Zagreb Cowboy

by Alen Mattich

  “Interested in some lunch?” she asked.

  “Lunch? I wasn’t really thinking about food just now.”

  “Shame,” she said. “I’m feeling a bit peckish.”

  “You are?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Ravenous.”

  He dropped the towel and joined her.

  They lay on their sides looking at each other. He’d never seen such flawless skin, snow-pale but for a scattering of faint freckles high on her chest to match the ones that were only just visible across the bridge of her nose. Her breasts were small, the nipples a flushed pink. The hollow between her collarbones had reddened slightly, as had her neck and her cheeks. Her eyebrows were a shade darker than her hair, as was the small diamond of down between her thighs. But mostly what captivated him were her eyes; they caught his and refused to let go, the pupils widening and then growing larger still as he drew closer to her until he felt the perfect softness of her lips.

  “I thought you weren’t interested,” he said.

  “And what would make you think that?”

  “I don’t know. You just never seemed terribly approachable.”

  “Did you try?”

  “No. After that first day, when you caught me in the apartment, I was afraid you’d —”

  “I’d?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t want you to feel that I was forcing myself on you.”

  “I was starting to worry you had other preferences.”

  “You mean the moustache?”

  “Maybe. But that’s gone now. And I see the cold hasn’t affected you too badly.”

  They missed lunch altogether. But as Harry dozed, della Torre stared out to sea, out towards where the Vikings had come from. Denmark. Norway. Sweden.

  He looked down at Harry’s shoulders and back, and then kissed the top of her spine. She purred.

  His thoughts traced their mazy way to Irena, where a fine thread of guilt began to unravel.

  ANZULOVIĆ SAT IN his office, sweating. It wasn’t even mid-June, and already the temperature in Zagreb was becoming uncomfortable. It didn’t help that he’d sold all the building’s portable air-conditioning units.

  He was feeling low. There were enough trivial things to do to fill his days, but he wasn’t really doing anything of consequence, except making sure his staff didn’t starve. Like everyone else, his attention was almost fully absorbed by Croatia’s looming declaration of independence, which, according to rumour, would be coming as soon as the following week. What would happen then, nobody knew.

  At the UDBA, it felt like Napoleon’s retreat out of Moscow. Only a lot hotter.

  What he’d been able to piece together was that once independence was made formal, the UDBA would be banned from Croat territory. Croats working for the main part of the organization would be absorbed into Croatia’s new intelligence service, the skeleton of which had already been built by President Tudjman’s flunkies.

  But that didn’t include Department VI. They’d be handed over to military intelligence. Except Croatia didn’t have a military. It only had a police force, which was being hammered into something that might do as an army, in the way an oil drum could be made into a stove. Neither efficient nor very refined, but fit for a very limited purpose. What wasn’t fit for the purpose was the Zagreb police’s hitherto ludicrously unprofessional political intelligence unit. The one run by Lieutenant Colonel Kakav. Who, by default, would probably become Department VI’s proprietor.

  Kakav had been emboldened by the UDBA’s decline in Croatia and by Department VI’s failure to solve the Strumbić shooting. He’d come strutting around their offices twice a week, demanding an explanation from Anzulović.

  Anzulović had Strumbić’s unsigned affidavit that della Torre was not responsible for the shooting. Strumbić gave endless excuses, all of which either started or ended with the fact that he was on sick leave and couldn’t be expected to legally commit himself to anything until he was fully healed. There was a time when Anzulović would have found it very easy to force Strumbić to sign. But not now.

  He was lucky that Kakav was a coward. Kakav feared that Croatia would quickly lose any military action. People talked about Croatia crossing the Rubicon, but it’d be more a case of Yugoslav tanks crossing the Danube and heading straight for Zagreb. Anzulović didn’t hold out much hope for Croat bulldozers and tractors against the armoured division’s M-84s.

  Kakav’s fear of what would happen meant he dared not push Anzulović too far. For his part, Anzulović needed Kakav’s goodwill to ensure that his Department VI people, him included, weren’t dumped on the street when things kicked off. Otherwise he could see himself wearing a badly fitting junior officer’s uniform, in a shallow grave somewhere near the Bosnian border, or east, towards the Danube.

  But for the moment, Anzulović had to find something else to sell to keep paying salaries, as pitiful as they might be. They couldn’t last much more than another two months on the reserves he’d built up. He had one Mercedes-Benz saloon left, only just back from a servicing. Fresl said the Austrians and Germans would only take cars in top condition. There were a few Zastavas. A donkey and cart were probably worth more than one of those. At least you could slaughter donkeys for sausages and break the carts up for firewood.

  His windows were open, willing a breeze. What it would be like in August, he dreaded to think.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” Anzulović said wearily. It was morning, but whatever the time, the only news he got these days was bad.

  Messar walked in and shut the door behind him.

  “Strumbić is on the move.”

  “Oh?” For once, here was something case-related. Something that didn’t have to do with politics or scraping around for money.

  “He bought a bus ticket for Dubrovnik, leaving tomorrow.”

  “Bus ticket? How many cars does he have?”

  “Bus ticket. The slow bus. Express to Rijeka and then stopping everywhere down the coast.”

  “Jesus, how long will that take him?”

  “Best part of twenty-four hours. The only road going south that’s still open is the slow one along the coast. And the bus stops everywhere.”

  “I’m assuming he’s going to his place in Šipan. Can’t say I blame him. Nice quiet island, well away from the fireworks when they start. Don’t see why he’s taking a bus, though.”

  “I think he wants us to know he’s going south.”

  “Oh?”

  “Told his girlfriend he’d be away for a while. Gave her enough money to keep the bills paid and herself going for six months.”

  “Seems a very long time to think he won’t be coming back to Zagreb. It’s not like he’s going to Timbuktu. If he’d taken his car, the trip’s what, ten hours tops?”

  “Closer to twelve now that the Serbs have cut off the highway.”

  “I take it you’ve got his girlfriend’s place bugged.”

  “Yes. But the bugs aren’t working.”

  “Up to typical Yugoslav electrical standards. So how’d you find out?”

  “The girlfriend told one of Strumbić’s vice-squad cops. We’ve got him on what’s left of our payroll.”

  “And why would she do that?” Anzulović asked.

  “Because she screws him when Strumbić isn’t around.”

  “Sometimes I feel sorry for the bastard. With that wife of his . . .”

  “They’ve been having some — what do the diplomats say — free and frank discussions.”

  “You hear this on the bugs or is Mrs. Strumbić on the payroll too?”

  “You don’t need bugs. You can hear it standing on the street.”

  “So he’s finally had enough.”

  “I don’t think that’s all
. The Bosnians have been in touch.”

  “I thought they’ve been harassing him for a while.”

  “Yes. But now they’re in Zagreb.”

  “Are they?” Anzulović perked up. Getting hold of the Bosnians would give him some leverage on the Dispatcher. After his singularly unsuccessful contact with the old man, he’d made no further headway. Archive files on the Dispatcher had been pulled or put on a security code above Anzulović’s level and kept in Belgrade. Nobody in the organization was telling him anything. And he wasn’t sure how to find out if the old man was playing ball with the Croats. No attempt had been made on Strumbić, but only a fool would have tried, with Messar’s surveillance and Strumbić’s police guard. Besides, della Torre had disappeared. If that’s what the Dispatcher had aimed for at the start, he’d certainly got what he’d wanted.

  “Have you managed to pick them up — the Bosnians, I mean?”

  “No. We haven’t got the people to find them, and we haven’t mentioned it to the Zagreb cops.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I didn’t know whether you’d want us to,” Messar said.

  “Because?”

  “Because the Bosnians are evidence the Zagreb cops might not want to keep around. Besides, I thought it might be interesting to see where Strumbić goes. I think he could lead us to della Torre,” Messar said.

  Messar was convinced that della Torre and Strumbić were involved in a criminal conspiracy somehow tied in with the Bosnians. Because he wasn’t allowed to unlock Strumbić and he was sure the Bosnians were little more than thugs for hire, Messar saw della Torre as the key.

  There had been no word from della Torre. No sign since he’d given Messar’s men the slip in Venice. No calls to his father. Irena had rung della Torre senior to ask after her husband, and neither seemed to know anything. They both sounded genuinely worried. Anzulović was also becoming concerned. Not only because della Torre was his favourite.

  “So you think Gringo’s in Dubrovnik?” Anzulović smiled, knowing a stupid question like that would irritate Messar.

  “No. I think Strumbić is getting off the bus in Rijeka, or somewhere like that, and then taking either a ferry to Venice or a bus to Trieste. My bet would be a bus. He figures, rightly, that we haven’t got enough people to put a full team on him, which is why he’s taking a bus. Easier to disappear, get off at an unexpected stop. I doubt he’ll take a ferry from Rijeka, because of the security. But he’ll figure that since the Slovenes have taken over the border controls in Trieste, he’ll be able to slip through more easily. Besides, he’s got a friend, an ex-cop, in Mestre. He’d be worth a visit. He sends a package to Strumbić’s girlfriend about every month.”

  Messar was right. The Slovenes and the regular border security were staging a low-level pushing competition at Slovenia’s borders, Slovenia exerting authority over its borders while the federal government tried to impose its own will without allowing things to spill into direct conflict. It was a messy situation that allowed plenty of people afraid of the looming situation to leave the country. So long as Italy would let them cross the border. And Mestre was a short drive from Trieste.

  “Funny thing is, he’s made some calls to London.”

  “Who?”

  “Strumbić.”

  “What about?”

  “I don’t know. They’re short calls, made from post offices. All to the same number. A property agency of some sort. What makes it even more interesting is that London’s where della Torre’s wife is.”

  Anzulović nodded. Even robbed of resources and in an environment of government hostility, Messar managed to do his job.

  “He’s chosen a good time to do a runner. What do you suggest?” Anzulović asked.

  “I suggest we track him and find della Torre.”

  “Thought you might say that. With or without the Zagreb police?”

  “Without. I think they’re too friendly with Mr. Strumbić.”

  “So who do you propose to send?”

  “Me. I’ll take somebody on the team with me. I’ll take the Merc. There could be a bit of driving involved. I’ll also make sure we’ve got the documentation to give us easy circulation once we get to Italy,” Messar said.

  That meant he was going to use Italian papers and Italian plates. It was a standard UDBA solution to the little matter of getting around in western Europe.

  Anzulović looked out the window. Still no breeze.

  For the next five or six days they would be in a sort of limbo. Nothing was happening. And then everything would happen. For five or six days there was a hole in the universe.

  “We have enough money to cover two men for about a week. Even if Strumbić leads us nowhere, it won’t be expensive. Besides, I’m happy to pay for part of the expenses myself,” Messar said, thinking that Anzulović’s concern about finances had made him pause. Like everybody else in Department VI, Messar had been unsettled, enervated, by the inaction of the past few months. This was something real, a proper case.

  “It’s not the money,” Anzulović said. Then he looked up at Messar, a half-smile on his lips. “You’ve got five days. The rocket goes up next Tuesday or Wednesday. That’s when our lot and the Slovenes will declare war and the tanks start rolling in. You’ve got to be back by then, because I suspect that when things start to happen, they could happen pretty quickly.”

  Messar turned to leave. But before he got to the door, Anzulović stopped him.

  “Oh, and another thing. I’m going with you.”

  STRUMBIĆ WAS IRRITATED enough even without having to spend an age wandering around the old hospital. It had turned into a hot summer, and he was getting tired of sweating. It took him two full circuits before he found the right room. He walked in without knocking.

  The patient, a heavy mass of white flesh looking like something a whale had regurgitated, opened his eyes and smiled.

  “Julius. Hey, how nice of you to visit.”

  “Branko. What happened to you? I’ve been calling for over a month now. You haven’t sent me my mail. Nothing.”

  “Sorry, Julius.” He shrugged apologetically, nudging the drip that ran out of his arm. Another tube ran into his nose. “I’ve been in here. Really. I couldn’t do much about it.” His voice croaked with disuse.

  “You couldn’t get anyone to organize my mail for you?”

  “I had other things on my mind.”

  Strumbić sat down, slightly mollified. The man really did not look well.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Some thrombosis, some clot or other. I had bad circulation anyway, and things seemed to gum up. They had to take my leg off. Stupid thing. Still itches.”

  “Scratch it, then.”

  “I can’t. It’s not there.”

  “What do you mean it’s not there?”

  “They cut it off.”

  “What?”

  “My leg,” the man said, pointing to where the sheet dropped flat against the bed, just above his right knee. “They took my leg off.”

  “Well, that should fix your itch.”

  “No, that’s the point. It itches where my leg ought to be. I can’t scratch it because there’s no leg. But it itches like crazy. Drives me nuts.”

  “Listen, Branko, I’d love to chat, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Where are your keys? I need to get into your place to pick up my letters. Something funny’s going on.”

  “What’s that? Nothing to do with me, I hope. I’ve been honest as the day is long. To you, anyway.”

  “In those last two batches you sent, the estate agents wrote they’d taken money out of my account. Ten thousand out of my account. Twice. I’m starting to get worried.”

  “Ten thousand lira?”

  “No, pounds, you idiot.”

&nb
sp; “Wow. That’s a lot of money.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “They can take money out of your account just like that?”

  “Sure, they can do it. I just didn’t expect them to. It’s for emergencies. You know, if the windows all blow in or something, they’ve got the funds to fix stuff.”

  “Maybe some accident happened. Did they say why?”

  “There’s some big works needing to be done on the building, something about making sure it doesn’t slide down the hill. It’s been up there for a hundred years and there wasn’t any sign of it going anywhere when I bought the place. I’m getting a funny feeling somebody’s stitching me up.”

  “Why don’t you call them up and ask them what’s going on?”

  “I did. That peach who’s looking after it has been on holiday. They say. I hope she hasn’t run with my money. As far as I can understand, the rest of the idiots in that office keep telling me that these things happen, that the woman’ll call when she gets back. But I’m smelling a rat. If they’ve taken any more money, I’ll pop a blood vessel. I’m going over to have a look.”

  “So you didn’t come over just to visit me?”

  “Course I came to visit you. How else would I get your keys? Jeez, Mestre is a tip.”

  “You know, Julius, you never paid me for that last little job.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  “You know, when your friend came off the boat and I made sure he didn’t have any unwanted attention.”

  “Yeah, thanks. You sure I didn’t pay you? I’m pretty sure I paid you.”

  “No, you didn’t pay me.”

  Strumbić pulled out his wallet and put a couple of ten-­thousand-lira notes by Branko’s bedside.

  “Listen, thanks. That’ll be useful. I can’t get around and I haven’t got any cash to pay anyone to get me stuff from the shops. Cigarettes and a little drink and some magazines and stuff. It’s gets pretty boring in here.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’ll never know why you settled on such a craphole like Mestre. Must be the ugliest place in Italy. Took some sterling detective work to find a place like this in a country with so many beautiful towns.”