Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

“Thanks.”

  “By the way, I forgive you for the bullet hole.”

  “The what?”

  “In the car. Captain Boban was very apologetic and one of his mechanics has patched it inside and out. All it needs now is a paint job.”

  “Oh yeah, and I’ll bring you some petrol from Dubrovnik. Do you want the drinkable sort as well, or just the stuff you stick in the fuel tank?”

  She laughed. “I forgive you that too. Just don’t ask to borrow my car again.” He heard a voice in the background. “Listen, I’ve got to run, I’ve been away longer than I’d intended. Maybe I’ll see you next week.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I would too. Take care of yourself. Don’t do anything dangerous.”

  “No chance,” she said and then paused. “You neither.”

  “I’ll try not to dive into the shallow end of the pool,” he said.

  “What? Oh, well, enjoy your holiday then.”

  They rang off. The skies had been crystal clear all week, and now they were as leaden, as troubled, as he felt. He mulled calling London, to hear Harry’s voice again. The only woman he knew who could soften the pain of losing Irena. But he didn’t.

  Once, in anger, Irena had said that he missed her only because Balkan men were so incompetent they needed mothering all their lives. Later she apologized, because he’d lost his mother when he was young. She was right, of course. He could barely boil an egg. His father was only a little better. Growing up, there was always a female relative or friend who’d taken pity on them, made sure they were properly fed and that their clothes were cleaned. It was what women did there.

  Was that all Irena had meant to him? A cooked meal and ironed shirts? No, even at his most self-hating, he knew he’d loved her for herself. Even now, after years apart, the sting of her absence was the hand that no longer brushed his. It hurt not to have the easy laughter of shared jokes, the stolen kiss after lunch, the Bach concert.

  He sat naked on the bed until the wind caused the unsecured balcony door to bang against the little desk in the room, its rusty hinge braying like a donkey. He shut it and called Anzulović.

  “Gringo, I’d almost forgotten what your voice sounds like. Enjoying your holiday?”

  “Once, the bar ran out of ice. And I stubbed a toe on the rocks getting into the sea.”

  “I love hearing how you suffer. In Zagreb we’re discovering the joys of a post-socialist summer. It’s still hot and sweaty. Except now the reason you can’t have ice cream isn’t because they’ve run out, but because you can’t afford it. It’s called progress.”

  “I’ll mail you some.”

  “Thanks. Get them to deliver it to Colonel Kakav.”

  “Happy families, is it?”

  “More pleasant than you think. He’s working from the seaside. Calls twice a day to make sure the phone lines still work.”

  “Did you get anything on our Bosnian friends?”

  “Yes, they’re dead. Found in a burnt-out Mercedes near Gospić. Murdered by renegade Serb terrorists. Found a kid in the field nearby too. But you weren’t calling about their welfare. Our records show that the older of the two adult males had a criminal conviction for smuggling, while one was wanted in Šibenik on an attempted rape from last summer. Who the hell calls their kid Elvis? Oh, and he’d also been questioned by the police in relation to a couple of murders that go back a few years. The kid was clean, as far as we know.”

  “So, generally, not nice people.”

  “Even worse than not nice. Cousins and known associates of the fellows you left in London. Who, by the way, are only being charged with gun possession by the Brits. The prosecution decided it wouldn’t be able to get any of the shooting charges to stick.” The Bosnian assassins who’d shot him had come off the worst in their gunfight with him and Strumbić. Well, Strumbić, really. Della Torre had been in no shape to pull a trigger even if he’d had the presence of mind to know where to point a gun. The Bosnians had been arrested as Dr. Cohen plugged their wounds in the London hospital.

  None of this was news della Torre wanted to hear. “So Strumbić and I have somehow earned the Bosnian mafia’s undying love.”

  “And one day they’re going to run out of incompetents and start using people who know what they’re doing.”

  “So what’s the bad news, then?”

  “The bad news is that Horvat is a really, really close friend of the Americans and has mentioned you a number of times to senior people in government. I’m told. He doesn’t talk to me.”

  “I always wanted to be a celebrity,” della Torre said.

  “Enjoy it. One day you’ll slip into anonymity like the rest of us.” Anzulović paused and della Torre heard conversation on the other end of the line. “Listen, Gringo, I’ve got to go. Some emergency about the paper clip order.”

  Della Torre hung up but kept hold of the phone. He had half a mind to call his father, but then figured it would just depress him more. The old man would ask about Rebecca in a roundabout way, and he’d have to lie.

  • • •

  He had fallen asleep reading in bed when a knock on the door made him stir.

  “Thought you might be in here,” Rebecca said, walking into the room without waiting for an answer. “Get some clothes on, I’d like you to meet a couple of people. And bring your passport. The American one.” She smiled at his look of surprise, adding: “There are better ways of hiding it than wrapping it in your underwear.”

  She waited, watching while he dressed. Then she walked him down the hall and opened the door to a large suite.

  There were three men, the big American from Zagreb and two others.

  “Gentlemen, this is Marko della Torre. You’ve met John Dawes. And these are Rob and Bill.”

  Della Torre shook hands with them all, Bill and Rob repeating their names for him.

  “John is just down to say hello. He’ll be accompanying Julius back to Zagreb tomorrow,” she said. “And the other two gentlemen are our backup. Just in case. They’ve been based here, but I thought it would be just as well for you to meet them in case we happen to need them later on. Though we won’t.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve managed to enjoy Dubrovnik,” della Torre said generally.

  “It’s a very nice town, Marko,” Dawes said. The other two remained silent. “I’m sure that when things settle down there’ll be many, many American tourists enjoying its refinements.”

  Della Torre hadn’t noticed the other two at the hotel before, though they looked well established in the suite. They must have stayed out of the public areas. They couldn’t have looked more American. Like Dawes, they had big white smiles and large builds, like college athletes who’d long since graduated to desk jobs, not quite fat but heading that way. Their hair was neat and well cut, in contrast to della Torre’s. But mostly it was the clothes that did it. Polo shirts, tan chinos without belts, and deck shoes, no socks.

  Rebecca put her hand on della Torre’s forearm and guided him to the door.

  “I thought it best for you to know we’re not alone,” she said, holding the door open for him. “And we’ll need the passport. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back. Promise.”

  Della Torre looked around and then reluctantly handed over his American passport, his little blue key to freedom. It didn’t matter. It had been forever compromised.

  “It’s been fascinating,” della Torre said to the men. “We’ll have to have a longer chat next time.”

  “You can count on that, Marko,” Dawes said. “By the way, your Mr. Strumbić might want some company tonight, to keep him from having too good a time, if you know what I mean. I understand he’s done a good job of keeping himself occupied.”

  Della Torre headed back to his room. He felt like a dog taken for the occasional walk, allowed to sniff a crotch or
two, and then left to lie lazily on a sunny terrace. He’d have resented the Americans if he hadn’t already been conditioned by Yugoslav bureaucracy. Anyway, the Americans were more pleasant about bossing him around. Eventually he’d learn what aspects of life he could control and what weren’t worth worrying about.

  He wondered whether Higgins had run into Bill and Rob.

  He wondered how Rebecca was planning on doing the job. Killing the Montenegrin. He had little doubt about her intentions. Or that she was an assassin. But whatever her methods, he wasn’t going to help, he promised himself. He wasn’t going to be an accomplice. And fuck Horvat for expecting otherwise.

  He wasn’t sure how to stop her, though. Would he really sacrifice himself for the Montenegrin, another professional killer? No. He couldn’t back out either. But he wouldn’t help. He couldn’t not help. He grimaced.

  Della Torre asked the hotel switchboard to ring Strumbić’s number, but as he expected, the cop wasn’t there. He took a chance on Steve Higgins and got lucky.

  “Mr. della Torre, what a pleasure. I’m glad you caught me. I was just on my way out.”

  “I thought I might buy you that dinner.”

  “Sounds great. If you don’t mind my mixing work and pleasure.”

  “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

  • • •

  They met by the big pink teddy bear in reception and walked along the hillside coastal road towards Dubrovnik’s old town.

  “My waiter heard from a friend of his that somebody interesting booked a table in a nice restaurant in town,” Higgins said.

  “Interesting for me?”

  “Maybe.” Higgins didn’t elaborate.

  “Oh, good. I like surprises,” della Torre said. “You know anything about a couple of Americans staying at the hotel?”

  “There’s a few. Which ones were you thinking about?” Higgins asked.

  “A couple of guys named Bill and Rob.”

  “They look government?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ve seen them. They’ve been around for as long as I have but make themselves pretty scarce. I tried to talk to them but they weren’t interested.”

  The wind had picked up and the sky was darker, but the rain that had threatened most of the day continued to hold off. They entered through the old city’s massive ramparts. The walls never failed to awe della Torre. The city had been largely rebuilt in the seventeenth century, after an earthquake destroyed much of the medieval fortress. It was hard to believe anything could dent the solidity of those walls.

  There were few people in the city’s narrow, straight streets. The smell of rain kept what tourists there were under cover. Higgins and della Torre found a bar built into the wine cellar of a grand house near one of Dubrovnik’s best fish restaurants, and sat on high stools by the window. Both ordered beers. Della Torre lit up a Lucky Strike and offered one to the Canadian, who hesitated before taking it.

  “I don’t know if I’m trying to quit or to start,” he said apologetically. “I took it up when I was nineteen to annoy a girlfriend and have been stopping ever since.”

  “You couldn’t irritate her any other way?”

  “She hated it, and I was trying to be a wounded romantic. Besides, we were in Spain. Everyone smokes in Spain.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She went off with another guy. In fact that’s why I started smoking, because she kept getting friendly with this guy. I wanted to make a point, not thinking she’d ever dump me.”

  “And you were left with a habit and no girl.”

  “Exactly. One of the worst trips of my life, and I’ve spent most of my time since university in war zones or shitholes, if you pardon my language.” He paused, catching sight of a man walking down the Dubrovnik alley. “Here they are, or one of them, anyway.”

  The lights in the bar were dimmed and the windows small, but even with the storm clouds they could see outside. A man in late middle age passed them. Horvat. He was with someone else. Someone della Torre recognized.

  “Any idea who that is with Horvat? Or is it just a bodyguard?” Higgins asked.

  “He’s a fellow who goes by the name of Zdenko. Killed the chief of police in eastern Slavonia a couple of weeks back.”

  Higgins’ eyebrows jumped. Della Torre was strangely pleased to be able to surprise the journalist with this nugget.

  “Heard about that. Can’t remember the cop’s name.”

  “Rejkart.”

  “I assume the police might like to talk to this fellow.”

  “You’d be assuming right. Though it looks like he’s under Horvat’s protection.”

  “So Horvat had something to do with the killing?”

  “Maybe,” della Torre said. Like an iceberg maybe had something to do with the Titanic.

  “Shall we order another beer and see if anyone else comes along?” Higgins asked.

  “I was just thinking how thirsty I am,” della Torre said, but stopped short of calling the bartender over. John Dawes and Rebecca were passing in front of the bar on the way to the same restaurant.

  “Isn’t that your pretty American friend?”

  “A coincidence, I’m sure.”

  “It is Dubrovnik’s best restaurant. No reason she shouldn’t be going, though it looks like a double date,” Higgins said.

  “Yes,” della Torre said. “Shall we see if it’s a coincidence?”

  They ambled across the Stradun, its paving stones smoothed to a perfect sheen by generations of pedestrians.

  They looked in the windows of the restaurant but saw no sign of Horvat or the Americans. Della Torre went in and spoke to the maitre d’, who told them the guests were in a private dining room and he could leave them a message, hinting there might be a price for the service. Della Torre declined, saying he thought the woman looked like an actress he’d seen in a film.

  Deciding not to loiter, della Torre and Higgins wandered over to another, cheaper place for dinner. Overhead, an enormous flock of starlings took over the heavy dusk, wheeling through the alleyways and down the Stradun.

  “How’d you know Horvat was coming?”

  “A waiter friend of my waiter friend.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got diligent spies.”

  “I pay well.”

  “And Horvat being in Dubrovnik was of interest?” della Torre asked.

  “Horvat being in Dubrovnik when I know there are gun trades going on is of interest. For war reporters, gun running is an interesting business. Because it usually leads to gun shooting. And when two sides are doing the shooting, sounds an awful lot like war. And when Canadian citizens who happen to be ministers in foreign governments are involved, especially citizens who own well-known pizza chains? I can see the headlines now. ‘Dough Bullets. Daily .45 Specials. Fully Loaded Pizzas. Kalashnikovs to Go.’ That he’s associating with a cop killer makes it all the more interesting.”

  “You know, I suspect you could do this for a living.”

  “Mighty kind of you to say. After dinner, what do you think about finding your friend Mr. Strumbić? He’s entertaining. And informative.”

  “And I suppose you know where he is?”

  “No,” the Canadian cowboy said. “But I know where he will be.”

  The ringing woke him. It was persistent, refusing to stop even when he hid his head under the pillow. When he finally struggled into consciousness, the telephone made itself hard to find.

  “You awake?” It was Rebecca.

  “Not yet,” he said. “What time is it?”

  “Time to get up. I just put Julius and John on an airplane, and now we start dealing with today.”

  “What time did you wake up Julius?”

  “About two hours ago.”

  “He must have been happy.”

 
“You could have got drunk licking him,” she said.

  “Would have poisoned you first.”

  “Have a shower, get some breakfast, and then come up to my room.”

  Della Torre hung up. He winced at the pain in his head, at the foul taste in his mouth, and the memory of the previous evening. Sometimes he wished he was one of those people whose minds went blank.

  It had been him and Higgins and Strumbić. They had found Strumbić at a cellar bar in one of the houses in the thick of Dubrovnik’s landward alleys. Dark lighting and red fabrics. Strumbić was happy to see them both. They drank to the loud music, mostly metal from the 1970s. Della Torre particularly remembered the Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, songs to which the bar’s patrons, long-haired types in leather, knew all the words. Half-hearted graffiti marked the stone walls. Someone had inked the words “Pink Rock.”

  He pointed it out to Higgins.

  “Maybe they were thinking floral,” Higgins said. “The Six Pistils. No, the colours would Clash. Maybe Dead-heading the Kennedy Roses. Or Big Black Dahlia, or the . . . shit, can’t think of how to work the Ramones into this. I’m losing my touch.”

  “I can promise you that I haven’t got the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about,” della Torre said.

  “Never mind. They’re bad puns about difficult-listening music of the ’70s.”

  Strumbić introduced them to his girl from Zagreb. She was tall and young and slutty in the way Strumbić liked them, with lots of makeup, big breasts, pretty if strong features, and a low-cut blouse. Strumbić had arrested her twice in Zagreb on vice charges but had let her off with a warning. He said.

  There were a few other girls like her in the bar, which was surprisingly full for how early in the evening it was. The three men drank shots of slivovitz. Higgins went to the other side of the room to talk to one of the patrons he’d recognized.

  “How do you feel about having to go back to Zagreb tomorrow?” della Torre asked.

  Strumbić gave an elaborate shrug and then grinned, tapping his nose. “Maybe it’ll be a flying visit.”

  “Any idea why they want you out of here?”

  “Don’t know, other than they’re pricks and they got what they wanted out of me.”