The Small Boat of Great Sorrows

by Dan Fesperman

  Janet Ecker answered in the middle of the first ring. She was at her desk on a Sunday, which was extraordinary enough. But her news was even bigger. “I’ve found the connection we were looking for,” she announced.

  “You mean the one between—”

  “No need to say the names. Between the old one and the new one.”

  “You really think this kind of security is still necessary?”

  “Probably pointless, especially considering what I’ve been up to all weekend.”

  “Which is?”

  “Shaking every tree in the forest to see what might drop out. I’ve been in touch with all my old contacts in ‘the community,’ as you like to put it, so who knows how many alarms I’ve tripped along the way.”

  “But productive?”

  “Not until an hour ago. I was beginning to feel like a teacher who’d walked into a classroom to find students cheating in the middle of an exam. Everybody was silent. Even scared. And I’m talking about people who are gossips by nature. They wouldn’t even return my calls, and the few who did were no help. Then I got a telegram, of all things. In cipher. A code I still understand, fortunately. Directing me to an overnight-delivery service, where a package was waiting.”

  “Sent to a fake name, of course.”

  “Of course. Very cloak-and-dagger. Always part of the game with this one. But apparently the word had gone out: Say nothing to me or anyone at the tribunal.”

  “So what was it?”

  “Copy of an old intercept, 1961, out of an NSA listening post in Zurich. Transmission from the Yugoslav Interior Ministry to Swiss banking authorities. Part of a Yugo search for looted federal assets via the State Bank of Croatia in April of ’45. The meat of it was notes from a debriefing conducted by a military security officer at a coastal border post. He’d interrogated two repatriating Yugoslavs who’d come across the Adriatic. Pero Matek and Enver Petric. The officer questioned them for four hours and detained them overnight. Then he let them go. No charges. Curious, given the information they passed along.”

  “Which was?”

  “Tales of gold they’d seen in Rome. Cratefuls. Plus all the dirt you’d care to dish on Father Draganovic. Names of fugitive war criminals who’d been spirited away, and so on.”

  “So why let them go?”

  “Bribed, I’d guess. Either with money or privileged information.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Common sense, for one thing. The name of the security officer, for another. An up-and-coming army lieutenant.”

  “Marko Andric,” Vlado said.

  “Exactly. He was twenty-two then. Spent the next thirty years working his way up the chain of command, which by the time Srebrenica fell left him in charge of a brigade in the Drina Corps. During all that time he requested permission to travel out-of-country at least six times. To follow up on whatever tips Matek and Petric might have given him, is my guess.”

  “He went to Italy?”

  “We’ll never know. Every request was denied. Not unusual, given his rank. They were always edgy about defectors. But he’d at least have had the clout to make sure Matek never left the country, either. Or Petric. Their names were probably on some sort of border-watch list. And when things might have started opening up in the years after Tito died, the war began, so Andric was still too busy to travel.”

  “Until now, when he drops out of sight the same day as Matek,” Pine said. “After our friends Harkness and LeBlanc have arranged a joint operation to round them up.”

  “So maybe we really are looking for both of them,” Vlado said.

  “Then what would the so-called Popovic connection be?” Pine asked. Vlado found that he still flinched at the mention of the name. He braced for Pine to pass along news of the man’s death, wondering how he’d explain it. But Ecker spoke first.

  “Who knows?” she said. “Courier? Middleman? Or maybe just something out of Harkness’s imagination to throw us off the trail. It seems to have worked with LeBlanc, anyway. Last I heard he was in Berlin, looking for him.”

  That was bad news, Vlado thought. And yet another point on which Harkness had apparently been telling the truth. Perhaps none of his warnings were bluffs.

  “Now, if we only had better leads,” Pine said.

  “What are your leads?” Ecker asked.

  “Lemon groves. That’s about it. Matek and Petric may have worked in some, assuming they even lived here. All we’ve really got for proof is a label on the back of Vlado’s photograph.”

  “Well, whatever you do, move fast. The way I’ve stirred things up, I have a feeling it’s not going to be a very pleasant Monday around here.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Vlado and Pine were silent after hanging up. Pine came around the corner of the bathroom to find Vlado still seated on the edge of the tub. “I figured there was no sense mentioning Popovic was dead,” Pine said delicately. “Not yet, anyway. There’d be too much explaining to do.”

  Vlado nodded, supposing he should feel grateful. He pondered what they’d just learned. Matek would likely find it easy to blend in here, having lived in Italy before. Andric would be a fish out of water. Everything about him—the way he dressed, the way he talked, perhaps even the food he ordered—should make him stand out, and thus be easier to find. If both were truly in town to retrieve two crates of gold, they’d need help, even if they knew where to look. Help from the docks, perhaps. Or a labor pool. Torello, the local cop, might know where to ask around, but that would involve telling him more than Pine wanted.

  “Truck rentals,” Vlado finally said. “That might be one place to start, if we really think one or both of them is here to haul buried treasure. Trucks and cheap labor, because it won’t be a one-man job. Beyond that and the citrus groves, who knows?”

  “Either way, you’ve got to figure it’s a race. The news has been all over the papers about both of them, for anyone paying attention. Unless they’ve stayed in touch with each other.” He looked toward Vlado with raised eyebrows. “Partners in crime, maybe?”

  “You really think Matek’s the sharing type?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither.”

  Nor did Vlado believe that either Matek or Andric would necessarily pose the biggest threat. Harkness might be a third seeker of fortune in the formula, even if he was more interested in information than gold. A three-way race, then, between cutthroat competitors, each with his own brand of malice to answer for. If Vlado had his way, they’d bring Torello more fully into the picture, plus as many men as he could spare. Safety in numbers sounded like a good idea just now.

  “Almost five,” Pine said. “Might as well take that rest while I can. Maybe we can grab a light dinner later.”

  After their heavy lunch, Vlado didn’t even want to think about food. What he needed more was a walk. Something to calm his worries. He wished he had another phone card, if only to check in briefly with Jasmina. He made a note to casually ask for a few more lire when Pine and he were out later.

  “See you later, then,” he said. “I’m going to have a look around the town.”

  “Tell Andric hello for me if you bump into him. Maybe he’s at the hardware store, buying a shovel.”

  Andric and both of the others, Vlado thought. Strange how such a big place could seem so claustrophobic.

  He exited the hotel harboring visions of a long, leisurely stroll, far into the hills and orchards above the town. But the first mile and the first few hundred feet of elevation reminded him of how weary he was. Too much strain, too much moving around. He’d slept in one strange bed after another, and faced too many strong and vivid revelations, their afterimages burned into his brain like a series of lurid photos. He, too, needed to lie down, despite his earlier nap in the car.

  He returned to find a message from Pine right on the pillow, like a bedtime mint. Maybe later Pine would turn back his sheets for him, he thought, mildly irritated at the intrusion.

  The mess
age was simple and direct: “Vlado, call Robert Fordham.” There was a number with a Rome area code. But his phone line was still blocked, irritating him further. No matter how much trust Vlado had earned, Pine was still being the loyal foot soldier about sticking to these silly security rules. Why, then, had Pine even bothered to leave him the message? Perhaps Fordham had called to offer another mea culpa. Or maybe he’d thought better of his confession, and wanted to recant. The whole business hit him wrong, so he strolled to Pine’s door, knocking hard, even though he knew Pine was probably asleep.

  “Just a minute,” a faint voice answered. Pine poked his head out, hair in all directions, eyes bloodshot. “What time is it?”

  “A little after six. I just got your message, but my phone’s blocked, as you know, so I need to use yours.”

  “What message?”

  “This one.”

  Pine frowned at the white slip of paper, examining the slanted handwriting in blue ink. It was written on hotel stationery.

  “I didn’t write that. Probably the front desk. Either way I guess you need my phone. Mind if I listen this time?”

  “As long as it doesn’t get too personal.”

  Vlado punched in the number, envying Pine the freedom of an open line. Perhaps he could coax a call home out of him later. A woman answered, saying something Vlado couldn’t understand. Presumably it was Fordham’s housekeeper, but when Vlado asked for him she rattled off something unintelligible. He tried the name he remembered.

  “Maria?” he said, but that only produced another burst of babble, and when Vlado continued to flounder the woman hung up.

  “That was weird,” Pine shouted from the phone in the bathroom. “Almost sounded like an office. Maybe we can get someone at the desk to do it for us. They can at least translate long enough for us to find out what’s going on.”

  They took the elevator, strolling up to the desk clerk.

  “I need some help responding to the message you left,” Vlado said.

  “And your room number, sir?”

  “Three-eleven.”

  The man turned, inspecting the key boxes. “I’m sorry, sir. You have no messages. Were you expecting a call?”

  “No. This message.” He held out the slip of paper from his pillow. The clerk eyed it curiously, knitting his brow. Vlado began to get an odd feeling. “It was delivered to my room.”

  “Not by anyone here, sir. There would have been a light flashing on your phone, and the message would be in your key box, or on the in-house voice mail. Perhaps a friend dropped by while you were out?”

  Vlado and Pine exchanged worried glances.

  “But it was on my pillow,” Vlado said.

  “Most unusual, sir. Just a moment.” The clerk picked up a phone and made two quick calls, speaking only a few words each time, nodding briskly before hanging up.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but neither the housekeeping staff nor the concierge has been in your room since you checked in. They’d be the only ones who could have delivered it. Unless you’ve entrusted someone with your key.”

  Vlado sighed, again exchanging glances with Pine.

  “What do you think?” Pine said. What he thought was that Harkness must be in town. But if he said so, he might have to explain more than he wanted about the earlier run-ins. Telling Pine about Popovic was one thing. Telling him about the threats to his family was quite another. But Pine had apparently already reached the same conclusion from some other direction.

  “Sounds like spook behavior to me. Harkness or LeBlanc, trying to shake you up. Unless LeBlanc really is in Berlin.”

  “Then what does the message mean?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Pine turned back to the clerk, who was watching with interest. “Could you call this number for us? We tried from my room but couldn’t get past the woman who answered. Neither of us speaks Italian. But it’s this fellow, Fordham, who we’re trying to reach.”

  “Certainly, sir. Let me see it again.”

  He dialed while they waited, muttering Fordham’s name, just as Vlado had done earlier. “Uno momento,” he said quickly, placing a hand over the receiver as he turned toward Vlado. “This Mr. Fordham. She wants to know if he is a patient.”

  “A patient?”

  “Yes. This is a hospital you’ve called.”

  “I don’t know. But he’s not a doctor.”

  The clerk spoke some more, nodding, then picked up a pencil, taking a few notes. After a few moments he gently replaced the receiver and turned to them with an expression of grave concern. “I’m sorry,” he said gently, “but your friend Mr. Fordham isn’t taking any calls. He is in the critical-care unit just now.” He paused, as if considering whether to continue. “I’m afraid they don’t expect him to survive the night.”

  Vlado felt as if his stomach had dropped to his knees.

  “Jesus!” Pine hissed behind him.

  “Did she say why he was admitted?” Vlado said. “Was it his heart?”

  “Some sort of seizure, apparently,” the clerk said. “Of unknown origin. She said his illness was not yet diagnosed.”

  “That sounds like spook behavior, too,” Pine said. “Of the worst possible kind.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  A wave of cold gray air rolled in overnight from the Bay of Naples. The false spring fled, and with it the sharp golden light that had scrubbed the town of its age and heaviness. The ocean had turned dark and choppy. The hills above the town had seemingly vanished, cloaked now by the drooping clouds. It was the sort of dreary winter morning, in other words, that made it difficult just to get out of bed.

  Yet, even as Vlado and Pine were meeting for an early breakfast, Pero Matek was arriving refreshed and renewed, undaunted by the misty chill, at the entrance of the designated lookout post he’d scouted out the previous afternoon.

  It was perfectly located, just across the street from a huge stone arch that would be the focus of his vigil. And because the chosen vantage point was a small and pleasant café, he wouldn’t have to pass the time without warmth or sustenance. He sipped his first cup of coffee while scanning the surroundings. Besides the commanding view, the café also met his other needs—a rear exit, should he need one; suitably dim lighting, accentuated this morning by the prevailing gloom; and a calm and agreeable waitress, the sort who probably wouldn’t mind letting an old man monopolize a single table as long as he tipped regularly and well, or even if he flirted just a bit.

  The day before Matek had done a little shopping, buying some decent clothes, something more like what the locals wore. No more peasant garb; that look was gone forever. He felt a little embarrassed by the silly hat and these bulky sunglasses, especially on such a cloudy day. But cover was cover, and who knew whether the local police had been alerted, or perhaps even offered a photo.

  Opening a newspaper, even as he glanced above the pages toward the massive arch, he fleetingly wondered what poor Azudin must be doing just now, the boy probably still in a panic after one of the mines had actually blown up as planned. At least he’d dutifully carried out his last orders. Although that would be the end of Azudin’s career, of course. Just as well. The boy never could have stood up to all those country roughnecks. Now even the timid authorities of the Travnik municipality would probably feel emboldened to begin dismantling Matek’s sprawling operation—after parceling out a percentage to their superiors, of course. He sighed. It had all been built with such patience and skill. Ah, well. Never too late to build something new, although this time his fortune would arrive ready-made.

  He checked the time with the waitress, but only for the sake of precision, of keeping his bearings. It was far too soon to make any moves. He was here merely to watch and pass the time, playing out the idle hours and gathering information, while making sure no one beat him to the punch. Further action now might attract the attention of his competition. Best to let someone else move first. Then he would tend to the business of clearing the field for his fina
l play.

  His only other duty this morning was to recruit a young confederate, some lad with little to do and no schooling on his mind, and it wasn’t long before he spotted a likely candidate lingering outside.

  “Boy,” he hissed, feeling proud that his accent had nearly returned to normal. “I’ve got something for a lad like you who might be willing to show a little initiative.”

  The child was probably around twelve. Old enough for the necessary stamina but probably still young enough to fear a tone of authority. He was wide-eyed, skinny, a little wary, too. Just the sort who’d appreciate an easy way to make a few thousand lire with a minimum of labor.

  “How would you like to do a favor for me and make some money?” The boy backed away from the table just a shade. “Nothing to do with me, mind you.” No sense having the boy think he was some sort of old fairy. “I just need someone to help me watch that old stone gate over there. The arch across the street. Sì? ”

  He held forward two 10,000-lira notes. More money than the boy would probably see for a month. The eyes lit up. Perfect.

  “Sì,” the boy said eagerly.

  “There’s a man I’m waiting for,” Matek said, lowering his voice so the boy would lean closer. “A man who will be going through that entrance, then leaving through it once he’s done his business. You won’t need to recognize him, because I’ll be watching for him. But it might be hours before he comes. He might not come at all. But if he does, and when he exits, I’d like you to follow him. I’m old and can’t do it myself, so I need a set of fresh legs like your own. He’ll be from out of town, so he’ll be going back to some pension or hotel. I just need to know which one, and which room. It would mean a lot to me.” Matek unfolded five more 10,000-lira notes, holding on to them this time. “And these would be yours if you can find that out. Can you do that? Do you have the day to spend for a nice wage like this?”