The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (11 page)

“That's what Spratt said the other day.”

“Spratt doesn't know the half of it. And without some of my connections I'm not sure I would.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning there's been some strange information management going on. Someone trying to keep too many stray pieces from adding up to anything beyond the specific charges. There are a lot of old State Department cables and CIC reports that make interesting reading. But some of it has been deemed a little too interesting.”

“CIC?” Vlado asked.

“Army Counterintelligence Corps. From the U.S. of A., which doesn't come out of this looking too good, even though most of this stuff is fifty years old.”

“What could be so embarrassing, after all that time?” Vlado asked.

“Details, mostly. And names. James Angleton for one. Dead now, but once quite a wheel at the CIA. The ultimate cold warrior. And just after the war he and plenty of others were ready to make nice with an awful lot of Nazis. Nothing new about that, but the conventional wisdom was always that we only helped a few actual war criminals escape. Klaus Barbie, one or two rocket scientists. This stuff makes you wonder. And that's before you even read about the so-called missing assets. At the worst it looks like Matek might have helped loot the State Bank of Croatia as the war was winding down. Beyond that I'd better keep my mouth shut.”

“Maybe we should get you another drink and find out more,” Pine said, seeming to regret his words the moment he spoke them.

“That's his idea of a little joke,” Ecker said to Vlado. “A drink or two always worked pretty well for him where I was concerned. In fact, maybe that's all it was.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“Pleasure meeting you,” she said, again turning abruptly toward Vlado. “I think I'll go for a refill.” She strolled away as briskly as she'd arrived.

“Sorry about that,” Pine said after an awkward pause.

“No problem.”

“Big mistake on my part.”

“She doesn't look like a big mistake.”

“Not in that way. I mean, I was kind of a jerk about the whole thing. Fortunately for both of us nobody found out.”

“These things happen.”

“Yeah. But if anybody asks . . .”

“Don't worry.”

“Thanks. Trouble is, she's very good, so I still like working with her. And she's a Balkan linguist on top of everything, so nothing gets lost in translation.” Pine scanned the room, perhaps looking for Janet. Seemingly satisfied that the coast was clear, he said, “Excuse me, but I could use something a little stiffer than wine. Interested?”

“No thanks. But please.”

Pine headed for the bar, leaving Vlado momentarily isolated in the growing sea of people, the volume of conversation rising to a roar. He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see a pale, composed face with shimmering brown eyes.

“You must be Monsieur Petric,” the man said.

“And you must be Monsieur LeBlanc.”

“So Pine has already warned you about me.”

“Afraid so.”

LeBlanc was trim and alert, eyes always moving. In conversation he was prone to making little touches here and there, the clever hands darting and quick. In manner of dress he carried off the small flourishes that only Frenchmen seem able to manage, and for the moment, even though he wore a dark suit like every other man, he somehow looked a cut above them all. His skin was of a pallor that said he wasn't outdoors much, but Vlado knew looks could be deceiving. So many of these supposed diplomatic types who'd come to his country during the war had fancied themselves men of action, and that was also the case with LeBlanc, who had been fond of following close in the wake of major offensives by both sides, driving nothing more imposing than a blue Renault while shells burst within a few hundred yards. He eschewed the field jackets favored by so many photographers and aid workers, dressing for war as if he might suddenly be invited to Paris for lunch.

“I have great respect for Monsieur Pine,” LeBlanc said. “One of the few who isn't so partisan, to risk a Yugoslav pun. And in the interest of equal treatment, I hope he at least warned you about Monsieur Harkness, of the American State Department.”

“He did.”

“So, tell me, then. How many people have you met tonight who claim to understand your country? Quite a few, I'd think. All it takes for an American is about a week and he thinks he's got the answer to six hundred years of Balkan problems.” LeBlanc heaved with a light laugh. Vlado couldn't help but join in.

“An Englishman's worse,” LeBlanc continued. “He reads a few books and thinks he has it worked out, but at least he usually has the good grace to keep it to himself. None of this hanging on your shoulder with a drink in his hand to confide his secret knowledge in your ear, waiting on your approval. Always remember, there's nothing an American craves more than approval.”

“And you say that from how much time in America?”

“Touché. But I am sorry to disappoint you. I was posted to Washington for five years in the eighties. And you'll find that need among all of them. Pine as well. Forgive an American for the sins of his country, and he'll be your friend for life. But I guess I should be glad for their usual bluster and ignorance. It's the ones like Harkness that can create difficulties. He actually knows the Balkans. Lives it and breathes it. Knowledge like his turns the comic element into something dangerous.”

“I thought you were partners on this?”

“Oh, we are. Willing partners. Perhaps I just can't help being suspicious now that we finally agree on something. But the more important question for the moment is what do you know of us? What do you know of America, for instance?”

“Music, mostly. Rock 'n' roll. We listened to all we could in high school. Led Zep, Talking Heads. And books. Hemingway, Fitzgerald.”

“And what did those songs and stories tell you about Americans?”

Vlado wondered. The songs had mostly meant a good time, offering someplace to dream about. But that seemed too shallow an answer for LeBlanc, and he realized he'd let himself be intimidated. “It told me about their generosity, I guess. And optimism.”

“When you've got that much to spread around, it's not so much generous as indiscriminate. Everyone gets a little something if you hang around Americans long enough. Just don't mistake it for trust. But enough of that. Your escort has returned. Cheers.” He tipped his glass of red wine toward Vlado's.

“Cheers.”

Pine arrived with a bourbon in hand, looking perturbed that he'd left Vlado at the mercy of Guy LeBlanc.

“Hello, Guy. Hope he hasn't been interrogating you too much, Vlado.”

“He did most of the talking, actually.”

“About what?”

“Americans.”

Pine chuckled, with LeBlanc joining in, not seeming the least embarrassed.

“It's one of his favorite subjects.”

“But the important thing, Monsieur Petric,” LeBlanc cut in, “is that soon you will be headed home at last. And no doubt a few surprises will be in store.” Pine cast LeBlanc a tight-lipped glance. “In seeing what has become of your country, I mean. A lot happens in five years.”

“Most of the damage was done by the time I left. I doubt I'll be too shocked.”

“I was referring more to the psychological sense. It is a conquered nation, Monsieur Petric, run by dollars and deutsche marks. I hope you will not be too disillusioned.”

A waiter glided up with more wine.

“Monsieur seems to have had enough already,” Pine said, not smiling. LeBlanc laughed lightly and nodded for a refill.

“Surely you aren't suggesting that a Frenchman cannot hold his wine? Don't worry, Calvin, your secrets are safe with me.”

Once again, a small alarm sounded in the back of Vlado's mind, and it was only about to get louder.

“As long as the subject is secrets,” Pine said, “what's the latest on Popovic? We haven't heard a word in weeks, and you're supposedly the man with the plan.”

Now even LeBlanc's smile faded. Vlado gripped his wineglass tightly.

“No need to worry. He is still, as you Americans like to say, our ace in the hole.”

He was in a hole, all right, Vlado thought, stifling a sudden urge to come clean.

“Just as long as you decide to play him someday,” Pine said.

LeBlanc turned toward Vlado. “It has been a pleasure, Monsieur Petric. And only the first of many meetings, I hope.”

“My pleasure as well.”

They watched him stroll away.

“Kind of a prick, isn't he?” Pine said. “But for some reason I like him anyway. Not that I'd trust him as far as you could throw him.”

“I don't think he trusts you, either.”

Pine laughed. “Which I guess you wouldn't be telling me if you didn't trust me a little. Or maybe you're just too tired to care.”

It was a curious thing to say, Vlado thought, and he tried to get a read on Pine's expression. It seemed almost wistful. Vlado sipped his drink and felt his face flush as the alcohol worked deeper into his system. He told himself to slow down. The weight of the day was settling into his legs, and there was still plenty to do, plus an early departure in the morning. In little more than twelve hours they would be landing in Sarajevo. He would be home. Home with uncertain company and a strange job to do, but home nonetheless.

“Christ,” Pine said. “Now Harkness is heading this way.”

“The one in the little bow tie?”

“Yes. Likes to think he's virtually British after all his years abroad. Says things like ‘chap' and ‘old boy.' ‘Petrol' instead of ‘gasoline.' When he's in tweeds you'd think he'd just been shooting birds on a country estate. He's no dandy, though. He'll walk right into a firefight in eight-inch boots, like the Great White Hunter on safari.”

Vlado watched the man approach. He would guess that the man was in his late forties, a little older than LeBlanc. His cheeks were red, and he tilted his nose into the air as if he were the most perspicacious of bloodhounds.

“Hello, Calvin. Good to see you, old boy.”

“Hello, Paul. Meet Vlado Petric.”

“Yes, the last honest man in the Balkans. How does it feel?”

“Like you're having a little fun with me.”

“Well parried. But merely my hyperbolic way of opening with a compliment.”

By now Vlado was feeling a burst of spark and spite, having been under inspection for nearly an hour. “At least you haven't given me the ancient-hatreds lecture about what's gone wrong in my country,” he said.

“Oh, ancient hatreds is quite passé these days, old boy. Now it's all economic opportunism and the wrath of Milosevic. We Americans like to personalize our conflicts. Makes it easier to sell them to the vox populi. Stalin. Saddam. Slobodan. They all have a certain ring to them, don't you think? And if old Slobo is ever in the dock, I'm sure we'll come up with a new one. We're gradually making the transition from Marx to Mohammad, which makes Bosnia all the more interesting, seeing as how we've thrown in our lot with the Muslims.”

He had a good laugh at himself, going red in the face, then said, “You'll have to get used to a more rustic sense of humor if you'll be hanging around Pine much. North Carolina boy. Surprised you can even understand him through the accent.”

“What Mr. Harkness is trying to say is that I'm not Ivy League. I'm public school, just not in the British sense.”

“Easy, Calvin. LeBlanc must have gotten things off on the wrong foot.”

Someone across the room began banging a fork against a glass. It was Contreras, resplendent in a dark suit with a red boutonniere, beaming at his audience.

“If our dinner guests will please begin retiring to the dining room. And may I wish the rest of you a very pleasant evening.”

The milling crowd split like an amoeba, one part shuffling toward their coats, the rest pulling slowly toward an opening of two sliding doors to another chandeliered room, longer and narrower, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking onto a garden gone dim in the night. As Vlado began scanning the table for his place card, a voice whispered into his ear from behind. It was Harkness, still hovering.

“I'd like a moment with you later, if you get a chance. It's about a mutual friend of ours.” His breath reeked of gin. “No need for Calvin to listen in, if it's all the same to you. Enjoy your dinner.”

The remarks unsettled Vlado, and it was a relief to finally tuck himself into a chair, where no one could buttonhole him for further conversation. He'd spent the past hour being reminded of what it was about his old job that he hadn't missed. The office politics and maneuvering. Trying to say the right things while pondering the deeper meaning of offhand comments. Two days ago he'd only had to worry about getting his German right while ordering a wurst and fries. Now he was answering to lawyers and diplomats. He checked his flanks—the head of operations to his right, a prosecutor he hadn't met to his left. The only person who could ambush him from the rear would be a waiter.

The meal was excellent—roast lamb with potatoes, salad, and string beans—although Vlado seemed to be the only one eating with relish. The others seemed bored with such fare, but they hadn't been living on a ditchdigger's salary. But for all the billing as a working meal, the dinner was largely ceremonial, filled more with toasts than with operational detail. The names Andric and Matek weren't mentioned once, although the subject of “the mission at hand” came up repeatedly.

Every time Vlado looked around it seemed that either LeBlanc, Harkness, or Ecker was staring toward him, although only Ecker would break into a smile when Vlado returned the gaze. Pine, Vlado noticed, seemed always to be staring toward LeBlanc, Harkness, or Ecker. A curious bunch, to say the least.

Contreras concluded his evening's duties with a ponderous speech, flowery boilerplate about the common enemies of hatred and intolerance. It was his closing line that got everyone's attention, when he remarked on “what a pleasure it was to know that the genesis of our current mission had been the diplomatic corridors of Paris and Washington.”