Siren of the Waters: A Jana Matinova Investigation, Vol. 2 (5 page)

Jana tuned into what was happening. Nothing vital. Some bureaucrat from an isolated department was doing what so many of the Eastern European government cadres did when they had to give a talk: reading in a monotone from a paper that he had spent a week writing and which had then been cleared by all his supervisors. The man was afraid to leave out a word of the approved script. Democracy had not changed the embedded legacy of mediocrity in which the communists had buried the nation.

“We are determined that the principles will prevail. Transactions in human beings are remnants of feudalism that we, as individual states, cannot condone. We must work together on this issue.” Even though the speaker’s last words were supposed to be a thrilling call to arms, they simply trailed off, everybody in the room heaving an ill-concealed sigh of relief.

Jana took time to scan the room and then checked the participant biography handout that had been laid on her chair. Virtually all of the attendees except the media occupied government positions. All of them looking gray or brown, even their skins picking up that dusty, muted appearance so many civil servants have. Trokan was there, sitting on the other side of the room. He was one of the few who still had a vivid life force that made him appear animate rather than a mere robot.

The person who interested Jana the most was the only other woman in the room. She sat behind a small table-flag indicating that she was from the EU. Jana checked the paragraph about the woman in the biographies. She had no academic degrees, but had put together a network of groups in the EU countries that were interested in fighting trafficking of woman and children. Because of her activities and expertise, the president of the EU had personally taken a hand in appointing her to her current position.

While Jana was checking the woman out, Trokan nudged her, indicating Jana with his head.

The EU woman stared at Jana, each of them looking directly at the other. The woman smiled. Jana nodded at her, she nodded back, polite but contained. Jana found herself assessing her: a formidable person, a woman who was self-assured, even in this group of powerful people, but also a pleasant person not afraid to smile at someone she did not know.

Jana checked out the woman’s clothes: neat but fashionable. No wedding band, but a ring on her right hand, an oval of diamonds surrounding a large center stone. Tasteful but expensive. The wearer knew that people respected wealth but that they did not like being slapped in the face with it.

The woman had taste, determination, and competency, or she would not be in the room as a representative of the EU. As well, she had the drive needed to get to this level of power, a formidable person who had to be taken seriously by the minister sitting at the head of the table. And Trokan’s pointing Jana out to the woman meant that she was interested in Jana. Jana sensed that the woman was the reason the minister had summoned her this late in the session.

The people at the table, out of politeness, asked the speaker a few questions, and his answers were now droning to a close, a smattering of applause following him from the rostrum. As if afraid someone would raise another issue or generate an unwanted discussion, the minister quickly closed the meeting. People broke into small groups and began to filter out of the room. The EU woman approached the minister, the two of them joined by a man who, Jana remembered, was a UN representative from Vienna. The three talked amicably as they left. Jana remained seated. She would find out soon enough why she had been summoned.

Trokan made his way around the table, dropping a word here and there to other participants, finally sitting on a chair next to Jana. “There is some coffee still left in the pots.” He indicated the coffee setup in a corner of the room. “Cookies if you like.”

“The coffee will taste burned by now, the cookies stale.”

“They tasted that way from the beginning of the meeting. You saw the woman?”

“Yes.”

“Her name is Moira Simmons, an official with the EU. From Strasbourg.”

“She expects to meet me? The minister’s doing?”

“Yes.”

Trokan got up, Jana following his lead, the two of them edging toward the door, Trokan pausing every few steps to say a word or two to the other people who were also moving out.

A colonel from Customs she hadn’t seen in some time mouthed a “hello” at her. “You will love Strasbourg.” He patted her on the shoulder as she passed. “But you will have to dress less like a police officer there,” he warned.

Jana nodded and smiled. Then, to Trokan, “I didn’t ask for any assignment to Strasbourg. Why?”

“It’s always a ‘why’ with you. Things happen. The minister will tell you.”

“Does everyone here know about it but me?”

“Most of them.”

“A miserable way to run a police department.”

“We specialize in being miserable to everyone, including each other.”

Jana thought of Jurai, the man she had taken the blind cats from. He had said something similar. Maybe it was true. She hoped the cats felt better being with her rather than with the street busker. Then again, maybe blind cats can’t tell they are miserable.

Trokan and Jana finally made their way into the hall, picking up their pace as they walked toward the minister’s office.

“Why am I going to France?”

“You speak English; you speak French.”

“I took French twenty years ago at the university.”

“I told them you spoke it fluently.”

“Why?”

“We decided you were the only one to go. Everyone else would fake interest in the topic just to get to France, even if it is Strasbourg and not Paris.”

“I have no reason to go to Strasbourg.”

“You don’t even know what the topic is, so you can’t say you have no interest. And the more you try to turn it down, the more they will want you. It’s human nature.”

They walked into the minister’s suite, his secretary opening the office door after a brief knock, then ushering them into the inner office. The minister was seated across from the woman from the EU. The man from the UN sat next to her, waving his arms, puffing out his cheeks, obviously telling an amusing story from the half-smiles on everyone’s face. Jana suddenly remembered his name: Foch. He was a man who giggled all the time and had once told her he was related, in some distant way, to Marshal Foch, the commander of the French Army in World War I. Nobody believed him.

The minister stood up, looking at Jana. “Good morning, Commander.” Foch stood, a polite Frenchman, listening to the minister’s introductions as if he hadn’t met Jana before. Moira Simmons, the EU representative, nodded at Jana again, studying her intently. Motioning Trokan to close the door, the minister wasted no time with small talk.

“You are going to speak at a conference in Strasbourg.”

Jana decided to protest the minister’s decision. “The methods used by the Slovak police are not of interest to Strasbourg, unless we are talking about dialogue for a musical comedy. And I am not an entertainer.”

Moira Simmons finally spoke. “Unless I am mistaken, you have been assigned to the case of the prostitutes killed in the car accident?”

“Car crash,” amended Jana. “We still have to determine it was an accident.”

Simmons inclined her head to allow for the correction and continued speaking. Her English had a lilt that only the Irish have.

“Slovakia has become a country of transit in human trafficking from the East. Most of them are refugees from poverty, from war, from famine, people trying to make a new start for their families. We find them when they have suffocated in the backs of trucks, in the holds of ships, in containers made to be used for machinery, not people.” The woman’s voice became more impassioned with every word. She conveyed a strong belief in what she said, and what she was trying to do.

“Women, children, men looking to send money back to save their families. Prostitutes being traded on the open market. All so many items; numbers, not people. Millions of dollars made from people being treated like something much less than human. And they are now beginning to come through the chute that Slovakia provides to the West. It must be stopped.”

“Look at a map. This country is bordered by the Czech Republic, Hungary, Poland, Ukraine, and Austria. It is a pivotal state, particularly with flesh peddlers, for dispatching their
goods.
”

Moira Simmons continued, a true believer addressing the heathens, trying to convert them. “The numbers are increasing, a sea of people, all of them being abused, all of them just raw product on the market. And the flesh peddlers earn millions of pieces of silver from their misery.”

Simmons took a breath. Jana used the opportunity to raise a small objection. “I understand. They are being criminally exploited. But you must understand that I have had no experience with human trafficking. It’s a textbook subject to me.”

Simmons brushed her remark aside, intent on her own agenda. “People from all over Europe are coming to testify before our committee on human trafficking. Slovakia has been notably absent from our common approach to this problem, and it is time for a country that is new to EU membership to become involved in it, particularly since it is a country being used by the traffickers.”

Foch put his two cents in. “A bad record in this area will certainly affect Slovakia in a negative way as Slovakia tries to take its equal place among the other member nations.” The smirk left over from the joke he’d told had not left his face. “The UN is also gravely concerned about this issue.” He did not look gravely concerned. “Everyone wants to hear more from this country.” He leaned back in his chair.

Trokan’s eyes seemed to have fastened on a spot on the wall, his fascination as intense as if he were studying a Rembrandt. The minister shifted on his seat, eyeing the cell phone in his hand, wondering when he could finally get on with the rest of the day’s business. Moira Simmons could read his body language. Time to sum up. She had made her points, gotten her commitments even before she had met Jana. If nothing else, Jana would follow orders.

“We need a field person, not a diplomat, to discuss the problems. Nitty-gritty stuff. The case you are investigating is perfect. We would like you to report your progress to us, describe the police procedures you are using in your investigation. Periodic reports would also help. You can explain how you locate where the prostitutes were shipped from, how they came into the net of traffickers, where they were going, and why they died.”

The minister looked over to Jana. “You heard?”

“I heard, Minister.”

“Then it is done.” His waved at Trokan. “Give Matinova the resources she needs. Keep the lines of communication open.”

Jana and Trokan nodded at the people in the room, walking out past the smiling secretary who had somehow known when to open the door for them to leave.

O
ne door closes; another door opens. The past ends; the future begins. The first months of marriage to Dano had been even better than Jana could have hoped. Her mother moved into a room on the second story, selling the family house to them for a mere promise from Jana and Dano to pay over the coming years. Miracle of miracles, unlike most newlyweds in Slovakia, they had their own place. Every night, when Jana got off duty, she and Dano would rush into each other’s arms, make love like it was the first time, then spend the rest of the evening gabbling nonsense at each other until it was time to make love again. And she was rapidly advancing in her career in the police.

She was promoted to second warrant officer, and her new supervisor was Lieutenant Commander Trokan, a man she immediately liked for his quick mind and an air of seriousness which never descended into pomposity. Unlike most of the communist cadre in the police force, he was even able occasionally to demonstrate a dry wit, often at the state’s expense. It was good to have a supervisor look after your back, becoming a mentor, particularly when that man was a newlywed himself. Trokan also understood the need sometimes to get off a little early to enjoy life, even though there were already rumors that Trokan’s new wife was a bit of a harridan.

It was the end of the year. The New Year’s celebrations were about to begin. A number of parties were being given by police officers, but Dano grumbled that they saw enough of police officers during the year. They decided to see a play. Tickets were free to Dano, and Jana loved the theater, and what better way for an actor and his wife to begin the new year than to enjoy an evening at the National.

One of Dano’s own mentors, Vaclav Saitz, an older actor, had the leading role, and the two lovers met Saitz backstage. The three of them then rushed off to join a group of other actors, musicians, directors, and a room full of other theater folk in a small cellar theater that had been borrowed from the resident theater company for the party.

Saitz immediately began chasing an actress who was young enough to be his daughter’s daughter, leaving the two of them with a group of others in the screened-off lobby. That was when Jana felt her first real pang of anxiety about mixing with theater people. Jana recognized a woman at the table. She knew her only slightly. Her name was Zibinova. She worked for the Secret Police. Zibinova recognized her as well, turning to her companion, a short, heavy-set man who purported to be a director, whispering in his ear.

All the party noise, the clamor of the celebrants, the too-loud music, became nothing but background static, Jana’s thoughts muting everything except her own fear. Zibinova and the man were there to investigate, and the only thing they would be interested in was possible anti-state activity. With the Secret Police, the possible nearly always turned into the probable, the probable into arrests and charges. Guilt would be found by them. It was the nature of that beast.

Jana had to get Dano out of there. He would make a comment or a joke, or smile at someone else’s comment or joke relating to some political issue, however remote, and that was all their kind of police needed. They might involve everyone at the table. Even if you didn’t speak or make any type of supportive gesture, you were subject to sanctions for your failure to object to a perceived anti-state remark or activity. Jana could not tell Dano about Zibinova. He would tell his friends, they would tell theirs, and it would all come back to this night, and to Jana.