She had found a business card lying on the concourse floor, which the detectives had taken as evidence. They didn’t know where the card had come from, or if it had meaning to the case, until in watching the video of the struggle between Middleton and the fake cop in slow motion, the card was seen falling to the floor after Middleton’s shirt pocket ripped. It read “Jozef Padlo, Deputy Inspector of the Polish National Police.”
It caught her like a hammer blow, and, if she hadn’t believed in coincidences before, she was a devotee now. Mere minutes later, certainly hours before the detectives would get around to it, Connolly called the phone number and, since it was six hours later in Poland, left the inspector a message on his office voice mail to call her ASAP. Next she tried a number that wasn’t on the card, but was in her cell phone, but again Padlo didn’t answer. When the inspector’s voice mail kicked in, she left the same message. This time she gave Harold Middleton’s name figuring that if hearing her voice wasn’t enough to get him to respond immediately, Middleton’s name would.
When Padlo returned the call 25 minutes later, Connolly had already learned about retired Colonel Harold Middleton from the FBI’s Intel group, and decided she was going to work the case come flood or tall cotton. Middleton had located the butcher, KLA’s Colonel Agim Rugova, and brought him to trial at The Hague. Rugova had been murdered, so the possibility that the two events were connected thrilled her. Aside from terrorism, there was nothing sexier or better for a career than an international case. And she knew Padlo would cooperate fully with her.
Connolly met Padlo at Quantico three years earlier when he was a guest at the Bureau’s law-enforcement classes offered to leading European investigators. As fortune would have it, Connolly had been one of the instructors, and she and Padlo had become close — very close. An image of a naked Padlo sitting cross-legged on her bed — a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other — as he told her in depth about a cold case he couldn’t solve brought a warm smile to her lips.
Jozef Padlo wasn’t especially handsome, but there was something about the lanky Pole that strengthened his appearance and negated his well-worn clothes. Connolly knew she wasn’t a beauty either, but Padlo saw her as one. He was quick-witted, honest, intelligent, dedicated to his work, spoke fluent English, had big sad eyes, delicate hands and was an attentive lover. For the first time in her life, she hadn’t minded the clouds of cigarette 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’ 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 Nazi 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 e-mail address at the Bureau and I’ll sent 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.