Blaze (46 page)

‘Yes. But that would take considerable time. A lot of unnecessary delays, which I don't think you want to wait here for.'

‘I have no intention of waiting here, as you put it, under any circumstances,' replied Nina. ‘You could have asked me questions in my hotel room. I am not hiding anything, doing anything other than being here on a personal vacation.'

‘Is it usual to rent an apartment and then disappear in the night? Or dig in the garden when one is on holiday?' he retorted.

Nina's nerves tightened and her stomach twisted. She swung on the defensive. ‘If you have been following me, or checking up on me, I demand I have a representative here.'

Puskar pointed to the lady making notes. ‘Mrs Vartec is making a copy of our conversation for you.'

Nina rolled her eyes. ‘Don't be ridiculous. This is a nonsense. I demand to return to my hotel and if you want any information, you should contact either the US Embassy or the Australian Embassy.'

‘We will do that in time, Mrs Jansous,' said Molnar, leaning casually against the wall.

She turned to glare at him. He nodded at the man opposite him, who pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to Nina. It was a photocopy of her passport.

‘We have traced your background. We were most interested to learn of your grandparents' names,' he continued.

‘How did you come across this? This is my private property. Kept in the hotel safe.' Suddenly she realised the hotel staff had been a part of this whole scenario. The hoax bomb-scare story that held her in the hotel, the evasive dance about not being able to take her documents out of the safe, how she had been hurried to her suite. Her passport probably hadn't been there at all. It was being photocopied for these goons. She recalled the duty manager, dressed in casual clothes when he'd brought the documents to her room. He'd been off duty, yet he had her papers! How had they known about her? Who had tipped them off? Had they been back to the safe since she put the journal in it? These thoughts rushed through her head in an instant but, before she could recover, Puskar was opening the folder on his lap again. With a shock she saw her grandfather's journal. She bit her lip and said nothing.

His fingers drummed idly on the journal. ‘Mrs Jan-sous, may I acquaint you with a few facts about your former country?' He paused, drawing out his advantage. ‘There are a lot of unresolved matters relating to past, shall we say . . . misguided . . . nationals who abandoned their country at a time of need, of crisis. Others who stayed chose to be traitors in their own land. A shame, don't you agree?'

Nina sat stoically, staring straight at him, ignoring the drumming fingertips. That was not how Clara had explained things to her. There'd been few opportunities for young people in postwar communist Yugoslavia. Exit visas and passports were rarely issued, the border closed. Helping them escape to travel to Australia had been the parents' great gift to Clara and her young daughter.

‘Now, while Croatia today is very progressive and friendly to visitors, there are a number of visitors that our people feel are not welcome here. Visitors with links to a disturbing chapter in our history.'

Nina jumped in. ‘Times have moved on. I do not have to answer to some postwar, outdated, vengeful mob of troublemakers who only create ill will and disruption by manipulating people,' she said as firmly as she could.

‘Accountability for spying and propaganda, the actions of war criminals and theft during war, do not change,' he answered smoothly. ‘If such people and actions are unmasked today, it can be very political. Very embarrassing. Very unfortunate. For example,' he paused, fingering and lifting the cover of the journal. ‘The documentation of the activities of certain families,
by
certain families in the past, could today be considered sensitive. And dangerous.'

‘Just what are you trying to say?' snapped Nina, losing her patience. ‘If you have a complaint to make against me, then say so and I will take appropriate measures to deal with it. I have done nothing but visit my homeland where my grandparents and parents lived.'

Puskar recrossed his legs. ‘Let us be frank.' He held up the journal. ‘You intended to remove this document from our country. You have retrieved this by fraudulent means. It has been taken from private property. And, as we have learned, the incriminating, subversive and secret information in here comes from your family. The Bubacic family.'

To Nina, these men seemed to be still living in the forties. The stamp of the Slavic personality Clara had often criticised – dour, gloomy, depressed – was evident. She wondered if they knew who Nina Jansous was in the world away from here. She soon had her answer. Molnar walked to stand behind the seated Puskar.

‘Mrs Jansous. We are disappointed you did not announce yourself when visiting our country. A famous publisher like yourself carries enormous influence in the world. We hope your intentions did not include giving a poor impression of our country.'

‘I had no poor impressions . . . until now,' said Nina tartly. ‘I request you return me to my hotel and return the personal papers that you have taken from my possession.'

‘I'm afraid that is not possible. This document can be used against our country. You are aware of its contents – or you wouldn't have gone to such trouble to obtain and hide it.'

‘Who told you about this?' Puskar held up the journal, his manner suddenly more aggressive.

‘If you are going to continue to treat me like a criminal, I demand you bring an embassy representative here.' Nina spoke firmly but she was feeling sick inside. The farce was becoming a frightening nightmare.

‘Very well, Mrs Jansous. It may take a while. We have told the Australian Embassy we have caught one of their nationals attempting to steal items of national heritage and significance out of the country as well as spying.'

‘Which country are you working for, Mrs Jansous? Australia or the USA?' Now Molnar was on the attack.

‘This is laughable. What do you mean . . . spying?' Nina was exasperated. ‘I'm not a spy. Look, I came back merely to try to find out where I came from. I wanted to know about my family. It is natural for older emigrants to want to know about their roots and homeland. I was a little girl when I left here for Australia.'

‘Escaped you mean. You and your mother are still listed as leaving the country without a permit.'

‘That doesn't apply any more! You're dragging up an event that happened governments ago! Besides, my mother is dead. Now, I am not saying another word until I have representation here. And I want to use the telephone.' She was feeling panicky. She had to reach Lucien. As soon as she could contact the embassy, she'd ask them to call Baron Triton to help sort this out. These power-mongers were living in the past. Then she recalled the name in the journal that was the same family name as one of the high-profile ministers in the current government. No wonder they were concerned. If it was shown one of his relatives had been a Nazi sympathiser, it would no doubt do terrible damage to his current image.

She looked at both men. The woman was also looking at Nina, waiting for her to speak. Nina recrossed her legs and folded her arms, her body language saying clearly that she would not speak until they had done as she demanded.

‘Very well, Mrs Jansous. We will all have to wait until your embassy can send an official. It might be a number of hours, or days. Please make yourself comfortable.'

They rose and the room was flooded with a harsh neon light and Nina saw a narrow bed and a partition beside it where, she assumed, she'd find a toilet. She swung back to them. ‘I'm not staying here. This is like a jail cell!'

‘We are aware you are used to more comfort, Madame. But until this matter is clarified to our satisfaction, we have the right to detain you.' Molnar turned away.

The three of them left the room. Nina stood up and found she was shaking. She went to the door. It was locked. She looked around the brown-walled room, which looked worse in the bright cold light. She went and sat on the bed, glancing up at the tinted glass high on the wall. Were they watching her?

 

A
li pinned up the minis – the reduced images of pages – of the next issue of
Blaze
on her wall and thoughtfully walked along them, looking at the ebb and flow of the material, judging the rhythm and pace of the entire magazine.

This was the time she liked best, when she felt most in control. This was the real thrill of being editor, when she could cut or kill a picture or a story. Throw convention out the window into Sydney Harbour and blow a picture to full page, or angle a single line of copy to be more effective than all the text fought for by the creative director.

She looked at the advertising layouts and mentally patted herself on the back for the two new heavyweight clients she'd brought in – thanks to John O'Donnell making a phone call to the chairman of the board at his bank and a large firm of innovative commercial architects who were branching into home and apartment design.

While Ali had aimed for a more cutting-edge look and approach to attract younger readers, she had readdressed the issue of mature readers (anyone over forty in her mind) by pushing Bob, the features editor, to introduce a slightly sharper edge to the writing style and the subject matter. While Larissa had described the change as beneficial – going more highbrow and interesting – Ali declared it was just lateral thinking.

‘People are still interested in their own homes, lifestyles and pursuits as well as the esoteric,' said Larissa.

‘So, instead of interior decor,' responded Ali, ‘I've commissioned a piece about comparative religious designs reflected in architecture. Instead of boring recipes disguised in lavish layouts, we want a series on the culture of cuisine.'

Larissa ran down the list of upcoming articles – male menopause, men's search for spirituality, family health including sexual abuse, violence and Chi Gong healing. ‘I think we're covering all the bases,' she commented, ‘including the fashion scene with Fiona.'

Fiona had proved herself to be innovative and creative. Her appointment had raised a few eyebrows in the incestuous fashion world as she was only twenty-five – and untested. Ali seemed impressed by Fiona's creative flash-and-dash style, which complemented the new fashion editor's clear ambition to be at the top one day soon. Fiona had a master's degree in the history of textile design and was a smart, sharp writer. She saw clothing trends as a reflection of the psychological mood of where society was heading. She saw the representation of fashion as art, which in turn reflected the wider world. Her approach to fashion was that of a museum curator – it may not be something you wanted to own, but you could still appreciate its design and beauty. Or argue that it wasn't beautiful – grunge, heroin chic, sweats and trackies may not be your taste, but they made a statement. As lace, beads and couture did for others.

Ali's war with the printers continued. She had a passion for being up-to-the-minute in a news sense, which was hard for a monthly publication where unfolding events could change dramatically overnight. Ali would hold back pages so she could make last-minute changes. It drove the printers and staff crazy when Ali decided to revamp a story an instant before publication. She felt it gave
Blaze
a fresh and current feel and to hell with what it cost – economically, or in the emotional toll on those expected to make it happen.

Her bugbear, her nemesis, her sparring partner at every turn, was Reg Craven. He wielded the power of the advertising dollar, which he used as a big stick to threaten Ali at every editorial turn. He was like the school bully, knowing he had the backing of the senior management who'd been to the same school of executive training and shared a disdain for women executives. Especially young women with opinions, talent and arrogance like Ali.

At this moment, Reg felt he held the aces. After many lunches, he had a big new client in his pocket. The client – a French importer of leather, fashion accessories and crystal – wanted a big spread in the current issue to tie in with their upcoming promotional campaign.

‘Reg, the mag has gone to bed. The ad pages are done,' said Ali firmly.

‘So dump a story,' he said authoritatively.

‘There's nothing I can drop. The balance is right, the timing and value of the stories are what I want. To change it now will upset the whole scale of the magazine. Do you want it to look like a catalogue?'

‘I don't give a shit. These clients pay the bills – without their money there ain't no magazine.'

‘Without the look and style of
Blaze
no one would want to advertise in it. You're jeopardising that.'

‘Bullshit.'

Ali gritted her teeth, longing to grab his bow tie and twist it around his short, bulbous neck, so short it seemed to Ali his earlobes rested near his shoulders. She wondered if this asshole would use such standover tactics on Nina. She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘If you want to take it up with Baron Triton, go ahead.'

‘I don't need to go that far. Jacques will do, and he's just down the hall.' Reg stomped from her office leaving Ali fuming.

Jacques was becoming a problem Ali didn't need. He had divided the staff and was eroding her power and authority. Most of the male executives were in the Reg and Jacques camp while most of the editorial staff knew their existence rested in Ali's good graces. Tony Cox, the travel editor, was the exception, having become a permanent fixture in the circle that swirled in Jacques' wake. Ali knew a showdown was coming.

She began to think of strategies to put Reg on the back foot. An effective advertising manager was a main artery in the magazine, pumping through the advertising dollars to keep it alive. But there must be someone else out there who could deliver the goods, yet be prepared to accept Ali's rule that she was top dog. She buzzed Belinda. ‘Come in and shut the door.'