The Heart of Hell (18 page)

“We’re always having to deal with Italians here. And other foreigners. And journalists constantly demanding to use the satellite phone. You’re not going to want to use the phone, are you?”

“Not right now,” della Torre said impatiently. “We came here because we were brought here by your officers.”

“You want to see the captain, then. He’s the director of security.”

Della Torre nodded.

“He’s not here right now,” the secretary added as an afterthought.

“How long before he is?”

“A while. This afternoon.”

“So you want us to wait here until then?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “His deputy will see you. But he’s engaged just now.”

“He’s in this office here?” della Torre said, reaching for a door handle.

“You can’t go —”

The man inside looked up. He was solid, square, and wreathed in cigarette smoke.

“Are you the director of security or his deputy?” della Torre asked.

“I’m very sorry, but you can’t barge in —” the secretary started to say.

“I’m his deputy in charge of policing. I’m afraid the director is in a meeting right now.”

“You’ll do. I’ve had a very nice chat with your secretary, but now I’d like to speak to a grown-up.”

The man grinned and stood up. “The name’s Brg. You’re not the fellow who claims to have sailed a boat through the blockade, are you?”

“I didn’t do the sailing. The lady did the sailing.” Della Torre motioned towards Miranda, who followed him in. “I sat.”

Brg scratched his head, bemused. “Well, let’s have a look at your papers.” He took Miranda’s passport and della Torre’s ID card.

“Mrs. Miranda Valker,” he said. “You speak Italian maybe?”

“I speak Serbo-Croat,” she replied, to Brg’s surprise and relief.

“It says here you have a right of annual residence, and you have renewed this right for . . . four, no, five years. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you live where?”

“In Korčula.”

“And you presumably knew about the Yugoslav naval blockade but still came with this gentleman.” And then, closely inspecting della Torre’s card: “Major della Torre.” Puzzlement creasing his brow, Brg looked up sharply at della Torre. “Major. You are in military intelligence.”

“As the card says.”

“In Zagreb?”

“Yes.”

“I believe it is very unlikely that there are two Major della Torres in military intelligence,” Brg said, sitting back in his chair and blowing out his cheeks.

“I can guarantee it.”

“Then, Major, I know why you’re here,” Brg said, shaking his head as if he’d known this day would come.

It was della Torre’s turn to be surprised, but he hid it by reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes, pulling one out, and passing the pack to Brg, who accepted it as the subject of a police interrogation might. Grateful and resigned.

“Maybe we should discuss this in private,” Brg said, smiling uneasily at Miranda.

Della Torre turned to her. “Can you do me a favour and babysit the woman out there? I’m afraid she might do herself harm with a stapler.”

“I’m sure we’ll have plenty to chat about,” Miranda replied, deadpan.

“Don’t bother,” della Torre said. “She’ll just confuse you.”

Miranda shut the door behind her.

“I apologize for our . . . secretary. She’s the boss’s . . . um . . .
friend
. Makes life interesting, because running a city under siege might otherwise be dull.” Brg motioned for della Torre to sit. “Major, before we begin, can you tell me how you really arrived? Straight up.”

“Sailed. In a little boat. From Korčula.”

There was an embarrassed pause, as if Brg knew della Torre wasn’t telling him everything but was afraid to insist.

“So, Captain,” della Torre began.

“It’s Detective,” Brg said. “Who would I call in Zagreb to confirm that you’re legit?”

“Well, I suppose Major Messar is around, though he’s a little bit hard to understand these days. Got shot in the mouth a few months back. Normally it’d be Major Anzulović, but he’s cooling his heels in Korčula right now.”

“Are you all majors in Zagreb? No minors?” Brg smiled at his own weak joke. “That’s okay. I won’t need to make the call. Anzulović is in charge of the case, isn’t he?”

Then della Torre remembered. Brg was the Dubrovnik cop who had been handling the dead Americans case.

“I’m afraid we’ve been too busy to do much detective work. We have had more pressing problems,” Brg said, trying not to sound belligerent.

“I can see,” della Torre said. He’d learned from Anzulović that the secret to successful interviews was to say as little as possible, let the subject fill the silences, and never be surprised by what came out. Act as if it was just a matter of confirming something already known.

Brg smoked down the Lucky before he finally spoke. “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to track down Julius Strumbić again.”

“Oh?”

“We think he’s still here. There are various . . . signs. But we don’t have the resources to conduct a proper search for him. Just keeping the situation stable is hard enough.”

Della Torre fixed on the word
again
, wondering what it meant, trying to formulate a question without betraying his ignorance and silencing Brg. “What happened?” he asked quietly, like a priest gently drawing out a confession.

Brg turned up his hands in embarrassed apology. “I was exhausted. We didn’t realize we’d had him the whole while. We thought the man we had in custody was some smuggler, and we kept him in a cell until we could devote some time to figuring out what he was doing. I got a call from the Italian police in Bari, asking me to come identify a corpse that washed up there. It was the American redhead. By the time I got back, it was morning and I hadn’t slept, but the prosecutors said I had to interview this smuggler or let him go. If I’d seen him before, I might have put two and two together sooner. But I finally twigged, so we put him back in his cell. I went home for a few hours’ shut-eye before getting in touch with Zagreb to tell them we had him. I figured a few hours wouldn’t make any difference.” He shrugged.

“But he got out.”

“It seems he had a key. The keys. He must have picked somebody’s pocket. Unlocked the cell and the door out of the jail wing and walked past the desk sergeant as cool as a night in November.”

“And then?”

“And then he disappeared. We looked for him. I was going to make a full report. But circumstances . . .”

Della Torre smiled with some sympathy. He thought back to when they had found the body in Italy. It coincided closely with the timing of the coded message from Mrs. Strumbić. Why hadn’t Strumbić tried to get in touch again? Maybe he had.

“And now you don’t know where he is?”

“There are reports . . .” Brg said. “He’s a smart guy. Smarter than any cop I’ve ever met.”

“He is.”

“I’ll write a report as soon as this is over,” Brg said. “When I get a couple of minutes. If I survive. I come in here to get my thoughts in order. We need to plan, and this is the only place I can get any quiet. Otherwise we’re out there.” He waved his arms towards the window. “It’s only here that I can coordinate anything. We’re so undermanned, we take the bodies we can get and try to do our best.”

“I understand,” della Torre said. “But before you write anything, get in touch with me or Major Anzulović. We’ll help.”

He passed the detective another cigarette.

“You took all those risks to find Strumbić,” Brg said, shaking his head. “I still don’t know how you managed to sail past the blockade. Few people do. Smugglers from Montenegro, mostly, who pay off the naval captains. There were rumours of one or two boats making the trip from Korčula, but I didn’t believe them. I guess they’re not just rumours.”

Della Torre stood up to go.

“You know, Strumbić isn’t all bad,” Brg said. “They say he’s a smuggler and a profiteer. But from some of the things I hear and see . . .”

“Like what?”

The detective shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing. Rumours.”

Della Torre knew he wasn’t going to get much more out of the man, but there wasn’t much more he needed. Other than to find Strumbić.

THEY PLAYED TOURIST
over the next couple of days. Though rain threatened often, there were long breaks of sunshine and warmth.

They swam in the mornings and got to know a few of the other journalists staying at the Argentina. The Serb artillery would bang on for a while in the suburbs after breakfast, and sometimes they’d hear gunfire up on the mountain overlooking the city. But apart from that and the ever-present warships and occasional low-flying jet, Dubrovnik seemed to be in a fugue state, without past or future, a purgatory of waiting.

But there were worse places to wait out a siege. The Argentina’s linen was pressed. Lunch and dinner were served on the terrace; chicken and rice seemed to feature often.

Steve Higgins missed their drinks appointment and there was no sign of Strumbić, but the hotel was stocked with plenty of English-language paperbacks to keep them occupied, left behind by generations of British and American tourists.

Della Torre kept track of the news as best as he could. A fleet of ferries and other boats was being assembled to break the blockade. Every day it was to depart and every day it was delayed. The news from Vukovar was grim. The European medical convoy had finally entered the town but got caught in crossfire on its way out. People had been injured.

Though he and Miranda slept together, the sex had the quality of sport. She kept him at a distance, divulging very little about herself. Except once.

“You were married,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Any children?”

“No. I mean, yes, one. A boy.”

“It seems strange for someone to forget they have a child,” he said with gentle humour.

“I didn’t forget. I had a boy. He died,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I understand now. I guess that’s what made you leave England.”

“No, in fact you understand wrong.”

She wouldn’t be drawn any further. Instead she asked how much longer they were going to wait.

He didn’t know what to say, so he turned his attention to the sliced ham and cheese they’d ordered with their cocktails. They were at a table on the hotel terrace, watching the sun set over the Adriatic and wash the old city in shades of pink and then deeper red, silhouetting the warships just offshore.
Et in arcadia ego.

That night, della Torre fell asleep on his back and Miranda was lying on her side, facing away from him. He woke, struggling for breath.

Half-dreaming, he thought Miranda had leaned over to kiss him, but one of his nostrils was blocked and he wasn’t getting enough air from the other one. Something was pressing hard on his face. He tried to sit up, to say something, but the hand pressed down on him. There was a nearly overpowering smell of nicotine.

A voice next to his head hissed, “Shut up, keep still, and listen.”

Della Torre wanted to say he couldn’t breathe. He reached up to push the hand away but the voice was insistent.

“For once in your life, do as you’re told, okay?”

The hand lifted and della Torre took a deep breath. “Okay.” He recognized the voice and knew it was sensible to keep still.

“She’s a dish,” Strumbić said. “You couldn’t pull the sheet down a little more? Can’t see much in the dark.”

“Julius, what the fuck?”

“Shhh, I’d rather you didn’t wake her. Get up and come out onto the balcony. We’ll have a smoke.”

Della Torre slid shut the balcony door as quietly as he could and sat on a plastic chair. The other man was only a vague form in the darkness until he lit a match. The guttering orange light momentarily carved Strumbić’s likeness from twisting shadows, and then he disappeared again behind the amber-red ember glow of tobacco.

The night air was cold and damp, and della Torre shivered in his heightened state of waking. He’d pulled on some trousers; the wool of his jersey scratched against his bare skin as his bare feet grew numb on the smooth concrete.

“Long time no see, Gringo,” Strumbić said in a hoarse smoker’s whisper.

“Julius, you could have been less dramatic,” della Torre said. “Not sure my heart could take that again.”

“Then you better stay out of the Serb gunners’ sights.”

“Dubrovnik seems . . . pretty civilized for a war zone.”

“Don’t worry, it’ll get worse. The Serbs are getting irritated at the resistance. Country boys don’t like the rich cosmopolitan folks down here.”

“Sounds like you’ve been discussing it with them.”

“I have.”

“Why do I believe you?” asked della Torre.

“Because it’s true.”

“So if you can get out and in, what are you doing here still? What’s your scam?”

“You make it sound like a bad thing,” Strumbić said. “People are worried. They’re short of water and other necessities or they want to get out. I happen to know how to help them.”

“You’re profiting from their misery.”

“Do you think they’d be better off with their pearl necklaces and diamond rings?”

“Julius, you haven’t got an ethical bone in your body.”

“Ethics? You’re talking to me about ethics? What are the ethics of bearing false witness against a dear friend who’s saved your life on at least one and possibly three occasions?”

“Look,” della Torre started, and then ran out of steam.

“Gringo, I don’t hold it against you, though you’ve complicated my life,” Strumbić said. And then, after a long drag of his cigarette: “So you sailed here?”

“I did.”

“Got past the patrol boats?”

“Eventually. You don’t sound surprised.”

“The woman’s done it twice before. Never stayed, though. Turned right around and went back. Fetched up at the end of the promontory, where the navy boats don’t dare get too close for fear of the offshore rocks. In and out. She works with a couple of old-time smugglers. They signal each other between the islands.”

“You know this?”

“You think there’s anything that happens in Dubrovnik that I don’t know about? I’ve been trying to work out how to get in touch with her. So I guess I owe you some thanks for fixing up a meeting. This is even better. Normally when you do business you don’t get to see the other side’s tits. At least, not right away.”

“You amaze me, Julius.”

“Even after all these years?”

“I suppose not.”

“That’s better,” Strumbić said. “So why are you here, other than to apologize?”

Della Torre fell silent.

“What did Brg say?” Strumbić pushed.

“You know I saw him?”

“Gringo, I know how many times you’ve taken a shit since you got here and how hard you wiped.”

“Somebody on your payroll at the town hall?”

“You might say I still have a way with the ladies.”

“No,” della Torre said. “Not the secretary?”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s an idiot.”

“Gringo, why do you only ever see the worst in people? Did Brg tell you I was in his jail for a couple of weeks and he didn’t realize it?”

“Yes,” della Torre said.

“But you’d have known anyway, since I expect my wife passed on my message.”

“Julius, I thought it meant you were safe in London. How the hell was I supposed to realize you were in Dubrovnik?”

Strumbić let out a long, exasperated sigh. “I always figured you weren’t nearly as clever as you’re made out to be. Nice to have that confirmed. Well, you found me anyway. Now what?”

“Now the Americans are coming to look for you.”

“Let them come.”

“They have some serious people, Julius, and some serious money to spend finding you. And they really want you.”

“They going to sail too? Or take a submarine? Or maybe they’ll buzz in on those little James Bond helicopters.”

“They’ll be in the flotilla that’s coming to break the blockade.”

“Well, when they get here, I’ll start to think about leaving. But right now Dubrovnik suits me. Looks like you’re not doing too badly either. Even in these hard times, the Argentina’s not cheap.”

“The company’s paying for it,” della Torre said.

Strumbić laughed and then coughed. “I know what that means. It means you sign a chit, the hotel presents it to the military, and the military says, fuck you. Bet the manager’s pissing in your soup every night. Listen, Gringo, I’d love to chat all night but I’m a busy man.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Do you seriously think I’d tell you that?”

“No.”

“Then don’t ask.”

“Julius, we need to talk. Seriously. We need to think about some things. These Americans are going to keep chasing us until they’ve got us. They’re going to hunt us to the ground.”

“So why haven’t they got you yet?” And then Strumbić answered his own question: “Because they’re using you to find me. Well, it didn’t work so well for them when they tried to use you to get the Montenegrin.”

“These people aren’t going to make the same mistakes.”

“We’ll see,” Strumbić said, rising. “We’ll continue this conversation later. But right now I have business to attend to.”

“How am I going to get in touch with you?”

“You’re not. I’ll find you.”