Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  He woke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. So he showered, shaved, got dressed, and headed off to the UDBA offices. Maybe he’d try to track down what happened to Rebecca. If only to get his spare key back. The sun was still low and cool, though the clear sky meant it’d be another scorching day.

  He hadn’t expected there to be many people at the UDBA building at that hour of the morning. But he had expected there to be furniture.

  The offices had been stripped of anything movable. All the boxes stacked up along the walls were gone, highlighting a pale green whitewash paint. The colour of fear. Strangers had always found the UDBA building terrifying. Irena refused to walk through its doors. Della Torre supposed he must have felt a twinge or two when he’d started working there — anything associated with the UDBA was unsettling. But that feeling had gradually faded. Until now. Now he felt the building’s brooding menace, from its terrazzo floors to its five-metre-high ceilings, its massive internal walls and tall windows that forever invited people to jump.

  He went up to his office. It too had been completely cleared out.

  He was at a loss to think of where everything had gone, but then remembered that Anzulović had mentioned the lingerie shop on the ground-floor level of the new military intelligence building on Ilica, where, he guessed, he’d find his colleagues. And a chair to sit on.

  He was heading back down the abandoned corridor when a sliver of light under Anzulović’s door made him look in.

  Anzulović’s desk was there. It had a telephone on it, and a lamp. And in the chair behind the desk was Anzulović. He looked tired, even more tired than usual, and slightly dishevelled. He was leaning back, staring ahead. Della Torre had to knock on the door to draw attention to himself.

  “You been sleeping in that chair?” della Torre asked. “What’s the matter? Wife throw you out for snoring?”

  Anzulović ran his hand over the stubble on his face. “Been a long night.”

  “What happened, they forget to move you?”

  “Most of my stuff is gone, but I needed the desk and the phone,” Anzulović said, reaching into a drawer and pulling out an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid and two small shot glasses etched with flowers. He poured the homemade slivovitz into both.

  “Met your friend Rejkart yesterday. Seemed a very nice guy,” della Torre said, raising his glass and knocking it back. He exhaled pure alcohol. “Said not to worry about him. He’s given in and taken a job running the police academy here.”

  Anzulović gave della Torre a hollow stare.

  “His friends there have a funny sense of humour, but —”

  Anzulović cut him off. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Rejkart was killed last night.”

  “What? Impossible. He was fine when I left him yesterday afternoon.”

  Anzulović had spent the night piecing the story together, using every ounce of pull he had to get whatever information he could. One of the witnesses was in intensive care under police guard, though he’d managed to tell the emergency crews something of what had happened. Others contributed fragments, contradictions, unreliable bits.

  “As far as I’ve been able to work out, this is what happened,” Anzulović said, staring at the confusion in front of him, sheets of paper with scraps of writing, some circled, much crossed out, arrows linking bubbles, winding, overlapping, nothing like the methodical notes he normally put together. “Seems he got a call in the office about a roadblock,” he started.

  “He spent a lot of time going from one group of vigilantes to another, calming them down. He took me on one of his little trips,” della Torre said, still in shock over the news.

  “Well, he was heading off to a community meeting. A few local politicians were with him, two Serb worthies and a Croat. Apparently he spent a lot of his evenings at these things. As he was leaving, a call came through about a roadblock. So he took a detour.” Anzulović sighed heavily.

  Rejkart and his companions were on a straight stretch of road when they came upon a man standing in the middle, on the broken white median line, a couple of hundred metres in front of the roadblock.

  The man was holding a gun. Not a single-bore shotgun like the farmers carried, but a military weapon. The car slowed. The man raised the gun, pointing it at the car.

  Before the Zastava had come to a complete stop, the Kalashnikov’s muzzle vomited orange-red bursts. In the same instant, holes opened in the windscreen, perfect round holes in the centre of crazed glass, holes made by the bullets that had killed Josip Rejkart and two of his companions. The third, grievously wounded, only just survived that still, calm summer evening.

  Anzulović’s eyes showed ugly, brutal pain. “I should have pushed him harder to leave. He was stubborn. And now his wife’s a widow. Thank god he didn’t have kids. They’d still be infants.”

  “Do they know who did it?”

  “The local cops think they’ve got a name. Zdenko. Probably some farmer. They always pin it on some unlucky slob. Saves them from having to do proper detective work.”

  “One of Horvat’s men is called Zdenko. I met him. I mean, I met them both,” della Torre said.

  “Horvat’s man?”

  “Yes. Horvat knew the minute I showed up in Vukovar, and Zdenko was the fellow who took me to him. He’s a paramilitary. Or dressed like one. “

  “They all dress like paramilitaries. Even the pansies do,” Anzulović said.

  “Well, that’s what he looked like to me. And he’d been keeping a watch on Rejkart’s office. Both of us noticed him.”

  “Not very discreet.”

  “Maybe Horvat wanted to send a message. That there’s no compromise. He wants the Serbs out,” della Torre said. Momentarily he wondered if somehow his presence in Vukovar had given Horvat a sense of security about ordering the killing. But he quickly dismissed the thought. “I’m sorry. Rejkart was a nice guy. A really nice guy. His men seemed to be very fond of him, even if the nationalists weren’t.”

  The words were like dry leaves in della Torre’s mouth. They crumbled as he spoke, crushed under the weight of what had happened. Rejkart had been a young man with a gentle authority. It horrified della Torre to know that someone so real could be no more. And to think that della Torre could have been one of the car’s passengers.

  “Whoever it was, he got away,” Anzulović said. He spoke so quietly, in such leaden tones, that della Torre wondered whether he might be speaking to himself. “The militia and the cops have put roadblocks on every major road from Osijek. All the way up to Zagreb. But he disappeared.” Anzulović shrugged. “Horvat’s man, you say?”

  “Horvat’s man.”

  Anzulović nodded. He’d dismissed Horvat as a well-­connected nuisance, a dangerous buffoon who thought himself a hero, a rich man playing games. Now he was an enemy.

  “A shame. We need people like Josip. Reliable people with a sense of decency. I have a feeling they’ll be in short supply,” Anzulović said.

  It was clear to della Torre that the pain Anzulović felt was for himself rather than for the country.

  “Why do you think they did it?”

  “Why? Because they didn’t like him,” Anzulović said.

  He didn’t elaborate. Della Torre didn’t need him to. Nationalists on both sides of the border were straining, frothing for a fight. Though a half-formed Croatia, mewling in its newness against the might of the Yugoslav army, would be like a terrier pup against a Rottweiler. A terrier pup that thought itself a lion.

  “Come. You’ve been here all night, haven’t you? Let’s get a coffee,” della Torre said, still standing.

  “I suppose I could use one,” Anzulović said in an even tone. “I’ve got to let the movers take my desk. Everything else is at the new offices. Or should be.”

  • • •

  Anzulovi
ć and della Torre headed north and west along Zagreb’s grand avenues. On mornings like this, the city was especially beautiful. The heat was only just rising, and the pale blue sky set off the mustard yellows and ochres of the imperial Austro-Hungarian buildings. Giant plane trees stood along its green, open squares.

  Cafés had spread their tables and chairs throughout the pedestrianized centre, making it look as if whole streets were preparing for a banquet. Anzulović and della Torre sat at one and ordered coffees and the dense rolls that passed for croissants. Anzulović talked. He talked about movies and then he talked about Rejkart, and about the movies they’d seen together when they’d both been on the Zagreb force, bunking off on a Thursday afternoon or sometimes going to a Saturday matinee, telling their wives they were off to see the Dinamo match.

  “I once read about some English guy, a mountain climber or something, who faced down a charging rhinoceros by opening a pink umbrella in its face,” Anzulović said. “Rejkart was like that. Stupidly brave. And determined to do things his own gentle way. I don’t think he’d have given up. He told you he’d taken the academy job, but they said they were still waiting to hear.”

  Della Torre nodded. Rejkart had sounded sincere about wanting to leave. But the commitment he’d showed to his job was, in retrospect, more convincing.

  “Rejkart told me some of what’s going on over there,” della Torre said.

  “Like?”

  “Like Horvat is smuggling guns . . .”

  “Of course he’s smuggling guns. We don’t have any, and he’s getting them to us.”

  “Sure, but hear me out. He’s raising funds from ordinary Croats.”

  “Heirlooms, postage stamps, jewellery, Deutschmarks from under their mattresses,” Anzulović said, reeling off the propagandized news reports.

  Della Torre held up his hand, demanding his right to finish. Anzulović rarely ever interrupted. He’d normally listen until whoever was speaking ran out of steam and then stay quiet long enough for them to fill in the silence. Sometimes with things they might not have wanted to tell. Della Torre took Anzulović’s impatience as a sign of his exhaustion.

  “Rejkart thinks . . . thought that Horvat was taking a very fat cut off the top.”

  “He’s profiteering?” Anzulović said.

  “Something like that.”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “Not much about Horvat, but while I was there he took a phone call from a cop on the Serb side.”

  “On his office line?” Anzulović’s hands crumpled the tablecloth in agitation.

  “Yes.”

  “Stupid boy.”

  Della Torre shrugged. “Too late now. Anyway, the Serb cop said they’d found a bunch of bodies on their side. Croats. Some policemen, but a few civilians as well. Executed. They were found opposite Vukovar, on a patch being run by one Darko Gorki. Remember him?”

  “Gorki. Criminal. Ties to the UDBA. Quasi-official,” Anzulović said.

  “Yes. He did some bank robbing and gun running around northern Europe. Did jail time in just about every country — as far as I can remember, France in the ’70s, Belgium in the early ’80s, Sweden in the mid-’80s.”

  “I know the jail time they hand out. Sentenced to twelve years for bank robbery but they get out after eighteen months.” It was an old subject they’d deliberated over the years, the extraordinary laxness of northern European justice. “And while they’re in, they have their own televisions, drugs on the room service menu, and buggery on tap. For those that like that sort of stuff,” Anzulović said. There had long been rumours about Gorki. “So Gorki’s what? A regular with a unit? A paramilitary?”

  “Actually, he sounds more like an old-fashioned warlord. He’s to the Serbs what Horvat is to the Croats. Though as far as I can tell, Horvat’s not as violent. Gorki’s a soldier, while Horvat’s a politician.”

  Anzulović nodded. “I think you’re right. People like him and Horvat will do what they like. They will act with impunity until . . . well, until we learn to be civilized again.” Anzulović drew forward. His eyes were bright with a sort of inner fever. “Gringo, I get a sense our Colonel Kakav is going to have you spinning like God gave you wheels instead of legs. Maybe he just wants to make your life difficult. That’s the feeling I get. Unless he can nail you for shooting Strumbić, which is still a possibility, though not a big one. But as you go tearing around the countryside, I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?” Della Torre was willing but cautious. Who knew what Anzulović would ask, given the state he was in?

  “As you go around, I want you to keep a tally. I want you to keep a record of all the murders you encounter, anything that doesn’t fit in with an honestly conducted war. If you can investigate straightaway, do so, but discreetly. Anyone prying too much is unlikely to get a lot of support from the people who run our lives. If you can’t investigate, note it down and somebody will look into it later.”

  Della Torre nodded. Not that he wanted the grim duty. But it was a duty someone had to do.

  • • •

  It was mid-morning by the time they made their way to the new offices in the high-rise, one of the only ones in central Zagreb, over the lingerie shop on Ilica, at the corner of the city’s main square. Anzulović’s face sagged with exhaustion and the bur­dens of life to come, but he seemed a little less distraught. He showed a pass and signed in della Torre at the front desk, which was manned by a couple of conscripts.

  The elevator door opened to a scene of general disorder. Boxes were stacked along a central corridor. People wandered around, some with a purposeful look, a few of the old-timers vague and lost. Most had complaint written on their faces, but when they approached Anzulović, della Torre gave a shake of the head that couldn’t be misinterpreted. The boss wasn’t to be bothered right now.

  So Anzulović remained unmolested as he led della Torre to his new office, where they parted. Anzulović’s took up a corner on the same floor, opposite their communal secretary. His desk wouldn’t be moved until later in the day, but that didn’t matter. The new office had a sofa and Anzulović planned on giving it a test drive.

  The first thing della Torre noticed was the rubber plant. Mostly because he nearly tripped over it. His eyes had been on the ceiling, which was about half the height of the old office and of his apartment, so that it felt like it was bearing down on him.

  He should have unpacked or written up the notes from his Istria and Vukovar trips, but instead he sat by the window, one which, mercifully, he could open, even if the office was nominally air-conditioned. He’d never really warmed to the old UDBA offices, but they had a certain elegance. This place was functional and drab, characterless. Socialist modern. And he didn’t like the fact that once the Yugoslav jets started attacking, this would be a tempting target. A high building in an otherwise low-rise city.

  He was wondering what had happened to Rebecca, when Anzulović walked in.

  “It’s like there’s nobody else in military intelligence,” Anzulović said.

  “What?”

  “It’s you again.”

  “Where is it this time?” della Torre asked, resigned to his new role as dogsbody.

  “Hotel Esplanade. Tomorrow. A meeting.”

  “Who with?”

  “You, me, and some other people — including our new lord and master, Colonel Kakav. And Croatia’s new deputy minister of defence, announced this morning.”

  “And who might that be?”

  Anzulović heaved a big sigh. “Horvat.”

  “Shit.”

  “And do you want to know what his portfolio is?”

  “No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

  “Procurement. And intelligence.”

  “Double shit. So what the hell does he want with me? Us.”

  “That we find out tomo
rrow,” Anzulović said. Stopping in the doorway on the way out, he added: “Oh, and just to make your day perfect, I won’t make you guess who’s joining our happy little ship here in military intelligence. I’ll tell you.” He paused theatrically, smiling with more than a drop of schadenfreude. “Your old friend: Julius Strumbić.”

  They walked through the morning’s rising mugginess to the Hotel Esplanade, near the main rail station, passing on the way the statue of a mounted King Tomislav, Croatia’s king when the country was first, briefly, independent. Heroic as he looked in bronze, there was a melancholy to him too. A young man, younger than della Torre, he’d disappeared into the night a thousand years ago.

  The Esplanade was the city’s only truly grand hotel. It had been built between the wars, and there was a time when passengers on the Orient Express would overnight there on the way from Venice to Istanbul. It was where the gentry from Vienna based themselves when handling their affairs in the empire’s former southern provinces. For a while the Communists kept it as their hotel of choice. But ultimately it proved too redolent of Croatia’s bourgeois past for the hard-liners, so they built a soulless concrete tower farther west.

  Now the Esplanade was tired, drab like much of the city, its spacious, well-proportioned main rooms let down by flaking paint and cheap fabrics in dull earth tones. And Communist-era service. But the new Croat administration favoured it, if only because they could offer its decline as evidence of the brutal lack of culture of the Serb-dominated Yugoslav Communists.

  But when he passed through the main doors, the decor wasn’t what della Torre noticed. Sitting side by side in a far corner of the lobby, where they could watch all who entered, were Horvat and an old man. The old man was shrunken into himself. He was bald but for a thinning fringe of grey hair, and he wore glasses with solid square frames. Engrossed in conversation, he toyed with a wooden walking stick. Neither man seemed to see Anzulović and della Torre.