The Heart of Hell

by Alen Mattich

  Would he be subject to a military tribunal? A secret trial? Would there be any formal legal process at all? It didn’t matter.

  It made him sick to his stomach how for more than six months, ever since the Pilgrim affair had emerged into his life, he’d been blown from one place to another like a leaf in autumn. He’d achieved nothing out of his own volition. He’d been little more than an automaton.

  How did Strumbić manage to dance through the clockwork mechanism, riding a wheel and then jumping off an escapement, choosing which direction to take, which part of the machine to explore? Irena too. She was in Vukovar by choice, fighting the fates.

  Della Torre knew that from this moment his life would be determined by the American authorities, from breakfast to lights out. Where he would walk when he took exercise. How long he’d have to brush his teeth. Every word he read would be scrutinized, subversion excised. He would be living a wakeful coma for the rest of his life.

  They drove through the imperial Hapsburg lower town, passing the pale mustard-coloured buildings with their crumbling art deco detailing and the rows of horse chestnuts along elegant boulevards reminiscent of Vienna.

  They paused at the intersection under the railway line separating the old city from post war, socialist New Zagreb to the south. From there, they passed tower blocks separated by weed-filled lawns that some functionary had once imagined would become parks for the proletariat, but now merely served to isolate residents in concrete islands. They drove through settlements of bare concrete and red cinder-block houses that were finished only just enough to be habitable but would never be beautiful.

  The white-on-blue road sign pointed them towards the airport. Perhaps the Americans had a private airplane. Even so, surely they would need to go through passport control. Della Torre didn’t doubt that they had black diplomatic passports, rendering their holders immune to any civil authority in Croatia. But how would they get him through? Had they bribed people already?

  Could this operation have been carried out without Horvat’s blessing? The new republic needed friends, and it needed to be recognized. How much American goodwill would be bought by sacrificing della Torre?

  The car slowed into congestion, though it wasn’t rush hour. It wasn’t unusual to find a farmer driving his horse and hay wagon along the highway, but as traffic came to a standstill, della Torre wondered if there had been an accident farther ahead. Yugoslav roads and Yugoslav drivers were a lethal mix.

  They sat for a long time. No one spoke. The men on either side of him were young, athletic, clean-cut; they smelled of soap and deodorant. All they needed were suits and ties and they could be taken for Mormons or Wall Street bankers. The driver was older, his blond military crewcut easing into grey. The woman in the front shifted uneasily in her seat, looking out the side window.

  The silence was broken by the sound of sirens. They could see police cars racing the wrong way along the other side of the road. And then after a while, traffic started moving again.

  They came to a police roadblock. When they got to the front of the queue, the traffic cop ordered the driver of the Mercedes to pull over. Another pair of cops, armed with submachine guns, marched over. The driver got out of the car in a quick, smooth movement.

  “Of course, you realize that since the U.S. doesn’t recognize Croatia, your diplomatic status — if that’s what you have — is with Yugoslavia, not the Republic of Croatia,” della Torre said. “So the legal ground is slightly tricky. If you need a lawyer who knows a bit about this stuff, well, that’d be me, then.”

  “If you could just relax, sir, and keep quiet, sir, it’ll all work out fine,” said the man next to him.

  They sat there for a long while until eventually the driver opened the rear doors and asked all the passengers to step out. Della Torre was led away by one of the submachine-gun-toting policemen, across the wide grassy central median to a waiting unmarked Zastava facing back towards Zagreb. He got into the back. Next to Anzulović.

  Della Torre was the first to speak. “Sorry I’m late for our meeting. I was held up.”

  “Never mind, Gringo, these things happen.” Anzulović raised his fingers, making it clear that now wasn’t the time for conversation.

  They sat in silence as the driver switched on the sirens.

  At Zagreb’s main train station, Anzulović asked him to pull over. “We’ll walk from here,” he said.

  They strolled through the trio of long green squares that made an elegant park running through the centre of the Hapsburg part of the city.

  “How did you know?” della Torre asked.

  Anzulović shrugged.

  “Who was being taught a lesson? Me or the Americans?”

  “Who do you think learned one?” Anzulović said.

  “Both, I suppose.”

  Della Torre dug his hands in his pockets. It was all he could do to prevent himself from turning around to see if he was being followed. Anzulović walked as if he were taking his wife’s piss-yellow poodle for a stroll.

  “Well, thanks anyway,” della Torre said. “Though maybe next time you can tell me when you’re setting me up.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Who organized it? Horvat?”

  “Let’s just say that right now we’re both little cogs in facing wheels. The wheels turn and sometimes you shaft me and sometimes I shaft you.”

  “In other words, you don’t know,” della Torre said.

  “It’s a mystery. I just do as I’m told.”

  Della Torre’s hand trembled slightly as he lit his cigarette. It had been a narrow miss. Had somebody set it up to be a narrow miss, to show him what would happen if he didn’t help the Americans get Strumbić? He couldn’t be sure.

  The two men were about to step into their new offices, the modern building housing military intelligence, when della Torre felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned to look into the eyes of Jack Grimston, who had appeared from nowhere.

  “Major della Torre,” he said in that soft, slow way of his, “I was starting to think that maybe you’d decided to take the day off.”

  Della Torre smiled uneasily while Anzulović watched them both.

  “Could you spare a moment for a private word? We can grab a coffee or something,” Grimston said. “Unless caffeine makes you too jittery.”

  THEY WENT TO the café he’d gone to with Anzulović, near the flower square and by the statue of the unknown secret policeman.

  “I have to apologize for that little production we put you through this morning,” Grimston said.

  “And you’re here to tell me that next time you won’t fail, so I’d better cooperate.”

  Grimston smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no, Major, that was not for your benefit. I’m sorry we gave you that misapprehension.”

  Della Torre eyed him skeptically. “Who was it for, then?”

  “I’m afraid we had to find some way of letting your deputy minister know he has less control over affairs in this country than he chooses to believe.”

  “So you kidnapped me? But you failed. The police stopped you and released me.”

  “Only after we dropped a few heavy hints. You see, Major, your colleagues were meant to find you. That was the best way we could make it clear to them you’d gone missing.”

  Della Torre let the words sink in. The coffees arrived, an Americano for Grimston and a sweetened double espresso for della Torre, who downed it in one go, hardly tasting the rich black liquid. He lit a cigarette, neglecting to offer one to the other man.

  “I think I see,” he said. “You called Horvat and said, ‘Why don’t you put a roadblock on the way to the airport and have a look at big, expensive cars, because you might find a present in one of them.’”

  “Something like that.”

  “And it took a while to get the message across, which is why your people gav
e me a tour of the suburbs.”

  Grimston laughed. “These things don’t always go according to plan down to the second.”

  “But you haven’t brought me here to apologize for wasting my morning.” Della Torre inhaled deeply from the cigarette.

  “No, sir. I’ve come to ask that you help us locate Mr. Strumbić.”

  “Your people asked me to help before. And it worked out badly. I’d have thought you might have learned by now.”

  “Are you saying you sabotaged the mission, Major?”

  “No. Just that I brought bad luck.”

  “I don’t believe it’s a question of luck, sir. My unfortunate colleagues weren’t really operating within their field of expertise. I am.”

  “Why are you so intent on Julius?”

  “Major, I want justice for our people. I think Mr. Strumbić could put us on the right road.”

  “And if I’m disinclined?”

  “Well, sir, a little birdie told us that you might be.”

  “Your little birdie was right. My recent experiences have put me off. But you’re here to persuade me by telling me that you could snatch me and have me out of the country anytime you like.”

  “We assumed you’d be aware of that anyway. Mr. della Torre, I am here to appeal to your better sensibilities.”

  Della Torre shifted in his seat. He let his cigarette rest on the ashtray and ran his hands along his trouser legs. He knew that, whether he helped these people get to Strumbić or not, his fate was ordained. He too would be implicated in the deaths of the three American agents.

  “I can enumerate a number of reasons why you might decide to change your mind. But I’ll keep them to two. One, your father is growing older. And lonelier. To lose his wife at such a young age must have been a bitter blow. But I’m not sure any parent recovers from outliving his or her child.”

  Della Torre and his father had been left alone after his mother’s death. When della Torre married Irena, his father was full of grandfatherly plans: to install a swimming pool in the big courtyard behind the Istrian farmhouse, to renovate the house so they could all live there year-round — Irena could work at the university at Rijeka and della Torre could set up a small legal practice. But over time those hopes had faded until they were forgotten. And all his father had left was Marko, a few old friends, and Libero, his retainer from when he’d been a boy.

  “And then there’s your wife and child.”

  Della Torre turned sharply to face the man. “You’re mistaken.”

  “Oh, I see. You mean you and your wife are estranged.”

  “We have no children.”

  “Sorry, you’re right. That’s imprecision on my part. When’s your wife due? In April, I believe, isn’t it?”

  “Due?” Della Torre struggled with the word.

  “You seem surprised, Major,” Grimston said. “You did know your wife was pregnant, didn’t you?”

  “How do you . . . What makes you think she’s pregnant?”

  “It’s in her medical records. She had an ultrasound at the hospital where she works. I believe everything checked out fine. No need for an amniocentesis, and she’s still young enough for Down’s not to be a risk. She is slightly underweight, mostly from overwork, but, well, I guess the doctors are busy. Very difficult conditions in Vukovar.”

  Each fact reeled off by the American hammered at della Torre. It was impossible. Was it his child? Why had Irena told him nothing? He didn’t know whether to feel joy or despair, loathing or gratitude. Were these people capable of gaining access to medical records at a hospital in a city under siege? It was a lie, designed to manipulate him; he was sure of it. And it was a lie that they knew he’d have difficulty checking. He’d been trying to call the hospital for weeks, with no luck. The most news he’d gotten was second-hand, as a favour from military intelligence’s man in Vukovar, to say that Irena and the British doctor were fine, if exhausted, like everyone else there. He’d heard about plans for the hospital to be evacuated at long last.

  “Of course, it would be imperative for your wife to leave the war zone,” Grimston continued. “Shelling isn’t particularly recommended for pregnant women. But it’s hard to get in and out of Vukovar safely. Just as well there’s a European Community medical convoy being negotiated. They’re taking all the patients and medical staff out of the city. You’ll be pleased to have her back . . . and her British doctor friend.”

  Grimston smiled. Della Torre lit another cigarette while the one he’d been smoking still burned in the ashtray, forgotten.

  Grimston wanted della Torre to know that Irena was in play. And if Irena wasn’t sufficient, then this putative child would be enough to sway him. Della Torre had worked as a secret policeman long enough to know how threads of emotion could be plucked until they resonated.

  “Now, shall we discuss Mr. Strumbić?” Grimston asked quietly, almost gently, steering della Torre back to the present.

  Della Torre nodded, using all his willpower, his training as a lawyer and as a commando all those years ago, to force his attention back to this man.

  “We need your help to find Mr. Strumbić.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr. Strumbić is very, very good at hiding.”

  “So how do you know he’s in Dubrovnik?” della Torre asked.

  Grimston unzipped a leather document case he’d been carrying and pulled out some photocopied pages. “A feature article on Dubrovnik was published in the British press.” He passed the papers to della Torre.

  But even in these difficult circumstances, life goes on. Indeed, for some, like Mr. Caesar, as he wishes to be referred to, the siege is proving a boon.

  Mr. Caesar, who asked not to be identified, could be taken for an average middle-aged east European bureaucrat, which is what he had been in Zagreb under the Yugoslav government. Medium height, stocky, he usually has a lit cigarette in hand and likes a drink and a joke.

  And as with many former Yugoslav civil servants, Mr. Caesar has a keen entrepreneurial streak — as long as it helps his personal situation. Where once he might have been amenable to inducements to help people get through administrative quagmires, he now supplies those in the besieged city with some of life’s little luxuries — cigarettes, fuel, tinned anchovies, Scotch whisky, even tinned Iranian caviar or French foie gras — as well as necessities like toilet paper, toothpaste, baby food, and fresh water.

  But, as he admits, he’s no humanitarian. In exchange, he exacts a high price. He accepts payment in Deutschmarks and American dollars. Those paying in British pounds, Italian lira, or French francs are charged ten percent extra. “For exchange rate,” he says.

  “Maybe soon I take American Express,” he says in heavily accented English.

  He buys assayed gold and platinum at a stiff discount on global prices — he keeps up with the daily London gold fix. He accepts gemstones.

  “I would not sell diamond ring to me, is not good price. But I not expert, maybe you sell me glass. So is for my protection too.”

  He relies on a local jeweller for advice, paying for it in cigarettes, which are becoming a common currency. But he’s one of the few ready buyers for heirlooms, so he gets a steady supply.

  It’s not just goods he provides. There are rumours he’s taken the deeds to a grand private house in the old town in exchange for getting the whole family out of Dubrovnik, but he laughs this off.

  “Is not true,” he says. “No one gives me Dubrovnik palace.”

  But when asked whether he could get somebody safely out of the city, he shrugs.

  “Everything is possible. Everything,” he says with a smile as he lights a Marlboro cigarette.

  Della Torre looked at the byline. The story had been written by Steve Higgins, a Canadian journalist he and Strumbić had met over the summer and grown to like. Higgins was one of the few Westerne
rs covering the war from inside Dubrovnik.Della Torre looked back through the description. Asked not to be identified? Had Higgins been Dürer, he couldn’t have etched a more precise portrait.

  Della Torre looked up at Grimston, who smiled back at him.

  “Could be anyone,” della Torre said.

  Grimston laughed. “This article about Mr. Caesar gave us the initial tipoff that Mr. Strumbić — Julius — is in Dubrovnik.”

  Della Torre looked at the date at the top of the page. The article had been published three days before his meeting with the Americans at the UDBA safe house.

  “We’ve had several confirmations since then,” Grimston said.

  “So if you know where he is, why do you need me?”

  “Major della Torre, Dubrovnik’s population is fairly substantial, especially with all the refugees in town. Mr. Strumbić might be busy, but he’s stayed low-key. We don’t know where he’s living or how to get in touch with him. And with the city under siege, it’s hard to get in enough people to do a proper search, never mind getting them out again. You might appreciate that we can’t be seen to be involved in another country’s civil conflict. Which also restricts the amount of manpower we’d be able to apply to the situation. The local police, meanwhile, have their hands full with other matters so they can’t devote the time to our search.” Grimston spoke methodically, as if running through the main points of a lecture. “We know Mr. Strumbić made an effort to contact you not long ago. So it isn’t far-fetched to think he would be willing to see you if you appeared in Dubrovnik.” He paused, allowing the information to sink in.

  “We find ourselves needing help,” Grimston continued. “Frankly, Major, our official position is that Croatia ought to stay part of Yugoslavia. But we do want to see justice served. If you were to aid us, the American government would show you considerable gratitude. You and your family. And your country. That is not an empty promise. We are not vulnerable or incapable. But we are looking for a friend. By the same token, Major, if our request falls on deaf ears, we will take note of that. And you would also do well to remember, sir, that our god — because we are a godly people — is an Old Testament god.”