Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  • • •

  Della Torre woke early the next morning. On the way to the bathroom, he saw his father standing by an open window looking over the terrace, watching Rebecca. At first della Torre didn’t register what she was doing. It looked like a dance, like she was falling through the air in regular undulating movements punctuated by staccato jerks. Something modern. Sometimes she picked up a long stake for vines, using it as part of her choreographed movements.

  “Does that every morning,” his father said with a gently mocking tone. “Like she’s Bruce Lee.”

  Della Torre nodded. Tai chi and other martial arts were popular in the West as exercise. In London earlier that summer, he’d frequently seen people, especially young women, practising similar moves in the park on weekend mornings.

  He knew a little about it. He’d had some training in martial arts during his time in the commandos. The men who’d taught him had themselves spent years learning their skills in North Korea. There was a whole cohort of Yugoslav commandos who’d been through combat courses run by the North Koreans. They were unimaginably tough, brutal men who seldom talked about their experiences in that strange, distant country. Nothing their charges went through, they said, would even approach the pain they themselves had endured. This the younger men took as bravado. But, the trainers continued, what they themselves had suffered was small discomfort compared to what their North Korean peers were subjected to. Only a handful of the Yugoslav commandos in North Korea had died because of the training. Not more than one in twenty or thirty. Whereas the mortality rate for the North Korean commandos was one in four or even three.

  As he watched Rebecca, della Torre realized she wasn’t an amateur using the martial arts movements as another way of staying lean and healthy. The exactness and speed of her repetition, the steady, inexorable increase in pace, told him she’d been doing this for years and had learned from professionals.

  He knew the dance she did could be put to deadly effect.

  “She’s the real thing, Dad,” della Torre said. And when his father gave him a puzzled look, he added, “Let’s just say that if you’ve got it in mind to have somebody’s legs broken, she’s your man. To move that fast and with that much control is very, very hard, I promise you. If you came at her with a knife, you’d be dead. If you had a gun, you’d better be shooting straight.”

  • • •

  He passed the rest of the weekend swimming, eating, and reading novels, trying to stay out of the way, though Rebecca sought him out. They had gone, without Piero, to a little-frequented stony cove a twenty-minute drive south of the port. His father had decided to stay back at the house. “To write,” he said.

  When they got there, they waded in the water and then sat under the shade of a broad pine tree. Rebecca sat facing him, knees drawn up, feet apart so that he had to look away from the cleft barely covered by her bikini bottom. She talked about movies della Torre hadn’t heard of. He knew nothing about the music she mentioned, but they had similar tastes in trash novels. They talked a little about travelling. He was curious about her experiences in the Soviet Union. She asked him what it had been like to serve in the Yugoslav army, her questions making it clear she knew what she was talking about, though she wouldn’t be drawn out on why. She deflected all conversation about her family, her friends, her history. At most, she gave anodyne answers.

  He felt frustrated at having been sent to Istria on a pointless errand, and that while there he’d managed to wedge himself between his father and whatever brief contentment had befallen him.

  On Sunday he told them he’d be leaving for Zagreb early the following morning.

  “I’ll come too,” Rebecca said. “It’s time I got going.”

  Della Torre’s father made a frail effort to dissuade her. But she was adamant. Della Torre was intrigued at how firm she could be without being the least bit abrasive.

  “But where are you staying in Zagreb?” the old man demanded, as if such a problem was insurmountable and might persuade her to stay in Istria.

  “I’m sure there are hotels,” she said. “I stayed in one when I came. It’s probably still there.”

  “They’re so expensive. No, you have to stay at my apartment. I insist.”

  Della Torre was surprised. His wife . . . ex-wife, Irena, lived in his father’s apartment. There was a spare room, but he wasn’t sure what she’d think about having a stranger drop in on her. She’d go along with it, of course. But he didn’t think it’d be fair.

  “That’s a very kind offer. Maybe I’ll take you up on it,” Rebecca said.

  His father looked pleased at the small victory.

  “She can stay with me. Your place wouldn’t do,” della Torre said reluctantly.

  “My flat’s much nicer,” his father argued.

  “Yes, but Irena’s living there. I’m sure Rebecca would be happy enough to stay with me.”

  “It’s my apartment. I’m sure Irena wouldn’t mind for a few days. Besides, I can choose who stays there,” his father said, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’d always liked Irena and it surprised della Torre that he would put her in an awkward position.

  “I think maybe Marko is right,” Rebecca said, putting a hand on the older man’s forearm. It looked to della Torre as if she was stroking it, very faintly. “You’ve done more than enough for me already, Piero. When you come to the States, you’ll let me return the favour. Promise?”

  Della Torre’s father was beaten and didn’t offer up any more resistance. That night, he was the first to turn in.

  STOCKHOLM, FEBRUARY 1986

  The Montenegrin got to the top of the stairs and looked back down the alley, past a skeleton of builders’ scaffolding, and saw nothing. He hurried along the street at the top of the little hill until he found the car.

  The blue Opel started with some gentle prompting. He’d worried about the cold. The boy had said the Swedish winter could freeze and crack engine blocks.

  The Montenegrin swore as the inside of the car’s glass started to cloud up. He turned the heater on full, pulling away before the window had defrosted.

  He listened hard for the sound of sirens, but heard none.

  He drove carefully, avoiding black ice. Once the glass had cleared, he took a turn around a block to see if anyone was on his tail. No one. He crossed the bridge and drove out to the suburb with the low-rise tower blocks. It was mostly immigrants who lived there: Kurds, Turks, some Ethiopians, and various east Europeans and Balkans.

  He pulled up in front of the building. The lock on the entrance was broken and the overhead light flickered. Graffiti wasn’t unusual in this part of Stockholm, but the area didn’t look obviously poor, just a little less well kempt. He climbed the three flights to the apartment’s landing. There were only four apartments to a floor. It wasn’t a big building, but it was anonymous; the neighbours all kept to themselves. The boy had said the residents were mostly itinerant. They came and went. Some families doubled up for a while, and then there’d be a whole new group of people a few weeks later.

  He’d been given keys to the place by a contact in Belgrade. It was an UDBA safe house, most recently used by one of the agency’s tame criminals, the head of a Serbian gang that ran drugs and guns to Sweden, except he was cooling his heels in a Malmo prison for illegal possession of a firearm, downgraded from armed robbery. He was six months into a fifteen-month term. Long for possession, but short for armed robbery.

  When the Montenegrin had first arrived in the city, late in the evening, he’d expected an empty apartment, but instead he found it occupied by a skinny boy sprawled on a sofa, wearing only a pair of underwear and a red and green tartan blanket draped over his shoulders. Smoking hash out of a water pipe, the boy had greeted him in Swedish, barely taking his eyes off the television.

  For a moment the Montenegrin had frozen, uncertain about how to react. In his good Engl
ish he’d demanded who the boy was and what he was doing there. The boy had replied in a slurred, incomprehensible mix of Swedish and English. The Montenegrin realized his plans would have to change. Whether the boy belonged there or not, he’d have to find somewhere else to stay. He’d cursed at the stupidity of it all, of having no fallback plan, of being alone, of having been deceived by the people in Belgrade, who’d said the apartment was empty and reliable. He’d sworn in Serbo-Croat, quietly. But not so quietly the boy didn’t hear. The boy had replied in the same language, accented but clear.

  They talked. The boy was Kosovar, with mixed roots, a Serb first name but an Albanian surname. He’d grown up in Sweden and ran odd jobs for the Serbian gangster now in prison. He was the Serbian’s boy, he said, leaving it to the Montenegrin to interpret what that meant.

  He was pretty, dark skinned with dark brown eyes and long black hair like a girl’s. His lanky frame made him look about fifteen, though he said he was eighteen.

  The Montenegrin was tired. It had been a long drive from Copenhagen. He didn’t know Stockholm or where he might find a room. The boy had said he’d do whatever it was the Montenegrin wanted if he could stay the night on the sofa, assuming immediately that the Montenegrin had rights to the place. The Montenegrin stayed. And so did the boy.

  It wasn’t a big place and had little in the way of furniture. A bed and chest of drawers in the bedroom, where the Montenegrin slept. A sofa, an easy chair, and a small table with a couple of chairs, as well as the big TV, in the sitting room. There was a bathroom and a kitchenette.

  The following morning the boy was up and dressed and eager to please. He knew Stockholm well, could he act as a guide? If this stranger borrowing the apartment didn’t speak Swedish, perhaps he could help with any arrangements he needed to make.

  The Montenegrin had sent him out with some money to buy breakfast, giving himself time to think about what to do with this unexpected nuisance. The boy came back promptly with a cup of good coffee and a proper breakfast. And all the money. He’d gotten it free, he said, because he knew how.

  That day the Montenegrin had driven around Stockholm, using the boy as a guide. The boy knew quick ways around town. He had taken the Montenegrin to a cheap but good Turkish restaurant and told him about the Stockholm police, about how to avoid them and what they looked for, what attracted their attention. The Montenegrin had let him stay another night in the flat. The boy slept on the sofa, drifting off in front of the television after smoking some dope.

  The third day, the boy had guided him once again, asked him whether he needed any equipment. A gun, maybe?

  The Montenegrin demurred, not wishing to bring the boy into his confidence. The boy had gone out that afternoon anyway and come back with the Smith & Wesson and a couple of boxes of bullets, quoting a cheap price. The Montenegrin had worried that he was being set up. But there was something about the boy that made him seem trustworthy. The boy assured him the gun was in factory mint condition, only ever test-fired. The Montenegrin stripped it down, had a look at the barrel and the revolving chambers, and had to agree. He needed a gun and he’d hoped to pick one up from a Yugoslav underworld contact he’d been given on arrival. The boy suggested driving to his secret place outside of Stockholm, where the Montenegrin could test the gun before buying it, though he’d have to pay for the bullets.

  The Montenegrin had told the boy nothing about himself or what he was doing there. Not even a lie. The boy had seemed content to know nothing. It was enough to be allowed to come and go, to smoke dope while watching television. The Montenegrin had figured him for a dealer; the boy kept a gram scale for postage. He didn’t seem to have any source of income, but he had enough money to live off, to go out to eat whenever he wanted. But there was no evidence of any drugs other than the small quantity he kept for his own use. At first the Montenegrin had feared the boy’s dope smoking would attract the police’s attention. But he relaxed as he realized the boy was astonishingly discreet. If he had any family or friends in Stockholm, he showed no signs of it.

  Indeed, the boy had told him he was alone in Stockholm. He knew people through the Serb, had contacts but no friends. They were all back in Malmo, where he’d grown up. But he couldn’t be bothered to go back. The boy didn’t explain why. Just that he was happy to wait where he was for the Serb to get out of jail. His parents had moved back to their small Kosovor village when they’d saved up enough money to build themselves a house. The boy didn’t like it there. Too boring.

  Apart from the dope smoking, the Montenegrin had found the boy to be surprisingly bright. Clever and useful, as capable and smart as he was pretty. So the Montenegrin had kept him around. He’d paid him for his help, a couple of weeks ahead. He’d also paid a generous commission for the gun. It was good money.

  When the Montenegrin let himself back into the apartment, the boy was sitting on the floor, leaning back on the threadbare brown sofa, watching TV. He was wearing a red-and-grey-striped jersey and jeans. The Montenegrin had made it clear he didn’t want the boy walking naked around the apartment.

  He was watching an American movie with Swedish subtitles. He pressed the mute button on the remote control, knowing the Montenegrin didn’t like the sound of the television. The boy’s eyes rolled upwards towards the man, an ember falling from his hashish joint onto the front of his jersey.

  “Shit,” he said, without much feeling. The jersey had a number of small black dots on the chest where it had been burnt. “Want a smoke?” he asked, knowing the answer.

  “We need to go,” said the Montenegrin.

  “What? Now, man? This time of night? I was just getting comfortable.”

  “Now. Is your bag still packed?”

  “I think so. Yes, it is,” the boy slurred.

  “Good. I’ll get the rest of my things together. We need to make it so that this apartment will be fine for a couple of months without anyone coming in. Understand?”

  “It’s cool. Nobody’s going to come. Everything’s sorted. I told you that.”

  He’d warned the boy they’d have to leave town quickly, on short notice. The boy had understood. The Montenegrin had said he’d drive the boy to Malmo, though if he preferred, he’d get him a flight from Copenhagen to Belgrade or Zagreb, with enough money to live for a while on the Adriatic coast.

  “Time to go. In a couple of months the beaches will be full of pretty girls and you’ll have the money to enjoy them. Until then you can smoke dope and watch TV.”

  “Spliffs in Split.” The boy laughed. “You done with Stockholm?”

  “I’m done.”

  “Yeah? That was quick. I thought you said you might be around for a couple of months.”

  “I got lucky.”

  “What about the money? I mean, I can’t really pay you back. The money’s been invested, if you know what I mean,” the boy said, more alert now that he was talking finance.

  “The money’s yours. Hope you invested it wisely.”

  “The best. Paid for another couple of bricks.”

  “You’re not taking them with us.”

  “They’ll keep where I’ve stored them.”

  “You’re not afraid somebody will steal them?”

  “Nobody knows about it.”

  “What about me? Anybody know about me?”

  “You mean other than the people across the hall? I think they’re illegal. I think they’re going to move pretty soon,” the boy said. His glassy eyes reflected the silent explosions on the television.

  “No, I didn’t mean them. Did you tell any of your friends?”

  “Why should I?”

  The Montenegrin believed him. Dealing with the Yugoslav mafia taught people to keep their mouths shut.

  The Montenegrin cleared the bedroom. He used a small dusting cloth to wipe any flat surfaces he was likely to have touched. He wiped down the bathroom and sitting roo
m and the kitchen as well. He wiped up any hair he found in the apartment, mostly the boy’s. His own he’d had cut short before coming to Sweden.

  It was a routine he’d done every morning before leaving for the stakeout, giving the whole apartment a clean in case he’d have to leave quickly during the day.

  “Nice of you to give the place a tidy, but I don’t think anyone’s going to thank you,” the boy said, watching him idly through heavy-lidded eyes.

  The Montenegrin put all the perishable food he could find into a plastic garbage bag. He pocketed a couple of cans of cat food.

  “Why’d you buy cat food?” the boy asked, having roused himself enough to follow the Montenegrin to the kitchen, where he helped himself to a couple of slices of white processed bread before slumping back onto the sofa.

  “Didn’t know what it was.”

  “Picture of a cat on the package didn’t give you a clue?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “So what do you need it for now?” the boy asked.

  The Montenegrin left the question unanswered. The boy didn’t press the issue.

  The Montenegrin threw his toiletries into the bag. He then unplugged all of the electrical appliances, including the stove, but left the fridge running. He’d thought about that for a bit. The wall of ice that almost completely blocked up the freezer convinced him not to risk flooding the place by defrosting it. When it came to switching the television off, the boy complained.

  “Hey, man. That’s not cool. That’s a good movie.”

  “Time to go.”

  “Oh, man, come on. Let’s go tomorrow.”

  “No. Now.”

  The Montenegrin tied the top of the garbage bag. He’d stripped his bedding and placed it in another bag, along with the towels in the bathroom. His clothes and other personal items were in his fake leather suitcase. The boy had packed the few possessions he had into a duffel bag, clean and dirty clothes mixed together, the scales and a little hash wrapped in foil. Where the boy kept his money, the Montenegrin didn’t know or care, but he didn’t carry it on himself.