Killing Pilgrim (15 page)

The elevator door opened to a scene of general disorder. Boxes were stacked along a central corridor. People wandered around, some with a purposeful look, a few of the old-timers vague and lost. Most had complaint written on their faces, but when they approached Anzulović, della Torre gave a shake of the head that couldn’t be misinterpreted. The boss wasn’t to be bothered right now.

So Anzulović remained unmolested as he led della Torre to his new office, where they parted. Anzulović’s took up a corner on the same floor, opposite their communal secretary. His desk wouldn’t be moved until later in the day, but that didn’t matter. The new office had a sofa and Anzulović planned on giving it a test drive.

The first thing della Torre noticed was the rubber plant. Mostly because he nearly tripped over it. His eyes had been on the ceiling, which was about half the height of the old office and of his apartment, so that it felt like it was bearing down on him.

He should have unpacked or written up the notes from his Istria and Vukovar trips, but instead he sat by the window, one which, mercifully, he could open, even if the office was nominally air-conditioned. He’d never really warmed to the old
UDBA
offices, but they had a certain elegance. This place was functional and drab, characterless. Socialist modern. And he didn’t like the fact that once the Yugoslav jets started attacking, this would be a tempting target. A high building in an otherwise low-rise city.

He was wondering what had happened to Rebecca, when Anzulović walked in.

“It’s like there’s nobody else in military intelligence,” Anzulović said.

“What?”

“It’s you again.”

“Where is it this time?” della Torre asked, resigned to his new role as dogsbody.

“Hotel Esplanade. Tomorrow. A meeting.”

“Who with?”

“You, me, and some other people — including our new lord and master, Colonel Kakav. And Croatia’s new deputy minister of defence, announced this morning.”

“And who might that be?”

Anzulović heaved a big sigh. “Horvat.”

“Shit.”

“And do you want to know what his portfolio is?”

“No, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Procurement. And intelligence.”

“Double shit. So what the hell does he want with me? Us.”

“That we find out tomorrow,” Anzulović said. Stopping in the doorway on the way out, he added: “Oh, and just to make your day perfect, I won’t make you guess who’s joining our happy little ship here in military intelligence. I’ll tell you.” He paused theatrically, smiling with more than a drop of
schadenfreude
. “Your old friend: Julius Strumbić.”

They
walked through the morning’s rising mugginess to the Hotel Esplanade, near the main rail station, passing on the way the statue of a mounted King Tomislav, Croatia’s king when the country was first, briefly, independent. Heroic as he looked in bronze, there was a melancholy to him too. A young man, younger than della Torre, he’d disappeared into the night a thousand years ago.

The Esplanade was the city’s only truly grand hotel. It had been built between the wars, and there was a time when passengers on the Orient Express would overnight there on the way from Venice to Istanbul. It was where the gentry from Vienna based themselves when handling their affairs in the empire’s former southern provinces. For a while the Communists kept it as their hotel of choice. But ultimately it proved too redolent of Croatia’s bourgeois past for the hard-liners, so they built a soulless concrete tower farther west.

Now the Esplanade was tired, drab like much of the city, its spacious, well-proportioned main rooms let down by flaking paint and cheap fabrics in dull earth tones. And Communist-era service. But the new Croat administration favoured it, if only because they could offer its decline as evidence of the brutal lack of culture of the Serb-dominated Yugoslav Communists.

But when he passed through the main doors, the decor wasn’t what della Torre noticed. Sitting side by side in a far corner of the lobby, where they could watch all who entered, were Horvat and an old man. The old man was shrunken into himself. He was bald but for a thinning fringe of grey hair, and he wore glasses with solid square frames. Engrossed in conversation, he toyed with a wooden walking stick. Neither man seemed to see Anzulović and della Torre.

“Fuck,” said Anzulović, pulling della Torre to the side so they were out of sight.

Della Torre nodded. “Horvat. Who’s the old man with him?”

“That, my dear Gringo, is the Dispatcher.”

Della Torre felt his legs and chest grow heavy and his tongue thicken. “The Dispatcher?” Tito’s henchman, who’d come out of retirement earlier in the year to organize the Bosnian hitmen who’d made a mess of della Torre’s elbow — a reprise of his job from the old days. Tito would say what he wanted and the Dispatcher would figure out how to do it. Often it included jailing or killing people. “But I thought he was . . . I thought he’d be . . .”

“Scared to show himself? Because he’s Belgrade’s man?”

“Yes. What the hell is he doing here? What’s he doing with Horvat? Fuck, somebody’s got a rope around my neck.”

“I suppose we’ll find out. But never underestimate the Dispatcher’s power of reinvention or his ability to survive. Remember, not only did he make it back from Goli Otok alive, but Tito gave him his job back. Some snakes just won’t die.”

The old man had been suspected of spying on Tito and was packed off to Yugoslavia’s infamous penal island in the 1960s. And then when the Croatian independence movement of the 1970s threatened to destabilize the country, Tito pulled the Dispatcher out of prison to help put down the revolt. Somehow he always survived. Not least because he was good at figuring out which way the wind was going to blow. Maybe that’s what he was doing now.

Della Torre nodded. Anzulović looked worried. But they didn’t have time to fret about what they’d just seen. Colonel Kakav had tracked them down.

“No time to take in the sights,” Kakav said, waving them towards a grouping of sofas and armchairs around a low table by a plate-glass window overlooking the square. “We have people to talk to.”

Kakav wore a new double-breasted navy-blue suit. But because he was on the short side and carrying too much weight around the middle, with a neck to match, it looked borrowed. He had on a pewter-coloured tie, which he wore loose. He’d undone the top button of his shirt, an off-white Communist-era number with shiny vertical stripes woven in. Any effort at looking professional was undone by a polyester slobbishness. With an odd combination of smug self-satisfaction and nervous anticipation, he bounced on the balls of his feet as he herded the men to the chairs.

“Wait here while I tell the deputy minister that you’ve arrived,” he said, intending to exert authority but instead sounding wheedling.

Della Torre caught Anzulović’s eye. The thought passed between them: how had this man ever managed to rise above traffic warden? Then again, Kakav was utterly convinced of his own competence and abilities. So while smarter people laughed, his bosses kept giving him more responsibility, and then promoted him elsewhere when they discovered their mistake.

They didn’t wait long before Horvat strode over with Kakav in tow. The Dispatcher hadn’t accompanied them.

Anzulović and della Torre stood up in unison.

“Gentlemen.” Horvat gave della Torre half a warm smile and all but ignored Anzulović.

“Congratulations on your appointment, sir,” della Torre said. Anzulović kept his peace.

“A duty. But real congratulations are in order to you, Major.” Horvat took della Torre’s hand and gave it an effusive shake.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re mistaken. My rank’s captain,” della Torre said.

“Oh, but —” Kakav started with what he might have supposed to be an expression of munificence, arms opened out like a priest’s.

“There’s no mistake.” Horvat cut him off, smiling that half smile. “One of the first things I did this morning was promote you. Congratulations, Major della Torre. We need good senior officers in our new army. I’m never mistaken about my people.”

“Yes, congratulations, Major,” Kakav interjected, ignored by the others as if he were just another piece of social-realist sculpture.

Della Torre wasn’t sure what to say. The promotion was so unexpected and so irrelevant that all he could do was stammer a half-hearted thanks. Anzulović, whom Horvat still hadn’t acknowledged, was a major. Whatever rank della Torre was given, he knew his place relative to Anzulović. And it wasn’t that of an equal.

“Besides, we couldn’t have a junior officer carrying out a mission of the importance we’ll be handing to you,” Horvat said, his eyes flickering behind della Torre. “Ah, here he is. Our American friend, Mr. Dawes.”

Della Torre looked over his shoulder to see a tall man approaching. He was roughly della Torre’s age, maybe a year or two younger. He wore chinos and brown loafers and had on a white button-down shirt and a blue blazer with shiny brass buttons. The man was even taller than della Torre, though he was much more well padded. His shoulders were too narrow for his broad hips, making him slightly pear-shaped and giving his legs the appearance of tree trunks.

Unlike the three men from military intelligence, neither Dawes nor Horvat wore ties.

“Forgive me for being early,” Dawes said in American English, coloured by a faint Southern accent. He had a broad smile and white teeth. “One of the disadvantages of staying in the hotel where you’re holding meetings is that you haven’t got an excuse for being late.”

Horvat laughed with Dawes. Della Torre managed to smile politely. Anzulović, whose English was rudimentary, struggled. Kakav wore the rictus grin of ignorance.

“I’m afraid the lieutenant colonel doesn’t speak much English. And I don’t think Major Anzulović is very proficient either,” Horvat said.

“That’s okay, because I don’t speak much Serbo-Croat,” Dawes said.

“Croat,” Horvat corrected.

“My apologies — Croat.” Dawes smiled indulgently. “All I can say is
da
,
ne
. And
piva
. I find wherever I go that once I can order myself a beer, everything else becomes infinitely easier and more pleasurable.”

He sat down, taking over most of a sofa. The others sat too.

“We will have coffee.” Horvat looked over to reception, where a stationed waiter caught his eye and came over. Behind the waiter was a photographer wearing a pair of Japanese
SLR
s around his neck as if they were Olympic medals. Horvat made a show of surprised annoyance.

“My apologies, gentlemen,” he said in English. “Only an hour ago my appointment is made, and press have found me already. What I can say?” He shrugged elaborately. “We will do quick photograph and then they will leave us alone. No?”

Dawes looked bemused and then slightly alarmed when Horvat put his arm over the American’s shoulders as the photographer snapped away. A stunned della Torre found his way into one of the pictures. Anzulović, who’d withdrawn into a corner of the room, found it hard to hide his disgust.

“Sit, sit, please,” said Horvat, abruptly shooing the photographer away. “Some coffees, yes?” He turned to the waiter and ordered in Croat.

“I would appreciate it if you could have a word with your photographer there,” Dawes said. “I would find it most uncomfortable to find my picture in a newspaper. I told my wife I was spending the weekend golfing in Florida.”

Della Torre smiled politely as both Dawes and Horvat laughed elaborately at the weak joke.

“Of course not. Of course not,” Horvat said, putting his hand on the American’s forearm in emphasis. “Now, about coffee . . .”

“Would you mind asking if they do American-style? I find your espressos disappear too quickly,” Dawes said. He’d held his smile throughout, though his eyes suggested he’d been as amused by the photo shoot as Anzulović.

Della Torre had taken the last chair, the one with its back to the room. He offered around his Luckys, which only Dawes refused. It was hard to turn down American cigarettes.

Anzulović and Kakav sat like a pair of lemons in a fruit bowl while Horvat and Dawes talked about the weather. Della Torre watched the American. Dawes had big hands, his index finger constantly tapping out an unknown rhythm on the arm of the sofa. Smoke curled around the rest of them; Dawes didn’t seem to mind.

Della Torre didn’t contribute anything. He just sat there joining threads, spinning a story full of holes for himself. The Dispatcher knew things, knew about plenty of skeletons from the Communist times. It would make sense for Horvat to want to know him. For his part, the Dispatcher would want the world — no, della Torre — to know that he was under a powerful man’s protection. This made sense. The American? He couldn’t have looked more government if he’d been an eagle holding a clutch of arrows, right off the cover of della Torre’s secret passport. Croatia wanted American friends. Hell, everybody wanted American friends. And here was an American friend. Della Torre struggled to figure out his own part in it. Other than having grown up in Ohio, he couldn’t think of what might tie him to Mr. Dawes. Showing Americans that there were people in Zagreb who spoke their language just like they did? It seemed too far-fetched.

He was lost in thought when he suddenly noticed the silence. What conversation there was had stopped and the others were looking in his direction. Not at him, but rather somewhere over his left shoulder. He followed their gaze, turning in his chair to see a striking redhead.

Rebecca.

She stood there smiling like a diplomat at a reception. She wore a well-tailored business suit with a linen blouse cut low enough to subtly show off her breasts. Her hair was pinned back in a bun, though a few strands had come loose to frame her face. She wore a vermilion lipstick that gave her lips a seductive glow. Somehow it heightened the girlishness of the freckles across the bridge of her nose, which had been brought out by the Istrian sun.

“Rebecca,” he said, jumping to his feet, embarrassed and taken by surprise. “It’s great to see you. I thought you’d disappeared completely. I’m afraid I’m in a meeting right now. Maybe I can see you later?”

She touched her cheek to his, blowing a kiss just past his ear.

“Marko,” she said, and then walked past him to Dawes.

“Would you make the introductions, John?” she said. “I hope I’m not too late. My run was longer than I’d expected. I got a little lost.”

“Not at all,” Dawes said. “We were just discussing how the heat’s not too bad so long as it doesn’t get humid. Anyway, you know the major already. This is Deputy Defence Minister Horvat. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Kakav, and Major Anz . . .”

“Anzulović,” Anzulović said, bowing slightly to disguise the faintly amused look in his eyes.

“And this is my colleague Rebecca Vees. Now that she’s here, maybe we can start,” Dawes said.

Della Torre made an effort to keep his mouth shut so that he wouldn’t gawp like the fish he was. It was the third time she’d caught him completely off guard. Rebecca made herself comfortable on the sofa, next to Dawes. The waiter brought their coffees and a bottle of clear spirit and five shot glasses. Rebecca ordered a glass of mineral water.

“Our American friends wish for some help,” Horvat started, “and we would like to help them.” He turned to Dawes. “What you ask for, we will try to do. And if we cannot do it, we will try harder.”

“That is very kind of you, Minister,” Dawes said, smiling. “First, I’d just like to make clear that we are here informally. We don’t represent anyone. But to the extent that we have the ears of Washington, we will let people know how helpful you’ve been. And make every effort to ensure that they do something for you in return.”

Della Torre drew on his cigarette until the ash threatened to fall onto his lap, and then crushed the butt in a cut-glass ashtray. His attention was focused on Rebecca, his mind forcing together bits of two different puzzles. Nothing quite fitted, though he knew that somewhere among all the scattered pieces was the picture of a man drowning in his own ignorance. A man who looked an awful lot like della Torre.