Croatia is a relatively new Eastern European state, a
spinoff resulting from the collapse of the Soviet Union and breakup of
Yugoslavia. Located only a
hundred
miles directly across the Adriatic Sea from the eastern coast of Italy
, it is relatively small,
geographically, no larger than West Virginia. But what Croatia lacks in size,
it more than makes up with culture, history and natural beauty. The country’s
meandering, four thousand mile coastline encompasses hundreds of small islands
bathed in crystal-clear water and teeming with hidden caves, coves and rocky
cliffs. The mainland boasts fortified medieval towns, castles, breathtaking
mountains, and some of the most delicious cuisine in the Mediterranean.
From the newspaper article Elaine had read about
Cattoretti, she knew his diamond-cutting factory was located near Dubrovnik, a
seaside town. Dubrovnik was also the country’s most popular tourist
destination.
Elaine decided to travel there on her fake Jenny Johnson
passport, and she bought her tickets with cash, taking a connection through
Munich, Germany. If the Secret Service found out she was casually dropping in
on the infamous Giorgio Cattoretti for a chat, it could be tantamount to
treason. Neither Martin Valdez, nor anyone else, was aware of the ongoing “cooperative
relationship” she had established with the wanted criminal. With the exception
of Luna, as far as anyone at the Service knew, Elaine had not seen or heard
from Giorgio Cattoretti since the night he had trapped her in the fire tower in
Latvia and her husband had come and rescued her.
The plane landed at the Dubrovnik Airport at ten-thirty
p.m. Elaine had never been to Croatia before, but Nick had been there twice on
assignments when he worked in Bulgaria, and he raved about its beauty. As
Elaine boarded the bus to the city center in the darkness, she could only
vaguely make out the outlines of the surrounding mountains.
The next morning, when she opened the French doors of her
hotel room and stepped out onto the tiled balcony, she gasped at the
breathtaking view before her. The hotel was atop one of the steep hills of the
Old Town, and the orange-tiled rooftops of the ancient buildings forming an
uneven crown that gently rolled down to the seaside. Sailboats and cruisers
were scattered across the harbor’s glittering turquoise water. In the distance
was a lovely island, lush with trees and vegetation.
She was sure that, being the owner of a diamond-cutting
factory, Giorgio Cattoretti kept the location of his private home top secret,
but she hoped she could manage to find the factory itself and show up
unannounced. That way, Cattoretti’s devious mind wouldn’t have a chance to
dream up any way to take advantage.
Finding the location of his factory turned out to be much
easier than Elaine had anticipated. Right in the hotel lobby, she found a
bookcase full of brochures on various tourist destinations. Sitting front and
center, on the top shelf, was a colorful flyer that said, FONTANELLA GEMSTONES
- TOUR A REAL DIAMOND CUTTING FACTORY! THE FIRST IN EASTERN EUROPE!
Due to the company name, there was no doubt in her mind
that it was the right place. FONTANELLA was the name of the castle Cattoretti
had owned in Italy. She supposed this was one way of him thumbing his nose at
the Italian authorities and saying “I’m only a hundred miles away and you can’t
touch me!”
The concierge booked Elaine a spot on the first
English-speaking tour of the day—the bus would pick her up in front of the
hotel at 11:00 a.m. She had a delicious breakfast and then, disguising herself
with a scarf and a pair of dark sunglasses, she took a stroll around the city
center.
She walked along the sandstone
houses until she reached the famous Pile Gate, passing the Franciscan
monastery, Orlando’s Column, Onofrio’s Fountain, the Sponza Palace, and the Cathedral
of the Assumption. It was all fascinating, and she wandered so far away from
the hotel that she almost missed the tour bus.
I’ll have to
bring the children here, she thought, as she boarded the bus.
But under
more cheerful circumstances.
Giorgio Cattoretti’s brand new diamond-cutting factory was
located up in the hills, a few miles west of Dubrovnik, nestled between a large
produce warehouse and a winery. With millions of euros’ worth of diamonds in
all stages of processing under its roof at any given time, security was air tight.
Armed guards and a couple of camera-equipped drones continuously patrolled the
perimeter. For maximum security, diamonds were only flown in and out via
helicopter from the Dubrovnik airport, which was just a short flight away. The
heavily armored chopper landed on a helipad that was located in a quadrangle in
the center, which was protected by two-story buildings on all four sides.
The Cat’s digs were worthy of a man who was the director of
what was soon to become a hundred million dollar a year diamond-cutting
factory. Fashioned after his office at DayPrinto, S.p.A., he had imported a
desk from Milan that was nothing but a thin slab of highly polished Italian
marble, with a plush leather throne chair to go with it. A gigantic flat screen
TV covered an entire wall. A massive mahogany bookcase showed off English
language copies of all his favorite and most impressive books. To assist him,
he also allowed himself the luxury of hiring a sexy secretary named Petra who
had a body to die for, complemented by a nearly fully-functional brain.
But there were no priceless original oil paintings on these
office walls. Now that he’d gotten the factory up and running, he was beginning
to remember the drawbacks of owning a totally legitimate enterprise. While
being in the diamond-cutting business might sound glitzy, making a healthy
profit doing that legitimate work, Giorgio discovered, was not easy. The raw
diamonds weren’t stolen—they had to be bought. Worse, taxes had to be paid—lots
of taxes. Income taxes, import and export duties, payroll taxes. Giorgio hadn’t
run a straight business in many years, since he’d forcibly bought out the
partner of DayPrinto, S.p.A., and he had forgotten how expensive it all was.
At the same moment that Elaine Brogan was boarding the tour
bus at the hotel, Giorgio Cattoretti had just sat down behind his desk in his
office to look over his to-do list for the day.
He was mired down in troubling thoughts about rising
material costs and taxes when the intercom buzzed.
“Mister Cattoretti?” Petra said.
“Woman in lobby say she have appointment with you.”
“Appointment?” he said distractedly, and he frowned. “I don’t
have any appointments this morning.”
“I didn’t forget,” Giorgio snapped. Had he just been
thinking she had a fully functioning brain? “Who is the hussy and what does she
want?”
“She does not say. Only say her name Jennifer Johnson.”
Giorgio glanced over
at the intercom.
Jennifer Johnson, he thought. The name sounded vaguely
familiar.
“She have American passport,” Petra added. “Security check
it.”
Then it hit him—Jennifer Johnson was the alias Elaine
Brogan had used when she’d gone after Stanley Ketchum in Sudan!
Giorgio jumped up from his chair, his mood brightening. Had
Elaine Brogan really come to see him? This was too good to be true. Caution
kicked in, and he decided he had to make sure this wasn’t some kind of trick.
He pushed a button to bring a direct image from the lobby
camera onto the big wall screen.
It was indeed the lovely woman he had spent so much time
and energy pursuing, Elaine Brogan, standing there in the lobby, in the flesh. She
was dressed in a business suit, a satchel slung over her shoulder, gazing
through a bulletproof window that afforded a view of the manicured front lawn. She
looked relaxed, and more beautiful than ever.
“Mister Cattoretti?” Petra said over the intercom.
“Tell the guard I’m coming out to meet her!”
With a grin of anticipation on his face, Giorgio shot both
his cuffs and headed out the door.
After Elaine had waited only a couple of minutes, she saw
Giorgio Cattoretti appear behind the glass of the security desk. There was a
warm smile on his face, his one uncovered eye gazing out at her with obvious pleasure.
He was dressed in an expensive-looking Italian suit, a red pocket handkerchief
providing a splash of color. He straightened his tie as one of the guards
buzzed him into the lobby.
Before he could open his mouth, Elaine said, “Mr.
Cattoretti, I’m Jenny Johnson,” and thrust out her hand. He looked a little
surprised as he shook it. “We met at the trade show in Antwerp—we talked
briefly about distribution in America? Do you remember me?”
“Uh, yes, I remember,” he said, glancing at the guard who
was watching them.
“Since I happened to be in Croatia, I would like to take a
tour of your facility, but maybe we could talk afterwards? If you have a few
minutes, that is...”
Another man emerged from the security office with a basket
in his hand—it was filled with visitor’s passes. He stepped over to the group
of tourists. “Welcome to Fontanella Gemstones, ladies and gentlemen!” he said
in a cultured sounding Slavic accent. “My name is Josep and I will be your tour
guide. Please attach visitor’s passes to your clothing...”
Giorgio said to Elaine, “You really want to take the tour?”
Before she could answer, he stepped over to Josep and whispered something in
his ear.
The young man turned back to the crowd. “Well, guess what,
ladies and gentleman, it is your luckiest day! Our esteemed director, Mister
Cattoretti, will be conducting you on the tour!”
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
.jpeg)
Comments 0