The Heart of Hell

by Alen Mattich

  “If your god can’t get you people into Dubrovnik, how do you expect me to get there?”

  “A humanitarian mission called Libertas is being assembled in Rijeka. We’re not sure quite when the fleet of ships is expected to sail to Dubrovnik. Negotiations with the Yugoslav navy are underway. But when it does set off, we’ll have a few people on board. And we’d like you to join them.”

  Della Torre nodded.

  “I am certain you’ll do the right thing, Major, that you’ll afford us your help,” Grimston said. “Only don’t take too long to think about it.”

  Whether it was the constant stress he’d been suffering; the anxiety of uncertainty; having been shot at, wounded, tortured; or just Grimston’s smug, supercilious certainty — whatever the cause, something primitive rose through della Torre, took over his thoughts. He’d paid and paid again for stealing the Pilgrim file: something that had been worth no more than a couple of cartons of cigarettes had cost him a bullet in the elbow, had left him flinching from shadows, had brought him to the point of death at the hands of the Americans, who’d been desperately seeking from him the name of their betrayer before they themselves were killed. And now this man, thinking of himself as an avenging angel, had come, full of certainty, into a country where agnosticism and ambiguity were the only truths. Della Torre’s expression tightened into one of ugly fury. It was all he could do to control his voice.

  “Mr. Grimston, your people tried to make me an accomplice in an execution. I won’t do that again. And not just because they failed miserably — and yes, Mr. Grimston, that’s what happened. They failed. In all the years UDBA ran its wetworks program, there never was a disaster like yours. Sometimes agents didn’t meet their objective and sometimes they made a bloody mess of it, but we never had an entire team wiped out during an operation.” He paused for a second, realizing he’d never before spoken of UDBA as we. “At most an operative was arrested. But we never experienced this sort of catastrophe. What bothers me, though, is that you seem to think that because you’re in a barbaric country, you can do what you like. That the rule of law, ours or yours, doesn’t apply here. You decide what’s convenient for you, for whatever reason, and you pursue it however you want. I’m not going to be party to this, Mr. Grimston.”

  Grimston watched him. Then he said, “Major, I think you suffer from a misapprehension. I belong to a different organization from the people you dealt with before — Mr. Dawes, Rebecca, and her team. You are right to believe they overestimated their abilities. Their work tends to be intelligence, generally with low-level active participation. Easy jobs. I think they had an incorrect impression of the situation here, and of you in particular. Please be assured, Major, that you are now dealing with people who know what they’re doing. Whether you help or not, we will get to Mr. Strumbić. It might take a little longer — and, for reasons I’m not going to share with you, we’d rather accomplish our mission sooner. But a delay wouldn’t be a disaster. It might be worth your while to see your father sometime soon, Major. You don’t have much family left, and sometimes memories are worth preserving. And then maybe we can have this discussion again.”

  Grimston looked at the bill clipped to a small aluminum plate and replaced it with a substantial note. It was enough to pay for both coffees three times over. He left without looking back.

  Della Torre sat back and smoked another cigarette as the waitress collected the money.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Another coffee,” he said. “And then keep the change.”

  THE LONGER DELLA Torre thought about his conversation with Grimston, the more convinced he was that the only right thing to do was ensure that Strumbić stayed hidden and beyond the reach of Grimston’s brand of self-certain American justice. The irony didn’t escape him. He was committing to protecting the most corrupt, venal, duplicitous person he’d ever known. But Strumbić was also innocent.

  The knowledge that Irena would soon be leaving Vukovar, would be safe from that particular hell, helped with his resolve. He’d find a means of getting to Dubrovnik and find Strumbić and do the one thing he knew was right. He’d come back to her with his conscience less tarnished, his ability to face the future less equivocal. He knew Grimston had lied about the pregnancy, but there would be time for that too — to have the family he’d too long refused her.

  When he returned to the office, della Torre gave Anzulović a brief summary of his conversation with the American and told him what he’d decided to do.

  “The only way in is to run the blockade,” Anzulović said at long last.

  “If I can find someone to take me,” della Torre said. “I’ve got a cousin. He was both regular and merchant navy. He’s mostly retired.”

  “How old?”

  “Bit over fifty. Those sailors retire young. Feather their nests with some unofficial importing and then they settle down to a life of fishing. Or, in the case of my cousin, making wine.”

  “So not too old to get you to Dubrovnik.”

  Della Torre shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking he’d get me there. He’s not going to risk his neck for me. But he might know someone who will.”

  They were in della Torre’s office. He knew he was being indiscreet, telling Anzulović these things, but fatalism had descended on him. One way or another the Americans would find out about his plan.

  “Fuck,” della Torre shouted, jumping out of his chair a moment before Anzulović. “Fuck.”

  Everything they’d been discussing evaporated at the sound of screaming jet engines. Three, four, a dozen, maybe more. The air raid sirens sounded, but it was too late. Windows flexed under the impact of shockwaves as explosions rocked the old town on the hill a couple of hundred metres to the north.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Anzulović shouted.

  The building’s evacuation plans were widely ignored. A small crowd had formed around the elevators, pounding on the buttons, even though only one of the three worked. Della Torre and Anzulović took the stairs, joining the flow of people out of the building. A few tried to push their way down, triggering arguments, slowing the progress even further.

  They spilled out of the building into the street, stumbling over each other, the ululations of the air raid alarms feeding their terror. Everyone was in a state of shock. Some were subdued; others were crying. A chemical smell of burning and of dust was in the air. Smoke was rising from the city’s medieval heart and from the suburban slopes beyond.

  Vapour trails scarred the late afternoon sky, and the sudden sight of a pair of jets sent everyone fleeing for the shelter of doorways and carriage arches in the Hapsburg apartment blocks, and then streaming into the bomb shelters.

  As the screaming of machines overhead faded into a long, low mewling of police and ambulance sirens, it was hard to believe the attack had lasted no more than twenty minutes. Della Torre and Anzulović had been separated in the panic; by the time they finally made their way back to the office and found each other, it was early evening.

  After calling his wife to assure her he wasn’t hurt, Anzulović went back to della Torre’s place. It was closer to the office than his own apartment was; he lived in the modern suburbs to the south. They ate fried eggs and cured ham, the only things in della Torre’s fridge that were still fit for consumption.

  “She took it stoically,” Anzulović said, holding a nightcap of slivovitz.

  “The attack?”

  “That I survived. Dog’ll be disappointed, though.”

  “I thought the dog’s great pleasure in life was pissing on your leg.”

  “It would probably prefer my gravestone,” Anzulović said. He knocked back the slivovitz and poured himself another. “Not bad. Your dad’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “American government has told all its citizens to evacuate.” Anzulović lit a cigarette. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin yellow
in the light of the naked bulb high overhead.

  Della Torre yawned. “It’ll take a lot more than a couple of bombs to scare away Mr. Grimston.”

  The attack had involved at least two dozen Yugoslav fighters, but most of the damage was confined to the old town palace, occupied by the Croatian leadership. Only one death was reported, not far from the UDBA safe house in the northern suburbs. Horvat had come to the office to rage at his intelligence department for its failure to give the government an early warning. The raid had hit the palace right at the end of a session of cabinet. It was a miracle none of the administration had been killed or seriously injured.

  “No, but the general confusion won’t make their lives any easier,” Anzulović said. “Which should make it a good time for you to make yourself scarce.”

  “Horvat’s going to go berserk. I doubt he’ll be too happy if I disappear just now.”

  “How much real work have you been given over the past month? Do you think that’s going to change?” Weariness slowed Anzulović’s speech to the cadence of a rumbling freight train. “He doesn’t know what to do with you. He still wants the Americans on his side. He knows they want your cooperation. We’ll tell him that’s what they’re getting. By the time he’s disabused of that notion, well, we’ll figure something out.”

  After della Torre got Anzulović settled in the spare room, he sat with the bottle of slivovitz, exhausted but unable to sleep. He picked up the phone and dialled the number he’d been trying for the past few weeks. It rang without answer. He put the receiver back onto its cradle. And then, as an afterthought, he rang his father, knowing it was far too late, but also knowing that the old man had slipped into a stage of life in which time had become elastic. But there was no answer from him either.

  They woke early, Anzulović looking no better for his short sleep, while della Torre felt worse.

  “We’ll need a car,” Anzulović said, lighting a cigarette to accompany his breakfast of sweet black coffee.

  “We?”

  “Thought you might like some company.”

  “Horvat will love that.”

  Anzulović sighed. “Horvat is in so much shit with the leadership, we can ignore him for now,” he said. As deputy defence minister in charge of military intelligence, Horvat would take the blame for the department’s failure to anticipate the previous morning’s attack. “The rumour is there’s a good chance he’ll be replaced by the time we get back. But I’m on special projects anyway, and will be until the order’s rescinded. So, within reason, I can come and go as I please.”

  “Special projects?” This was the first della Torre had heard of it.

  “Don’t get too excited. It’s just rubbish they can’t fob off on anyone else,” Anzulović said, with a finality della Torre knew would be useless to challenge.

  They walked to the central pound that held cars confiscated by the Zagreb authorities; access to it was bickered over by the various branches of government. But they needed a car — Della Torre’s was sitting dead in his father’s barn and Anzulović’s Zastava reliably broke down on hairpin bends, next to precipices, on narrow streets, and wherever else it was most inconvenient. He mostly left it to his wife.

  “Let’s see what sort of shit they serve us up with,” Anzulović said. “The guys doing the admin somehow end up with BMWs and Mercedes, while their clunkers are left to us.”

  Della Torre shrugged. “At least it’ll be something with wheels and an engine. If we’re lucky it might even run.”

  The pound was on derelict fenced-in ground to the south of the railway line, not far from the central bus station. Anzulović was right: most of the cars they could see were Zastavas or Yugos, with a few Renault 4s. But one in a far corner of the lot caught della Torre’s eye. “I think I might like that Citroën.”

  “Ah, the DS. The gentleman is discerning,” Anzulović said. “That car always makes me think of Catherine Deneuve. She’s almost as beautiful as Grace Kelly, especially in Mississippi Mermaid. Wonderful film . . .”

  As they approached, della Torre could see the car was a beauty. It was at least twenty-five years old, burgundy with leather seats. Della Torre walked into the office while Anzulović loitered outside.

  “I’d like to sign for the Citroën,” della Torre said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, sir, but that car is spoken for,” said the non-commissioned officer at the desk.

  “By whom?”

  “Well, you know how it is. I haven’t got the paperwork. I’m sure it’ll turn up. But I remember it was a big cheese. A colonel, high up in government, specifically set aside that car. He was due to collect it yesterday, but I guess in all the excitement . . .” The man shrugged indolently.

  Anzulović made an ostentatious entrance.

  “Sorry, Minister,” della Torre said, turning to him. “Fellow here says the French car isn’t available.”

  “Minister?” The man sat up.

  “Yes, General Horvat. Minister of state security. Department names change all the time. Internally we just refer it as UDBA,” della Torre said. “We really would like to see the paperwork. There’s so much corruption about these days, sometimes we like to do spot checks. Impromptu investigations, if you like, to keep people on their toes. I find if you give them too much notice, they sort of tidy things up too much to find anything.”

  The man turned a shade paler. “I’m sorry, sir, I — I’d have to speak to my superior. I don’t know . . . I mean, the paperwork is around somewhere, I’m sure,” the man said nervously, glancing from della Torre to Anzulović and back. Both were in business suits. He was afraid of being conned but didn’t want to run the risk that they were telling the truth. Even the lowest bureaucrat could dig in his heels out of stubbornness, but not against the UDBA. And in the army things were different still.

  “Sorry, sir, since you — I mean, you mention doing things in the proper . . . I’d need to see your identification. Just as a formality,” the man said.

  Della Torre pulled out his military ID card.

  “Major, ah, yes. Major della Torre,” the man said. “Military intelligence.” The rank was certainly high enough to be a minister general’s aide-de-camp. And “military intelligence” sounded like it might well be UDBA’s replacement. He looked at Anzulović as if building up the nerve to ask for his documents as well.

  But his uncertainty showed, and Anzulović went on the attack. “Now, are you going to give us the car or am I going to have to call your superiors?” he said, impatient and irritated. The previous long night, lack of sleep, and incipient hangover meant he didn’t have much acting to do.

  “Yes, sir, Minister General. I mean, beg pardon. Only . . . I’ll have to explain it to the colonel. I’m sure he’ll understand, if you wouldn’t mind signing the paperwork. I’ll get the keys.”

  Della Torre smiled and signed the forms.

  “We’ll be sure to let your officers know how cooperative you’ve been,” he said as the man passed over the keys and temporary registration forms.

  “Your driver. I mean, he’ll want to have the, umm, you know, the manuals and forms. They’re in the glove compartment. Lovely car,” the man said forlornly. “Lovely car.”

  Della Torre and Anzulović stepped out of the office and tried not to laugh as they made their way to the Citroën.

  “Think there was a colonel?” della Torre said.

  “Why not?” Anzulović replied.

  Della Torre drove the car out of the yard. The man at the gate took a long minute looking over the documentation before letting them go.

  “Well done, General Minister,” della Torre said once they were on the road.

  The Citroën was low-slung. The seats were leather, faded from the sun but otherwise in good, supple condition. Della Torre tested the hydraulics, raising and lowering the car. It felt like a small, luxurious boat, taking ruts a
nd tram tracks with an easy sway.

  Anzulović grinned. For a second his tiredness lifted.

  But beyond the car’s confines there was confusion. The roads heading out to the highway were busy while the ones coming into Zagreb were sparsely travelled, a sort of inverted rush hour for that time of morning. Pedestrians walked briskly, keeping their eyes to the sky.

  Della Torre turned on the radio to catch a news bulletin. There was plenty about the air raids, but nothing more than he and Anzulović already knew. Afterwards came a short broadcast from the Croatian reporter Siniša Glavašević, who was posted in Vukovar, offering sympathy to Zagreb. His impassioned report on the conditions in Vukovar filled della Torre with dread. And now that Zagreb had had a small taste of the war, it overwhelmed him to think of the conditions that Irena and the British doctor had been enduring. “The last time the world saw something like what Vukovar is suffering was during the siege of Stalingrad,” Glavašević said. “Please don’t forget us.”

  DELLA TORRE TOOK Anzulović home to his “proletarian paradise,” as he called it, before heading back to his own apartment to pack. He drove along the road under the spreading chestnut trees that lined the Hapsburg block and made his way into the building’s terrazzo lobby, his footsteps echoing up the hallway.

  The apartment was gloomy. He seldom bothered to open the external blinds, except the ones that shut off the kitchen from the small terrace. Irena had refused to live there. To her, it was filled with the ghosts of the dispossessed. Its high, narrow rooms, furnished in a heavy Mitteleuropean style, were filled with shadows.

  He dug his official Beretta from the dirty-clothes hamper. He checked the chamber to make sure it was empty, slid out the magazine, and popped a box of bullets into his bag. Just in case.

  He tried the hospital in Vukovar again, failed again. No one was at his father’s place either. Finally he left a message with the nautical cousin.