Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation, Vol. 2 (20 page)

Comfortable now, he walked to the front door of the house, placed his key on a small table next to the door, and again used his customary caution in walking outside. The taxi was not there.

Tutungian walked the short distance to the street, looking for the cab. The street was narrow, cars were double-parked, making it difficult to see without his moving to the center of the street. Still no taxi. The stupid driver had probably been forced to drive off because he was blocking traffic. Tutungian made himself less unhappy by resolving not to give the driver a tip when he drove back around the block to pick up his fare and took him to his destination.

Rather than stand outside, a target for anyone, Tutungian walked back to the house. He would stand just inside the door, and when the taxi came he could quickly move to the vehicle.

Tutungian abruptly realized he had left the key to the door on the table inside, and the door locked automatically when it was shut. He tapped on the door for the landlady to let him in. Then, as a possibility, he turned the door knob. Miracle of miracles, the door opened. Tutungian stepped inside, never seeing the man who waited there for him.

An hour later, the police received a call from a woman whose hysteria at first prevented them from comprehending what she was babbling into the phone. When they finally understood, they sent two cars to seal off the scene. When the first unit arrived, the woman was incongruously sitting on the ground in front of her building. She was wailing, several neighbors trying to comfort her. The woman adamantly refused to get to her feet or to stop wailing, even when the police tried to get her up.

One of the cops kneeled to talk to her; the other police officer walked to the open front door and cautiously stepped inside. He saw a man sitting in a chair, his back to him.

Because of the report they’d received, the cop slid his gun out of its holster, walking a wide circle around the chair. The man was dead, his face puffy and red, his eyes protruding. There was a wire around his neck, so tight it had cut his throat. A considerable amount of blood had spilled down his front. At the back of his neck a pair of wooden handles dangled from the ends of the wire.

Nestled in his lap, palms up, the man’s hands contained an object. The police officer took a closer look, then almost gagged when he realized what it was: the dead man was holding his tongue in his hands, a small amount of blood pooling onto his fingers.

If he had been alive, Tutungian would have appreciated one thing: His hair was still slicked back, in the exact way he had combed it, not a single strand disturbed.

J
ana called Seges while she and Levitin sat in the lobby, nursing a glass of wine, waiting for the airport shuttle to arrive. Seges immediately began moaning about his caseload. Jana eventually snapped at him, getting Seges’s mind turned in the direction she wanted.

There was no additional word from Mikhail in Ukraine, and Seges still hadn’t the faintest clue as to what Mikhail had called her about.

The code book was now with the FBI in Washington, and they were making noises about sending it over to the CIA or NSA for them to decode, claiming those were the agencies that had the equipment that would enable them to decipher it quickly. Everyone was now waiting for an executive decision on whether they would send it and whether it would be accepted. Seges, as directed, had also sent a copy to the man in the Czech Republic who had written a book about codes.

Jana thought for a moment, then asked Seges to hold on while she talked to Levitin. “Do you know anyone who is good with numbers?” she asked him.

He tapped his temple with a forefinger, pleased with himself. “I am great with numbers, in any configuration. I never forget them. It helps me to investigate corruption at home.” A grin crept into the corners of his mouth. “My uncle, the minister, didn’t get me promoted
just
because I’m his nephew.”

“Do you know anything about codes?”

“Not formally. Not even informally. There are code experts in my country.”

“I know.” Jana decided to keep the book out of Russia. The Russians were capricious. If she left it in their hands, they might decide to keep the work for themselves, and she would never be informed of their results.

Jana went back to the phone. Seges asked if she wanted to talk to Trokan. Jana had Seges transfer her.

“How are you doing?” Trokan’s voice had a grumbling quality. “Are the French feeding you well?”

“They feed all visitors well. And how is my sick blind cat doing at the veterinarian?” Trokan’s grumble this time was not so pronounced. The cat had been declared well enough by the doctor to allow Trokan to take the “poor little thing” home.

“One tiny tidbit,” Trokan confided, his voice taking on a smile. “My wife now likes taking care of the cats. You may have a hard time getting them back from her.”

“Her interests are transient,” Jana reminded him. “She will be yelling for you to return them in another few days.”

“Assuredly.” Trokan lost the smile in his voice. “But meanwhile I am at peace. Are you getting along with Levitin?”

“More or less. Mostly more.”

“Success?”

“Not yet.” She took a breath. “I believe we will have to go to Nice.” She waited for the explosion of disapproval that never came. “So . . . ?”

“To see our daughter?”

“No. To see
my
daughter,” she corrected him, as she always did.

The smile came back into his voice. “To see your daughter,” he amended.

“There is a lead that Levitin and I want to follow. We have to go there to do it.”

“My wife wants to go there. It is very warm. Palm trees. The blue sea. When she hears you have gone, she will like you even less.”

“Does this mean I have permission to go?”

“I want daily reports.”

“Every few days.”

“Daily!” insisted Trokan.

He hung up on her.

She held out the phone to Levitin. “Do you need to call for approval?”

Levitin still had that look of self-satisfaction which had appeared when he had told her about his ability with numbers. “You forget, it’s my uncle. No problem.”

They rose as the shuttle bus pulled up to the front of the hotel. Jana and Levitin picked up their baggage, walking outside with the other passengers waiting to board. The sun was hidden behind the clouds over Strasbourg. It was going to rain. When it did, it would be cold. Even when there was nothing but sunshine in this city, Jana decided, it seemed like it was cold.

They boarded the bus, the bus driver reading a newspaper as he waited for all the passengers to embark. The headline and the accompanying picture caught her eye. Jana stood behind the driver, reading over his shoulder. The driver finally realized what she was doing.

“You want to read the paper?” he asked, in English.

“Yes,” she answered.

“I thought only the Americans read over other people’s shoulders.” He thrust the paper at her, and started the engine. “Don’t forget to return it,” he barked as she walked back to the empty seat next to Levitin.

The front-page photograph showed a body being carried away. A man had been murdered. Registered under a false name, he had been identified as Aram Tutungian, a delegate to a conference that had just been concluded in Strasbourg. Although the paper gave very few details about the killing, it was apparent that it had been a particularly nasty murder.

She passed the paper over to Levitin, no doubt in her mind that Koba and the killing were intimately connected. There was also no doubt in her mind that Koba, if he was still in Strasbourg, would soon be in Nice, the city they were now traveling to. She wondered if she would be able to identify him when he came after her.

S
asha took the chance of walking down the Promenade des Anglais because she loved the Baie des Anges. Angels had to live here; the blue of the water, the beaches, the palm trees, everything about Nice and the Cote d’Azur was so different from Russia. Even at the end of January the temperature was mild; it was slightly overcast, but she could walk outside wearing a light jacket. Yes, it was worth a little risk to walk, inhaling the sea air, after spending almost all of her days inside to avoid being discovered.

Occasionally, Sasha would hug the jacket closer to her body, not because of the weather, but because she liked the comfort of the soft wool. It had been a casual gift from Pavel. They had walked by a store window, Sasha commenting on how pretty it looked, even on a window mannequin. Pavel had immediately gone in and bought it for her. It was not the rich-looking fur coat Pavel had later given her. However, her new life required a different look, and she was safer wearing wool.

Her naturally light brown hair had been dyed, not blonde as she first intended, but an even darker brown-black. Blondes attract too much attention, and Sasha could not afford that. All her clothes had been left behind in their suite of apartments as soon as she heard that her protector had gone out of the window. The event itself had told her she had to run. They would be coming after her next. There was no chance that Pavel Rencko had killed himself. He loved life too much, and no matter what crime they were accusing him of, he would have fought back, kicking and screaming, rather than take a suicide leap.

The old Russian couple who worked at the Queen Victoria had rented a room for her for a few days in their name so she could avoid registering. It was necessary. People leave their names in too many inconvenient places where other people can access them. Sasha had thought of leaving Nice, running to another city. Not a good idea, she had decided. She spoke imperfect French, and a Russian woman who traveled would leave a trail that was easily visible. In Nice, at least, she knew people, she knew the city. Her only real opportunity to escape was to become an invisible person, surviving until they gave up searching. Then, maybe Marseille, an easier, bigger city to hide in, but with the same light and sun she now enjoyed so much, might be the place for her.

Damn the overcast. Sasha wanted the full, blinding light of the sun after submerging herself in the place she’d found. She’d been fortunate. A developer had put up an apartment complex in the old quarter of the city where Sasha could rent by the week or month. It was owned by an absentee landlord, so there was no need to register, but also no postal designation and no telephone. Other than that, the place was fully furnished. The tourists would flock back to the complex once the season started at the end of March; but with all the vacancies they currently had, the rental agency had been only too happy to let her take it at an off-season rate, no questions asked. Only she missed Pavel.

Pavel had been fun. It was a business arrangement, yes. Yet it didn’t matter to him that she’d been a whore, an addict who would provide any sexual favor for a fix. He’d truly become her lover rather than the keeper of a “do-it-for-me blow-up doll.” He’d put himself on the line for her, telling the others to stay away. And he was enough of a threat to force them to back off. Then he’d helped her get the drugs out of her system.

A trio of teenagers rollerbladed past her. There were two girls being teased by a tall boy. The boy would skate up to them, gently shove one of them, then they’d both chase him while he skated ahead, or back, leaving them to scream at him. It was all love play. Sasha wondered which one of the girls was going to end up with the boy. It was obvious they both liked him, and were playing at the game, while playing him.

There were people on the
plage:
a pair of joggers, a circle of men kicking and heading a football. It was not like the beach would be in the summer, when it would be jammed, a place to stay away from. Her eyes drifted away from the beach, across the boulevard. It was then that she saw the dark Rolls-Royce with the blacked-out passenger windows and the pencil-thin red stripe down the side drive up to the front of the Negresco. She immediately felt acid in the back of her throat, forced up by the fear in her stomach.

Sasha bent, as if adjusting her shoe, to lower her profile and half-hide behind a small car. She pulled her neck scarf off, tying it around her head babushka-style, to change her appearance even more. She managed this while keeping her eye on the Rolls.

The chauffeur went to the trunk, pulling out luggage, as bellmen from the hotel ran to the car and the chauffeur handed them the bags. The driver then walked to the passenger door and opened it.

The passengers didn’t immediately leave the car. They took their time, then made a leisurely exit. They had been finishing their drinks. One of the men handed the chauffeur his glass. The three passengers then walked up the hotel steps.

Sasha recognized all three of them. The one she could not take her eyes off was the Manager. Again, here, in Nice. The Manager was supposed to have gone far away from Nice, so Sasha had felt safe again. Now the trembling started in her legs, and traveled in waves up her body. She tried to slow her breathing, to calm the feeling that her head was bobbing so hard that it might snap from her neck.

No question, if the Manager was here, they would be discussing emergency measures, and she would be among the major items to be discussed. She was a large loose end they had to clip off. Pavel Rencko had used her for his errands, confided in her, given her access to his papers, made her an integral part of the business, and they knew it.

Knowledge is safety, Pavel had told her. They can’t hurt you because they don’t know what you’ve done with the knowledge, where you’ve put it in storage, and how incriminating to them it is. They will want you to keep on living, Pavel said, until they know. Pavel was wise about these things. He had comforted her, pulling her close. “If you die,” he’d whispered in her ear, “someone they can’t control may obtain what you know. They can’t let that happen. So, you see, you are now safe.”