The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (27 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

They checked in to a small hotel with decent views and an attentive staff, which seemed to have little to do in the off-season. The bellman threw open a window to freshen the room, and Vlado took deep breaths of the briny air off the sea. His room faced the mountains, not the ocean. The manager had apologized—sea views were more popular, not to mention more expensive—but Vlado preferred it this way. Who wanted to be enticed by sparkling green water when it was still too cold for swimming? Give him the hills and the terraces, with the narrow roads disappearing into rocky folds.

He rummaged in his satchel and pulled out the old photograph, studying it again while the piping chatter of children drifted in from the streets. For what must have been the twentieth time he gazed closely at the face of his father, then at the woman's. It was clear that their relationship had been no mere fling, even if it endured for only a summer. They seemed at peace with each other in a way that Matek and his companion clearly weren't. Or perhaps Vlado was reading too much into it, a troubled son trying to make the best of things. Maybe their contentment was just weariness, resignation, a moment of repose at the end of a long and tiring day, climbing those ladders and shaking lemons from the trees.

There was a knock at his door, followed by Pine's voice. “Ready to roll?”

“Be right there.”

The regional headquarters for the
polizia di stato
was only a kilometer away, so they walked, stretching their legs after the long drive. The building was an eyesore of sharp corners and dark glass, tucked at the edges of the port. A din of clanging metal and whining forklifts drowned out the street noises as they approached. They entered to face a reception counter. Behind it, rows of desks were piled with papers. The few officers on weekend duty strolled about in two-tone blue uniforms, coffee in hand, cigarettes burning in their lips. Pine sized it up right away.

“Typical cop shop,” he said. “You sure about this?”

“Maybe we'll get an atypical cop.”

A woman up front asked them a question in Italian, but when Pine responded slowly in English she replied crisply in kind. “What is your business, gentlemen?”

“We're from the war crimes tribunal in The Hague,” Vlado said, taking the lead if only because he'd dealt with the Italian police before. “We're here as a courtesy, and to alert you to the possible presence of two suspects.”

“I have just the man for you,” she said, picking up a phone.

“Two?” Pine said under his breath.

“Think big. They'll be more impressed. And Harkness did say the cases were connected.”

“Just like he said Fordham was a lying windbag.”

“Detective Inspector Torello will see you,” she said. “Follow me.”

She led them to a nearby door, then through a maze of desks to a glassed-in office in the back, where Torello was waiting in the doorway.

He was tall and slender and wore a suit—just what they'd wanted, unless he turned out to be some sort of glorified public relations functionary—and seemed attentive and alert. The office eager beaver, Vlado thought, agreeable to overtime and weekends if that's what it took to get him out of this backwater.

“Please,” he said, handing each of them a business card. “I'm assuming you'd rather speak English, and mine is quite good, if I say so myself. Welcome to Castellammare, gentlemen. When did you arrive?”

It was a social question with a point. He wanted to know how long they'd already been prowling around on his turf.

“Just got here,” Pine said. “Drove down this morning from Rome.”

“Well, I am of course at your service, although our usual run of international cases is smugglers and refugees.”

“You could say these fellows are refugees,” Pine said. “Suspects who've recently eluded us in Bosnia, and we have reason to believe one or both might be in your neighborhood.”

Torello raised his eyebrows, then offered cigarettes from a desk drawer. Vlado took one while Pine shook his head, bracing for the inevitable onslaught of smoke. The man was handsome and wore no wedding ring. Yes, he was ambitious all right, or he'd be out on some beach with a young woman on a warm Sunday like this. Vlado looked for family pictures and found none but did notice a pressed dinner jacket, fresh from the cleaners, hanging from a hook in the corner.

Torello studied Pine's business card a moment. “So, tell me who it is you're looking for, and why you think they may have come here.”

“We can give you two possible names for one of them,” Pine said. Vlado knew he had no intention of answering Torello's latter question. “Pero Matek, aka Pero Rudec. The other fellow you may have heard of. Marko Andric, Serbian general. One of our ranking suspects. I've got particulars and a photo on each, if you've got a copy machine handy.”

“Of course. And I'll check with some of the hotels and pensions this afternoon to see if any holders of Yugoslav passports have registered recently. I'll also provide you with official letters of introduction, if you'd like. They'd be helpful if you'll be making any inquiries locally. Will you be?”

The man was good. Offering a service while poking his nose a little deeper into their business. Pine hesitated, so Vlado answered.

“We might be. What can you tell us about the local citrus growers? Their hiring practices, and any employment records they might keep?”

“Right now they're not very busy. They won't be hiring seasonal help for a few months. As for records”—he shrugged—“same as everyone else, at least in name. But with the seasonal hires you can never be sure. We find some illegals now and then. Albanians. A few Bosnians, too. You think your men might be looking for work?”

Vlado looked at Pine, unsure whether to take it further. Pine nodded. “One of them might have worked in the orchard a while back.”

“How long ago?”

“Fifty years. Maybe 1952. Or as recent as '61.”

Torello raised his eyebrows. “Right after the war, then. Well. Those were interesting times here.”

“How so?”

“In the usual way of wars, I guess. There were no jobs, really, so anyone making money was probably doing something illegal. Lots of people on the move. And the soldiers, of course. Occupation forces. Mostly Americans, who seemed to like hanging around on the beach. All this is secondhand, of course. From some of the older guys.”

“You're not from here?” Vlado asked.

“Florence. Like night and day.” That would explain why he'd want to get out of this place. “I can give you names of some of the larger growers,” he continued. “Their offices will be open tomorrow. I doubt their records will be much help, if they even have any from that far back. But it's a start.” He paused, knocking the ashes off his cigarette. “In the meantime, answer me this, please. Why would not just one but two Balkan war criminals on the run, with all of Europe to choose from, want to come to this little blight on the pretty Amalfi coast?”

“I guess we'd like to know that, too,” Pine said. “To be frank, our coming here is sort of a shot in the dark.”

Torello smiled crookedly, as if to say he could live with that lame explanation for now. “Well, if you should ever come up with a more complete answer, let me know. In the meantime, leave me the number where you're staying. I'll send over the names of those citrus growers later this afternoon, along with the letter of introduction.”

Another deft move, Vlado thought, finding out right away where he and Pine were staying. But unless some local cop got lucky turning up one of their suspects—a doubtful proposition, at best—he figured this was the last they'd see of Signor Torello.

They ate a big lunch on the way back to the hotel, deciding to enjoy the afternoon while they could. They'd been on the move almost constantly for three days now, and the meal gave them a much needed chance to unwind, even if Vlado kept expecting to see Harkness at almost any moment, grinning from the next table.

As the waiter cleared away their dishes before bringing coffee, Pine leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach, and said, “It is true what they say. The Italians know how to live. Have your big meal in the middle of the day, then sleep it off. Is that how Bosnia was before the war?”

“Except for the food and the naps.”

They laughed, enjoying the warmth and the smell of the sea, then returned to the hotel to find the information from Torello waiting as promised, copies for each tucked into their key slots.

“Efficient as a German,” Pine said. “And on a Sunday.”

“He'd very much like to know what we're really up to.”

“I got that impression. Shit. What's this?” There was a pink phone message at the bottom of Pine's pile. “ ‘Call ASAP. Urgent. Janet,' ” he read aloud. “So much for a restful afternoon. You better come up. You can listen in. It's one of those places with an extension in the bathroom.”

Janet Ecker answered in the middle of the first ring. She was at her desk on a Sunday, which was extraordinary enough. But her news was even bigger. “I've found the connection we were looking for,” she announced.

“You mean the one between—”

“No need to say the names. Between the old one and the new one.”

“You really think this kind of security is still necessary?”

“Probably pointless, especially considering what I've been up to all weekend.”

“Which is?”

“Shaking every tree in the forest to see what might drop out. I've been in touch with all my old contacts in ‘the community,' as you like to put it, so who knows how many alarms I've tripped along the way.”

“But productive?”

“Not until an hour ago. I was beginning to feel like a teacher who'd walked into a classroom to find students cheating in the middle of an exam. Everybody was silent. Even scared. And I'm talking about people who are gossips by nature. They wouldn't even return my calls, and the few who did were no help. Then I got a telegram, of all things. In cipher. A code I still understand, fortunately. Directing me to an overnight-delivery service, where a package was waiting.”

“Sent to a fake name, of course.”

“Of course. Very cloak-and-dagger. Always part of the game with this one. But apparently the word had gone out: Say nothing to me or anyone at the tribunal.”

“So what was it?”

“Copy of an old intercept, 1961, out of an NSA listening post in Zurich. Transmission from the Yugoslav Interior Ministry to Swiss banking authorities. Part of a Yugo search for looted federal assets via the State Bank of Croatia in April of '45. The meat of it was notes from a debriefing conducted by a military security officer at a coastal border post. He'd interrogated two repatriating Yugoslavs who'd come across the Adriatic. Pero Matek and Enver Petric. The officer questioned them for four hours and detained them overnight. Then he let them go. No charges. Curious, given the information they passed along.”

“Which was?”

“Tales of gold they'd seen in Rome. Cratefuls. Plus all the dirt you'd care to dish on Father Draganovic. Names of fugitive war criminals who'd been spirited away, and so on.”

“So why let them go?”

“Bribed, I'd guess. Either with money or privileged information.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Common sense, for one thing. The name of the security officer, for another. An up-and-coming army lieutenant.”

“Marko Andric,” Vlado said.

“Exactly. He was twenty-two then. Spent the next thirty years working his way up the chain of command, which by the time Srebrenica fell left him in charge of a brigade in the Drina Corps. During all that time he requested permission to travel out-of-country at least six times. To follow up on whatever tips Matek and Petric might have given him, is my guess.”

“He went to Italy?”

“We'll never know. Every request was denied. Not unusual, given his rank. They were always edgy about defectors. But he'd at least have had the clout to make sure Matek never left the country, either. Or Petric. Their names were probably on some sort of border-watch list. And when things might have started opening up in the years after Tito died, the war began, so Andric was still too busy to travel.”

“Until now, when he drops out of sight the same day as Matek,” Pine said. “After our friends Harkness and LeBlanc have arranged a joint operation to round them up.”

“So maybe we really are looking for both of them,” Vlado said.

“Then what would the so-called Popovic connection be?” Pine asked. Vlado found that he still flinched at the mention of the name. He braced for Pine to pass along news of the man's death, wondering how he'd explain it. But Ecker spoke first.

“Who knows?” she said. “Courier? Middleman? Or maybe just something out of Harkness's imagination to throw us off the trail. It seems to have worked with LeBlanc, anyway. Last I heard he was in Berlin, looking for him.”

That was bad news, Vlado thought. And yet another point on which Harkness had apparently been telling the truth. Perhaps none of his warnings were bluffs.

“Now, if we only had better leads,” Pine said.

“What
are
your leads?” Ecker asked.

“Lemon groves. That's about it. Matek and Petric may have worked in some, assuming they even lived here. All we've really got for proof is a label on the back of Vlado's photograph.”

“Well, whatever you do, move fast. The way I've stirred things up, I have a feeling it's not going to be a very pleasant Monday around here.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Vlado and Pine were silent after hanging up. Pine came around the corner of the bathroom to find Vlado still seated on the edge of the tub. “I figured there was no sense mentioning Popovic was dead,” Pine said delicately. “Not yet, anyway. There'd be too much explaining to do.”

Vlado nodded, supposing he should feel grateful. He pondered what they'd just learned. Matek would likely find it easy to blend in here, having lived in Italy before. Andric would be a fish out of water. Everything about him—the way he dressed, the way he talked, perhaps even the food he ordered—should make him stand out, and thus be easier to find. If both were truly in town to retrieve two crates of gold, they'd need help, even if they knew where to look. Help from the docks, perhaps. Or a labor pool. Torello, the local cop, might know where to ask around, but that would involve telling him more than Pine wanted.

“Truck rentals,” Vlado finally said. “That might be one place to start, if we really think one or both of them is here to haul buried treasure. Trucks and cheap labor, because it won't be a one-man job. Beyond that and the citrus groves, who knows?”

“Either way, you've got to figure it's a race. The news has been all over the papers about both of them, for anyone paying attention. Unless they've stayed in touch with each other.” He looked toward Vlado with raised eyebrows. “Partners in crime, maybe?”

“You really think Matek's the sharing type?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

Nor did Vlado believe that either Matek or Andric would necessarily pose the biggest threat. Harkness might be a third seeker of fortune in the formula, even if he was more interested in information than gold. A three-way race, then, between cutthroat competitors, each with his own brand of malice to answer for. If Vlado had his way, they'd bring Torello more fully into the picture, plus as many men as he could spare. Safety in numbers sounded like a good idea just now.

“Almost five,” Pine said. “Might as well take that rest while I can. Maybe we can grab a light dinner later.”

After their heavy lunch, Vlado didn't even want to think about food. What he needed more was a walk. Something to calm his worries. He wished he had another phone card, if only to check in briefly with Jasmina. He made a note to casually ask for a few more lire when Pine and he were out later.

“See you later, then,” he said. “I'm going to have a look around the town.”

“Tell Andric hello for me if you bump into him. Maybe he's at the hardware store, buying a shovel.”

Andric and both of the others, Vlado thought. Strange how such a big place could seem so claustrophobic.

He exited the hotel harboring visions of a long, leisurely stroll, far into the hills and orchards above the town. But the first mile and the first few hundred feet of elevation reminded him of how weary he was. Too much strain, too much moving around. He'd slept in one strange bed after another, and faced too many strong and vivid revelations, their afterimages burned into his brain like a series of lurid photos. He, too, needed to lie down, despite his earlier nap in the car.

He returned to find a message from Pine right on the pillow, like a bedtime mint. Maybe later Pine would turn back his sheets for him, he thought, mildly irritated at the intrusion.

The message was simple and direct: “Vlado, call Robert Fordham.” There was a number with a Rome area code. But his phone line was still blocked, irritating him further. No matter how much trust Vlado had earned, Pine was still being the loyal foot soldier about sticking to these silly security rules. Why, then, had Pine even bothered to leave him the message? Perhaps Fordham had called to offer another mea culpa. Or maybe he'd thought better of his confession, and wanted to recant. The whole business hit him wrong, so he strolled to Pine's door, knocking hard, even though he knew Pine was probably asleep.

“Just a minute,” a faint voice answered. Pine poked his head out, hair in all directions, eyes bloodshot. “What time is it?”

“A little after six. I just got your message, but my phone's blocked, as you know, so I need to use yours.”

“What message?”

“This one.”

Pine frowned at the white slip of paper, examining the slanted handwriting in blue ink. It was written on hotel stationery.

“I didn't write that. Probably the front desk. Either way I guess you need my phone. Mind if I listen this time?”

“As long as it doesn't get too personal.”

Vlado punched in the number, envying Pine the freedom of an open line. Perhaps he could coax a call home out of him later. A woman answered, saying something Vlado couldn't understand. Presumably it was Fordham's housekeeper, but when Vlado asked for him she rattled off something unintelligible. He tried the name he remembered.

“Maria?” he said, but that only produced another burst of babble, and when Vlado continued to flounder the woman hung up.

“That was weird,” Pine shouted from the phone in the bathroom. “Almost sounded like an office. Maybe we can get someone at the desk to do it for us. They can at least translate long enough for us to find out what's going on.”

They took the elevator, strolling up to the desk clerk.

“I need some help responding to the message you left,” Vlado said.

“And your room number, sir?”

“Three-eleven.”

The man turned, inspecting the key boxes. “I'm sorry, sir. You have no messages. Were you expecting a call?”

“No. This message.” He held out the slip of paper from his pillow. The clerk eyed it curiously, knitting his brow. Vlado began to get an odd feeling. “It was delivered to my room.”

“Not by anyone here, sir. There would have been a light flashing on your phone, and the message would be in your key box, or on the in-house voice mail. Perhaps a friend dropped by while you were out?”

Vlado and Pine exchanged worried glances.

“But it was on my pillow,” Vlado said.

“Most unusual, sir. Just a moment.” The clerk picked up a phone and made two quick calls, speaking only a few words each time, nodding briskly before hanging up.

“I'm sorry, sir, but neither the housekeeping staff nor the concierge has been in your room since you checked in. They'd be the only ones who could have delivered it. Unless you've entrusted someone with your key.”

Vlado sighed, again exchanging glances with Pine.

“What do you think?” Pine said. What he thought was that Harkness must be in town. But if he said so, he might have to explain more than he wanted about the earlier run-ins. Telling Pine about Popovic was one thing. Telling him about the threats to his family was quite another. But Pine had apparently already reached the same conclusion from some other direction.

“Sounds like spook behavior to me. Harkness or LeBlanc, trying to shake you up. Unless LeBlanc really is in Berlin.”

“Then what does the message mean?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Pine turned back to the clerk, who was watching with interest. “Could you call this number for us? We tried from my room but couldn't get past the woman who answered. Neither of us speaks Italian. But it's this fellow, Fordham, who we're trying to reach.”

“Certainly, sir. Let me see it again.”

He dialed while they waited, muttering Fordham's name, just as Vlado had done earlier. “Uno momento,” he said quickly, placing a hand over the receiver as he turned toward Vlado. “This Mr. Fordham. She wants to know if he is a patient.”

“A patient?”

“Yes. This is a hospital you've called.”

“I don't know. But he's not a doctor.”

The clerk spoke some more, nodding, then picked up a pencil, taking a few notes. After a few moments he gently replaced the receiver and turned to them with an expression of grave concern. “I'm sorry,” he said gently, “but your friend Mr. Fordham isn't taking any calls. He is in the critical-care unit just now.” He paused, as if considering whether to continue. “I'm afraid they don't expect him to survive the night.”

Vlado felt as if his stomach had dropped to his knees.

“Jesus!” Pine hissed behind him.

“Did she say why he was admitted?” Vlado said. “Was it his heart?”

“Some sort of seizure, apparently,” the clerk said. “Of unknown origin. She said his illness was not yet diagnosed.”

“That sounds like spook behavior, too,” Pine said. “Of the worst possible kind.”