ended up in East Germany after the war. He grew up there and went to art college in Dresden. But his talent was never for creating his own works. He was a master mimic. He could do any style, and his precision… Of course, he came to the attention of the Stasi.”
The East German secret police were one of th
e most feared security services on the planet, more ruthlessly efficient than the KGB ever were. If he was one of theirs, he would be highly trained and very difficult to persuade. Those guys were hard men, even among us hard men. That might make my job more difficult. She went on with her story.
“He moved to Yugoslavia in the seventies, where he set up a printing business, here in Dubrovnik. It was a sort of semi-defection, escaping some trouble back home. At least, that was his cover story. But the truth was he was the Stasi’s man over here and the print business was a cover. He worked for the East Germans and the Soviets right up to the fall of the Iron Curtain. And by the end, the main job he did was provide the best false papers in Europe. Once the curtain fell, he embraced free enterprise. Now his print works is the largest in Dubrovnik, and he still does the other work. Only now he does it for the warlords, the criminal gangs, the human traffickers. They say that every passport he produces is a work of art, and he certainly charges the sort of prices only masterpieces can command.”
“So your plan is that I rob a bank or pick a pocket or two to afford this guy’s exorbitant prices?” I asked sarcastically.
“No, silly. You need your leverage. I am coming to that.” She punched me playfully. “Really, you need to learn some patience.”
So I sat and listened. I fell back on my mindfulness training. Focus on the breath coming in and out, focus on the feel of my body on the bench, focus on the sounds coming and going on the soft evening air, focus on not snapping at her to get on with it.
“Milosz has two weaknesses. He loves beautiful women and he loves his granddaughter. But not in that way. He is not a pervert.”
I nodded my understanding.
“He loves not just beautiful women, but all women. He has what you call the … the roving eye?”
I nodded again.
“Roving eye — funny expression. He also has the roving hands. He chases anything in a skirt.”
“I left my kilt at home,” I said.
“Silly boy — shut up and listen. His wife, she does not like this roving eye business. She is very pissed off at Milosz, and a few weeks ago she threw him out of the house. So now he is living in a small room at the back of the print works with just two men to protect him. So that is where he is vulnerable. Attack at night, overcome his bodyguards, and you have him.”
I grinned. “I can do that.”
She shook her head. “If only it were that easy. He has been trained by the Stasi. He is not going to make you a passport unless he wants to make you one. You can hold a gun to his head, break his legs, he still won’t do what you want. That is the way they were trained. By the time you have broken him, there won’t be enough of him left to do the document. So, you need leverage. That’s where his other weakness comes in.”
“Drink?”
“Shut up and listen. I already said — he loves his granddaughter. Paulina is seventeen and the apple of his eye. Already one eager boyfriend has been kneecapped. He is very protective. So here is what you do…”
Her plan was bold. It was also nasty and vicious. Pure La Donna. But it was clever. I could see it working. I went through it from all angles and I couldn’t find the flaw.
“When?” I asked.
NINETEEN
At eight-thirty, I left the hotel through the kitchen and out the rear exit. I had my phone and my wallet and a couple of other things I thought I might need. All that was missing was a weapon. And a bullet-proof vest. That last would have been a great comfort to me but, in its absence, I substituted caution. I stayed in the shadows, scanning the streets ahead and behind me. I couldn’t see any danger, but I hadn’t seen any danger before I was shot at earlier either, so that signified nothing. At this rate it would take me all night to make it to the house in the suburbs where Paulina lived. I would need a disguise. Luckily, I had an idea.
There was a church about two hundred metres from the hotel, an old one with ancient sandstone walls and a beautiful spire dominating the skyline. It wasn’t the oldest or most venerable church in the town, but one was as good as another for my purposes. It took me ten minutes to cover the distance, and as I approached the side door I was fairly sure I had not been seen. Shadows were lengthening across the square and the door was in deep shade. I slipped in quietly and briefly allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness. There were two elderly women near the front of the church, kneeling, and to one side a man — clearly a tourist — was examining an ornate panel that seemed to be a scene of Jesus carrying the cross. But from my distance, and in the dim light, it could just as easily have been Jesus playing strip poker. Whatever, he was too engrossed to notice my entrance. So I slipped to the back of the church and knelt at a pew, my hands in front of me as if in prayer.
After a few minutes the man moved to another panel, then walked out the door I had come in. Not long after, a stooped figure emerged from a door to the side of the altar and whispered briefly to the two women. Then he scanned the body of the church and saw me at the back. He called something across the space and I raised a hand in acknowledgement. The church was closing in a few minutes. I hadn’t got that from what he had shouted. I had seen the closing time on the door on my way in.
The two women stood and began walking towards the back of the church. As they reached the centre, they turned and made a brief bow towards the altar. I took that moment to stand and slip into the shadows beside a large statue of one of the saints. I don’t know which one, but you might. He was the one in the brown robes with the bald head. Come to think of it, that’s most of them.
The two women walked to the end of the church and paused near the main door, where they lit a candle. They opened the door, allowing a crack of light to travel across the nave towards the altar. Then they were gone, the door closed and the light vanished.
I moved again, slipping into one of the confession boxes that dotted the side of the church. There were four on each side, each one big enough to hold the priest and the kneeling penitent. The wooden structures were completely private. I sat on the priest’s narrow bench and waited. A few minutes later, the stooped man reappeared. I could see him clearly through the grill of the confessional, but I knew I was virtually invisible inside unless he decided to check each one before closing. And no one is that meticulous.
Sure enough, after a quick walk around the church, he pulled the rear door closed and bolted it, then went to the side door and did the same. He crossed the church to the altar, where he briefly knelt on one knee and blessed himself. Then he walked through the door at the side of the altar and disappeared. I waited ten minutes and gave it another five just to be sure. Then I opened the confessional and crossed to the altar. I didn’t bother with the genuflection. I walked straight up to the side door and put my ear to the ancient wood. Nothing. Not a sound. So I pushed through and found myself in the sacristy, the inner sanctum of the church. This was the backstage area where the priests prepared for their services. What I needed would be there.
The room was as black as the pit of hell. There was no light at all because there were no windows. I found the flashlight app on my phone and scanned it around the space, revealing a narrow room that ran the full length of the altar, but only about three metres wide. All along the wall opposite me was a long counter of rich amber wood, with presses underneath. Both side walls contained tall cupboards. I would need light to search this room properly. It was probably safe to switch on the electric light, but you never know. There might be a small sliver of a window high up, or light could escape under a door. So I rejected that idea. Instead, I searched the drawers until I found a box of candles, many half burned. I took out three and lit them, casting an eerie glow in the long narrow space. Then I threw open the first cupboard. Nothing but long staffs, oversized crucifixes, statues and other processional paraphernalia. So I went to the other side and opened one of the cupboards there. Bingo.
It was full of robes. I brought over the three candles and set them on the ground, throwing as much light as
possible on the collection. What I was looking for were the long black cassocks that priests wear when they are not at the altar. I knew that if I threw on those dark robes, which reach to the ankle, I could walk around Dubrovnik and be completely invisible, just another clergyman going about his business. It took me less than a minute to discover, and another three to confirm, that there were no cassocks in the cupboard or in the neighbouring cupboard. There were all sorts of other vestments, but no cassocks. I was puzzled but then I recalled. Croatia, unlike the neighbouring countries, was Catholic. Cassocks are worn by Orthodox clergymen. Catholic priests wear a black suit, black shirt and white collar. And who keeps their suit in the church? They keep it in their home, ready to throw on in the morning.
This was a setback, but I wasn’t leaving without a disguise. So I searched, eventually finding a white alb that went from neck down to knee. There was a mirror, and in the dim light I looked at my reflection. Good, but something was missing. As it stood, I looked like a member of the Ku Klux Klan who had forgotten his pillow case. I went back to the cupboard and found a purple stole, the silk scarf that priests drape around the neck and let fall to their waist. The stole had an embroidered cross in yellow on both ends and completed the look. This would pass muster unless someone thought to ask themselves what a priest was doing in altar clothes walking the streets at night. But who gives priests a second glance anymore? I would get away with it.
The three candles went back in the drawer and I left the sacristy as I had found it, with no evidence of my nocturnal visit. I felt a twinge of guilt at stealing the robes and thought for a moment of dropping a few notes into one of the collection boxes in the church. But in the end I didn’t feel that guilty and I kept my money.