Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  “He won’t fly up to Zagreb to see you. I can guarantee that. Even if you ask pretty please.”

  “We’re not going to be asking. You are. He knows you and trusts you. That’s why we need you.”

  “You seem well informed.”

  “We are. And we know he’s not going to come to us. So we’re going to go to him.”

  “To Montenegro?”

  “Unless he’ll meet us in Dubrovnik.” Croatia’s ancient walled city — as given over to tourists as Venice, and even more beautiful — was a short drive from the Montenegrin’s haven.

  “I doubt it. He won’t cross the border. He’s too sensible for that. In fact, he won’t go to Serbia either. Old UDBA wetworks agents don’t tend to have long life expectancies. He’s got himself a very nice, very safe arrangement where he is,” della Torre said.

  “Which is why you’re going to help us plan it all out. So that we have a nice, comfortable chat with Mr. Djilas.” That smile again.

  “What if I said no?”

  “Well, I think your minister was pretty keen that you do what you can. But if that’s not convincing enough, the U.S. government isn’t very happy about its citizens working for foreign governments. Especially foreign intelligence services. And especially when they’re Communist.”

  Della Torre nodded. His face betrayed no emotion. Rebecca gave him a sympathetic smile. He looked out at the view of the city.

  “But really, that isn’t meant to be a threat,” she continued. “I heard you have enough trouble here without having to worry about what the U.S. government thinks. Something about shooting a police officer.”

  There had been a time when della Torre fantasized about running away to America; he’d wondered whether he might not quietly disappear once the war started in earnest. Not back to Ohio. But maybe California. The UDBA would no longer take an interest in him. And the Zagreb police, well, their reach barely made it to the city’s streets.

  “What do you want from me?”

  She smiled a broad, slow, lazy smile that made it clear she’d always known she’d win.

  “I need a bit of organization. First I need a secluded location near here with a three-hundred-yard clearing. For tomorrow or the day after. Then I need a house near Dubrovnik that’s very, very private . . .”

  “At this time of year? Even with the political situation like it is, Dubrovnik has more than a few tourists around. I mean, it’s one of the biggest attractions in the Mediterranean.”

  “You’ll have to be clever, then. But I’ll make it easy for you. It can be half an hour, maybe forty minutes away from the city.”

  “How big?”

  “It doesn’t have to be huge. But it’s got to be able to sleep . . . let’s see, make it five or six people.”

  “Who else is involved?”

  “That comes later.”

  “Anything else?” he asked.

  “I need as much background on Mr. Djilas as you can get. A nice briefing note.”

  “I thought you already had that.”

  “I do. But I want one from you.”

  “When do we go?”

  “We? You’re just helping us to fix things so that they won’t go wrong.” She emptied the can into a glass and threw it into a bedside bin. “How long do you think it’ll take to drive down the coast?”

  “Drive? What’s wrong with flying?”

  “People watch airports. Driving draws less attention.”

  “Well, you see, that’s a little problem. The Krajina Serbs have blocked the main road. The only other way is to take a ferry or to drive the coast road. But that’ll be busy.”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  He finished his Inka. The warm bubbles scoured his mouth. He got up to go.

  “Should I get in touch with you here?” he asked.

  “I’m registered under my name.”

  I’m sure you are, he thought.

  “You have my keys,” he said.

  “I do, don’t I.” She made no move to return them.

  “My father will be disappointed.”

  Her eyebrows rose in amused puzzlement.

  “That I’ve got your keys?” she asked.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m sorry. Piero’s a very nice man, but he shouldn’t feel too hurt. Not as hurt as innocent people sometimes get.”

  He didn’t bother to shut the door behind him.

  • • •

  On the way back to the office, he smoked a couple of Luckys. Lucky Strike. The irony that it was his favourite brand never escaped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been lucky. Overhead, the filigree of tram wires held the city in a web. He was oblivious to the old man walking on the other pavement, barking orders like a drill sergeant and then pausing to whimper like a dog. Or the young nun in a wimple and green mirrored sunglasses, the top buttons of her grey shirt undone and a cigarette hanging off her bottom lip.

  He’d been stitched up. He’d been sent from one end of the country to the other so that the Americans and Horvat could inspect him. A piece of military chattel. The Croat government would do everything it could to get the Americans involved in its affairs, though he was sure Horvat was playing another angle. He just didn’t know what.

  Whatever it was, Horvat was a dangerous man. Even more dangerous was the fact that he had dealings with somebody who only a few months before had tried to have della Torre killed. What the hell did the Dispatcher have to do with this?

  And what did the Americans want with the Montenegrin? To talk to him? The thought made della Torre laugh out loud, so that the woman walking beside him gave a little skip of surprise and then sidled away.

  Della Torre wouldn’t have noticed the black Toyota Hilux with tinted windows parked opposite the military intelligence building, had it not been involved in a standoff with a Zagreb tram. The Hilux was pulled halfway up onto the pavement, making itself an obstacle to pedestrian traffic, though this wasn’t particularly unusual. Yugoslav drivers were notoriously inconsiderate, especially ones who had the sort of money to afford expensive Japanese trucks. But it also blocked the road enough to keep the tram from passing. The tram driver kept ringing his bell, but the Hilux wouldn’t move. Only when a traffic cop took an interest did it finally pull away.

  Della Torre showed his old UDBA ID to the uniformed soldiers at the entrance to his new office building.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but who are you visiting?”

  “I’m not visiting anyone. I’m going to my office.”

  The soldier looked blank.

  “We’ve moved upstairs,” della Torre said.

  “I’ve been told that only people with military ID are allowed through. They’re on our sheet.”

  “I haven’t got mine yet. It’s coming,” della Torre said, folding his arms over the top of the high reception desk.

  “I’m afraid, sir, you’ll need someone to get you, then. We’ve been told only military ID.”

  “Look, my whole office, my whole department, has moved upstairs. As far as I know, none of us has military ID,” della Torre said.

  The soldier continued to stare blankly.

  “Have other people come through with UDBA IDs?” he asked, exasperated.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you let them in?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So let me in too.”

  “But they had someone come down to collect them.”

  “All of them? How did the first one get in?”

  “Well, we haven’t been on duty all day . . .”

  “If I get one of my UDBA colleagues to come down to vouch for me, will you let me in?”

  “Yes, sir, if your name’s on the list.”

  “You mean you have a list?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, sir.”

  “Why don’t you check my name against the list?”

  “Sorry, sir. We need to see military ID. Lieutenant Colonel Kakav —” the soldier started to say but then caught himself as della Torre dropped his head onto the high reception desk. “Are you all right, sir? It’s just that your forehead might smudge the forms.”

  Della Torre was rescued from the fit of impotent pique he usually reserved for Yugoslav bank tellers, clerks at the gas board, and post office officials, by a colleague who was just leaving the building. He vouched for della Torre on condition that della Torre came down to collect him later.

  He went in search of Anzulović to fill him in about his meeting with Rebecca and to talk over the morning more generally, but Anzulović was out. The secretary didn’t know where. He figured he might as well start writing up the report on the Montenegrin that Rebecca had asked for. But when he got to his office, a man was sitting in his chair, smoking a cigarette and gazing out the window.

  “Julius,” della Torre said. “As if my day wasn’t awful enough already.”

  “You know, Gringo, I once felt bad for myself that I didn’t have any shoes that fit. My feet were sore. But then I saw a man with one leg. And you know what I thought to myself?” Strumbić asked. “I said, there’s a man who’s only got half my troubles.” He laughed uproariously at his own joke. “I wanted to congratulate you, Major.”

  “News travels.”

  “Take a seat, colleague.”

  “Thanks,” della Torre said, not sounding the least grateful, as he found a chair under a stack of files.

  Strumbić sat there, grinning. He was half a head shorter than della Torre and about five years older, powerfully built, though gone to fat. He’d taken some colour over the summer during his enforced absence from work, though della Torre knew it was a farmer’s tan. Even so, there was an underlying unhealthiness to Strumbić. His close-cropped hair had mostly gone grey. Jaundiced and bloodshot eyes. His teeth a mix of gunmetal and yellow. It made the grin that much more gruesome.

  “I’ve been transferred to military intelligence.”

  “I’d heard.”

  “Thought you might be a bit more pleased about it, Gringo.”

  “When are you going to sign the affidavit, Julius?”

  “Affidavit?”

  “The one that says I didn’t shoot you.”

  “But you did.”

  “Julius . . .”

  “All right, all right. I’ll think about it.”

  Strumbić had that look about him, like a waiter hovering for a tip.

  “How much is it going to cost me?” della Torre asked.

  “Life isn’t just about money, Gringo.”

  “Julius, you’ve . . .” Della Torre didn’t know what to say. Strumbić was the most corrupt cop in Zagreb. He always had been. He was without a doubt the richest person della Torre had ever met, though he hid his money well. But not so well as to stop della Torre from stealing a considerable amount of it. Had Strumbić forgiven him for stealing his money, his leather jacket, his cigarettes? For shooting him and locking him in his own wine cellar? They had a complicated relationship.

  “Listen, Gringo, I’ll let bygones be bygones. I’ll sign the form, though we’ll have to think about how you might pay back what you owe me. But really, all I want is a little friendliness, a little understanding, now that we’re going to be working together.”

  “Friendliness and understanding?”

  “I understand you’ve been talking to some Americans. I’d like to be friends with them too. That’s all.”

  Della Torre bent back to look at the ceiling and then out the window. He didn’t know how Strumbić had come by the information. Possibly Kakav. It didn’t matter. Anything worth knowing, he’d find out about eventually.

  “Julius, they don’t want to know you. Take it from me.”

  “Course they don’t. But that’s because they aren’t yet aware of how helpful I can be. What a good friend I can be. That’s where you come in.”

  “You’re not the sort of friend they need or want. You’re the sort of friend exactly nobody needs.”

  “And this from a man whose life I saved.”

  “Only after doing everything you possibly could to get me killed.”

  “Let’s leave old arguments to lie, eh? These are new times. Era of the Americans. Gringo, wherever Americans go, they’re the people to know. I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

  Strumbić was right. Americans meant money. Endless amounts of it. And Strumbić could smell money no matter how much shit it was buried in. All that mattered was finding directions to the pipeline and figuring out how to tap it.

  Outside, the heat shimmered off Zagreb’s red-tiled roofs like ripples of lava. There was another city famous for its ancient ochre, orange, and red roof tiles. Dubrovnik.

  “Julius, tell me. That weekend place of yours near Samobor. How private is it?”

  “How private? If you want somewhere to hide a herd of elephants, it’s pretty useful,” Strumbić said.

  “Have you got a three-hundred-metre clearing there?”

  “Three hundred? The meadow at the top of the hill’s probably that. Maybe a bit less. I never measured. Why?”

  “What about your place near Dubrovnik?”

  “Šipan?”

  “Yes. How quiet is that?”

  “What do you mean, ‘how quiet’? You can hear the fucking birds and the waves. Sometimes an airplane passes overhead.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Are there many tourists?”

  “You get the occasional yacht in Šipan harbour and sometimes you get a few Germans on a day trip from Dubrovnik, but the island’s too far for most tourists and there aren’t many attractions.”

  “How far is it by ferry?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Oh,” della Torre said. A near miss, but too far.

  “But the right way to do it is to take a boat across the strait to a village on the mainland and then drive down.”

  “How long’s that take?”

  “My motorboat and car and I’m driving? Then it’s ten minutes for the crossing and a quarter of an hour down to Dubrovnik. You can usually get a fisherman to run you over from either side of the channel, takes about fifteen minutes that way. I hope your sudden interest in my affairs means that you’ve had a change of heart about me.”

  “How big’s the place? How many does it sleep?”

  “Are we negotiating a summer rental? It’s not a palace, if that’s what you’re looking for. It’s one of those old sea captain’s houses, but done up. Four bedrooms in the main house and another couple in the courtyard.”

  Della Torre looked in wonder at the cop. It wasn’t just luck that Strumbić had something handy in the countryside near Zagreb and something off the Dubrovnik coast. He had properties scattered across the whole of Croatia and as far afield as London. And not a penny of them mortgaged. It wasn’t ordinary corruption that had made Strumbić rich. Otherwise half the police force would be doing as well. It was the sort of entrepreneurial corruption that would have made Strumbić a rich man anywhere, in any age.

  “Can I have use of your weekend cottage?” della Torre said. “Tomorrow or the day after? And maybe the Šipan house? I’m sure our American friends will come to some financial arrangement.”

  “Always money with you, Gringo. Tell you what. Why don’t I come out to Samobor with you. I’ll have a chat with our American friends. See what they think. Maybe I’ll go down to Šipan with you. You know, show you how things work. In case there are problems with the boiler. And maybe along the way, I’ll do a bit of affidavit signing.”

  Della Torre almost admitted he wasn’t going anywhere. That he was just making arrangements on behalf of the Americans. A dogsbody. But he didn’t.

&
nbsp; “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Strumbić got out of the chair by the window and headed for the door.

  “Gringo, I think I’m going to enjoy working with you.”

  Anzulović didn’t come back until late in the day. Anyone else gone that long without explanation, and della Torre would have figured him for an alcoholic. Not Anzulović.

  “Good movie?” della Torre asked when his former boss popped his head into the room.

  “Escapist crap. I find Hollywood most depressing when they give me what I think I want.”

  “I won’t ask what you saw. Won’t mean anything to me.”

  “Never mind, it’s only playing for another week. As if the movie wasn’t bad enough, I had to tear a strip off those cretins downstairs to get in.”

  “You managed?”

  “Course I managed. Threatened to shoot them. Try it.”

  Anzulović sat down on a plastic chair next to della Torre.

  “I’m sorry,” della Torre said.

  “About what?”

  “About getting promoted. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’ve done and I don’t want it. I don’t want to have the same rank as you. Frankly, I prefer the buck to stop with you.”

  “Well, you’ve got it. And don’t be sorry. I have a feeling I’ll need friends with a bit of clout around here as long as Horvat’s around.”

  “Not to mention Kakav,” said della Torre.

  “Forget about Kakav. He may be a reptile, but he also has a reptile’s brain. As long as you grab him just behind the head, he can’t bite. Smack his forehead down hard on the edge of a table and he’s quiet for a while,” Anzulović said. “No, Horvat’s the dangerous one. Funny thing is, more to you than me. He has high hopes for you, whereas I know he doesn’t like me much. Probably because I was a friend of Rejkart’s. But maybe because of the Dispatcher.”

  The name chilled della Torre’s blood.

  “I thought the old man had crawled back into his hole.”

  “So did I. But when all the rest of life is wiped out, he and the cockroaches will be left.”