The Elizabethan Secret (Lang Reilly Series Book 9) (15 page)

33.

Directorate X

Sluznha Uneshny Razvedki (SUV)

Yasenervo 11 Kolpachny

Moscow

Minutes Later

The SVR RF, Russia’s espionage agency, is located in a campus not unlike the United States’ CIA. Also similar, it is in a wooded area, the Yasenevo District of Moscow that could be compared to the Langley suburb of McLean, Virginia. The agency itself is composed of a number of directorates, each with its own specialty. Directorate X’s is scientific and technical spying.

Deputy Director Eduard Avalov was studying the dispatch fresh from communications. A native Georgian, he had departed South Ossetia with his brothers and sisters during the separatist fighting of 1993. His abilities in scientific matters at Moscow State University had not gone unnoticed by the apparatchiks of the Ministry of Education.

In a country where over half the population spends at least some time at the tertiary education level, academic achievement, particularly in those sciences with potential military application, is frequently rewarded with government employment. So it had been with Avalov. He had shortened his name from the less-pronounceable and very Georgian Avalishvili, become a vocal supporter of Yeltsin during the constitutional crisis and then of Putin when he replaced Yeltsin.

In short, he knew which side of the political bread had the butter on it, a prerequisite to rising in the bureaucracy of the Russian government.

At the moment that political sense was in a quandary. According to the dispatch, some weeks ago some as yet unknown arm of the government had sent a pair of former Spetsnaz
buli
to London to obtain a certain object sold at auction to an American named Lang Reilly. They had made such a botch of it that only the Russian Army’s renown lack of subtlety could have been responsible for sending two special forces types to do a diplomat’s job. Either that or someone in the Kremlin had seriously underestimated the American, Reilly, and his wife. Even in the self-serving, stilted language of someone trying to excuse a complete failure, it was obvious this had been what the British would describe as a total balls up.

And balls ups were a certain path to the political Gulags, manning small, inconsequential posts somewhere east of the Urals where the winter temperature made Moscow’s seem temperate by comparison. Deputy assistant minister of turnip and potato production in a small Siberian village’s Office of the Ministry of Agriculture came to mind.

Now the Director himself was informing Avalov of an intercepted communication from the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea’s Rome embassy, one the few in or close to the Balkans. Until relatively recently, the North Koreans’ national paranoia had prevented any European diplomatic mission other than in the ever-neutral Sweden. Even so, most of the ones now dealt more with administration of aid programs than diplomatic measures.

Avalov, like most Russians, including the government, believed the North Koreans were both real and potential trouble makers in northern Asia. In 2007, Russia joined the UN Resolution condemning the North Korean’s continuing of nuclear testing, an act the Democratic Peoples Republic--or at least its leader--viewed as perfidious at best and downright hostile at worst. The relationship was still strained.

Russia regarded the people of the northern half of the peninsular--or at least their one-man leadership--as border-line insane, someone who might well precipitate a nuclear war over some perceived insult. Also, the country’s only real ally was another Peoples Republic, this one China.

The Sino-Russian relationship had improved greatly after the fall of the Soviet Union. They had initiated a number of mutual projects and were even accepting each other’s currency for the other’s merchandise. One, and perhaps the largest area of mistrust, was China’s failure to keep a firm hand on its client state, North Korea. Russia suspected China tolerated if not encouraged the possibly deadly lunatic antics of its smaller neighbor to enhance its own stature when it could occasionally restore a semblance of rationality to the chubby little nerd who appeared to use a soup bowl to measure the trim of his hair. True or not, Russia did not feel it could rely on China’s good graces to get the Koreans to share whatever they learned nor to refrain from using that knowledge to precipitate one more crisis.

In short, if the Democratic Peoples’ Republic was going to be prevented from putting newly discovered scientific data to ill use, Russia was going it alone.

Politics, though, was not the subject of the hijacked message. An unspecified number of men from The Peoples’ Democratic Republic’s Reconnaissance General Bureau had tracked down one Langford Reilly, presumably the same Langford Reilly who had bested the Russians sent to London.

The intelligence directorate specialist behind the message Avalov held speculated that whatever the North Koreans wanted with Reilly was pretty much what the Russians wanted. There was one disturbing detail that made no sense: The Koreans’ mission was to find out exactly what object Reilly had purchased and what function it had served. For a nation whose foreign policy defined isolation if not xenophobia, why did they care? Other than less-than-subtle efforts to reunite the peninsula by force or otherwise, this was the first instance of which Avalov was aware in which North Korea showed interest in the affairs of other countries.

No sense at all. Unless the Koreans had somehow gotten their hands on it.

And if that were the case, Russia needed to forget the item itself and concentrate on Reilly. Or rather on making sure he didn’t enlighten the Koreans.

There was only one way to guarantee his silence.

But first, watch closely, see what the North Koreans might do

Avalov sat down in front of the monitor of his
Elektronika BK
and input Croatia.

Exactly where might Mr. Reilly be?

There were any number of ways to find out.

34.

Highway A 1

Bosnia-Herzegovina

“You have an iPad?” Lang asked over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the snake-like road.

Semitz was in the Audi’s rear compartment, doing what he could to minister to Rogers. “Yeah. Why?”

“You have a service than can access the Internet without wifi?”

“AT&T. Why? This isn’t a time to be conducting a survey or something.”

“Try Google. Does Bosnia-Herzegovina have an extradition treaty with Croatia?”

After a full minute of silence: “No, they don’t. At least as of 2009. But why . . .? Oh shit! You’re planning . . .”

“Here is what I have in mind--” Lang explained.

Moments later, the Audi approached another small plaza of custom booths and came to a stop in front of one adjacent to the north-bound lane. Unlike the previous stop, a car was parked behind each booth: A battered Peugot 106 and a time-worn VW Bug. Lang had seen a number of both in Dubrovnik and found it easy to believe the vehicles belonged to local customs officials.

As the Audi stopped, Lang watched the face of the uniformed man behind the glass go from curious to horrified as his eyes went from what Lang guessed was the bullet pocked coachwork to the shattered side window to Rogers in the rear compartment.

“He’s badly hurt,” Lang explained, getting out of the car.

Little or no chance the man understood English but he needed to keep his attention as Semitz opened the hatchback and crawled out.

Lang waited until the customs/immigration man exited the booth, his attention riveted on the stricken figure in the back of the Audi. As though choreographed, Lang stepped behind him, pinning his arms to his back just as Semitz relieved him of the weapon in the holster on his belt, one Lang recognized as a the diminutive Zastava semi-automatic pistol Yugoslavian police and military had used before the country broke up.

“Best hurry,” Lang suggested. “His buddy on the southbound lane is probably already on the line calling for backup.”

With some effort, the two Americans men shoved their victim back into the booth. Semitz held him still, Zastava against his temple while Lang took brief stock of the small shack’s interior. He saw a phone and reached for it.

“123 is the 911 for an ambulance,” he announced, pushing the keyboard.

“That something you just happened to know or a wild guess?” Semitz asked.

For an answer, Lang pointed to a tattered sign above the mount for the phone. A cartoonish figure of a policeman, whistle in mouth, a medical cross and the outline of flames were above their respective numbers, 122, 123, 124.             

“Can you get Rogers out of the car while I call 1-2-3?”

“Out of the car? You plan to leave him here?”

“Unless you have a better idea. He’s not going to last the hour or so to Split and I’d prefer not to be wandering around Neum, looking for a hospital while the buddies of our friend here hunt us down.”

“Maybe but to just leave him?”

Lang had his index finger in the old-fashioned rotary dial of the phone. There was a ring tone and a voice he didn’t understand. He let the phone dangle on its cord. “The emergency service can trace this call and they’ll get here a lot sooner than we could find them.”

Removing the customs official’s belt, he lashed the terrified man to a chair, the only furniture other than a stand-up desk built into one side of the structure.

Semitz had his doubts. “That’s not going to hold him very long.”

“Doesn’t have to. Just long enough to make Rogers as comfortable as we can before we get the hell out of Dodge City.”

Lang heard the pulsating serene as they crossed back into Croatia. “Hope that is an ambulance.”

In the passenger seat, Semitz nodded. “Me too.”

“By the way, Mr. Hertz isn’t going to be all that happy to get his Audi back bloodstained and full of bullet holes. I doubt whatever insurance you and Rogers took out covers any of it.”

“Perils of the trade. By the time the rental car folks figure out their customer doesn’t really exist, I expect we’ll both be back in the U S of A.”

“Doesn’t exist?”

Semitz shook his head slowly. “C’mon Reilly! The Office did a background check on you! You trying to tell me you boys at the Agency printed first-class passports for a dozen different countries and never used homemade drivers’ licenses and bogus credit cards?”

Lang didn’t answer; he just smiled.

35.

Split, Croatia

Ninety-Six Minutes Later

                                                                                                                                                If Dubrovnik seemed unlived in, Split was exactly the opposite. The contemporary town funneled traffic toward the quay from which craft ranging from rowboats to ocean liners could be seen. Small boats scurried like water spiders between the dock and larger ships. Crowds strolled the edge of the harbor.             

              Semitz pulled the Audi into an angled parking slot and cut the ignition. “OK, Reilly, end of the line.”

He pointed to where a pair of large ships with ten foot or higher lettering proclaimed “BlueLine” and in smaller figures, “www.blueline-ferries.com.” Forward was a yellow smiley face larger than most helicopter pads. “There’s your transportation.” Reaching into the car’s glove compartment, he removed an envelope and handed it to Lang. “And here’s your e-ticket and reservation. Got you an inside cabin, no windows. Figured that would be more secure. Boarding begins at 18:30 local, departure at 20:30. Bon voyage.”

He got out of the car.

“You’re just going to leave it here?” Lang asked.

“How smart would it be to turn it in blood soaked and bullet riddled?”

Then he mingled with the milling crowd and was swallowed by it.                  

Lang checked his watch. He had more than enough time to explore and replace the articles he had left in the Dubrovnik Hilton in his hasty departure. The city, he found, would be the dream of any advocate of recycling. Lang had visited the ruined but still magnificent summer villa of the Roman emperor Hadrian north of Rome and the crumbling site of Tiberius’s bisexual debauchery atop the Isle of Capri. Here in Split, the Third Century emperor Diocletian had built his palace. The outer walls abutted the quay, which teemed with people and shops past the point where automotive traffic was not allowed. The entrance facing the harbor was a barrel vaulted tunnel lined with small kiosks selling jewelry and souvenirs. During Medieval times, people had built houses in what had been the courtyard, seeking the protection of high walls from a parade of invading Goths, Ottomans, Venetians, and a host of others. Many of the structures were now high-end stores, bars, restaurants, and boutique hotels. The emperor’s mausoleum had become the local cathedral. The streets were narrow, twisting and paved, Lang guessed, with the original Roman cobblestones.

In a series of shops, he purchased an extra shirt, underwear, and a pair of khaki slacks a trifle long. He declined the proprietor’s offer to take up the cuffs while Lang waited. Apparently inured to the strange ways of foreigners, the shop keeper shrugged and stuffed the goods into a bag before thanking Lang for his patronage. Next, he entered under the green cross that Europeans associate with apothecaries, pharmacies, chemists, or, in this case,
apoteca,
where he replaced toothbrush and razor, hoping the Croatian labeled tube he bought contained toothpaste. In the next block, he acquired a small shoulder bag, not because he actually needed it (the bag from the clothing store would suffice nicely) but because a passenger embarking on an overnight ferry with no baggage was likely to draw attention.

He wandered into Pjaca Square overseen by the thirteenth century Romanesque bell tower of St. Domnius, now topping the mausoleum of the emperor visible over the roof tops. Lang took a seat at an open-air eatery, and an attractive young woman appeared as by magic, menu in hand.

“Do you speak English?”

Her smile widened. “Of course. It is taught beginning in what you would call first grade.”

His face must have betrayed his relief because she continued in near accentless English, “One cannot get a decent job in most places in Croatia unless you are fluent.”

That said a lot, Lang supposed, about the prospects the Balkans, or at least Croatia, saw for a relationship with America.

“I’d like a beer, whatever is Croatian.”

“The most popular is
Vukovabsko pivo
.”

Lang suddenly realized he had not eaten since the hotel’s breakfast buffet. The few bites of the inedible Dubrovnik mystery burger hardly counted. The memory brought pangs of hunger. “Then, that’s what I’ll have. And maybe something to eat, a sandwich or something?”            

   “
Topli serduici
? It’s a heated sandwich.”

                At this point Lang didn’t care if it were frozen. He could cheerfully eat anything. Well, almost. His travels had shown him some of the more disgusting items some people put between slices of bread and pronounced edible when no rational human would touch the ingredients otherwise. The burger in Dubrovnik was a recent example. The memory of a meal in a private home in Sardinia a few years ago was all too clear.
Casu matzo
, or the “living cheese” between slices of warm Sardinian bread, so called because it
was,
in fact, alive, swarming with maggots whose excretions supposedly gave the Percornio a special flavor. Lang never verified the theory. He had abandoned his writhing lunch on his plate. 

She sensed his indecision. “Ham, sausage and cheese.”

“Done!”

Lang stretched his legs from his seat in a partially successful effort to disperse the stiffness from the long ride in the car. He also rotated his neck in what would appear to be a similar effort to loosen those muscles also. Actually, he was taking in the small plaza, which included three outdoor eating establishments, two shoe stores, a couple of dress shops, a green grocer and dozens of what he took to be natives, all of whom seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere else.

It also included a periodic serenade from a single table at another outdoor restaurant where eight men alternately drank from tall beer glasses and broke into song. Although he understood not a word, the blending of tenor and baritone suggested an organized glee club rather than random merry making.

The sun was warm, the song calming, the anticipation of a meal distracting. For the first time in over twenty-four hours, Lang almost let himself relax.

Almost.

But not quite.

He would not let himself abandon vigilance entirely until the door of home shut behind him. A more or less routine trip on behalf of the foundation to an obscure country had turned decidedly dangerous in Dubrovnik, deadly near Neum.

As his sandwich arrived nestled among a pile of French fries, he mentally salivated. His pleasure was only diminished              when he thought of Rogers, seriously wounded and in a potentially hostile environment. In Lang’s mind, leaving a wounded comrade smacked of cowardice despite the Agency’s mantra of years ago: Save the mission above all else. He tried to convince himself that what had happened was within the purview of an operation conducted by The Office of Naval Intelligence. But his very nature wouldn’t stand for it. Any way you cut it, he had been party to abandoning a wounded American, never mind there had been few, if any, alternatives.

He tried to wash away the image of the fear in Rogers’s eyes, eyes from which Lang had to force his own. The wet sound of breathing with damaged lungs, the . . .

“Is all well?”

The waitress was standing over him, looking at the untouched beer and sandwich.

Lang took a bite and nodded his approval. A swallow of beer rapidly getting warm and, “Uh, yeah. Everything’s great. I was just enjoying watching everything.”

As if to prove the point, he shaded his eyes and scanned the sun-drenched plaza.

That was when he saw them: A pair of men seated across the square. Though not the same, they could have been brothers to the men who had accosted Gurt and him on the London sidewalk outside Christie’s.

Tourists like himself?

Possible but unlikely.

Tourists tended to travel with family or significant others, and these two did not appear to be gay, although these days, it was becoming increasingly difficult to be sure.

Native Croatians?

Again unlikely.

It was well past lunch time and these two were of the age who should have been at work somewhere at this hour. Add to that observation that the pair were not sitting across from each other but sat where both were facing Lang.

Just, like Lang, people watching?

The image Lang got was more of Victoria, the Harris hawk, waiting for the hare to bolt its hole.

Plus, they just
looked like
trouble, gave off the vibes that might make a street cop stop and search, a sentry take a second look, or a guard loosen the flap on his holster.

Lang deliberately turned sideways to them and attacked his sandwich, simulating a man oblivious to all but his meal. From the corner of his eye, he noted a pair of cups--coffee or tea--in which neither showed any interest. Instead, they watched the plaza, its comings and goings and those stationary within its confines. They also were play-acting, pretending not show Lang special attention. 

The performance neared its conclusion when Lang finished his sandwich, drained his beer, stood and dusted crumbs from his lap. While he waited for the return of his credit card he pretended not to note that the pair across the way cleared their tab and were mirroring his faux indecision as to where to go next.

Pocketing his credit card, Lang window shopped several stores, utilizing reflections in the glass storefronts to track the pair, who, in turn, were not too subtly monitoring his movements.

He reached a corner. Down the street he could see the colonnaded, octagonal cathedral.

He made a dash for it. Judging by their slow reaction, the move took his followers by surprise.

By the time they abandoned any pretense of disinterest, Lang had a half block on them. When he ran past the church’s magnificent, twelfth century carved wooden doors, he was a full block ahead.         

  The church was filled with tourists listening to lectures in half a dozen different languages, many staring up at the figures on the domed ceiling, including the Christian-persecuting emperor and his wife. Others took in the double rows of red granite Corinthian columns.

Diocletian, the original occupant, was not present to enjoy the opulence of his final resting place, his sarcophagus having been ritually destroyed by non-cheek-turning Christians in the seventh century.

Lang quickly put the crowd of tourists between him and the entrance and glanced around. His pursuers would be here shortly, and there did not appear to be any exit other than that through which he had entered. He should have been studying a guide book instead of watching the people in Pjaca Square. He didn’t remember seeing any for sale, and this was hardly the time for self-recrimination.

The stairs, presumably leading to the crypt, were chained off. A bad memory of a grisly shootout in a crypt in a Viennese church and being trapped among the royal tombs in Paris’s St. Dennis dissuaded him of that choice. Plus the fact that such places rarely had an exit other than the one he was looking at.

Perhaps twenty feet or so to the right, a staircase was visible. He glanced at the ceiling. Unlikely the church had a second floor unless, perhaps, a small area to maintain the roof. Using the audience of visitors as a shield, he moved toward it and began to climb.

Almost a hundred feet later, Lang realized his error. Although he had a magnificent view of the city below through the colonnaded bell room, he had little else, certainly no means of escape other than a long jump down. 

And it wasn’t his imagination hearing the footsteps on the marble stairs.