Killing Pilgrim (28 page)

“I’ll try to remember that.”

• • •

Strumbić disappeared immediately after lunch to put his interesting business enterprise on ice until he could get back from Zagreb.

Della Torre was smoking on his own, drinking a Karlovačka beer, considering Rebecca, when a familiar face popped up.

“Marko.” It was the Canadian from the previous day.

“Hello . . .” della Torre said.

“Steve.”

“Steve,” he echoed, having forgotten the name.

“So you’re back.”

“For a couple of days only. How’s your hunt going?”

“Oh, it goes,” Higgins said. “I went up into the hills with my waiter friend. Scary. There are lots of militiamen around, irregular army types. It smells like they’re getting ready for something.”

“War, you mean.”

“I guess so.”

“How did you get across the border?”

“The usual. Showed my passport with a hundred-dollar bill inside.”

“They give you trouble?”

“Not too much. My waiter talked to them, told them I was a journalist and that he was a translator.”

“Did you have a visa?”

“You mean other than the one with Ben Franklin’s picture on it?” Higgins said. “Sure, but they didn’t bother to look. Just the cover of my passport and the colour of my money.”

Della Torre nodded. He was convinced that if the right people could be found and the right bribe offered, the whole war could be called off.

“You going across yourself?” Higgins asked.

“Maybe. I thought it might be pretty difficult.”

“Not if you’ve got a good guide and adequate paperwork. Dollars. Or Deutschmarks, probably. I’m not sure Canadian bills would have worked. My waiter told me that they’re mostly just a bunch of country boys. Everyone’s heavily armed, but they’re not professional border guards.”

“Which post did you go through?”

“The one near the airport.”

“Cavtat.”

“Yes, though I’m not sure I’d recommend it for most. My waiter seems to think they shoot at strangers, though they seemed to know him and his car pretty well.”

“They check his car documents?”

“I don’t think they even noticed him. Just my passport. And the cash.”

“Any other impressions?”

“My impression is that there are a lot of soldiers on that side, mostly paramilitaries, though they also seem to be mobilizing regular army in this direction. You could see some heavy artillery parked up. But it was a weird feeling. Not really threatening. But dangerous.”

“Strange. There’s nothing militarily strategic for the Serbs down here. Dubrovnik does tourists and nothing else. There aren’t any Serbs on this side either, so that’s not much of an excuse. Maybe they’re just collecting some Montenegrin and Bosnian troops with a view to advancing them north,” della Torre said, more to himself than the other man.

“Maybe. But I think I’ll stick around anyway. Like I say, it smells like there might be a story here. Besides, I feel like a holiday. It’s pretty nice here, especially now that all the tourists have been scared away. And there’s not much competition around. I’ve sold a couple of stories over the past week.”

“A couple of stories will cover your costs at the Argentina?”

Higgins shrugged. “Money isn’t everything.”

“Handy to know, thanks. You writing anything now?”

“Not yet. You know anything interesting?”

“Ever hear of a guy called Gorki?”

“Can’t say that I have.”

“You will. He’s a Serb paramilitary with a criminal record across the whole of western Europe. Last week the rumour was that he was killing civilians by the Danube, up near Belgrade on the Croat border. This week it’s said he’s here.”

“In Dubrovnik?”

“The other side. Maybe some of the people you talked to were his.”

“Gorki, you say?”

“Gorki. It’s said he has a wolf, a real wolf, not a dog that looks like one. Keeps it on a chain and takes it with him wherever he goes.”

Higgins looked skeptical. “Wolves don’t much like being on a leash. You hear of people up in northern B.C. or Alaska who try to domesticate wolf pups. They don’t tend to stick around. But I’ll keep the name in mind.”

“Anything else new?” della Torre asked.

“Oh, nothing really. Except that your friend Horvat is here,” Higgins said.

“Horvat?”

“Saw him last night, he came to the hotel for dinner. Private room. Business.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. My waiter friend said there were some discussions about imports.”

“Like?”

“Guns, among other things.”

“Guns? He’s a deputy defence minister. Of course he’s looking to import guns.”

“I know. But like I say, he’s got a reputation for being canny. Plenty of smuggling goes on up this coast. I don’t know why a defence minister would want to be smuggling guns, unless he can get them at a low price and then sell them on to the government at a higher one. But that’s just a guess. A lot of that sort of stuff seems to go on around here. Turkish, Chinese, Egyptian, Lebanese boats go up the Adriatic, stop in international waters, then a fishing boat pulls up at night. That friend of yours who looks like a cop seems to know something about it.”

“Strumbić?” Della Torre bit his tongue. He paused for a beat. “What does he know about it?”

Higgins shrugged. “Ask him . . . Anyway, a colleague in Toronto says Horvat’s got a rep.”

“Rep?”

“Reputation. Raised money from the Croatian expats in the States and Canada. The U.S. State Department doesn’t like it because there’s an unofficial embargo on selling weapons to Croatia. They figure if Croats can’t get guns, there won’t be war. So everything’s got to be black market. And Horvat seems to be good at gun smuggling. You might ask around if the price is commensurate with the quality, though.”

“How the hell do your guys in Canada know this?”

“Because he told them.”

“Horvat told them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Nope. Told a reporter in Toronto when he was there on a fundraiser recently. Off the record. Said he was done buying Bulgarian crap. Even the criminals didn’t want it anymore. And that he’s getting good Chinese Kalashnikovs and Hungarian machine guns.”

“Mr. Higgins, it has been an enormous pleasure to get to know you.”

“Marko . . .”

“Della Torre.”

“Marko della Torre, the feeling is mutual. And I hope one day it’s as rewarding for me as it seems to be for you.”

“You are an exceptionally perceptive person, Mr. Higgins. I’m sure you will always know more than us mere plodders.”

“Mr. della Torre, in my line of business you starve if you’re stupid. Actually, you don’t starve. You go home and get a job selling insurance. Even so, we hacks can only ever write a tenth of what we know.”

“And the other ninety percent?”

“We trade for food.”

“In that case, it would be my pleasure to buy you dinner sometime.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“Irena?”

“Marko, is that you?”

Della Torre was standing, staring out of the hotel window as he held the phone, surprised to hear her voice.

“You’re a hard woman to get hold of. How’s Vukovar?”

“It’s been busy.”

“Nobody seems to know you there, or if they do they never know where you are.”

“The doctors share the ambulance rotation, so I’m often out. And I hadn’t realized that this office is in the teaching wing and there’s not a lot of teaching going on.”

“Where are you living?”

“In the hospital. Honestly, it doesn’t make sense for me to spend time coming and going, so I’ve just made a little home for myself in the nurses’ dorm.”

“You’ll burn yourself out.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. Besides, I’m going to be in Zagreb for a few days next week.”

“Oh.” Della Torre felt something sink inside him. David really was coming. He’d been hoping the start of the war might have put off the British doctor.

“Look, Marko, I’m sorry. It’s not like you’ll ever stop meaning a lot to me. It’s not like I ever fell out of love with you. But you don’t want the life I do.”

“You mean operating on bullet wounds while you’re being shelled by Serb guns?”

“We’re fine. Vukovar’s fine. They’ve been shelling the villages but we’re okay.”

“He going to go out there with you?”

“I told you, he’s coming out to train some of the doctors here.”

David Cohen had pulled the bullet out of della Torre’s elbow. Maybe he should be more grateful.

“He’s going to spend his holiday operating on people?”

Irena laughed. “Funny thing is, he’s not allowed to work here. He’s restricted to lecturing.”

“You mean gunshot wounds in Croatia are different from ones in London?”

“Blame the bureaucrats.”

“He must be pretty keen to see you if he’s willing to go to a war zone.”

“He says that he might do a bit of research while he’s here.”

“I can just imagine the sort of research he’ll be doing.” Della Torre tried to say it with a certain levity, but it sounded more bitter than funny.

“Don’t be like that, Marko.”

“I might be back in Zagreb then. Maybe I’ll look you up.”

“Come for dinner.”

“Do you remember last time?” he said, hopeful of igniting some small longing in her, hoping that stumbling night of painkillers and booze and exhaustion not so many weeks before had meant something to her. Even if nothing had happened between them. Had it? He sat back on the bed.

She ignored him. “How’s Dubrovnik?”

“The way down was a bit rough.”

“I heard the traffic jams have been awful.”

“Deadly, you could say.”

“Oh?”

“Nothing. But the rest has been a holiday. It’s strange. I’ve been made almost entirely redundant. Just waiting to be told what to do.” He stared out the window, watching the black clouds build, reminded of that day he’d met Horvat in Vukovar. When the heavens opened on him. How long ago had it been? A lifetime squeezed into a couple of weeks. The rough polyester bedcover scratched the backs of his thighs.

“Isn’t that what the army’s meant to be like?”

“I suppose it is. I keep forgetting I’m back in the army,” he said.

“The boys here say it’s ninety percent boredom and irritation, and ten percent sheer, mind-freezing terror.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Well, I hope it’s all nice, sunny boredom for you.”

“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.”