Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  Higgins put out his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. He wore a funny grin. “Course, there are the rumours,” he said.

  “Rumours?”

  “Not even rumours. I mean, just a bit of two plus two equals a very shady character.”

  “And what might those two be?”

  Higgins paused and smiled. “This is so frivolous, so speculative that it’s probably nothing,” he began.

  “Try me.”

  “Well, Horvat’s pizza shops get supplied from the States. His trucks go up from the Midwest to the prairie provinces, loaded with whatever supplies he needs. They go west to east across Canada. And east to west. Big country. Lots of transport.”

  Della Torre watched Higgins light up another cigarette.

  “I don’t normally smoke much, but it’s hard not to in this country,” Higgins said, looking at the cigarette. “Anyway, Horvat has quite a logistical operation. One of his trucks got stopped in Nebraska or somewhere like that. Couple of handguns in the back. The driver was fined for not having a permit, and the case dropped right off the map. Except that a reporter friend noticed the story. Then there was the story that one of his trucks going from B.C.—”

  “B.C.?”

  “British Columbia. Our west coast. Anyway, it was pulled over for speeding, and the cops found that the back smelled funny. The truck was empty, but they found some dust in the corners that was clearly crumbs of dried pot. The driver said that when he was on break, he’d sometimes smoke a joint. But the way my friend tells it, there was more than a couple of roaches’ worth back there.”

  “So you think he employs criminals.”

  “I think he makes money in ways other than just pizza.”

  “Seems a stretch on the basis of a couple of guns and some dusty marijuana.”

  “A friend of my journalist friend, a crime statistician at the University of Toronto, noticed some interesting correlations between a rise in gun crime and a drop in pot and cocaine prices, associated with Horvat’s pizzerias opening up locally.”

  “Correlation?”

  “That’s math.”

  Della Torre shot Higgins a sharp look. “I know what correlation means.”

  Higgins shrugged. “Not everybody does. Anyway, as far as I can tell, nobody’s looked into it much. But when I was a kid and we wanted to buy some dope, we could order some from Horvat’s. The pizza was average. Cheap, but nothing special. But the delivery guy always seemed to know how to get some grass.”

  “You think Horvat’s a drug trafficker?”

  “I think making money is what he does, however he can. I think he made it easy for the people who worked for him to do stuff that wasn’t maybe legit, and he seemed to profit from it.”

  “Thanks.” Della Torre nodded. “Maybe it’s my turn to buy you a glass of wine.”

  “Love to, but it’ll have to be next time. I’ve got a man to talk to about getting over the border,” he said. “I’d be awfully grateful if you passed along anything interesting you’ve heard about anything going on around here.”

  “I’m not really the sort of person who knows much,” della Torre said, thinking that was truer than it sounded. “But I’ll let you know. Good luck.” Della Torre watched the journalist disappear. A funny, perceptive, and indiscreet fellow. He liked him.

  Strumbić really had fallen asleep by the time Rebecca came back.

  “You gentlemen ready to go?” she asked.

  “Wherever you demand,” della Torre said. “Though I think Julius is settled in for the afternoon. Interesting fellow, that Mr. Higgins. A journalist.”

  “Oh?” Rebecca said, though she didn’t seem interested.

  “At least that’s what he claims to be.”

  “I’m sure he is. This is where journalists stay,” she said. “See if you can get Julius up.”

  “Thought that was your speciality.”

  She flashed him a look of irritation.

  “Let’s go,” she said.

  When they got back to the villa, Rebecca spelled out her plans. “Julius, tomorrow I’d like you to leave Šipan by the regular ferry and check into a room I’ve reserved for you at the Argentina. I’d like you to spend a couple of days finding out what you can about Mr. Djilas. Marko and I are going to be getting in touch with him to see whether we might be able to arrange a visit.”

  Della Torre nodded. Strumbić didn’t seem troubled about being turfed out of his own house.

  “Is nice hotel. I like,” he said.

  SWEDEN, MARCH 1986

  It was getting on for four in the morning when the music on the radio was replaced by frequent news bulletins. At first the Montenegrin couldn’t make out much, but when he’d listened hard enough, a name became distinct: Olof Palme.

  The ripple of relief that ran over him was quickly replaced by a nervous prickle. The Swedes may have been slow to react, but they’d be hunting him now.

  They’d be more alert at the Helsingborg ferry crossing to Denmark than they had been when he’d come over. When he had driven from Copenhagen in the stolen Opel with Swedish licence plates, no one had stopped him on either side of the narrow channel between the two countries. He’d been surprised at how short the ferry crossing was. Once upon a time the entire area must have bristled with Vikings. The Vikings of the modern age, criminal gangs like the Yugoslav mafia, still used the route.

  But most of the traffic was local, commuters between Sweden and Denmark going to work or shop. Flights out of Sweden or ferries directly from Stockholm to, say, Hamburg would have been too dangerous. Police cordons and inspections would become ever looser the farther he got from the capital. He just had to hope he didn’t have to explain to the border guards why he was driving a Swedish-registered car while travelling on a German passport.

  He had found the vehicle in a covered long-stay car park. He’d heard that Swedes from Malmo who worked on long-term contracts abroad, often on engineering projects in the Middle East, tended to leave their cars there for months at a time. He was hoping it was true. That no one would have reported it stolen.

  But his biggest concern was the gun. He kept the heavy revolver tucked under his seat. He’d thought about leaving it with the boy’s body, but there was a chance it would be found and traced back to him. And, he admitted to himself, he wanted it as insurance, in case he needed to get through a one-man police roadblock. It’d buy him a little time at least.

  A sign appeared up ahead, indicating a town a kilometre down the road. He turned off at the exit and drove slowly down the main road until he spotted a phone booth. He took a bag of Swedish coins out of the glove compartment and then braced himself for the cold. The shock of icy air on his face and eyes made him gasp and blink.

  He piled the coins into the machine and then dialled a number for Cologne. The line rang and rang. Eventually the call was disconnected, so he repeated the performance until someone answered on his fourth attempt.

  “What?” There was a tired, impatient voice on the other end, speaking in rough German.

  “Pilgrim,” the Montenegrin said.

  “Could you repeat that, please.” The speaker was more alert now.

  “Pilgrim,” the Montenegrin said again and hung up.

  He hurried back to the car. He felt the creeping tiredness as the adrenaline of the evening wore off. He was tempted to stop somewhere for a cup of coffee but knew that would be a mistake. He had to press on. It was a long drive and he didn’t want anyone to see or notice or remember him. He took one of the small triangular orange pills he kept in a little round tin in the inside pocket of his coat, washing it down with a swallow of bottled water. From experience, he knew it would keep him going for another four hours, after which he’d have to take another pill. Three running was his maximum. Any more and, he’d learned, he could no longer trust his reactions or judgement. With just a lit
tle luck, he wouldn’t need more than two.

  He pulled back onto the motorway, cranking up the radio and turning the heat down to keep him awake and focused. There was more about Palme, none of which he understood. He tried to get a German or English station on the shorter wavelength, but heard nothing but static and Swedish.

  Had he chosen to, he might have allowed himself the luxury of thinking about his dead wife or about the burden of raising a crippled child. He might have reflected that his wife’s and daughter’s fates were a punishment for the work he did. But he knew that line of thinking led nowhere. There was luck, and there were things one could influence. It was crucial never to confuse the two. The danger with luck was that it led to complacency. Or to despair. He hadn’t allowed his good fortune with the Palme job to dull his thinking. Just as he’d refused to allow his wife’s death and his child’s tragedy to defeat him.

  He drove through the night, focused on the smooth road and the trees sliding by. Traffic picked up in the morning. He was feeling light-headed, and it was still dark. He’d driven past a handful of small towns and settlements, seen their streetlights battle feebly against the endless blackness of the Swedish night. And now, it seemed, he had returned to the land of the living.

  From the fringes of Helsingborg, he followed the signs to the ferry terminal. The Swedes were good at signs, clearly marked with pictures to prevent any confusion. He made his way around a set of switchback roads to the modern port, set apart from the heart of the old city.

  He drove through docklands framed by big, shed-like warehouses or older, neat brick buildings, and then pulled up in a big parking lot. His back and legs complained as he got out of the car. For the first few steps, he walked like a cardboard cut-out. The cold air on his face was bracing, telling him how tired he was. He was reminded of his bladder as well; he’d driven five hours non-stop.

  There were public toilets in the ferry terminal. The lighting was harsh, white fluorescence. He was momentarily disoriented looking at himself in the mirror. The man who stared back at him was worn, the sallow, almost bleached face heavily lined. There was more grey in his hair than he remembered. But what affected him most was the blankness of the eyes. Hollow, to the ends of the universe, so that he could barely look into them. He ran hot water over his hands until some warmth crept into him, and then he went out to buy a ticket.

  “Terrible news.” The man at the counter spoke no German but had good English.

  “Oh?” the Montenegrin asked.

  “Yes. Olof Palme, our prime minister, was killed last night.”

  “Killed? An accident?”

  “No. Murdered. Assassinated,” the man said, his voice shaking. “We only heard on the radio this morning. One or two newspapers have the story, but they don’t say anything.”

  “That is terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “To think, in Sweden. Maybe in Africa or Greece or America. But in Sweden?”

  “Have they caught the murderer?”

  “No. They don’t even have a good description. One of the local police was around this morning, and he said they weren’t told anything by Stockholm.”

  “So how will they check at the border? How will they know at passport control what to look for?”

  “There is no passport control here. We have open borders between Sweden and Denmark and Norway.”

  “But surely the police will be checking people leaving the country?”

  “Yes, of course. But in Stockholm. They’ve not been told what to do in Helsingborg.”

  “So they won’t do any inspections? That is very strange.”

  The man shrugged, holding his hands up. “In Sweden, we are not used to these things. We have no plans for them.” He paused as he slid a printed card towards the Montenegrin. “I have given you a ticket for the next ferry. But you must hurry, otherwise you will have to wait for the one after.”

  A queue had formed behind the Montenegrin, so he paid the ticket and walked quickly back to the car. He pulled off as soon as the Opel started. The quicker he caught the ferry, the sooner he’d be out of Sweden.

  But the ticket seller had been mistaken. Police were at the docks stopping traffic, seemingly at random. The Montenegrin slowed to a crawl. The pill had worn off, and he was at once tired and agitated. But this was no time to take another.

  One of the policemen stepped in front of the vehicle, holding up his hand. The Montenegrin rolled down the window, but he understood nothing of what the officer was saying.

  “I’m sorry,” he said in English. “I speak no Swedish. English or Deutsch?”

  “Ja, English,” said the officer. “You go over there and stop.”

  DUBROVNIK, AUGUST 1991

  Della Torre made the call to the Montenegrin first thing in the morning, two days after Strumbić had left for Dubrovnik. He used a satellite telephone Rebecca had set up on Strumbić’s front terrace. He didn’t know where it’d come from, only that when she parked the Hilux by the fisherman’s cottage, there were a couple of bags in the back. One was a canvas holdall full of ammunition. The other was a hard case that proved to contain the phone and its folded dish antenna.

  There was a series of beeps and clicks before he got a dial tone. But the phone was answered quickly.

  “Mr. Djilas?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Marko della Torre.”

  Pause.

  “Gringo? Where are you? You sound like you’re calling from the moon.”

  There was an odd echo and delay on the phone, making conversation sound tinny and distant.

  “Sorry, it must be the line. Mr. Djilas, I was wondering whether I might be able to visit you for a conversation.”

  “A conversation?”

  “About your work.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “I know that, but I still have investigations to run.”

  “For whom? I thought Zagreb had shut down the firm, or are you working for Belgrade now?”

  “You’re right, Zagreb’s down. But I have a couple of investigations to complete.”

  “About what?”

  “About a couple of American jobs.”

  “During my time or before?”

  “Your time, sir.”

  “You know I’ve always been open to you before, but things are changing. It’s dangerous to have been in my line of business.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “I don’t have much inclination to travel to Zagreb or Belgrade these days.”

  “I know, that’s why I offered to travel to you.”

  “I don’t go to Dubrovnik either.”

  “If you’d like I can travel to your home.”

  “I think that might be wisest for me. You’ll be alone?”

  “There is a woman.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s an investigator. An American one.”

  “An American investigator? Now what might you be doing with an American investigator?” The Montenegrin sounded both amused and wary.

  “The Americans are thinking of putting out an international warrant on the man who ordered the jobs.”

  “So why should I want to talk to someone who wishes to prosecute me?”

  “She doesn’t, sir. She wants the men who pulled the triggers and the men who ordered the jobs. Not the people in between.”

  The Montenegrin laughed. A distant, hollow laugh. Maybe it was just the connection.

  “Well, if they want to place a warrant on me, they will anyway. Bring her. Does she speak Serbo-Croat?”

  “No. She knows you speak English.”

  “And this American woman, what is her job?”

  “She’s just a diplomat, a lawyer,” della Torre said, hesitating.

  “Then I shall sit with you as a friend and her as a prosecutor. How soon do yo
u wish to see me?”

  “As soon as you can be available, sir.”

  “You are already in Dubrovnik, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The Montenegrin didn’t sound surprised. “Well, timing will be difficult. I am away from this afternoon to tomorrow afternoon, and then again from early Sunday morning for some days.”

  “You’re a busy man.”

  “Fishing is demanding of a man’s time.”

  “Could we see you tomorrow, then?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. We will feed you here. You like grilled fish?”

  “But of course. That would be most generous.”

  “Then we shall see you tomorrow afternoon. If you are driving from Dubrovnik, may I recommend you come unarmed. You will find it uncomfortable enough crossing the new borders even without having to explain weapons to the militia. I will make an effort to ensure that you are welcomed cordially. Do you know where to cross the border?”

  “Inland from Cavtat, I’m told.”

  “That’s right. It will be a pleasure to see you, Gringo. Not spending time with interesting people like you is one of the regrets of my retirement.”

  “It will be a pleasure to see you too, sir. Is there anything I can bring for you from Dubrovnik?”

  “I want for nothing. Come with your American, that’s enough.”

  Rebecca was pleased with the result of the conversation, though she didn’t look as though she’d had much doubt about how it would go.

  “Sounds like he likes you,” she said.

  “Yes. I’ve always treated him fairly. The government tried to use him as a scapegoat when an assassination attempt in Scotland went wrong. I helped with the evidence supporting his defence. He retired not long after.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know we found the right man for the job.”

  “What job might that be?” della Torre asked, lighting a cigarette.