Zagreb Cowboy

by Alen Mattich

  “Let me speak to Marko.”

  “He’s not here. He’s gone after the men who shot his colleague. We need help.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. You’re just up the hill, aren’t you? Give me the address.”

  Irena was as good as her word. She came with a doctor’s emergency bag and didn’t stand on any ceremony, just asked where the patient was.

  “Irena.”

  “Anzulović, fancy seeing you here.”

  “Funny circumstances.”

  “Aren’t they. Where’s Marko?”

  “He’s chasing a couple of Bosnians.”

  “And Strumbić?”

  “He’s chasing Marko.”

  She nodded, not looking very happy about any of it.

  Carefully, she tilted Messar’s head. She opened his mouth and a wash of blood and saliva flowed out. More came out of his nose.

  “Lucky he’s not choking on the blood. There isn’t a huge amount of flow.”

  She looked carefully at the wound in his mouth, inspected his tongue and his palate. She took his pulse and then his blood pressure with a cuff.

  “There’s not a lot I can do here. I need to see what happened inside his head. I’ll set up a drip for him. There’s the hole in his shoulder as well, but that’s not important. The bullet might still be in there, but it doesn’t seem to have done any damage to any significant blood vessels. As far as I can tell, the one in his jaw skimmed the bone, mostly missed his tongue, but made a mess of his palate. I don’t know what it’s done to his brain, other than the fact that he’s unconscious and still has reflexes. That’s a good sign. But I need to get him to the hospital.”

  “No police,” said Anzulović.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Once she’d got the drip into Messar and had Anzulović standing over him holding it, she asked Harry for the phone.

  Irena got through to whomever it was she was calling much more quickly than Harry had, and then she talked for a long time in quiet tones. Harry didn’t listen in — tried not to listen in — but kept hearing bits like “autopsy” and “dentist,” none of which made any sense.

  “Do you have a car?” Irena asked, when she’d finally hung up.

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll need to drive Messar down to the hospital. We’ll go through the emergency room entrance. There will be a wheelchair waiting for him there. But we won’t check him in. We’ll take him to the autopsy room. It’s quiet there this time of night, and it’s well equipped. It’s also clean. Even better, the old dental surgery rooms are on that floor. They’ve got X-ray machines, so we’ll be able to take a picture of his head without going into the main X-ray suites. To do that, he’d have to be admitted. Even so, we may have no choice. We’ll see. How quickly can you get the car out front?”

  “Five minutes, max,” Harry said.

  “Okay, then get it. Anzulović and I will bring him down.”

  “If you go out by the service entrance, I can pull up right outside the back doors. Go down the service elevator. Anzulović knows where it is.”

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Della Torre was looking up at the Bosnians, though one of his eyes seemed to have lost focus. They were laughing uproariously about something, and even though his head felt like a dropped watermelon, he smiled reflexively. And then realized they were probably laughing about how they were going to double his weight with lead. Once he’d recovered sufficiently from his laughing fit, Besim edged closer and pointed the gun down at him.

  Funny to think they’d come to a wood in the middle of London to do what they’d intended to do in a wood outside of Zagreb.

  Della Torre couldn’t tell what happened first. The explosion, the searing pain, the muzzle flash, or the explosion. That didn’t make sense. Two explosions? And then he realized that Besim was no longer standing up and that the banana-shaped one was crouching, little bolts of white light flaring from the end of his gun, one after the other, aiming into the trees. And when he stopped, he pulled another gun out from his trousers, and that one also sent strobes of light across della Torre’s retina. And then the tall, thin, banana-shaped Bosnia was also down.

  The whole while, every last nerve cell in his body felt like it had lodged itself somewhere between his shoulder and his wrist, sending explosive signals of violence into della Torre’s brain until the deafening rattle of pain was overwhelming. At the same time, his ears were drumming with the sound of his heartbeat overtop of a woollen dullness as thick as felt boots.

  In the fragment of light that remained, della Torre could see a dark form standing, pointing a gun down at him. His thoughts pushed themselves elsewhere, anywhere, to forget the impending end. He couldn’t see clearly, his eyes blurred. Was it Strumbić? Maybe it was Svjet . . .

  In his mind’s ear the A minor third movement was playing, just as he’d listened to it with Svjet. Svjet had introduced him to the unutterable beauty of late Beethoven. He forced himself to listen to the remembered music as words came silently to his lips, a prayer for the hard road to heaven.

  Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women now that the evening is spread out against the sky like the fruit of thy womb upon a table, let us go, Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, wer, wenn ich schriee, hörte mich denn aus der Engel Ordnungen, because this is the way the world ends, Hail Mary, full of grace, now and now and vides ut alta stet nive candidum Mother of God, les neiges d’antan now and now and yesteryear at the hour of our death, full of grace . . .

  It was Strumbić. He was bending over him, shouting, though for some reason the sound of his voice was far away.

  “What?”

  Strumbić knelt by della Torre and pulled him up.

  “Come on.” He’d finally made himself heard. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

  “Go where? Aren’t you taking turns with the Bosnians? You’re going to shoot me next. Then one of them’s going to shoot me. Then you’re going to shoot me. Then the other one’s going to —”

  “Shut up. Can you stand?”

  The miracle was that, with a bit of help from Strumbić, not only could della Torre stand, he could even walk, with his left arm flopped down beside him.

  “Come on,” Strumbić said. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here. There’ll be cops everywhere soon, and I thought I heard a helicopter. Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you going to shoot me?” Della Torre sounded almost disappointed, though it was the pain in his arm speaking.

  “No, I’m not going to shoot you.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sentimental. And because you’re more useful to me alive now that your UDBA friends know where I am.”

  “What about the Bosnians?”

  “What the hell do I care about the Bosnians? I got my wallet and keys back, and now I don’t give a fuck about the Bosnians as long as they can’t shoot me. And they don’t seem in much of a shooting mood anymore.”

  They stumbled and staggered through the wood, using della Torre’s flashlight, which Strumbić had found by the glow of his lighter. They tried not to use it. Already they could see other lights being flashed elsewhere in the wood. And there was that helicopter somewhere overhead. Unable to walk straight, the brambles tore at them. A branch caught the corner of della Torre’s eye. Walking while trying to keep his arm from moving too much was harder than he thought possible, and no less excruciating.

  They got to the edge of the woods and they could see blue lights flashing up and down East Heath Road, wailing sirens everywhere, though thankfully no police had stopped at the building yet.

  “So how the fuck do we get in? That bastard porter will get the cops onto us before we press the button for the lift,” Strumbić said.


  Della Torre jerked his head forward.

  “Back door. Somebody seems to have propped it open.”

  “So they did,” said Strumbić. “What are you waiting for?”

  • • •

  They got Messar to the hospital in the 2CV, an old blanket wrapped around him. Anzulović and Irena shifted him from the front seat onto the wheelchair that had been left for them. Irena told Harry where to find them once she’d parked the car.

  Harry made her way to the autopsy room without having to ask anyone. It was in a quiet part of the hospital, sheltered from the pandemonium brewing on the streets around it. She’d only just parked the car when she started hearing sirens coming and going from every direction, police cars flashing past in one direction while others headed in the other. The whole fringe of the Heath was a wasp’s dance.

  No one was in the room, so Harry hovered outside until she spotted Anzulović further down the corridor.

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’re taking pictures of his head. X-rays in there.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Irena and some doctor. Didn’t introduce to me.”

  They waited, pacing nervously like anxious relatives. They were there maybe half an hour before Irena came out.

  “The bullet shattered his palate and then dented his skull but didn’t make it into the brain. It doesn’t look like there’s any swelling of the brain, though you can never tell with these things. The doctor is patching him up a bit. He wouldn’t really be able to operate for another day or two, so we don’t need the autopsy room, but Messar needs to stay under close observation.”

  “You mean in the hospital?” Anzulović asked.

  Harry stood back, not understanding what they were saying but not imposing herself either.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Is there any way I can drive him back to Zagreb?”

  “You’d need somebody with training, a doctor or nurse. He’s going to need morphine and a drip and constant vigilance that there’s no pressure building up in his skull.”

  “Can you come, Irena?”

  “No.”

  “Do it for Gringo.”

  “No.”

  “If we stay here, we’re all fucked. You know that, don’t you? I’m not even thinking about having to spend time in jail here. How long do you think the UDBA would give us? Renegades, they’d call us.”

  Irena nodded; she knew the truth of what Anzulović was saying. Della Torre had told her how the UDBA’s assassination squads hunted down dissidents and defectors. How they killed whole families. How they’d operated in Britain before.

  “Messar’s not staying here,” Anzulović said. “Not alive. And if he’s going to die, he might as well die on the way back to Zagreb. If you don’t come, Messar will just have to take his chances. But he’s not staying here. Neither is Gringo. He’s been gone long enough. We’re going to need him back in Zagreb. Unless the Bosnians or Strumbić get to him first.”

  Harry’s ears perked up every time she heard the name Gringo, though she didn’t understand anything else.

  “Are you asking after Marko?”

  “Yes,” said Irena testily, her worried expression mirroring Harry’s feelings.

  “Is there a telephone I can use? Maybe he’s made it back to the apartment,” Harry said.

  “Or maybe all those sirens are for him,” said Irena in a low, worried voice.

  Harry had to phone three times before someone picked up.

  “What?” It wasn’t della Torre.

  “Mr. Strumbić? This is important. I’m a friend of Marko’s, Marko della Torre. I know that you want to kill him. If you have him with you, put him on the phone. Otherwise I will call the police and tell them who you are and what you’ve done. Do you understand? It’s important that you understand.”

  “Yes, yes. He not dead. He here. Wait,” he said.

  “Marko?”

  “Who’s that?” he sounded groggy, thick-headed.

  “It’s Harry, Marko. It’s Harry. Thank god you’re alive. Are you okay? Something sounds wrong.”

  “What is it?” Irena hovered impatiently over Harry’s shoulder.

  “It’s Marko. He’s alive, but there seems to be something wrong.”

  “Who’s that you’re talking to?” della Torre asked.

  “Irena. Your wife. I’m at the hospital with Messar.”

  “Tell her my tennis-playing days are over.”

  “He said something about not playing tennis anymore.”

  “Tennis? He doesn’t play tennis.”

  “Marko, what’s going on?” Irena asked, taking the phone from Harry.

  “Irena. Sorry about dinner. I was tied up. We’ll get divorced some other time.”

  “Never mind. Tell me, what’s the matter?”

  “Somebody tried to rearrange my elbow to look more like my asshole. And it hurts. I might need another one of your suppositories.”

  “You were shot?”

  “Yes. And clubbed. I’m a little hard of hearing.”

  “Wait there. We’ll get you to hospital.”

  “No hospital. I don’t want the police. It’s a hell of a mess up on the Heath.”

  “No police. We’ll have a look at you without police. It’ll be as if you aren’t even here.”

  “Will you have a look at Strumbić too? He’s looking a bit peaky as well.”

  Irena turned to Harry.

  “Can you do another ambulance run for us?”

  Harry nodded.

  By the time she and Anzulović had got della Torre and Strumbić down the hill, there were police everywhere on the roads and circulating around the hospital. Harry dropped them off at the emergency room entrance, and Anzulović took the other two to Irena.

  Thankfully no one took an interest in three men who looked as if they knew where they were going. Strumbić had bandaged della Torre as gingerly as he could and put a torn bit of sheet around his own leg, which had been steadily leaking blood. They’d put on some fresh clothes, which helped. Anzulović wondered how long it would be before the police traced them to the apartment building.

  Della Torre was lying on a blanket on the autopsy table. Irena had rigged a drip and had given him some morphine, and Strumbić was in a chair, also with a dose of painkiller, when the doctor came in.

  He seemed familiar, though della Torre’s senses were crackling in all directions. He heard everything from down a long tunnel. Most of him felt not numb, but a couple of centimetres out of focus. Except for the pain in his arm, which he was conscious of, though it didn’t hurt. He knew the man. Tall, slightly stooped. Receding black hair. Roman nose, small glasses. Just couldn’t place him.

  “Ah, Mr. della Torre. I see we can’t keep you out of hospital. You’ve made it a regular pilgrimage. Let’s take a look at that arm. I’m David Cohen, if you remember me.”

  It came back to him, snapped into sudden focus. Irena’s new man.

  “Can you follow my fingers with your eyes? Can you hear?”

  “Yes, Dr. Cohen. How could I forget?”

  “How’s the pain?”

  “Better than kidney stones. Worse than being tied up.”

  “Oh.”

  “How are those boys of yours, the ones in south London?”

  “They’ll live. At least until they get shot or stabbed again.”

  “What about the one with the bullet in his brain?”

  “He woke up this morning. If there’s brain damage, they haven’t found it yet. I suspect it’s a similar injury to that of your friend with the bullet in his head. In the boy’s case, the bullet bounced off his jawbone and up.” Cohen examined della Torre’s arm while he talked. “The bounce took so
me of the momentum off the bullet, so it didn’t penetrate the skull. Whereas with your friend in the other room, the bullet just went straight up. Which is very curious. I’d say it was a nine-millimetre shell, more or less the same as the one that hit the boys in south London, but either this one was shot from a very great distance or something took the momentum out of the bullet.”

  “How is he doing?” asked della Torre.

  “Well, he’s got a new hole in his head, and blowing his nose might be uncomfortable in the future. But the bullet, which cracked his skull, stopped short of his brain. Doesn’t mean he’s in the clear, but he’s not in critical danger,” Cohen said as he tidied della Torre’s elbow and applied stitches. “Nor are you, though you’re going to have to withdraw from Wimbledon this year if you’re left-handed.”

  “Right-handed.”

  “Oh, so you’ll be fine, then. I’ve done a bit of temporary patching, but you’re going to need surgery to put the bone together. That doesn’t need to happen straight away, but you can’t leave it too long. I’m afraid you’re going to have to modify your golf swing, though.”

  “Doctor, we can’t go to the police.”

  “So I understand. I don’t know if I can help you. I’m going to have to leave you people shortly — my pager’s been on overdrive. I’ve been told there are three men with bullet wounds coming in. I mean, other than you three. My colleagues are already dealing with one downstairs — he’s got a superficial but very painful graze of his penis. I’ll be very curious to know how that happened. The other two are more serious. Possibly life threatening.”

  “They’re a couple of Bosnian criminals who like firing their guns. We got in the way. I think you may find they prove to be suspects in the shooting of your young men.”

  “I see.”

  “We are Yugoslav police. All of us here, except for Irena. We’ve been tracking them for a few months, but we’re not officially in this country. It would be very embarrassing for all concerned if we were connected with the shootings here. It would put everyone in a difficult position. Including Irena.”

  Della Torre tried to think straight. Tried to guess how close this Dr. Cohen was to Irena. Tried to appeal to him by raising the threat to her as subtly as possible. Under normal circumstances he could do these things, relying on his smile and conspiratorial friendliness to get a witness on his side. He wasn’t sure how successful he’d be from a prone position on an autopsy table.