Mission Fake Epiphany

By Georgina Zuvela

Rosalyn Shayes adventures have just begun as she learns to make new friends and conquer her own fears at 21 years of age. She lives on a temporary visa in Croatia. Her boyfriend, Paul Xavier, is a British agent of Croatian descent. The story is set in 1970s. Paul goes missing from Rosalyns life at Christmas time 1976. The story follows both Paul, Rosalyn and their friends to the sunny Dalmatian coast when their lives are turned upside-down by a band of diamond smugglers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Feb 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493131945

Georgina Zuvela

I was born in Surrey, England 1958 to a seamstress and an animation artist. I attended the Heath Clark Grammar School in Croydon. I left England to be married at seventeen. In Zagreb I worked as Secretary of the American School and also as a translator.     I immigrated to Australia in 1983. I worked as a computer operator until I became a mother of three. For fifteen years I was a Director of my husband’s business. I volunteered as a Catechist in the Diosese of Broken Bay during the 90’s. I love working in retail and creative writing has become a passion and fulfilment in my life.     My novels are fun to read, playing with common fears and phobias, crime and vigilantism. Power, religion and social acceptance are mixed with adventure and the notion of achievable immortality. The plot evolves and leads the reader to new revelations about the Madonna’s Cross. The series is filled with action, mystery and drama. There is some romance and also a healthy sense of humour.  

Book preview

Chapter 1

Disengaged

As an avid admirer of a great friend of mine, Rosalyn Shaye, I shall never forget the stories she told me. One thing is for sure, she really knew how to entertain her friends and keep them riveted to their chairs. No one was ever more fascinated with her tales than I was. You see, Rosalyn was the kind of person that made friends wherever she went, and whether they knew it or not, these people would become part of her stories sooner or later. I had grown accustomed to listening to her soft and velvety voice, but now I feel compelled to pass them on to you, my very good friends, since Rosalyn’s life changed dramatically one year and I was left holding the short straw, although I believe we are destined to meet again.

It happened to pass that Rosalyn was in a hurry to meet a very special friend of hers, one cold and wintry evening in Zagreb, just before the financial crisis hit old Yugoslavia. She slid along the blanket of snow on the prestigious suburban avenue of Tuskanac in December of 1976.

Livia, she told me, I was only taking a shortcut down that steep hill through the woods. I knew the slope that led to the lower city very well, and how cold it would have been under the frosted trees that obscured her from the steely sunset. Her footsteps would have been hard to trace on the ice, I should imagine. I had no choice other than bob down on the frozen pathway in my high heeled boots, using my leather handbag to protect my wrist, she boasted. I do hope I’m not seen doing this, she muttered on her way, sliding down the root-ridden pathway. She must have felt clumsy and encumbered in her heavy clothes. Rosalyn mentioned that she had caught sight of someone odd standing in the woods. He distracted her for a moment, just as a twig snagged the hem on her coat. The pervert was in full view standing under the trees with his trousers around his ankles. She noticed the monkey grin on his young face and suspected that he was watching her through his fingers. She told me he looked rather comical, but she felt sorry for him standing there in the freezing cold. I had to laugh when she said, He was obviously some half-wit with too much time on his hands.

Once Rosalyn reached the bottom of the hill, she had to dodge the snow piles and the traffic coming off the highstreet. She nipped into the side alley where the pizza parlour smelled just too good to be ignored, but she had to remind herself that she was already running late. Turning the corner onto the busy street, she slipped awkwardly on her high-heeled boots and accidentally slammed her elbow into an old man’s chest, knocking his hat flying.

Damn… I mean, I’m terribly sorry! Rosalyn squealed with embarrassment, as the man reacted quickly and held her steady on her feet. Thank you, Sir, she responded in her English accent and continued to cross the tracks on the road to the tram stop on the other side.

Rosalyn, seeing the tram speeding along the tracks, hurried and waved her arms to catch the driver’s attention, and as usual, it just whooshed passed the tram stop, crammed to the hilt with people staring blankly out the window, and Rosalyn was left standing alone, annoyed and feeling half frozen to the bone with the wind in her face.

The sunset was no longer detectable by this time and night descended in an instant, as it does in the city at that time of year, and Rosalyn, noticing frost gather on her roll-necked jumper, pulled her fox fur up around her face and she attacked the hard snow under her boots. She stomped her way towards the Republic Square, which was a good twenty minutes of hazardous walking. One was lucky not to break an arm or a leg slipping up on thin and invisible ice where cars had just pulled away.

Well, I certainly believed Rosalyn when she told me she was hankering for a drink at the time, hoping she wouldn’t be too late for her special date with Paul Xavier, a gorgeous hunk of a man, British of course, with a Croatian mother, who happened to live in England. I believe he worked at the Consulate in those days and Rosalyn absolutely adored him.

Most of the shops were already closing ahead of a snow blizzard and out on the streets the temperature dropped to minus fifteen degrees. I remember that it was one of the coldest nights in Zagreb that year.

Everybody, including myself, was in a hurry to get home to their central-heating and turn the telly on to watch the latest Socialist news. We were concerned with the blooming economical crisis that seemed to threaten our whole lifestyle, although nobody really believed it would.

I reckon there were many dubious locals rubbing their hands together in anticipation, not from the bitter cold but rather from the prospects of future winnings on the black market. They loved a crisis and gathered around their water holes like wolves waiting for victims as you can imagine. I suppose smugglers would sell anything they could sneak across the border from Austria and Italy and beyond, in order to make a fast buck, or ‘dinara’ as it was called then. Fur coats were in high demand that year and I, Livia Esthawaye, even fell victim to that one, I have to admit. Rosalyn was right to question how the people could afford them.

People were always looking for a bargain, especially a high class imported one with an authentic label in the collar. Money wasn’t the problem, only the devaluation of it was. To find something of value and in great demand, like foreign currency, or gold such as cinema tickets, was much harder. Even I would pay the extra to get to see the latest technicolour movie on cinemascope from the West. It was one of the tricks of keeping up with the latest fads ‘n fashion, and it allowed me to think I was not a complete and utter loser, since my philosophy had always been, that no one ought be a loser sitting at home by themselves.

At the doorstep of our favourite place, the Moksha Cafe, Rosalyn stamped the snow off her boots, relieved at seeing the lights still on inside. She went in and took off her overcoat, keeping the fox fur around her shoulders. She looked fabulous in it with her long blond hair too.

Good evening Zvonko, I’m so glad you’re still open tonight. I’ll have a double espresso with a shot of brandy please, she demanded and took a seat in the back of the cafe, away from the draughty door. She looked about anxiously for her boyfriend, thinking that he might be angry with her for turning up so late, but Paul was nowhere to be seen.

Zvonko had been busy all day with customers, taking respite from the icy winds that had blown in from across the snow topped alps. The street door opened and a large man, in a black Russian-style fur, entered and sat down at the window table. He was not someone that Rosalyn would have recognised at the time.

Zvonko acknowledged the stranger and proceeded to Rosalyn’s table with her order. Here you are, Miss Shaye, I hope it is to your liking, he said in a warm and welcoming tone of voice.

That’s great, Zvonko, tell me have you seen my friend Paul this evening? We were supposed to be meeting here half an hour ago.

Oh no, Miss Shaye, Mister Xavier has not been in here today. You can use my telephone if you like. He might still be in his office.

That’s very kind of you, Zvonko, give me a minute or two and I shall take you up on your offer, she said in appreciation, since she was feeling a bit frazzled, but she was glad to have time to unwind. She spooned four sugar lumps into her coffee and stirred it very slowly and wondered what could possibly be holding up her boyfriend on a night like this.

She could see the stranger’s reflection in the window that kept the dark outside and wondered where she had seen his face before. He took off his black sheepskin hat and lit up a cigarette, just as Zvonko ran over with a clean ashtray, to wipe his table and welcome him properly.

What’ll it be tonight, Sir?

A double espresso with a shot of brandy, thanks, the man ordered in his deep and hoarse voice. His accent was strangely familiar. One customer got up suddenly and left the cafe in a hurry.

Apart from the Dalmatian music in the background having the effect of thawing out Rosalyn’s nerves, she was not happy contemplating an evening without Paul. They had planned to watch a film at home and now she began to worry as a cold tingle crept down her spine. She shuddered and sipped her fortified coffee.

The cigarette smoke drifted over in Rosalyn’s direction from the front table. Atrocious… ! she muttered. What a rotten time to give up, she thought as the resolution she had made lost its foothold. She frowned irritably and got up to buy herself a packet and lit up her first cigarette that night. Thanks, I’ll make that telephone call now, Zvonko, she said.

The phone rang several times, but most frustratingly, there was no answer. She noticed the weather outside was getting worse. Rosalyn inhaled the smoke and ordered another espresso. She watched the front door and imagined Paul bounding in apologetically. She hoped it would happen very soon.

Rosalyn observed the stranger at the window table. He was a broad man with a scar on the back of his head where his thin hair had not grown back. He reminded her of a gangster in a film. Her impatience began to slightly show on her face… ‘I do wish Paul would hurry up . . . Maybe he’s forgotten it’s our night together. I’ve noticed he has been very absent minded lately,’ she tried to make excuses for him. She dreaded the freezing walk home. She watched in disappointment as two more customers brought in the cold air and the snow on their boots and felt abandoned, after a long day of giving English classes, for which she had to travel on public transport all around the city of Zagreb. Rosalyn decided she had given enough for one day… ‘Paul or no Paul, I’m going home to have a long, hot bath,’ she thought to herself.

Rosalyn paid Zvonko for the drinks and abandoned the comfort of the Moksha Cafe to fight the snow blizzard outside. She wrapped her fox fur around her face and crossed the Republic Square with her head down against the bitter wind.

*

For some time during that blizzardy evening, Paul Xavier had been lying flat on his back on the floor in his office in a half conscious state. There had been an office party that afternoon, which had taken place instead of the usual Thursday meeting, since it was getting so close to Christmas. The British Consul had gone home early and Paul had invited a few business acquaintances and a couple of friends, to come along for a drink. He suspected that someone had spiked his drink, although the thought horrified him. He awoke with a splitting headache and his neck had developed a painful crick. I couldn’t have had that much to drink, surely, he muttered as he rubbed his neck.

He groaned with grogginess and disappointment as he tried to focus on the mess in the room. He noticed some dried blood on his shirt too, but was distracted when the door to his office opened. It was his cleaning lady that came in with her bucket and mop.

Mister… Mister Xavier, you okay? I will help you! she yelled in her Croatian accent. I must to call the Police, she mumbled, pursing her lips and pulling out a handkerchief from her apron pocket. She attempted to wipe the blood from Paul’s face. Such a mess… Who did this to you, my boy?

Thank you, Maria… that will do, he said, backing away in pain from the pristinely ironed cloth. It was some party we had today, I must have dropped off at some stage. Have they all gone home, Maria? he asked, hoping she would not jump to conclusions.

She raised her arms, ready to lecture him about his choice of friends, but he cut her off. Don’t worry, Maria, I’m sure this is just a stupid prank. I’ll sort out the mess by myself.

With friends like your’s who needs enemies, Mr Xavier, she responded, unable to hold back her anger, and she picked up the phone.

That won’t be necessary, Maria, you can go home now. You shouldn’t even be out on a night like this. Take tomorrow off work and don’t worry about me, I’m okay, er… and have a merry Christmas, he said, taking the phone from her hand. His head was swimming as he tried to make head and tail of the confusion. He was desperate to find out if anything was missing from his office. He managed to convince the old lady to go home and she reluctantly obeyed him, taking her sheepskin coat from the hall and muttering to herself on the way out.

Down on the ground floor, the lift opened and Maria stepped out, bumping into a broad man in a Russian fur hat. He reeked of cigarettes and smelled of brandy.

You should watch where you’re going, she scorned him, before she recognised him, although she pretended not to know who he was, for fear he might follow her home. The man did not realise who she was, all bundled up in her fur hat and coat, and he backed away from her, bowing low in a clownish fashion, seeming to play along. Maria intended to remain aloof as she was in no mood to speak to anyone, especially not her former brother-in-law, who used to make her life a misery.

Stupid drunks, she commented and wrapping her scarf around her mouth to brace the freezing blizzard outside.

Still in his office, Paul was busy putting his things away, when he noticed there was something very important missing from his desk. ‘My diary . . . where is it? I’m sure I left it in this top drawer,’ he thought, searching through the mess. He was becoming agitated and went into the boardroom to check if he had left it in there, and while he was there he could hear a strange noise back in his office. ‘I thought I told Maria to go home,’ he thought, wishing he had an aspirin for his sore head. He heard a man coughing and stopped to listen through the door, being cautious not to draw any attention to himself.

The burglar was rummaging through Paul’s filing cabinets and through his desk and drawers, making a bigger mess. Paul worried that the burglar might come in to the boardroom, but he continued to listen from behind the door. ‘Damn . . . How did he get inside? Someone must have left the security door unlocked . . . Maria is so naive, she probably let him in on her way out,’ he suspected. He patiently waited for the man to loose interest and leave.

The stranger lit a cigarette before leaving the office empty handed and Paul bravely followed him via the stairs, after grabbing his coat on the way out. However he soon lost track of the burglar once they were outside the building, since he quickly disappeared into the snow blizzard and got into car that was parked in a side street.

Paul gave up looking for him. He continued trudging up the main high street towards the Moksha Cafe. He was feeling the worse for wear. He had a bad taste in his mouth along with the nasty bump that had grown to the size of a golf ball on his forehead. He hoped that Rosalyn would still be waiting for him as they had arranged to meet at the cafe.

On arrival, he knew at once what had happened. Damn! She could have waited, he muttered when he realised that she had gone. It was passed seven o’clock at this stage and Zvonko was enjoying an influx of business and was in a jolly good mood.

Hey Paul, where have you been all evening? Your lovely Miss Shaye was in here looking for you earlier. She didn’t seem at all impressed with you, I’m sorry to say… you bad boy! I hope everything will be all right between the two of you. What would you like to drink, same as usual? Zvonko welcomed him and poured him a shot of brandy on the house.

Paul took a stool at the bar. You’re looking swell, Zvonko. I could do with a strong coffee to jerk my memory, he said Cheers!

Merry Christmas to you Paul, Zvonko replied.

Paul swigged back his drink in one gulp. Ah thanks, chum, I needed this to take the pain away, he added and parting his hair to show off the ugly lump on his head.

Zvonko was not at all amazed, since he had been seeing similar cases all day long. Don’t tell me, I know how you got that… I bet you fell on the ice, he remarked and laughed, having visions of Paul landing head over heels in the snow. He poured another large brandy for him and resigned himself to listening to Paul’s complaints.

It was all in a good cause, my dear friend… I happened to be saving a pretty damsel in distress when this happened, Paul explained without going too much into detail, but she took it the wrong way and pushed me flat on my face, hah, hah! I can’t understand what’s wrong with women these days, can you?

Zvonko laughed at Paul’s silly remark and handed him a complimentary coffee and cake to make him feel better. He could afford to splash out on his best customers, since it was the Christmas season.

What time are you closing here tonight, Zvonko? Paul asked, hoping that he would be able to take refuge in the cafe, just in case he wouldn’t be welcome at Rosalyn’s place that night.

Oh, I don’t know… maybe I’ll extend business hours till eleven o’clock, since tomorrow is Christmas Eve. This is supposed to be a private party though, if anyone asks, Zvonko alluded with a wink of the eye. We don’t want any trouble from the authorities, he whispered and started to fill up his new dishwasher. A great invention is this… I don’t know how I managed the cafe without it before. You should buy one of these contraptions for your Aunt Bianka, Paul. You never know, she might stop nagging you about all the odd hours you’ve been keeping lately, which reminds me… I saw Bianka earlier on today. It seems that everyone is missing you lately… where have you been hiding out?

Nowhere special, why?

Bianka left with a big muscle-bound guy earlier this evening… very unusual for her, I must say. I didn’t think she was the type, Zvonko joked and finished stacking the dishwasher. He switched it on, threw the tea-towel over his shoulder and then burst into a partisan song with a jolly attitude that spurred everyone into song.

Paul smiled in bemusement, having heard this strange news about his Aunt. ‘I didn’t think she was the type, either,’ he pondered and felt guilty for not letting her know when he planned to be home. He had been living with her for a few years to save money while he was commissioned at the British Consulate. Bianka, being his only Aunt, liked to mother him.

Every one joined in the chorus and they cheered happily and clapped their hands, as Zvonko proudly took a bow, and Paul chatted to an English fellow named Chadwick, perched on the stool next to him. They were interrupted by a gust of cold air from the street door, followed by a broad man who seemed familiar to Paul in a worrying sort of way.

The stranger took off his Russian fur hat, lit up a cigarette and ordered a double espresso with a shot of brandy at the bar. Zvonko politely served him, ignoring his bad cough, and Paul turned to acknowledge him in order to be polite. However he swiftly resumed his conversation with Chadwick, about the state of tourism on the south coast of Dalmatia as he had been planning a little trip with Rosalyn that winter.

A couple of hours later and in a mellow state of being, after having drunk most of the bottle by himself, Paul marched off bravely into the cold. He hoped he could mellow Rosalyn. It was too late to buy her flowers or chocolates to appease her and so he thought the painful bump on his head would serve him very well as a good excuse for standing her up that evening. In any case, he planned to capitalise on his misfortunes and regain her sympathy if not her love as well.

The Republic Square seemed bigger than ever in the snow blizzard and when Paul neared Rosalyn’s front door, he noticed a strange man standing on the corner of the street under her kitchen window. The man was hiding out of the wind with his hands in his pockets and had a cigarette stuck in his mouth. ‘Funny . . . what’s he up to?’ Paul wondered in apprehension. He thought he recognised the man and recalled that he looked like one of the gangsters in the photos he received earlier that week. He had been given the portfolio at work. ‘Damn… ! The mafia guard dog was the last person I wanted to bump into,’ he thought and changed his direction. ‘I’ll have to be on the look out . . . I must avoid any kind of clash with the Yugoslav mafia right now.’ he thought when he skirted round the corner, but now he was more worried about Rosalyn, who was on her own, and he planned to enter the building through the courtyard.

Paul’s plan was about to come unstuck, when a black Mercedes pulled up alongside him and a couple of big guys jumped out. They snatched him off the street. They packed him into the back seat of the Mercedes Benz and swiftly drove off with him squashed between two big men. They were dressed in suits and looked very official, but Paul guessed they were not at all legitimate, and were probably acting against the law.

You have got no right! Where are you taking me? Paul protested, trying to keep calm when the men ogled him with mean looks.

Shut up… ! bellowed the fat one, interrupting his train of thought and then the man in the front passenger seat spoke up, without turning his head, to ask a few personal questions.

Mister Xavier, you should know better than to be wandering around the city streets at night all alone. You are very lucky that we found you before you got shot by mistake. We are taking you to a much safer place, somewhere you will be far more comfortable, so we can get to know each other, he said in a sinister tone of voice.

Paul could not quite make out this peculiarly Russian accent that sounded somewhat Japanese. He listened carefully and soon came to the conclusion that he knew exactly who this man was. Paul made the connection when he heard him coughing and he felt like a complete fool. He should have known better than let himself fall straight into this man’s dangerous trap. ‘I should have known it was him at the cafe and back in my office too," he thought in retrospect, ‘Sumora is reputed to be an extremely dangerous nut-case, and a well known sadistic villain. He’s succeeded in dodging the UN for decades.’ Paul recalled reading about this guy in the portfolio. He knew the gangster was wanted in nearly every country in Europe. ‘Damn it! I’ll be lucky to get out of this alive.’

Bernard Sumora lit a cigarette and began to speak in his cold and calculating voice. How long have you worked in Zagreb now Mister Xavier? Let me guess now… three years, is it? You should know your etiquette by now. You shall not speak until you have been spoken to, is that understood, young man?

Paul decided to keep his trap shut and watched the road as they drove from the old city and towards the Trade Fair grounds, across the river Sava. The car was very warm inside, what with five big blokes packed into it. Paul took his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his brow and he felt completely stifled and sick to his stomach.

The car cruised over the Savski bridge and as it turned onto a highway Paul thought of Bianka, who lived not far from there. He remembered that Zvonko had mentioned her leaving the cafe accompanied by a stranger, a muscle-bound man, and he hoped that it was not one of these guys. He could not believe that Bianka would have gone willingly if she had not felt safe with the man.

The Mercedes pulled into the fair grounds and stopped by an abandoned building. The snow was a lot deeper on these vast grounds where nobody had trodden for weeks. The place seemed isolated and Paul knew that he was in deep, deep trouble.

The car stopped and the men dragged Paul from the car and they pushed him into a wall next to a side-door. They pinned him down so he was unable to escape, while they waited for the driver to unlock the door. The gangsters pushed Paul onto his knees, just inside the door. He fell awkwardly and painfully grazed his hands on the rough cement.

Aouch… ! he yelled, but was quick to restore his decorum as he tried to put on a brave face. He thought this was to be end of him. ‘I’d better not complain too much. These idiots are dangerous. God knows what they have in store for me now,’ he told himself and stood up bravely to face whatever they had to throw at him. He tried not to show his anger as he stood in this abandoned warehouse, facing the four Russian gangsters.

Now then… Mister Xavier, Sumora began as he signalled to his henchmen to fetch a chair. A briefcase was placed in front of him and he pulled out a folder and started to read. You have a very interesting portfolio, Mister Xavier. Very good qualifications, I see. That is very pleasing, I must say, Sumora commented as he flicked through the paperwork. I am going to get straight to the point, Mister Xavier, I have an interesting proposition to make you… ‘an offer you cannot refuse’, as they say, I’m sure you will understand when you hear what I have to say. My position on this matter is absolutely steadfast, as you seem to fit the bill exactly to a tee, he babbled on, not making any sense to Paul whatsoever.

Paul risked interrupting the fat gangster’s pidgin English, since his impatience had always been his downfall. Gentlemen, he began, I am honoured that you have chosen me, but… I am also a very busy man, as you must know, and I am more than willing to co-operate with you, if you would only come to the point. I have a reputation for being a reasonable man too, and I am willing to bargain with you, but please tell me first, what the hell it is that you have to offer? Paul returned, amazed at his own ability to remain so calm under the circumstances. He tried to concentrate, although he was suffering from a stinking headache, and his stomach was making the weirdest noises that echoed around the bare hall.

Sumora was an obese man and did not react straightaway. Instead he scratched his flabby chin and remained seated, biding his time to reveal his motives for abducting him. He was a little perturbed at Paul’s attitude, although it was reassuring to him that Paul was not a complete pushover. Sumora needed a strong and intelligent man to do the job he had in mind. He needed someone who could work under duress and also think on his feet and in stressful situations.

Ah, so… you amuse me, Mister Xavier, you are a stubborn man, it seems. That is fine… I shall be more to the point, before you lose interest in my offer. There is a shipment of priceless diamonds coming into this country very soon. They are going to arrive at the port of Ploche just after the New Year, he elaborated. "Are you familiar with Dalmatia, Mister Xavier? Ploche is on