Authors: Eric Almeida
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The soaring atrium lobby of the Prague Hilton echoed with sounds of morning:
clinks of cups and plateware from the ground-level restaurant, receipts
printing at reception, luggage loaded onto trolleys, doors sliding open at the
front entrance. Conley had already eaten breakfast and was sitting in the
lounge area next to a gurgling fountain.
It was impossible not to notice. Even at this early hour there was an
improbable circulation of riveting and slender young women. Every other female
seemed in the same exalted class as Tracey Whitcombe. He’d had heard that
about the Czech Republic, and after Paris he was glad to see its reputation
confirmed. Anything to take his mind off the travesty with Claire; just
watching would be salutary. And if something, by chance, went beyond that? Here
there were no innate hazards.
He checked his watch and pulled an e-mail printout from his leather case. In
one respect he wouldn't be able to follow Bradford's lead in Prague. Bradford
had spoken passable Czech; in Conley's case he needed language assistance:
Dear Mr. Conley,
Milena Janikova will be your interpreter. She has been informed of your
nationality and occupation and will look for you in the main lobby at 8:30 on
Monday morning. If she has trouble locating you she will have you paged from
the reception desk.
Thank you for using our service. I will also thank the U.S. Embassy for
putting you in contact with us…
An announcement aired over the hotel public address system:
"Mr.
Steven Conley please come to reception. Your party is here to meet you."
Conley rose and limped across the lobby. When he drew closer to reception he
inhaled and didn't breathe out…Only one person stood nearby: a tall girl
in high-heeled boots and black leather jacket…and in-between, legs that
extended across an improbable distance. When the girl saw him limping toward
her she made brief eye contact, then turned away. The girl had a thick main of
curly, strawberry blond hair and wore glasses.
Conley identified himself to the receptionist. The girl, hearing this,
seemed surprised.
"I'm sorry. I'm Milena Janikova. I saw you, but…"
Bright blue eyes behind the glasses. Fair, slightly freckled skin.
Notably younger than he was. He introduced himself.
"Let's go sit down," he suggested.
"I saw you…but you didn't look like a journalist."
"What did I look like?"
"An athlete, maybe."
She looked at his facial scabs and then at his leg brace, her face
reddening. But by the time they sat down she’d recovered her composure.
Her eyes were cheerful and she tilted her head to one side when she listened to
him. Her glasses gave her face a scholarly quality. Conley could hardly keep
his eyes off her exposed knees, which were jutting toward him.
"What's your background?" he asked.
"I've done English translation work for a couple of years…"
Here he noticed she had a very slight lisp "…part-time, mostly for
business visitors. I graduated from the Linguistic Institute of Charles
University last spring."
That was good enough for him.
He proceeded to summarize his assignment. They would seek to duplicate
Bradford's interviews: the Czech Deputy Interior Minister in charge of drug
enforcement, a Prague-based United Nations official, the Prague Chief of
Police, the head Interpol Liaison in Prague, and a Czech journalist who'd
investigated the heroin trade.
"All these people probably speak English to one degree or
another," Conley said. "But I'd like to have you along as a
backstop."
"Did you say the Prague Chief of Police?"
"Yes. Ivo Klucar is his name."
"My future father-in-law."
This set back Conley back a notch. He'd gotten way ahead of himself.
"Father in law?"
"I'm getting married in April."
Taking in this disclosure, Conley re-focused, filling out details of the
interview schedule for the first two days. That left Wednesday and Thursday:
"I may decide to venture into some criminal haunts. Certain Albanian
restaurants and cafes---ones Bradford visited. Maybe it will be a waste of
time. We'll see. I can assure you, though. We won't take unnecessary chances in
such places."
Milena shrugged as if the outings would amount to harmless fun. Conley
gained the impression that she was not the cautious type.
His cell phone rang inside his coat pocket. He answered. The caller was
Claire.
"Steve, I just wanted to make sure you made it to Prague okay, given
your injuries and everything."
Her voice was businesslike but
tremulous---testing their new arrangement.
"I'm briefing my interpreter now," Conley said. "We're about
to leave the hotel."
Claire was already apprised of the schedule; Conley reviewed objectives for
each meeting. She seemed on the verge of asking additional questions when he
checked his watch and interrupted.
"Can I call you back this evening, Claire?"
On her end Claire paused for several seconds before they concluded the call.
"Your editor in the U.S?" Milena asked, looking at her watch with
some confusion, aware of time zones.
"No."
"Your wife?"
"No. I'm not married."
Milena looked even more puzzled.
"I'll explain in the taxi," he told her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Gallagher considered himself adept at setting priorities. Larson, though, was
a master of the art. Now Conley's assignment had risen to top rank.
"I feel I should make more time for this," she said, elbow on her
desk and a stem of her reading glasses in one hand.
Gallagher sat across from her. Monday, about an hour after lunch. Whitcombe's
displacement to Washington had not brought calm at home base. The opposite.
"Any particular concerns, Janet?"
"The aid bill adds a new dimension. The paper's got a lot riding on
this. And it's obviously important to Harry."
Could he provide such summaries at the morning editorial meetings, Gallagher
asked? Other editors had been curious and inquired. Her reaction made clear
that she had another mechanism in mind: daily briefings in her
office…"at least until Harry gets back."
"Daily?"
"Just ten or fifteen minutes."
"Okay. Just you and me?"
"No. I'd like to include Nathan Frick."
In the plate-glass window behind her traffic hurtled by on Morrissey
Boulevard---a normal backdrop for an unusual request. However Gallagher had
seen this coming. He shifted in his chair, producing a loud squeak.
"Why Nathan?"
"He's interested in a broader role, down the road," Larson
answered, in an even, reasonable voice. "This will give him some exposure
to international reporting."
Gallagher stroked his beard. He found himself looking forward to
Whitcombe's
return.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The rectory of
Notre Dame de Passy
was not a disagreeable place, even
with musty air. Just not one where Claire expected to advance her goal. In
truth she was here as a courtesy to Veronique. Also as another show of
appreciation to Francois. She couldn't forget; he'd gone to extraordinary
lengths in the organization of Peter's funeral.
"Maybe you're getting too wrapped up in this, Claire," Francois
said, in a gentle, worried tone, lanky frame inclining forward from his velvet
armchair.
Claire's cup trembled as she took a sip of coffee. Did Francois have a
point? Was she pushing Conley toward some disaster…a repetition of what
happened to Peter? The thought unsettled her. She decided caffeine only added
to her turmoil and put cup and saucer back down on the low table fronting the
divan. "Remember last time how I said I needed a goal?" she said.
"Yes."
"This is it."
"Hmmm." Francois considered this. "Still…asking this
reporter, Steve Conley, to call you every day. Isn't that rather
demanding?"
"Maybe. On the other hand, if I can help him avoid more problems, and
keep abreast of his progress, isn't that good? I mean…what's wrong with
it?"
Francois considered again. She hadn't told him about Conley's inane overture
on Saturday evening.
"Goals are fine," he finally answered, choosing his words with
care. "But in our pursuit of them we have to be considerate of others.
That's clear in Christ's teachings."
"I respect the Church and its teachings, Francois. You know that."
At that moment she noticed that his clerical collar was askew. A well-meaning
but disconnected
haut bourgeois.
She also noticed, with some
apprehension, the Bible that lay again on the table next to his armrest.
"There are other ways of coping with grief…" He began,
reaching for the text.
"Before we get to that…" she interjected. "I was
reading Voltaire yesterday evening..."
Francois tensed at this pronouncement.
"…And he had an interesting perspective---one which I related to
Peter and to Steve Conley's assignment. That was…'To the dead we owe only
the truth.' I decided that's the minimum we owe Peter."
Francois' eyes narrowed; his lips became more severe. Her citation of
Voltaire---in the rectory, moreover---was obviously not pleasing to him.
"The
philosophes
of that period were great thinkers," he said.
"Frequently misguided, though."
Wouldn't those centuries-old antagonisms ever subside? On the divan Claire
straightened and set her jaw. Francois studied her. After a pause his pastoral
duty came back to the fore. "Let's walk over to the sanctuary," he
said, gently again, as if that venue offered protection from unwanted
influences.
Whatever his stratagem, Claire was relieved to get up and move. She preceded
him out of the salon and across a small courtyard to the church. They entered
through a side door that came out near the altar, which they rounded to the
center aisle. The sanctuary was empty and mid-morning light filtered through
the high, stained glass windows. There was a lingering scent of incense
from early mass. Snapping from her heels echoed off granite walls.
Francois slowed their pace: an endeavor toward calm. Though bent slightly at
the waist, he towered over her. His long, slender hands were clasped behind
him.
"Francois, it's just that I want these stories about Peter…to
come out the best they possibly can."
"Don't you trust the reporter?"
"Well…he's smart enough. But he can make mistakes."
"We're all fallible, Claire. You have to allow for that."
"Of course. That's why I want an active role."
Francois gave her a worried sideways glance. A few steps further---about
halfway down the aisle---he drew to a stop, causing Claire to do likewise. He
folded his arms, lowered his chin and reflected for a moment.
"Just be careful," he said.
"…That
the
philosophes
don't lead you to excess."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"Your father-in-law seems like a tough and capable official,"
Conley said.
"My future father-in-law."
This was day two. As usual Milena was smiling---clearly enjoying her
translation work. They were on a street outside the Prague Police Headquarters.
Sparkling autumn afternoon. Conley opened the back door of a taxi. Milena
angled her bare legs and climbed in.
Conley had convinced himself that her status made this week simpler. It was
easier to focus on his reporting. He slid in beside her, deliberate because of
his knee-brace.
"My impression is that he's a formidable adversary for these Albanian
gangsters."
"I don't doubt it."
Next stop was the Interior Ministry, situated in the Hradcany section of
Prague: a hilltop on the other side of the Vltava River. Their route skirted
the narrow streets and picturesque squares of the old city. Church spires
loomed around every corner. Streets were full of pedestrians. To Conley it was
an enchanting, civilized place. Though not without dark undercurrents; he
remembered comments by the Interpol liaison the day before, a stout,
middle-aged German with a bushy handlebar mustache.
"You'd be surprised at the drug-related criminality that goes on
here," he had said, in German-accented English. "It's brutally
violent."
Such a remark was discordant with carefree scenes outside the taxi. On a
bridge over the Vltava Conley noticed a young couple getting photographed. He'd
read that Prague was a popular destination for honeymooners. This dissonance
was still on his mind 15 minutes later when he and Milena were ushered into the
expansive, high-ceilinged office of Jaroslav Forman. Two windows behind
Forman's desk afforded spectacular views across the river toward Old Prague.
"I read about what happened to Peter Bradford…just a couple of
weeks after he was here," Forman began in professional, competent English,
while still standing. His eyes flitted down to Conley's brace, with no comment.
"A tragedy. I give you my sympathies."
"…In fact he sat in that very chair," the official
continued, gesturing behind Conley. "I was surprised. He spoke very
passable Czech."
Forman presented an even gaze and a modest, reasonable manner. He was Deputy
Minister of Interior, with drug enforcement his main portfolio. As the
interview got underway he lit a cigarette. During the next 45 minutes he smoked
about five more.
Milena was called upon to assist at occasional intervals.
Forman provided a recent history of heroin in Prague. The fall of communism
had spawned a freewheeling drug sub-culture. In the early and mid-90s Czech
authorities adopted a semi-tolerant attitude, and Prague acquired a reputation
as a minor drug mecca. However usage never reached alarming proportions. Mostly
marijuana. Heroin addiction existed around the margins.
Until this laissez-faire approach attracted drug interests from outside the
country.
Albanians and Italians arrived about the same time. To the surprise of Czech
authorities, the Albanians soon prevailed over the Italians in the local
market, though the Italians had ruled heroin distribution elsewhere in Europe
for decades.
"These Albanians employ savage methods," Forman said.
"Perhaps because of their deprivations back home. There were scores of
gangland killings in the mid- 90s. Pulverized bodies. Slit throats. You name
it."
Overland smuggling routes through the Balkans made Prague a distribution
hub. From there the Albanians developed retail networks in Amsterdam,
Hamburg and other West European cities, in further competition with Italians.
By late 90s the Czech government began to get serious about the problem.
However intensified enforcement efforts coincided with an increase in supply,
mainly from Afghanistan. Prices dropped all along the pipeline, creating more
retail demand and bigger wholesale business for the Albanians.
"It was always an uphill battle," Forman explained.
There was a brief respite in 2000-2001 when the Taliban regime undertook a poppy
eradication campaign in Afghanistan. But that ended with the American military
invasion. Production soared again: an ironic outcome for the West. Europe was
flooded anew with cheap heroin. Now that the Czech Republic was a member of the
EU, the Czech government was under increasing pressure to choke off the
pipeline. Albanian Mafia clans had proven difficult to penetrate. So the
authorities had resorted increasingly to immigration crackdowns and expulsions,
rather than arrests.
"It's a struggle on many fronts," Forman admitted, blowing a plume
of smoke toward the high ceiling.
Afterward, Conley and Milena made slow progress across a cobblestone square
surrounded by other government buildings. Though his knee was less sore, he
still walked with a limp, while Milena clasped his elbow. He recalled what
Klucar had said about Albanian restaurants and cafes that Bradford had visited.
Such places were always hazardous. Never mind with limited mobility.
He told Milena. "I'm still considering our plan for tomorrow and
Thursday. I haven't decided yet."
"Whatever you say." She laughed. "I'm ready either way."
On a nearby street they'd seen a taxi stand. Their plan was to drop her off
at her apartment before he proceeded on to the Hilton. He was startled when she
wrapped his arm and drew closer.
"Why don't you let me show you some of Prague?" she asked, in a
singsong voice.
"I don't know…My knee is still stiff."
"We won't walk far. And I'll help."
"What about your fiancé?"
"This week he's at a medical symposium in Brno…part of his
training," Milena said, tilting her head with the same bright excitement
she showed toward the Albanian venues. With her everything seemed a lark.
Conley thought for a moment. He had no work planned for the evening. It
would be simple companionship. What harm could come of it?
"Okay. I'll just have to make a phone call or two," he said,
pulling out his cell phone.
"Claire?" Milena asked.
He nodded.
"You're really nice to do that for her," she observed, leaning
close enough so that her curls brushed his face.