smoke. In the intervening years, they spent a few days vacationing together and spoke by telephone two or three times a week. Since both were dedicated to their careers, being together full time was impossible.
Connolly knew she was going to run the case-a cap-feather generator, probably an international one-and if the detectives got in her way, she’d sweep them aside. After all, she’d witnessed the shootout, connected Middleton to the ICCY and kept the cops from misinterpreting Middleton’s actions and, possibly, killing him. And she had a working relationship with the foreign authorities. Plus it didn’t hurt that she was the southern belle apple of the her boss’s eye-they were both from Mississippi and, more important, she had a high-profile case closure rate second to none. It also helped that she never failed to give her superiors as much of the credit as possible.
Connolly looked across the security room at her annoying prisoner, whose wrist was now cuffed to a pipe. EMS had bandaged his nose and cleaned the blood from his face. To turn him over for processing, she’d been calling the U.S. Marshals Service every 10 minutes for an hour. Finally, she thought, as her phone rang. A callback.
“This is Connolly,” she said. “Where the hell are my Marshals?”
“When and where did you last see them?” the Polish inspector asked.
“Well, hello, Inspector Padlo,” she answered, softening her voice as she stepped outside.
“Hello, FBI Special Agent Buttercup,” Padlo said. “Have you found Middleton?”
“Here’s the deal,” she said-and told him everything she knew. Padlo listened without interrupting.
When she was finished, he said, “Harold Middleton was the last person to meet with Henryk Jedynak, a collector of old music manuscripts who, along with two witnesses, was murdered here. I had Colonel Middleton picked up and I questioned him. From your description of his assailant, he could be Dragan Stefanovic. I made the Rugova connection to Middleton and showed him an array of photographs of men known to have associated with Rugova in the old days, displaced mercenaries who are now thugs for hire. Stefanovic’s picture was among them, as was a man we know only as The Slav. Middleton said he saw The Slav at the airport-apparently waiting for the same flight to Paris that he was taking. The Slav made it out of Paris before we could get French authorities there. As you know, the French authorities generate more red tape than red wine.”
“You don’t think Middleton may have been somehow involved with Jedynak’s death, do you?”
“No. Harold Middleton is one of the good guys, a devoted family man with firm moral fiber, and a man who has made sacrifices so he could right terrible wrongs. Now we have the death of Jedynak, the attempt on Middleton in public and the disappearance of Jedynak’s niece.”
“His niece. Is it related to his murder?”
“She is a talented violinist so I suspect all of this might be connected to something all three have in common-music. For Middleton and Jedynak, the link runs through rare music manuscripts, which may connect them to Rugova as well.”
“Rare music manuscripts… ”
“As you know, Rugova spent part of the war in Bosnia securing looted treasures from World War II. At St. Sophia, he stole forty-something crates the Nazis had hidden in a sealed chamber: paintings, drawings, golden figures, a few small but valuable bronzes, jewelry-and musical scores. The deaths of almost two hundred civilians got the attention at the time, rightfully so, but Rugova moved those crates. In time, he was eager to trade information on who received the looted art-in exchange for leniency.”
“Middleton knew this,” Connolly said.
“Middleton had a Chopin manuscript he said might be a fraud, but maybe it is part of this missing collection and he doesn’t know it. Or maybe he does. I believed him when I interviewed him and I can tell you that he was suddenly very afraid for his family’s welfare. This, I believe, is a valid fear.”
Connolly said, “I hope the cop-killer hasn’t found him.”
“You can be sure that if it’s Stefanovic, he isn’t working alone,” Padlo said. “I can send you photos of the men who served with Rugova. If one of them has killed Middleton, it is to keep the location of the hidden treasure a secret. We’re talking millions, maybe even billions of euros here.”
“Send the pictures to my email address at the Bureau and I’ll send the cop-killer’s to you.”
“Of course, Buttercup.”
She smiled. “You know, Jozef, maybe I can get clearances and have a ticket for you at the airport. I mean, you know these people better than we do, and your assistance could be invaluable.”
“Amazingly, I’ve already told my commissioner that by helping you we can quite possibly help solve Jedynak’s murder and bring the killer back here to justice. Maybe you can arrange to have someone meet me at Dulles?”
“I think I can arrange that, Inspector Padlo.”
The Slav’s name was Vukasin, which meant Wolf, and he was not pleased with how badly things were going. Waiting in a car outside the St. Regis for two of his men, he stiffened at the sight of the elegant woman who had climbed from a cab across the street. She approached his vehicle, opened the door and slid inside.
“Eleana,” he said in their native tongue, “your timing is perfect.”
“How could I pass up an opportunity to work with dear old friends? And it’s Jessica, please.”
“Jessica. Very American. Good.”
The woman seated beside Vukasin was a Serbian national named Eleana Soberski who was now, thanks to forged documents, a U.S. citizen. Soberski had been a child psychologist before serving as an Intel gatherer assigned to Rugova’s forces. The real Jessica Harris had been a volunteer nurse at the central hospital in Belgrade, a woman without close family in the States. She had become eel food in the Danube, compliments of the woman aspiring to steal her identity.
Soberski’s primary duty with the KLA during the cleansing action had been interrogating captured enemy soldiers and civilians collected by Rugova’s unit. Vukasin, one of Rugova’s lieutenants, had seen her work and admired her interrogation methods and enthusiasm. A beauty without a sympathy gene, she rejected the soldiers’ overtures and Vukasin came to believe she derived sexual pleasure only when she had utterly terrified people lashed to a table, a chair or hanging from the rafters in excruciating pain.
“Your target is here at this hotel?” she asked.
Vukasin took a picture of two men at a table in a restaurant out of his pocket and handed it to her. “The target is this one-Harold Middleton, who led the Volunteers that tracked Agim and found him.”
Her expression hardened. “This is Harold Middleton? I thought he would be more impressive. Where is he?”
“We’re not yet sure.”
“And you believe he will come here. To a bar. In public.”
Vukasin nodded. His ex-wife had been persuaded by his men to list places were Middleton might flee. The St. Regis was one.
“Do you have men inside there?” Harris asked.
“They’re on the way.” Vukasin smiled. “They’re disguised as FBI agents. It will be effective: Middleton is wanted for shooting a policeman at the airport.”
“A policeman?”
Vukasin explained.
“A fiasco,” Harris said. “Where is Dragan now?”
“Deceased. What choice did I have? He put everything at risk.”
“And why do we care about Middleton?”
Vukasin took the picture from her. “This other man is Henryk Jedynak, a collector and expert in rare music documents. Jedynak is no longer with us either. You can ask Middleton why.”
“I will gladly do so,” Harris replied. “But surely there is more to this than the death of music collector… ”
Vukasin was tired, but it was the true she needed to know what the mission was. Now was a good time to tell her.
“Middleton was at St. Sophia with the peace keepers and he was among those given the task of cataloguing the musical manuscripts-the ones that remained at the church before we could remove them. Three years ago, Jedynak was asked to authenticate a few of the manuscripts Middleton left behind. When they were to be sold to a private collector, it was discovered that Jedynak replaced the manuscripts with fakes.
“The seller was Rugova,” Vukasin added.
