The Heart of Hell (20 page)

“Keep talking. This is getting interesting.”

“It was Higgins who helped save the Montenegrin’s daughter. He’s the reason the Montenegrin survived.”

“And the Montenegrin then took his revenge on the Americans but let you live?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Strumbić said, lost in thought.

“Oh?”

“It explains why the Montenegrin has been so keen to do Higgins favours. I’ve come along for the ride. Their friendship has been . . . rewarding to me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“So the next question is, why are the Americans so hot to kill the Montenegrin? And us, by extension. I mean, I know what they told us: that it’s because the Montenegrin ran wetworks operations in America. I guess they don’t much like foreign assassins doing business on their patch, even if it only ever concerned Yugoslavs.”

“Some of those Yugoslavs had American citizenship.”

“You know that’s neither here nor there,” Strumbić said. “So they want to kill the foreign assassin or bring him to justice or something.”

“But you don’t believe it.”

“You know me. I’m a natural skeptic.”

Della Torre reached for the pack of cigarettes and lit one. The hinges of a shutter squeaked open on the opposite side of the alley, and Strumbić held his hand up for silence. A woman moved across the window, talking to someone else, barely audible.

“Refugees in there,” he said. “Places are either empty or stacked six to a room. Albanians as far as I can tell, but keep it down. I don’t want anyone listening.”

“Do you remember that Pilgrim file I sold you?” asked della Torre.

“How could I forget? Those fucking Bosnians made my life misery over it,” Strumbić replied.

“Well, there’s a reason they did. The file was about an assassination. By the Montenegrin.”

“In America?”

“No, in Sweden. The Olof Palme killing.”

“The Swedish prime minister Olof Palme?” Strumbić said, sitting forward, eyes wide.

“The same.”

Strumbić whistled.

“Do you remember Dragomanov, Tito’s translator?” della Torre asked.

“Of course. Right hand of God, only nobody was supposed to know.”

“Well, Dragomanov assigned the liquidation of Olof Palme to the Montenegrin. It was a solo job. No one else was to know about it. The Montenegrin did it.”

“And his reward was to take over the
UDBA
wetworks program?”

“That’s right. He did it professionally, but it was outside the
UDBA
’s purview. At least as far as the official files went. There were hints here and there about something called Pilgrim, but only random pieces of the puzzle.”

“So why did Dragomanov want Palme dead?”

“I don’t know. I just know that it had something to do with nuclear centrifuges the Swedes were making — they made some of the parts and brought in other parts from the Netherlands and Germany and then assembled the whole thing — and exporting to Yugoslavia. Those centrifuges were meant to be part of our nuclear power program. They’re used to refine uranium. But we got many more than were needed for just nuclear power. To get enough of the right grade of uranium to generate electricity, you need only a few hundred centrifuges to do the refining. But we were getting thousands.”

“And you need thousands to build a bomb, correct?”

“Yes.”

“So Yugoslavia has the bomb? But I thought we abandoned the project in the 1970s because Tito said it cost too much. Me, I think the Americans bribed us to give it up.”

“That’s the thing,” della Torre said. “We don’t have the bomb. I’m pretty sure we don’t. Those centrifuges didn’t stay in this country. They came in and then went straight back out. I don’t know where. I think Palme found out and was going to raise a stink, and that’s why he was liquidated.”

Strumbić put his hands behind his head, leaned back, and exhaled through pursed lips. “So where do the Americans fit into all this?” he said.

“I don’t know. I wish I did. But I’m certain the Pilgrim file is why the Americans are after the Montenegrin. And us.”

“And will keep after us until we’re all fixed.”

“Yes, there’s something to the Pilgrim file that they want to keep buried,” della Torre said.

“And the Americans are coming on that humanitarian flotilla making its way down from Rijeka right now.”

“They’ll get on board in Korčula, where I left them.”

“Fuck, Gringo. You do know how to ruin a perfectly sweet siege.”

They were silent for a long time.

“I did a bit of discreet research on Dragomanov when I got back to Zagreb,” della Torre said. “There’s not a huge amount of information. Most of the
UDBA
files were taken back to Belgrade, but some were duplicated, and the police had a bit on record too.”

“So what do you know?”

Della Torre took out the little black notebook he always carried in his jacket pocket. He didn’t know how many dozens, if not hundreds, he’d been through in his career, passing a few loose sheets of essential information from one to the next.

He opened the soft leatherette cover. His script was tiny and compulsively neat, usually written with a mechanical pencil. It didn’t take him long to find the right page.

“I have his address. The building is a retirement home for old Communist big shots. High security. There’s a permanent guard post at the main entrance as well as another one at the carriage entrance to the parking lot, in the middle of the block. And there are patrols around it at all times.”

“I know it,” said Strumbić. “Who needs capitalism when you can have hot-and-cold-running Communism on tap?”

“He has another place in Belgrade, where his wife lives, not far away.”

“They get on?”

“Not really. He’d always been known for womanizing, but she put up with him for the fringe benefits. He’s ill, and she visits now and again, once or twice a week. A nurse comes round every day. And he has a daily cleaner as well. The file said he used to screw her when she was younger. Now she brings his groceries, cleans and cooks for him.”

“Wasn’t there a rumour that he fucked all the Politburo’s wives and daughters? The good-looking ones, anyway.”

“None of the men dared complain, because he was Tito’s favourite. And the women queued up for it.”

“I guess looking like a movie star has its uses. Something you should know about, eh, Gringo?” Strumbić grinned.

Della Torre ignored the comment. “He had a falling-out with his sister, but a nephew visits once a week or so. Or used to, anyway.”

“Kid making sure he gets his inheritance. So why’d he stop?”

“Because he lives in Vukovar.”

“No shit.”

“Dragomanov owns the house the nephew lives in. Name’s Zidar, and the deal is like some sort of house arrest. In fact, it’s the only property he has that he does own directly. The rest is ‘rented’ from the state.”

“For the cost of a packet of cigarettes a month.”

“Yes, well,” della Torre said, shrugging. He lived in his apartment under the same generous conditions. “Nothing’s too good for the proletariat.”

Strumbić chuckled. “You make some prole, Gringo.”

“Anyway, for whatever reason, Dragomanov owns the place in Vukovar,” continued della Torre. “I dug up a little about his sister and her son, the nephew, because it seemed the best way to get something, anything, on the old man. Dragomanov doesn’t have kids, and the nephew Zidar was a favourite until he fucked up. Dragomanov had set it up so the nephew had a cushy foreign ministry job. Took a posting in Berlin but was sent home in disgrace. Must have been serious. I’ve seen how some of those so-called diplomats behave. It’d be enough to shame the Whore of Babylon.”

“Is she the one in our Iraq embassy?” Strumbić asked.

Della Torre laughed. “Anyway, he was sent back. It seemed he wanted to live in Belgrade, but the uncle shoved him off to Vukovar. He used to make the trip once a week to visit the old man, but the war intervened.”

“So he’s still in Vukovar, then?”

“Who knows? Or dead. I have an address, but there’s no getting information about anybody in Vukovar these days,” della Torre said, his voice inflected with misery.

Strumbić didn’t comment. He knew Irena a little and, like everyone else, admired her.

“The fact is, he used to visit regularly and hasn’t for a while. Which might be one way of getting to the old man,” Strumbić said.

“I guess that’s what I’ve been leading to,” della Torre said. “Learning everything there is to know about Pilgrim — that might be the only way to protect ourselves.”

“Or a faster way of getting ourselves killed.”

THE CONVOY OF
ships transporting the humanitarian mission arrived two days later, full of journalists, Croat politicians, United Nations observers, and European functionaries. They docked not long after the big guns in the hills stopped pounding Dubrovnik’s northern harbour and suburbs.

Strumbić had spent much of the intervening time settling his affairs in Dubrovnik. All along, della Torre had been assuming Strumbić would want to leave Dubrovnik with him and Miranda, ahead of the convoy. But Strumbić remained noncommittal, smiling and saying he needed to do a few things before he could think of abandoning his “bizniss,” as he called it.

Miranda seemed content to wait, to do as her clients commanded. She and Higgins disappeared for long stretches while the Canadian journalist squeezed out as many exclusive stories as he could before the competition landed.

Della Torre had also waited, though less patiently, reading, smoking the cigarettes Strumbić supplied after the ones he’d brought ran out, drinking, trying to shake off the stress of what would happen if Grimston and his people caught them.

And then Higgins had passed along information from his sources: a deal had suddenly been reached with the Yugoslav navy, and the convoy would be arriving the following morning.

So della Torre rose in the dark of the unheated hotel room, woken by Higgins and Strumbić. The men left Miranda sleeping in bed and made their way to a rare open café on the hillside above Dubrovnik’s modern port. Morning light sparkled on the distant sea where the mountains’ shadows no longer reached. The warships remained a glowering presence, but they let the convoy dock.

Della Torre was tired, thick-headed, as was inevitable after a late night with Strumbić. Strumbić had made it clear he’d worked out “something” for when the Americans arrived — something to remind them how high the stakes were. If the Americans thought their colleagues had been killed merely because they were bad at their jobs, Strumbić’s plan was going to disabuse them of that notion.

The ships had arrived with first light, a parade of them slouching into Dubrovnik’s modern port between twin lines of Yugoslav warships and the Serb gunners in the hills. A handful of people gathered on the harbourfront, curious, many still up from the night’s shelling, which had left the freshly charred wreckage of a truck at the far end of the docks. At first only a few sailors disembarked. It seemed the politicians were waiting for word to get around and the crowds to build before descending to earth. Meanwhile, supplies were unloaded. To della Torre’s eyes, the ships had come pitifully empty.

It was easy to distinguish the European observers, the humanitarians, and the journalists from the Croats on board. Della Torre saw Grimston in chinos and a blue baseball hat, and with him, two of the men who’d tried to kidnap della Torre in Zagreb — the tramp and the young lover. Them, he’d expected.

But not Anzulović.

His heart sank. But he should have known his old boss would diligently stick to his job. Whatever that was. Della Torre watched Anzulović descend the gangway, stooped, hands in pockets. He stopped on the dockside, looking around and then upwards in their direction. For a moment della Torre wondered if Anzulović had seen them. But then the older man looked away. He seemed forlorn, as if he’d expected to be welcomed, only to discover he was alone.

Grimston walked over to him. They spoke briefly and then separated. Anzulović took his bag and headed in the direction of the old town. Grimston and his men had already eased their way through the dockside crowd that finally started to gather.

Della Torre found it hard to tell how many Americans were among the arrivals, but he knew they weren’t making just a token effort. He had no doubt about their seriousness, whatever their reasons. Vengeance. Finishing a job done badly. Atonement for sending colleagues to their deaths. Or just doing what they were paid to do.

But still he marvelled at their hubris. That they could come to a city under siege to conduct their own private war. As the Americans scattered, della Torre and Strumbić also saw the sense in withdrawing from their lookout.

“You can do?” Strumbić said. “If you don’t vant, say now.”

“I’ll manage,” della Torre said.

“You?” Strumbić asked Higgins.

“You promised me a good story. I believe you.”

“Good. Is very good story,” Strumbić said. “Is time to go.”

They got into the Mercedes. Strumbić dropped off della Torre and Higgins at the hotel but didn’t get out. He had things to do elsewhere, he said.

Della Torre went up to his room. His bag was already packed, and Miranda was waiting for him.

They went down and checked out ostentatiously, saying goodbye to the staff. Della Torre signed the hotel chit, backed by his military ID. The day manager wasn’t happy about this proof of payment but accepted the arrangement. Della Torre, after all, had the backing of Dubrovnik’s authorities. And Strumbić had given the manager a generous bribe.

Della Torre and Miranda walked back along the coast road to the old town, through the gate, and into the wide, elegant Stradun. From there they made their way up the alleys to the house where Strumbić had taken della Torre the previous day.

Strumbić had given him the keys, a heavy iron one with an ornate trefoil as well as two smaller ones for the modern locks. The door opened with a sepulchral groan. They walked through the house in the gloom, Miranda trailing behind, looking curiously through the rooms, and finally reached the terrace at the top.

“And now we wait for them to find us?” Miranda said, taking a seat on one of the wrought-iron chairs.

“Yes.”

“And then?”

“Then Julius will tell us what we need to know.”

The Americans came within the hour. There was a knock on the door. Della Torre looked over the railing of the terrace and saw two of them. As he did, he was spotted by a third man farther up the alley, towards the city walls, and a fourth at the Stradun end of the alley.

The game was on, much sooner than he’d expected.

The knocking stopped. Della Torre chanced another look down and saw the men disappearing into the house. Strumbić had promised to get him and Miranda out before the Americans could get hold of them. Della Torre felt abandoned.

He looked around for something with which to bar the terrace door. The best he could do was a couple of heavy ceramic pots. He shifted them, scraping the terracotta tiles, but he knew it was no more than a token effort. Miranda watched, uneasy. They were cornered.

Della Torre cursed Strumbić under his breath. There was no other way off the terrace. To one side, the roof of the neighbouring house was a full storey lower; the one on the other side was too high to climb. The alleys were narrow, but unlike those in Korčula, they were too broad to jump.

He heard the shutters of the house opposite swing open. For a moment his hopes rose that the refugees living there might intervene. He was about to shout for help when surprise silenced him. A plank started sliding out from the open window. A thick, solid scaffolding board, like a mottled brown tongue. It wobbled dangerously as it drew close to the terrace railings.

A familiar face appeared in the window, puce with effort.

“Lend a hand. Grab the other end before it drops,” Strumbić grunted at him. Della Torre finally reacted, reaching across to grab the end of the plank and guide it until it was resting on the balcony rail.

Miranda looked at della Torre with shock, her expression asking what the hell was going on, what risk she was being asked to take. Although there was only a three-metre distance between the buildings, they were four storeys up from a hard stone pavement.

“Come on,” Strumbić called out from the open window. “Don’t fuck around now. The woman first.”

Della Torre heard the men coming up through the house and knew he had no choice but to move fast. The board was wide and solid and extended deep into the house opposite. If it had been laid across the ground he could have danced a waltz on it without worrying about falling off. But at that vertiginous height, with Dubrovnik spread below them, della Torre became dizzy even contemplating the crossing. But he did what he had to. He lifted Miranda onto the board and urged her across.

She went, crouching, clearly nervous, holding her bag out in front of her as a tightrope walker might hold a balancing pole.

Della Torre followed, stepping onto the plank from one of the flimsy wrought-iron chairs. He pitched forward, the deep defile opening directly below. The chair hit the terrace’s terracotta tiles with a clatter, and for a moment he thought he’d lost his footing. He stared down past the plank’s rough wood, expecting to see the alley’s stone steps come rocketing towards him. But his other foot swung forward and he found himself firmly planted on the board, though he could feel it strain and bow slightly under his weight. He paused, his eyes fixed on the specks of red paint that had once upon a time dribbled along the board, telling himself to follow those drips like a trail of blood.
Don’t think
, he told himself.
Just move your feet, one after the other.
He was a step or two away from the opposite side when he heard the sound of the terrace door breaking open. Arms grabbed at him, pulling him into the house.

“Come on, Gringo, help me pull this board through.” Strumbić was straining in the half-light, manhandling the ancient plank back into the house. In all, it must have been the best part of five metres long. It filled the length of the room, a bedroom with cots and mattresses stacked along the side to give them passage.

Two men stared back at them from the terrace. They were clean-shaven, their hair neat, their eyes hidden by Ray-Ban aviator glasses. Their checked cotton shirts and tan chinos told della Torre they were Americans. One pulled a radio out of a belt holster and spoke into it.

“Let’s go, Gringo,” Strumbić said, shoving him and Miranda down the winding wooden staircase through the tenement, curious faces peering out from each room.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Strumbić pulled out a roll of creased and worn banknotes and distributed some to the children who’d assembled there.

“There’s more if you go around the corner,” he told them. “There are some Americans making a movie. You can’t miss them. If you annoy them enough, they’ll give you money to piss off.”

They emerged in a side alley with a dozen or so children, who immediately ran off. They hurried down its steps, wary, watchful, quick when crossing the narrow intersections. When they reached the Stradun, Strumbić made them run across, his grip on Miranda’s wrist the whole while, pulling her along. Now and again she half tried to pull her arm away, but Strumbić was both stronger and more determined. Pigeons exploded into the air like pheasants at a shoot. Strumbić led the way into a warren of medieval canyons, some so narrow that two people could barely pass each other, and along one of the seaward alleys towards the northern walls.

Here della Torre could smell the sharp salt tang of sea, the smell of shellfish that lived and died along the rocks at the base of the citadel’s massive walls.

They came to a decrepit house that looked long abandoned or left in the care of elderly, infirm tenants. Strumbić paused and looked around, and when he was satisfied they were alone, he let go of Miranda’s wrist and unlocked the door. He ushered them in, bolting the door behind them, and only then relaxed, bent against the wall, holding his thighs and sucking in air.

“Fuck,” he said, panting, gasping his words. “They were supposed to take a couple of hours at least to track you down. They must have had somebody right on your heels. Did you see anyone?”

“No,” said della Torre, exhaling painfully with each word. “We were in such a hurry to get to the house that we didn’t think to look. But I thought the whole object was to be found.”

“Yes, but only after I’d had time to finish setting everything up. Sweet fucking Jesus. Did you chain the door when you went in?”

Della Torre shook his head.

“Well, never mind, if they had somebody who knew how to pick locks, they’d also have found somebody to break the chain,” Strumbić said.

“I told you they were serious. And good. The guy running the show, Grimston, isn’t playing around.”

“I take it this isn’t part of the plan,” Miranda said. She was less winded than the men, though there were fine beads of sweat on her brow and top lip.

“Yes, I organized things so I’d have to spit up a lung along the way,” Strumbić said, dripping irony with each exhaled breath.

“What now?” della Torre asked, trying to defuse Strumbić’s obvious anger.

“We’ll be fine here for a little while. We should be able to hold out for most of the day. They can’t get lucky twice, can they? How big a crew could they possibly have? I didn’t see anyone on our heels,” Strumbić said. “A dozen local cops would take at least a couple of hours to find this place. A bunch of foreigners who don’t know the town — well, let’s just say we can relax for now while I figure some things out.”

He led them to a gloomy little kitchen at the back of the house, barely illuminated by a narrow light well. Strumbić pulled out a chair for Miranda and with a firm hand sat her down. He pulled down three dusty glasses, filled them two-thirds full with yellow liquid from a plastic jerry can, and then topped them up with water from a second can.