Outskirts Press, INC.

ONE FAMILY’S TRIP REVEALS THE DARK UNDERSIDE OF EASTERN EUROPE

Two months after 9/11, an expatriate family takes a road trip to Butrint, a multi-civilisation ruin in Albania. Despite its history at the crossroads between Rome and Greece, Europe’s only Muslim country is largely avoided by foreigners. Albania’s money laundering and reputation as a terrorist haven raises safety concerns, even though multinationals see investment opportunities. Tony’s company is running into operations problems, but he hopes this first overnight escape will be a break from his Austrian employer and restore good will with his teenage daughter, home from a Vienna boarding school. His wife needs reassurance that a new Mediterranean lifestyle is possible in Europe’s poorest country. Their consulate has requested he note illegalities en route, but unbeknownst to Tony, his diplomatic contact becomes a mafia target. While Tony manages family and work issues, the ongoing conflict to control the growing underground economy heats up. Although Albania’s history is everywhere, from classic ruins to the Christian and Ottoman periods, the shadow of the more recent Stalinist paranoia casts a long shadow. And Tony begins to suspect that his sense of adventure is misplaced. Reviews: “That Weekend in Albania is a thoroughly researched and well-written work of travel fiction introducing Albania to readers interested in adventurous travel..."-Audrey Driscoll, author of The Herbert West Series; "energetic intrigue…genre-breaking in many ways…a novel that can carry the complex history in this little-known part of the world...an exploration of family dynamics…with young and old perspectives.” -C. A. Pearson

Chapter 11 . . .Curious if this was the same vehicle I’d spotted on the road, I headed back to it and was nearly at the car when a bald-headed minder in a dark suit appeared between nearby cars and approached me. “Hey, ju!” Better to answer in English. “Yes?” “What you want?” “Just admiring the car.” “This privat party.” He turned and straightened up as headlights swung into the lot. A limousine pulled up to him, and the driver’s window whirred down. The guard leaned in, listening, and then turned towards me, gesturing towards the car. “Get in.” I hesitated, but then walked over as the large car’s door swung open; I bent down and looked inside. It was very new and well maintained, German, I thought, with a lot of interior room. The two back seats faced each other. There were three men in dark suits, all sitting in the rear seat looking forward, and the particularly large passenger who sat between the other two looked familiar. “Hello, my friend.” The man who had bought me and my family dessert at the restaurant waved me in to sit down. I shook hands with him, and he introduced me to his associates. They only nodded. “You want drink?” “No, thanks.” Nobody else was drinking. He waited, watching me and knowing my situation would force me to say something more. “I’m meeting someone,” I said. “You meet someone here? Is private party.” “Not at the party, outside the hotel. We were meeting here because it’s the only place with light.” “Who you meeting?” I couldn’t think of anything to say. He tried to encourage me. “Is good you don’t have business in Saranda, just meeting friend. For drink? But you come with me, and bring your friend inside. I give special invitations to you.” “Let me call him first.” I was thinking I wasn’t dressed appropriately and also wondering, Why the invite? It was a rare . . . opportunity? No internal alarm bells were going off so far and I was naively curious—I really didn’t have a choice but was sure Mr. Brown wouldn’t want this man’s scrutiny; it might lead to complications for us both. They waited while I called. There was no answer. Maybe he was in the lobby and couldn’t hear the phone ring. The party was very loud. Muffled thumping bass music pulsed more clearly as the hotel doors slid open. I tried again as they watched. Finally, the three of them got out of the vehicle. My friend was second. He said, “Maybe he have delay.” He stretched in the cooling evening. “Come.” Now I was glad Brown hadn’t answered. It would be too obvious that we had “business.” I guessed all business had to have the big man’s approval. Several bystanders took notice as we walked up to the entry. The doors slid open again, and I was overwhelmed by the noise, bright lights, and smoke as we stepped inside. The generator we’d heard had to be very large to be supplying this much power. The big man pointed, and one of his henchmen indicated I was to follow him, but I was led only to the bar to get drinks. My host was busy shaking hands and kissing cheeks back near the reception. It was a big room, decorated to the hilt, with a small stage facing many tables and two bars on either side. I scanned the space and saw many dark suits and a few well-dressed women, some attached and others wandering between tables alone. A circular metallic structure stood on the edge of the stage, the floor of which was littered with more than an inch of red flower petals. Jagged edges in the metal gave it an explosive look—it was probably an entryway for the female entertainers. The strewn flowers meant we’d missed the main event. Drinks in hand, the henchman and I walked back to the big man, who was still busy meeting and greeting. I sipped my beer. The music blared but now seemed less intense—I must be getting used to the volume. Groups coalesced at tables, leaning in as discussions got more serious. I stood back, not nearly as conspicuous away from the host’s circle, and despite my lack of a tie, I relaxed a bit in my dark trousers, white shirt, and dark jacket. Some of the men, clearly enjoying themselves, had dispensed with their cravats. “Hello, mister.” I turned around. I guess I do stand out, I thought. The man addressing me was carrying a nearly empty glass and dressed immaculately in an expensive Italian suit. He glowed with confidence and alcohol. “Where you from? American, British? What you drink?” He talked fast and grabbed a bottle off the tray passing by, then held it up to my glass. “Moment.” I finished the beer and held the glass out; best to go along with the festivities. “You stay in hotel?” “Gëzuar!” Another man joined us, addressing my companion as Victor. They both turned to me. “Tony,” I said, raising my glass and taking a small sip. Victor’s eyes followed my glass. Maybe not so drunk after all. Was he looking for an American or a Brit? Could Mr. Brown be British? “Antonio, your business?” His attention was firmly directed at me, despite his friend and the surrounding excess, but we were interrupted by the sound of breaking glass at a nearby table. Two red-faced men had pushed back their chairs from the upended table. They were shouting into each other’s faces, not caring as the spittle flew. A young woman was backing away and bumped into my host, who had come over to see about the commotion. He pushed the men apart, and before they could resist, the host’s two minders moved in to calm them down. After appearing to withdraw, one of them abruptly ran at the other—one bodyguard stepped into his path, knocking him over, while the other grabbed him and held him down until he stopped struggling. They escorted him towards the doorway. The boss, seeing the party was back under control, approached us and greeted Victor and his friend, and then turned to me. “Better you should go and see your family.” As I left, Victor was deep in conversation with the big man. His friend watched me head to the exit. The heavies at the door quieted as I got to the hotel entrance. The bystanders outside went silent as I brushed past them, and I could feel their looks behind me. I passed by the troublemaker, who was sitting on the curb, head down. When I got back to my SUV, the guard was still in the parking lot, near the Mercedes that I was sure I had first seen at the American compound in Tirana, and probably the same one that had flown by us in Vlora. The guard looked over as my door light came on. I resisted the urge to wave, started the Nissan, and drove back to our hotel. . . Chapter 16 . . .The bright, warm day made up for having to get up early on a Sunday, and I was quite impressed by the ruins at Butrint, even though I hadn’t had a coffee. My dad had said we could get some breakfast before we went into the site, but he was wrong—there was still no power. After I’d seen enough Roman baths, statues, and columns to last for the whole trip, I noticed the double-headed eagle flag on top of the citadel that reminded me of the carving on one of my boarding school doors. It was attached at just the right height to allow you to grab hold of one of the two heads to slam the big door, like when you were angry, or sometimes just because you felt like it—something I started doing when I used the stairs. Then one of my least favourite Austrian supervisors caught me doing it and made it into a big deal. It wasn’t long after I got to the Theresianum that Giselle first showed me some of the old palace’s neat features, including the door with the carving that was near the top of a wide set of really neat stairs. The stairs were once part of the main entrance, but they used to change everything around every few hundred years, so the stairs were now closer to the back. Best thing about this was I could come and go without being seen if I used them, so that’s what I’d been doing for my meetings with Malik. It was unusual to see anyone on the back stairs, so I was surprised to meet a teacher that day. Prune-face had looked up from below as I became the princess and swirled down the dusty staircase’s beautiful spiral to where the wicked witch was waiting. She grabbed my arm when I got down and spoke in a voice that could have come from a bad movie before marching me to our boarding supervisor, who was told of the “incident.” I understood that the auslander, meaning me, the foreigner, had tried to destroy a part of the Austrian nation’s cultural heritage. My supervisor listened to this wild story while I thought about the teacher’s expression. The Viennese were really good at doing these horrible faces when they didn’t like something, but loads of them were always scowling, probably so they wouldn’t have to smile. Of course, Giselle and I practised making these faces for hours in front of the mirror, but we just couldn’t hold them long enough and ended up killing ourselves laughing. I was really looking forward to telling Giselle about prune-face’s latest, and waited as she finished her report. There was silence as she looked from my supervisor to me and turned to leave, but not before she tossed a final look my way, meaning her colleague had better deal with this kriminelle Aktivitäten. My housemistress was hesitant. “Michaela . . .” She stopped, waiting for her colleague to be out of hearing distance. “I know you don’t think much of the other teachers, but you are very fortunate to be staying here as a boarder. It is a former imperial palace, and you really must remember that the furnishings and decorations are historically very important, even if they are no longer in as good a condition as they once were.” She gave me a long stare that slowly softened, but I remained quiet. “I know it must be hard living in a strange city and having to go elsewhere for your classes, but is there something bothering you right now, in particular?” For a moment, because she wasn’t really Viennese, I almost blurted out the whole truth right there—everything about Malik and meeting him, and then how strange Albania was and that Hitler was really Austrian, but nobody here knew that, or if they did, they pretended it wasn’t true . . . I didn’t though, knowing she really was Viennese and that it could mean waaay too much trouble for everyone, maybe even Giselle. For some reason, I almost started crying, and then I said I was sorry and told her I wouldn’t do anything like that again, though I wasn’t sure which part I meant. I wasn’t going to change, just maybe take more care with the Austrian heritage stuff. . .