The Heart of Hell (17 page)

“Did you have a sense whether there were any more men?” della Torre asked, trying to sound less abrupt and insistent than he felt.

“Ah.” She held up her hands in supplication. “I saw two. If the ships don’t come we’ll starve before the end of the winter. It’s just as well there are so few of us on the island. We have our hams and our gardens.”

She cooked them a simple stew of potatoes, beans, cabbage, and tinned tomatoes, fortified by scraps of meat from their meal the night before. They ate in the kitchen, della Torre keeping a nervous eye on the window at the back of the house for any sign of the men.

He filled the long day in the house as best he could, but as late afternoon drew on, Miranda said it was time to move. He paid their hostess from his dwindling stock of Deutschmarks. She was still weeping into her handkerchief as they left.

They went out the back door and followed a path uphill through the scrub and trees, which were still damp from the previous day’s rain. Della Torre guessed they were going to go around the village and approach the boat through the undergrowth. But the route Miranda took cut diagonally across the island. They passed another broad bay, opposite the village, this one sandy and beautiful, a magnet for day trippers from Dubrovnik during the good times.
Will they ever return?
he wondered.

Eventually they ascended the crest of a hill along a path that had sunk into the ground and was shaded by overhanging branches, to a promontory that made up the far end of the bay. There the land was wild, all scrub and trees — the air full of pine resin. They passed the ruins of a small chapel and then the overgrown foundations of another, larger building. Here the land had once been terraced, but slowly the stones were being reclaimed by the earth.

The colours of the light turned warm with the evening, and clouds had formed high above, the sinking sun making them an iridescent grey. Mackerel skies.

They came to a small clearing with what might once have been a hamlet, though only one tiny stone structure seemed in good repair. An old man sat on the doorstep, watching them come along the path.

“Good evening,” Miranda said.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice neutral.

“I’ve brought you some coffee,” she said, pulling a kilo bag of whole beans out of her holdall.

The man wore an old blue beret and a week’s worth of grey stubble. He rose slowly and nodded.

“Thank you. I’d run out. Cigarettes also getting low.”

Della Torre offered him one from his nearly full pack and the old man took the lot, drawing one out before pocketing the rest. He went inside the little hut and came back out with the cigarette lit and the coffee put away.

“Not many of us left on the island. When they come, when they bomb us, we’ll die in our houses. You can see them there.” He led della Torre and Miranda to the edge of the clearing, where between the trees they could make out another small island and Dubrovnik’s northern port and suburbs, now surprisingly close. But what caught della Torre’s eye was the warships.

“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “Any more boats and you’d have to step over them to get to Dubrovnik.”

The old man shook his head. “We thought those times had passed. You see that island there, at the mouth of the harbour,” he said, waving in the direction of the low, tree-covered emerald-green island. “That’s Daksa. They say you can see ghosts there. I don’t know; I’m so old my eyes are going. I can barely see the newspaper to read it. Doesn’t matter, there might as well be ghosts. After the war the Partizans rounded people up in Dubrovnik. Collaborators, they called them. Maybe some were. In the same way we all collaborated with the Communists after the war. You do what you do to survive. But if the Partizans didn’t like you, they’d call you a collaborator. Priests, schoolteachers, the mayor, who’d just been elected in a popular referendum. The Partizans rowed them out there in the night and killed them. No one goes to Daksa. Maybe Germans or Italians who don’t know anything, but they have to go in their own boats. Nobody would take them there. We had a couple here, offered me forty Deutschmarks to take them across. I wouldn’t. I have never set foot on that island and I’ve spent my whole life not seeing that island, but now they’re making us remember.”

They sat on a bench made from an old tree trunk split in half, sheltered from the breeze by a half-fallen dry-stone wall and lemon trees.

“After the war we just ignored Daksa. One of those bad memories. We tried to forget about it. But Daksa is always with us,” the old man said. And then, raising his hand a little, listening to the wind: “Do you hear that? Guns. Down the coast now, the other side of Dubrovnik. But they’re over here too. The shells can reach us from those mountains. Šipan has been hit, eh?”

Della Torre nodded.

“Or maybe the gunboats will use us for practice,” the old man continued. “Well, let’s taste some of that coffee of yours.” He went into the house.

“So you brought me up here to show me why we can’t make it to Dubrovnik,” della Torre said to Miranda.

“No,” she replied. “I brought you up here because this is the only way we’ll get there.”

The old man brought out three small unmatched china cups of strong black coffee. Della Torre’s cup was chipped and the crack was stained dark.

“The rain wet a lot of the wood. Might take some time to catch,” the old man said to Miranda. Something was happening here that della Torre didn’t understand.

“We need to be away as soon as the sun sets,” she replied.

The man shrugged. “God go with you.”

They left as the sun was easing its way across the Adriatic, ducking beneath the building clouds. The northeasterly wind was coming off the backbone of white mountains that rose along the mainland.

They made their way along different tracks back to the hillside where
Gypsy
lay hidden under its cover of pine trees. The harbour wall at the other side of the bay hid the Zodiac, but della Torre doubted his pursuers would have gone anywhere in the daylight. Not with the Yugoslav boats prowling.

A path led them down to the shore a little way from
Gypsy
, and della Torre had Miranda stay there in the half-light while he crept towards the boat. When he was sure it wasn’t being watched, he brought her back to the boat. They launched it into the dusk. The other side of the bay, where the harbour lay, was brushed by the last of the twilight; this side was in deeper shadow.

The northeasterly made the lee shore dangerous, but Miranda was quick to hoist the sails and pull the little boat’s nose towards the wind so that it heeled but slid along the promontory just beyond the rocks. And then they rounded the island and headed towards Dubrovnik, unseen.

On the seaward side of the island, the waves beat against the rocks. Here the cliffs offered nowhere to hide if a gunship approached. But it also made the boat impossible to spot in whatever faint light was left. The sun dipped below the clouds, flattened itself orange across the water, and then disappeared. Water slapped against the hull, and the boat bucked along easily. Soon enough they had passed the length of the little island.

There was now a smear of moonlight, but not enough to navigate by. Della Torre knew there were island rocks to negotiate before they reached the peninsula where the Austro-Hungarians had built their villas, immediately to the north of the fortress city. He was uneasy, grateful for the bulk of his life jacket, braced against what he was sure would be an inevitable collision, willing himself to be calm but gripping the gunwales hard whenever the boat skipped.

They moved in silence, the sea washing against the hull, the occasional flap of the sail as Miranda trimmed it by feel, unable to see how it shaped in the light breeze.

They saw some bright flickers on the mainland, like late-summer fireflies. Maybe a few people had their own generators. Most, though, would be using storm lanterns, candles. Higher up on the mountains were the Serb positions, pools of electric brightness. The warships had hung their navigation beacons, unworried about having to defend themselves.

Della Torre turned and caught a puzzling sight. Two fires burned on what he was sure was the hill rising above Lopud. And then he noticed that Miranda was frequently looking back to the same spot.

“Are those fires the reason we went to see the old man?”

“An old smuggler’s trick,” she replied, her voice low so that it was barely audible. “If I keep those two fires lined up, I’ll avoid the next island and the rocks.”

“For the price of a bag of coffee.”

“And your cigarettes.”

The wind was kind to them, blowing steadily. And visibility was clear, so there was no problem seeing the fires the old man kept burning.

And then, just perceptibly, della Torre sensed they’d come into the shadow of land again. The breeze shifted and Miranda had to adjust the sail trim. The air carried the smell of pines and garbage. Somewhere not far away, he could hear the slap of waves on rocks. He could swim to shore, he knew. It couldn’t be more than a couple of hundred metres. There were no strong tides, so the currents would be manageable.

But as they sailed on, della Torre wondered how they’d find their way to the fortress city’s harbour in the darkness. “How much farther, do you think?” he asked.

“Not far.”

“How will you know where to come in?”

“Every few minutes you’re going to shine a torch landward. Just for a second at a time,” she said. “It’s a risk, but there’s no other way. The harbourmaster in Dubrovnik isn’t keeping the navigation beacons lit; they present too nice a target for Serb gunners. But be careful, there’s a Yugoslav ship not far off; those are her lights.”

Della Torre ducked under the mainsail and swallowed hard at what he saw. The ship seemed to be almost on top of them.

He found a heavy torch in the cabin and switched it on, pointing the beam towards land. He wasn’t sure where to aim and went too high at first, sketching the trees, but quickly lowered, only to find a rocky shore. He turned off the torch, and after ten minutes he switched it on again, sweeping the light forward, looking for the inlet.

“Turn it off,” Miranda said with a catch in her voice. It was the first time he’d sensed that she might be frightened. Only then did he notice the low throb of an engine growing closer. But it was too late.

“Get ready to swim,” she said as a searchlight swept the water until it caught them in its beam.

A single heavy-calibre shot fired, and a loud-hailer called for them to lower their sail. Miranda did as she was told, the folds of heavy canvas spilling over them in the cabin, the boat rocking gently on the waves.

“They’ll pick us out if we jump. And shoot us,” della Torre urged. Yet in that panic-filled moment a faint memory brushed through his mind, like a handful of notes from a familiar melody. He pointed his flashlight at the warship, desperate to remember how the Montenegrin had navigated these waters safely this past summer, the night Rebecca had died.

In Morse, he spelled out A-T-H-O-S.

“What are you doing?” she said. “Stop. Don’t provoke them, please.”

There was a moment when the ship’s powerful beam stayed on him, blinding him so that when he shut his eyes, dark colours painted themselves on the insides of his eyelids.

He tried again. A-T-H-O-S.

The searchlight swung off them and dimmed. A signal light batted out Morse at him. P-O-R-T-H-O-S.

It seemed beyond belief that it was working. He almost laughed with exhilaration. And in the same instant he was struck with desperation. What came next?

“What’s the name of the musketeer?” he pleaded.

“What?” Miranda asked.

“Dumas.
The Three Musketeers.
The third one. Porthos, Athos, and . . . not d’Artagnan. The third one.”

The warship flashed P-O-R-T-H-O-S at him again.

“Aramis,” she said.

“Sweet god, that’s right,” he said, instantly signalling A-R-A-M-I-S.

The search beam switched off, and the ship turned back to its station.

Della Torre exhaled, giddy, overwhelmed. Without knowing it, he’d had a free pass into and out of Dubrovnik all along.

“What happened?” Miranda asked.

“It’s the signal smugglers use. It’s their password.”

“But how did you know?”

“I didn’t. Or I didn’t really realize . . . It’s a long story.”

He turned the torch landward again. More rocks. And then the glow of flat white stone. He raised the beam higher and higher, and still the stone shone until it seemed there was no limit to the walls. A fortress from dreams and legends.

THE MAN AT
the door was still bleary-eyed, even though it was mid-morning. He scratched his dirty-blond hair where it stood up on the side of his head. He was unshaven, with about five days’ growth of stubble. He was dressed in a T-shirt and unbuttoned trousers. He was tall and slim and big-boned, and something about him reminded della Torre of a skinny horse. Or a cowboy.

He stood there for a moment, not saying anything, though a smile was slowly working its way across his face.

“Marko della Torre,” the man said in a prairie accent that could have as easily been American or Canadian. He shook his head, clearing the fog of sleep.

“Morning. Hope I didn’t wake you,” della Torre said, standing in the hallway’s unlit gloom.

“I’m not sure that you did, because this would make a lot more sense if I were dreaming. You raise so many questions, Mr. della Torre, that I don’t even know where to begin. Come on in.”

Della Torre was alone. He and Miranda had left the boat dockside in the old walled harbour. At first the militiamen guarding the dock thought they were invading Serbs, and then they refused to believe this little sailboat had broken through the blockade. When they couldn’t think where else these two strangers had come from, they tried to arrest them for being spies. Or at the very least for breaking curfew. But when the local police sergeant was called down, bewildered and half-asleep, his initial officiousness was softened by Miranda’s smile and della Torre’s identification card, and he agreed that della Torre and Miranda could go to the Hotel Argentina under escort until their identity and story were verified.

The Argentina was south of the old town, on a low, terraced cliff above the Adriatic with a perfect view of the city walls. It was where all the foreigners stayed, and it was where della Torre knew he’d find Steve Higgins.

They saw little by the light of the militiaman’s lantern on the kilometre-long walk to the hotel. A gutted house, a wrecked car. People had stacked sandbags in front of their doors and windows. The street smelled of sewage and the raw chemical reek of burnt plastic.

They could see dwindling fires farther down the coast, where, their escort said, the fire department dared not go, because it was too close to the front lines.

When they got to the Argentina, the night clerk found them an unoccupied room, with some encouragement from the militiaman. Even so, della Torre suspected that had he arrived alone, the room might have remained unavailable. But there was something about the Englishwoman.

The clerk arranged for a change of bed linen because he didn’t know when the room had last been cleaned, and then apologized that water was at a premium and the hotel only ran the generator until nine in the evening.

The concierge, in turn, was sorry that the bar shut early, at which point the militiaman, who’d once or twice hinted at a sudden thirst, went back to his post, disappointed. There was also no room service, and guests were advised to draw their curtains at night, because the navy boats had fired on the hotel the previous week.

But the Argentina still had the feel of Dubrovnik’s best hotels. And when the night porter took them to their room, the sheets were starched and clean, the bed large and comfortable.

There was one queen-sized bed and a pair of armchairs, no sofa. Della Torre offered to sleep on the floor, but Miranda shrugged and said if he kept to his side of the bed, there was plenty of space for them both.

Della Torre had strange dreams of sleeping in a rocking chair or an ancient train, the motion of the sailboat having imprinted itself on his mind.

Sometime in the night he woke pressed up against her. They were both in that half-world between dreaming and waking, and everything that followed was agreed upon without words, like the action of waves compressed into a narrow cove. And later, as they slipped back into unconsciousness, she said, “Thank you. It’s been a while.”

In the morning, they had a breakfast of coffee and fresh rolls. Afterward, Miranda left to have a swim in the Adriatic, which was warm enough, if only just, despite the time of year, while della Torre went to look for Higgins.

“Um, the maid service is a bit hit-and-miss these days,” Higgins said vaguely, surveying the heaps of clothes on his floor and scattered notebooks, papers, camera equipment, and general detritus. “It looks like a nice morning. Why don’t we sit on the balcony?”

They made themselves comfortable on the plastic chairs. The sea sparkled below, unperturbed by the brooding presence of the Yugoslav warships. “Sorry,” he said, yawning. “It was a late night.”

“Partying?” della Torre asked.

“One way of describing it. I went up to the fort on Mount Srđ,” he said, referring to the white rock looming over Dubrovnik’s old town. “The fort’s held by a Croat platoon. Serbs and Montenegrin troops have been trying to capture it to take full control of the high ground overlooking the city. So far the defenders have been pretty hard to lever out. But you can really only get up or down at night. It’s pretty exposed. I went up two days ago for a story and just came down last night.”

“So business is good?”

“Business is great. There are only a couple of us here. Nobody can get in because of the siege and the blockade. And the American, British, Canadian, Australian, French — you name it, all the papers want stories about the attack on Dubrovnik.”

“Seems pretty quiet,” della Torre said.

“Well, there’s been some shelling in the suburbs. But you’re right, the old town hasn’t suffered much damage. Still, everyone’s horrified that such a culturally important city should be under attack.”

“Shame they haven’t had as much sympathy for Vukovar,” della Torre said.

“No. Though I’ve only got the vaguest sense of what’s happening there. We don’t get much English news here. Just the radio. Most of what I hear is from the
BBC
World Service or what my translators tell me,” Higgins said. “But enough about me. How the hell did you manage to pitch up here?”

“Sailed down last night.”

“Sailed? As in a yacht?”

“Little sailing boat.”

“You sailed in a dinghy?” Higgins grinned. “You know, sometimes it surprises me that anything about this country should surprise me.”

Della Torre lit a Lucky and offered one to Higgins.

“Better not. I’ll get used to them and then be sad when they run out.”

“I’d like to thank you for what you did. Saving the girl. You put your life at risk,” della Torre said, remembering when the Americans had tried to trap the Montenegrin by using his kidnapped daughter as bait. At clear risk to his life, Higgins had helped della Torre spirit the girl to safety, and in doing so saved not only her but her father as well. “I never got a chance to then. For a while, I thought I’d never get a chance to, ever.”

“Think nothing of it. Part of the excitement of the job,” Higgins said. “Besides, I’ve found it immensely rewarding getting to know Mr. Djilas.”

“The Montenegrin? You keep in contact with him?”

“He’s smuggled me out a couple of times so that I could get the story from the other side of the front line.”

Della Torre shook his head and smiled. He looked down at the hotel’s terraces, grass and ornamental palms at the higher levels, and below that a combination of concrete and bare rock surfaces descending step by step to the sea. “We used the Montenegrin’s password to get past the navy. It was touch and go, though. I was probably a dot and a dash from getting us sunk.”

“Us?”

Della Torre nodded with his chin down to the rocks. Higgins followed della Torre’s line of sight to the woman in a blue bikini walking up from the water, her feet leaving wet imprints on the concrete.

For a while Higgins was silent, watching her as she stopped at the showers and sprayed the salt off herself, shivering at the cold water. “Mr. della Torre, I . . .” He trailed off as Miranda began to dry herself and looked up to see the men staring at her. She waved at della Torre.

“The captain of the sailboat that got me here. I’ll introduce you later.”

“Please do that,” Higgins said. “That’s twice you’ve surprised me in the space of ten minutes. I’m not sure my heart can stand any more.”

Della Torre laughed. “I’m looking for Strumbić,” he said.

Higgins smiled and looked back down to where Miranda had been, but she was gone. “Strumbić?” he asked.

“Julius. There was an article you wrote describing somebody uncannily like Strumbić.”

“A lot of middle-aged men in this country look like Strumbić.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean his looks, though you described him to a T. I meant — how can I say this delicately? — someone who acted only as Strumbić could, taking advantage of the situation.”

“Oh, you mean the article about the profiteer. The papers loved that one.”

“Exactly what I mean. Caesar. Not a very good alias.”

“His choice. Seemed rather proud of it.” Higgins grinned.

“Where is he?”

“I’d love to help. But I have to protect my sources.”

“Tell you what,” della Torre said, lighting another cigarette. He was thirsty and in the mood for a coffee. He stood up and leaned against the balcony rail. “Why don’t you tell Julius I’m here and looking for him. Tell him that I won’t be the only person looking for him, and that the other people looking for him are neither as friendly nor as gentle as me.”

“If Julius were around, which he isn’t, he’d be sure to get that message,” Higgins said. He yawned.

“I’m keeping you from your rest. You’re tired.”

Higgins demurred, but without much conviction, walking his guest to the door. “I’m not in much today, but if you and your friend are free, I’ll be buying drinks tomorrow night,” he said, showing della Torre out.

“On expenses?”

“Naturally.”

“Then how could I say no?”

Della Torre walked the two flights up to his garret room, where he found Miranda dressing.

“Good swim?”

“Water’s surprisingly warm, though it’s cold getting out.”

“I could see your goosebumps from the balcony. A pair of them, anyway.”

“You’re being vulgar.”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a pair of Croat militiamen, rifles over their shoulders.

“Mr. della Torre, Mrs. . . .”

“Walker,” she said.

“We are under instruction to take you to the police headquarters. Please bring your documents.”

They walked back along the coast road into Dubrovnik, a little nervously because of the crackle of distant rifle fire. The big guns had gone quiet again, having played their brief orchestral part. The whole of Dubrovnik seemed surreal to della Torre, as if the siege were a theatrical production put on for tourists.

They were led along the high walkway overlooking the harbour and then across the wooden drawbridge and through the narrow southern gate. They went across the barbican, an alley-like passage between steeply sloped white walls, over another high walkway, and finally through a gate carved into the fortress’s huge stone bulk. And then they were guided along a winding alley with a high wall to one side, before they passed through another gate that opened out into the city’s main square.

Della Torre looked up and wondered what sort of bombardment would be needed to break through this bastion. And then, if the Serbs tried an assault, how many soldiers would bloody these white stones before the citadel capitulated.

The old town was crowded with people, not the tourist throngs of summer, with their expensive cameras and expansive shorts, but ordinary people sheltering under the massive high white stone walls and filling the cobbled alleys, where open shops and cafés offered a semblance of normal life.

They were led to the town hall, which was in a grand building by the Rector’s Palace, on a narrow square with a monastery at one end and a lovely baroque church at the other.

People were milling at the entrance, supplicants held back by fatigue-wearing militiamen. At the reception desk, della Torre showed his military ID and Miranda her British passport, and a policeman wrote down their details in a ledger.

The interior echoed with footsteps clattering against the terrazzo, voices pleading, admonishing, bewildered. The militiamen led the way up the grand staircase and along a tall, wide hallway. One of them knocked and opened the office door.

The secretary looked over the newcomers. She was thin, middle-aged, and della Torre guessed she must have plucked her eyebrows to achieve that particularly skeptical arch.

“Mr. della Torre and Mrs. Valker,” said one of the militiamen, mispronouncing Miranda’s name. “To see the chief. These are the people who broke the blockade last night.”

The secretary gave a thin, pinched smile. “Do you have some identification?” Della Torre passed over his military ID. The secretary seemed puzzled. “You’re Italian?”

“No, Istrian.”

“Is the lady Italian?”

“No, she’s British.”

“Why isn’t she Italian?”

“Why should she be Italian?”

“Well, the Italian name, for one thing.”

“That’s my name,” della Torre said.

“But you’re not Italian?”

“I’m not. The name is. I’m Istrian. Some of us have Italian names.”