“Yes?”
“Whatever they do to me, I’ll never betray you—”
“Get out of here, you lunatic!” Taylor cried, grinning now.
“Except hairy spiders. If they bring out the hairy spiders, you’re finished, sorry.”
The address was an old, anonymous ten-story building in the far east Thirties. The door to suite 503 was marked “KOR IMPORTS” in dull gold letters. Inside, Marlene found a tiny reception area containing a tan vinyl couch, a coffee table spread with copies of People magazine and a two-day-old Post. There was a tourist poster on the wall: blue sea, rocky shore, JUGOSLAVIE in white letters. Marlene went up to the little sliding window, behind which sat a hard-faced blond woman reading a magazine. “I’m Marlene Ciampi,” she said. “I’m here to see Mr. Dushan.”
The woman looked at Marlene unsmilingly, put down her magazine, and punched a button on her intercom. She said a few words in a Slavic tongue, waited a second, and hung up. She indicated a door at the far end of the reception area with a twist of her head, and returned to her magazine.
The inner office was lit only by a small gooseneck lamp on the desk in the center of the room, the bulb of which was pushed down to within a few inches of the desktop. There was a man seated behind the desk. Marlene could see that he was large, but nothing beyond that; his head was a dark lump.
“Mr. Dushan?” she asked, more loudly than she had intended.
“Yes. Please have a seat.” The voice was deep, his English only slightly accented. “Forgive the illumination. I think it would be convenient if you did not see my face at present.”
Marlene arranged herself on a straight chair before the desk. “Oh? Would I know you? Are you famous?”
Dushan ignored this and said, “How can we help you, Miss Ciampi?”
Marlene took a deep breath and said, “A friend of mine, an assistant district attorney of New York County, was kidnapped this afternoon. Somebody tried to shoot him, and another group of people picked him up and drove off with him. Someone suggested that you had knowledge of … certain groups that might be involved. So …”
She trailed off. Talking to a stranger in the dark like this in circumlocutions was more disconcerting than she would have believed possible. It was like going to confession. She began to feel irrationally guilty and let out a nervous giggle.
“Something is amusing?”
“No, I was thinking of confession. Telling things to someone you don’t really know in the dark. Waiting to get bawled out.”
A low chuckle. “Yes, and then forgiven. You are a Catholic, then?”
“Terminally lapsed, I’m afraid. But, uh, about Karp—”
“Yes, Mr. Karp. As to that, perhaps I can help you, and perhaps not. Perhaps we can help each other.”
“Like how?”
“Something will emerge. As in the confessional. So. Let us begin by exchanging what we know of this situation. Mr. Karp is engaged in prosecuting a Croatian terrorist cell for the murder of a policeman. Someone tries to shoot him, and someone else rescues him from this shooting and spirits him away. It is not unreasonable to suppose that Croatian terrorists are involved. Which is, of course, why Colonel Taylor sent you to me. Tell me, how much do you know about Djordje Karavitch?”
“What’s to know? He helped kill a friend of mine. And I heard what he did in the war from … some friends. He’s a dirtball. Why do you ask?”
“A dirtball? What an interesting expression! No, Karavitch is a fascinating man. I say this although I am his enemy. A brilliant scholar, a brave fighter, a great patriot, a leader of men. But another of the millions driven insane by the events of this hideous century. It is true that many of the ustashi were gutter people—dirtballs, as you say—but Karavitch somehow stood above them even though he drenched himself in blood.”
“You mean in that village? Krushak?”
“Ah, so you know about Krushak?” There was surprise in the man’s voice. “Very good. But there were many such places, very many. In one little town, for example, in the wine region, a group of ustashi slashed the throats of the entire population over a wine vat. Over four hundred men, women, and children. They wished to see how much Serbian blood the vat would hold.”
“And Karavitch was there?”
“Who knows? He might have been, certainly. Karavitch worked directly for Andrija Artukovic, the Croatian Minister of Police, who was responsible for organizing the murder of four hundred thousand Serbs and Jews. So, then, here is a man hunted throughout Europe, a fascist murderer; we are searching for him, the Soviets, the Allies—I ask you, how could such a man escape?”
“I don’t know. Somebody must have helped him.”
“Yes, somebody did. At the end of the war the Catholic Church established an organization called Intermarium, the purpose of which was to help Catholic activists escape from Soviet-occupied territory. They did not, of course, ask any questions about what these good Catholics were doing during the war, whether they were murdering Serbs or Jews, for example. One of their agents, a priest named Dragonovic, specialized in helping Croatian fascists, including the ustashi, helping them escape. A ratline, as they call it. We know that Dragonovic and Intermarium provided fake transit papers to a man calling himself Karavitch for a journey from Hungary to Trieste in early 1946.
“Now, you understand that in Yugoslavia in 1946 we had more important things to do than to hunt down every fascist trying to leave the country. The nation was a ruin. We had lost ten per cent of our population. But Karavitch we wanted. So we sent people to Trieste, where we knew he was staying. And he was gone. Not just gone from Trieste, gone from the Intermarium ratline. He vanished.”
“Where did he go? Do you know?”
A long pause. Marlene was dying for a cigarette, but was afraid to make a light. The pleasant voice continued. “We think he was hired by your army’s counterintelligence corps to run a network of agents in the Balkans. In 1948 the network closed down and Karavitch entered the United States, where he has been living peacefully ever after. It is a not uncommon story.”
“So why tell it? What does this have to do with Karp?”
“I tell it to impress upon you the importance we attach to Djordje Karavitch, and to convince you that it is in the interests of justice that he be returned to Yugoslavia to face his punishment. As for your Mr. Karp, we have reason to believe that he is being held by elements of a Croat terrorist organization. This organization will attempt to negotiate an exchange—Karp for Karavitch and his group. We would like to be present when this exchange takes place.”
“Uh-huh. And how are you going to arrange that?”
“That is where you come in, Miss Ciampi. You see, the police have hidden Karavitch, as I’m sure you’re aware. I’m also sure that you know where they are hiding him. It would not be difficult, I think, for you to alert us when and where the exchange is to be made.”
“Wait a minute there,” she said sharply. “You’re talking about a hostage situation. There’ll be police brass in charge, and SWAT teams and, Christ, you’ll never get within a mile of the place.”
A chuckle rose from the gloom. “No, no, it will not be that way at all. It will be very simple, which is why they have taken Mr. Karp. Surely you can see this. It is, after all, Karp who has responsibility for the prisoners. He can order them moved anywhere he chooses, just by making a phone call.”
“Karp wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, I think eventually he will. If I were you, I would pray that he does not make any trouble for them. These are extremely unpleasant people, Miss Ciampi.”
She chewed her lip and tried to order her thoughts. She fought the feeling that all this foreign-intrigue crap was over her head. It was a deal, just a deal with a bunch of scumbags. And she knew how to deal.
“Yeah, right. But tell me, I’m a little slow here. What’s your end?”
“Pardon?”
“Your end. What do you bring to the deal? I mean, you tipped me off, thanks
a lot, but why don’t I go to the cops right now? Why do I stooge for you so you can grab Karavitch?”
Another of those low chuckles. “Ah, yes, I was getting to that. Of course, we have a man with these people.”
“A man … ?”
“Don’t you think that we have infiltrated all these traitorous little groups? This is Balkan politics, Miss Ciampi. We have been happily betraying each other for six hundred years. Yes, one of our people is with Karp at this very moment. My end, as you put it, is to make sure that when Karp has done what they want him to do, he does not get a bullet in the head. Now, do we have a deal?”
She was about to say, “How do I know I can trust you?” like they do in the movies on such occasions, but decided the question was not worth asking, since she knew the obligatory answer. She felt stiff and tired. “I’ll await your call, Miss Ciampi,” said the voice. Marlene stood up and stretched. “You forgot to say, ‘Do not talk to the police,’” she said, but even as she said it, she sensed that the man had slipped away in the darkness.
“Most of it is tommyrot, of course,” said G.F.S. Taylor, putting down his second beer of the evening.
“Like what?” she asked.
“Well, to start, that business about wanting Karavitch for war crimes.”
“Don’t they?”
“Marlene, the Yugoslavs want to forget the war. There was a bloodbath of sorts in Croatia right afterward, and then they sensibly decided not to pursue the issue. Their goal was to knit the various minorities together again. Dragging the odd Croat against the wall, fascist or no, would not have helped that end. Look, Karavitch was a small fish compared to Artukovic, and he got away. Hell, even Pavelic, the bastard who ran Croatia for the Nazis, got away. The Yugoslavs didn’t send special teams after them. No, it won’t wash, dear.”
“But Peter Gregorievitch hasn’t forgotten.”
“Peter is a maniac. A lovely man, but an absolute nutter, at least on this issue. A bit of old Balkan there, you might say, blood for blood, forever. If Yugoslavia is going to survive they’ll have to put that sort of thing behind them.” His one eye stared into space for a while and he sipped at his beer.
At length Marlene said, “So you think that business about what’s-his-face, the Catholic underground, was bullshit too?”
“God, no. Monsignor Krunoslav Dragonovic ran an escape service for hundreds of Croats after the war, on Church money, and CIA money too. There was a warm, chummy relationship back then between the Agency and anybody with a claim to an anticommunist past. Christ, they hired half the SS! By the way, do you know where Dragonovic is now? In Zagreb, enjoying a comfortable retirement. Has been since ’67. I see you’re surprised, but I always rather suspected the old crock was playing both ends against the middle. Get the bad Croats out, but slip a few good Red Croats in amongst them, as a little favor to KOS.”
He noticed her frown. “KOS. Yugoslav military counterintelligence. I rather think you just met their New York chief.”
“Dushan, huh? That’s not his real name, of course.”
“Needless to say. Rather fanciful nom de guerre for a good communist, incidentally. It’s the surname of the last tsar of the Serbian Empire. Very strange people these.”
“Yeah, you could say that. So what’s his angle? Why does he want Karavitch? More important, can he do what he says? Does he have a guy with Karp now?”
Taylor waited a long time before answering, examining the dregs in his glass and pulling on the yellow ends of his mustache.
“His angle. I have no way of knowing for certain, mind you, but it must have something to do with Karavitch’s current activities. It’s quite possible that Karavitch never entirely severed his connections with U.S. intelligence. As for whether he can help Karp … well, let me say that any Croat organization potent enough to pull off a kidnapping in broad daylight under fire is likely to have been infiltrated by Dushan’s people. I notice you didn’t think to ask him why, if he really had someone on the inside, his man didn’t ring him up the minute Karp had arranged for the switch.”
“Yeah, shit, that was dumb. So why does he need me?”
“Why, indeed? But the real question is whether any Croats have him, and there I would say that I rather doubt it. Most of the Croat nationalist organizations in New York are talking shops. I don’t know of one offhand that could pull it off. I’m guessing, mind you, but I think Dushan’s bluffing.”
“But, Goddy, what should I do? I need a plan.”
“Perhaps it’s early for a plan. I’d say play along for the time being. Keep in contact. Wait. I’m sure you realize that among the people who would not like to see Karavitch go to prison in America, Mr. Dushan ranks fairly high. If you pretend to play his game, perhaps he will not think to try another, one you know nothing about. But the only real ’layer for the immediate moment is your Mr. Karp. Nothing can happen until he arranges for the switch. Another beer?”
They drank for a while in silence while the SoHo bar filled up with local people. Marlene scanned the faces. One of them could be Dushan and she’d never know it. The thought gave her the willies.
“Goddy,” she said, “why didn’t Dushan want me to see his face?”
Taylor shrugged. “Probably thinks the less people who know him in his unofficial capacity the better. A cautious man, and every right to be.”
“But what’s his official capacity? Is he really in the import-export business?”
“No, he uses that office as a convenience.”
“So what does he do?”
Taylor told her.
She grinned wolfishly. “Got the plan,” she said.
18
KARP WOKE UP with his arm in a cast, a throbbing pain in his head, and a dry taste like old pennies in his mouth. He was lying on a comfortable bed in what seemed like an ordinary bedroom. It was morning and pale, wintery light poured through sliding glass doors. Besides the bed, there was a bureau, a low table, and an armchair. In the armchair sat a slight, dark-haired young woman, dressed in jeans, a yellow turtleneck, and hiking boots. She was knitting a small white woolen garment.
She looked up and when her dark eyes met Karp’s, she smiled.
“Good, you are awake. How do you feel?”
“Like hell. What time is it, where am I, and what happened to me? And who are you?”
She laughed, a pleasant girlish noise. Her English was slightly accented. Karp realized he’d heard it before, in the van, last night. “So many questions,” she exclaimed as she got up and approached the bed.
“How about some answers?” he snarled. “Hey, what’s that?”
“A thermometer. I must take your temperature.”
“You some kind of nurse?” he mumbled around the glass rod stuck in his mouth.
“Yes, sometimes, and you are my prize patient. Let us see … good, you have no fever. Now I think I will bring the chief in. For your questions—”
“Who’s the chief?” ’
“Wait,” she said and dashed out of the room.
Like I could go anywhere, he thought sourly. He sat up stiffly and managed to prop a pillow behind his back with his good hand. In that position, by craning his neck, he could just see out through the glass doors. Bushes and barren trees, a patch of gray sky. When he looked back, Ben Leventhal was standing in the room, with the young woman hovering deferentially in the background. He was wearing a blue ski sweater and corduroy trousers, and had hiking boots on his feet too. He no longer looked like any of Karp’s uncles.
Leventhal smiled. “So, you are back among the living. How are you feeling?”
“Not bad, considering. Somebody shot me, right?”
“We extracted you from an assassination attempt, I’m happy to say.”
“And who might ‘we’ be?”
“Ah, excuse me. This is Devra Blok, who has nursed you back to health, and I am … but we have already met. You remember the night your charming young lady helped me with my car. Ben Leventhal.”
&nbs
p; “Yeah, the Stereo King. This part of your one-year guarantee, Leventhal? Parts and labor and if somebody tries to shoot you, the firm brings in a bunch of commandos? It sure as hell beats the shit out of Korvette’s.”
Leventhal laughed. “I’m glad to see you’re in good humor, Mr. Karp. I trust you’re comfortable and if there’s anything you need—”
“How about a phone?”
The man frowned with his eyes, but kept a broad smile on his mouth. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible just yet. Perhaps later.”
As he turned to leave, Karp said, “She said you would answer questions.”
“So I will. But you are recovering from a serious injury. I don’t wish you to strain yourself.”
“You know a guy about six-two, two-forty, curly dark hair, looks like a weightlifter? Drives a blue van.”
Leventhal seemed surprised at the question. “Yes, that would be Yaacov. He works for me. Why?”
“Tell him thanks.”
“I will. You’re very observant, Mr. Karp.”
“I try to be. Where am I? Upstate? Connecticut?”
“Upstate.”
“Could you be a little less vague?”
“Not for now.”
“Do you know who tried to kill me?”
“Yes. A man named Sergio Ruiz and some of his friends.”
“Any idea why?”
“I think you should rest now, Mr. Karp.”
“Come on, Leventhal, it’ll ease my mind.”
“Please—”
“OK, OK. How about telling me why the Israeli army is interested in saving my skin.”
“Israeli army?” Leventhal’s face was a picture of surprise. He turned to the woman. “Devra, the man is hallucinating.”
“Or marines, or commandos, or whatever you are, because for damn sure you’re not a bunch of audio salesmen. And you’re not Croats, because I heard you speaking Hebrew back there in the van before I passed out. What are you, yeshiva bochers from Williamsburg? Who else talks Hebrew? OK, the only people I know who might have an interest in wasting me are Ruiz and his guys, who you say you defended me from, and some of Karavitch’s friends, of which he apparently has an unlimited supply.
Depraved Indifference Page 30