The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (25 page)

“We presumed he meant Pavelic, riding around in Draganovic's car. But it meant we'd have to grab him between the car and the front gate. Violating Vatican extraterritoriality was the great taboo. So, a couple of us rushed over there knowing it would be a close shave.”

“I thought you'd been ordered off the case?”

“But no one had said what to do if he fell into our lap. So we drove over. Parked around the corner and waited on the sidewalk. Ten minutes later a black car with diplomatic tags comes cruising in. We grabbed the first two guys out. Didn't recognize either one, but we had to do something, so we said we were taking them in for questioning. But by then there was a huge commotion. A bunch of nuns had come down the steps to see what all the fuss was about. They're shouting and gossiping, lecturing us in Italian, Croatian, English. You'd have thought it was Christmas Eve in Saint Peter's, we had such a mob.

“Somewhere in the middle of all this I notice a truck pulling out from an alley just down the street. I got a glance at the driver, and I could have sworn it was Matek. Grinning. And all I could think was that we'd been had. But we took the two fellows back to Via Sicilia anyway. Checked their names against our list of suspects, and of course they weren't on it. So we apologized. And I think it might have blown over if not for the official complaint. The worst kind. An eyewitness claimed we'd violated extraterritoriality. Said we'd grabbed them inside the gates. And the complaint was filed directly to Angleton, who was going to make sure it stuck.”

“One of the nuns?”

“No. A clerk named Pero Matek. With a corroborating account from Josip Iskric.”

“But you were his meal ticket,” Pine said.

“His
expired
meal ticket. From then on I could only have been a hindrance. The next morning we were hauled in to see the ambassador. I was packing my bags by the end of the week. Transferred to Vienna, where I spent a year carrying messages between the British and the Americans, in an office where everybody knew about my great fuckup. The following year, of course, Ante Pavelic caught a freighter to Argentina.”

“Great.”

“Yes. Perfect. So at the end of my hitch I went back to Harvard. Got my degree and put in for the foreign service. Passed the exam but never got a posting. Failed the security clearance. Thanks to my good friends back in Rome.”

He paused, looking off into space, then resumed in a quieter tone. “Years later I ran into Fiorello in Boston. Ancient by then. Cataracts and hypertension. Died the following spring, so I guess he was wanting to square accounts. He told me a story that made the rounds after I'd shipped out. Around the time of the break-in, Draganovic had apparently gotten skittish about his crates of gold, the stuff they'd looted from Zagreb. Decided that the office wasn't safe enough, so he'd moved them to his place at Borgo Santo Spirito, where we'd made our famous ‘arrest.' But both crates were stolen. Two nameless conspirators who vanished into the mist, destination unknown.”

“Matek and Iskric.”

“That was my guess. Since then I've always wondered if all we were doing that day outside the gates was providing a noisy diversion for a heist. Fiorello said no one came out of the affair very happy, including Angleton's people. They were kind of uneasy for a while, as if more than just gold had been lost.”

“Stolen information?” Vlado said.

“Maybe. The best way to hurt an Angleton is to steal his secrets. And talk about a long half-life. That stuff would still be radioactive.”

“So no one ever saw them again?” Vlado asked. “Matek or my father?”

“Not a trace. But I did hear something right before I left for Vienna. The Croatians had reported a stolen truck, and the morning before I caught my train they found it. Empty, of course, and out of gas. On the side of the road, just outside Naples.”

Vlado thought of the photo of his father and the unknown woman, standing in the citrus grove along with Matek, near the town he'd never heard of.

“Calvin, where's your map of Italy?” he said. He pulled the photo from his satchel as Pine shuffled through a briefcase. They awkwardly unfolded the map, shoving plates aside with a clanking of china and silver. Vlado checked the name of the town stamped on the back of the photo. “Near Naples, you said?”

Fordham nodded, smiling now, as if suddenly caught up in the spirit of their chase.

“Yes. Practically at the foot of Mount Vesuvius.”

“Castellammare di Stabia,” Vlado said, thumping a finger in triumph against a spot on the map. “Right across the bay from Naples. Just around the bend from Vesuvius.”

Pine broke into a smile, then looked across the table at Vlado. “I'd guess,” he said, “that we'll be staying at least another day in Italy.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Vlado was awakened the next morning by the sound of voices, a conversation drifting just beyond reach. The sensation was so vivid that he groggily got out of bed to open the door, half expecting to find a pair of young men dressed in 1940s garb, paused in the middle of a discussion. But the hotel hallway was empty, every doorway silent.

It was barely light, not even seven on his last morning in Rome— his first and only one, as well, he reminded himself. Time to get moving, if he was ever to catch up to the wandering spirit of his father. Lead me to Matek, he thought. Show me the way to your old enemy.

Coming more fully awake, he splashed his face at the bathroom sink, realizing that the voices he'd heard were the last snatches of conversation from a waking dream—the young Fordham and the young Enver Petric, squared off in his father's shabby room somewhere across the city. For a fleeting moment, as he inspected his dripping face in the mirror, he was oddly certain that if he were to climb to the hotel rooftop, he'd be able to pinpoint exactly where the conversation had taken place. It would stand out like a tiny beacon on the horizon, shining among the TV antennae in the blushing haze.

But Vlado had another destination in mind, a final stop before he and Pine journeyed south. He threw on his clothes, went downstairs, and headed into the street. He craved coffee but didn't want to waste time in the hotel. The strange weather was holding, so the morning chill was bearable, and within a few blocks his stride loosened. He unbuttoned his overcoat, taking in the smells of baking bread and brewing coffee. The Romans were throwing open their shutters to the morning, heeding the Sunday call of ringing church bells.

A few blocks later he crossed the Tiber, gazing down at the greenish-brown water flecked with trash. The same current had scoured centuries of empire and conquest, outlasting all the barbarians and fascists and occupying armies. His father had taken just such a walk, perhaps, on just such a morning, a devout young Catholic on his way to mass. Yet he'd been willing to forsake name and religion to return home. Why, then, had he remained in Italy for fifteen years? And what had finally driven him back across the border?

It took ten minutes to reach the periphery of Saint Peter's Square, where the cathedral's huge dome filled the sky. Cutting left up an alley, he reached a narrow cobbled lane, which he knew from his map would be Borgo Santo Spirito. Checking the house numbers, he made his way to number 21, at the end of the block, only a stone's throw from the colonnade around the massive empty square. The building was still a convent, five stories of beige stucco and arched windows, just as Fordham had described it. This was where Draganovic had lived, but more important, where Matek and his father had last been seen, presumably while making their boldest move, escaping Rome with a truckload of someone else's war booty.

Out front someone had just hosed down the brick sidewalk. An iron gate beneath a stone archway led up a long flight of marble steps to the entrance. There was a small plaque on the front wall: ZONA EXTRATERRITORIALE VATICANO. Even now, you couldn't make an arrest here, and Vlado smiled at the thought of the young Fordham standing at this very spot, cursing his luck. But the building itself was a disappointment. Somehow he'd hoped—irrationally, he knew—that it might offer some sign, or message. But the plaster walls were mute, the windows staring blankly. The same was true for the alley just down the lane, where Fordham must have spotted Matek's grinning face in the window of the departing truck. There were no portals into the past here. Nothing but the rainwater smell of the rinsed cobbles, the lonely whine of a Vespa from the next street over. His excitement from earlier that morning drained away. What could he have been thinking? The key to everything was not so much in the past, he realized, as in those who had survived it, then twisted history to their devices. Look forward, not backward, he told himself, unless you wish to be blindsided.

Vlado solemnly began walking back toward the hotel. By now, a dull ache in his forehead was fairly screaming for caffeine, so he stopped at a bakery that was just opening for the day. He ordered a roll and an espresso, waiting at a small table out front. Stirring in a lump of sugar, he sipped from the tiny cup, strangely deflated, watching an aging priest in a black frock beetle his way toward Saint Peter's. Then a voice came at him from behind, strong and clear and very American.

“It's really a mistake, you know, going to all these old places. Your father's world is gone, and so is he. Let it rest.”

It was Harkness.

He'd pulled up a chair and was leaning forward, the big pink face only a foot from Vlado's. Still looking every bit the country gentleman, he was decked out neatly in a sport coat and pressed slacks, looking as if he'd already shaved, showered, and read the Sunday papers. Harkness was still two steps ahead of them, Vlado realized, right where he must have been all along.

“I only say this for your own good, of course.” The man was smiling now.

“Of course,” Vlado said, too shocked to say much else. “So why are you following me?”

Harkness ignored the question. “A word of advice, if you care to listen. Not that anyone has so far. None of this will help you find Matek. It might lead you in the right direction awhile. But in the end he'll outsmart you or kill you. Or just when you're ready to make your move, the tribunal will yank back on your leash. Pine's bosses don't operate in a vacuum, you know, and soon enough they'll realize the two of you, as well as your little friend Janet Ecker, have wandered into places that have nothing to do with tribunal business and everything to do with mine.”

The name Colleton formed on Vlado's lips, but he resisted the temptation to speak it. “So you don't want Matek caught?” he asked instead.

Harkness shook his head. “To the contrary. There's nothing I'd like better. You seem to forget that it was my idea to arrest him.”

“Then what does it matter if we pursue him?”

“Let's just say that things got complicated once he headed for the hills. And it hardly helped when Branko Popovic dropped out of the picture. For good, I'm now told. Meaning that you, in particular, owe me one. Meaning that it would be a very bad idea mentioning any of this conversation to Calvin Pine.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Besides, you should be home with that family of yours, making sure the police don't get too nosy. LeBlanc's there already, you know. Poking around in Berlin.”

Vlado had heard enough. He reached for the bill, but Harkness was quicker.

“Allow me,” he said, laughing when Vlado tried to snatch it back. “I don't think Jasmina wants you blowing your paycheck in overpriced tourist cafés.” Vlado flinched at the mention of his wife's name. “Which reminds me. He's been calling her again, you know. Our friend Haris? Berlin can be so lonely this time of year. Who knows, maybe he'll make it back there before you do. Unless someone else beats you both to the punch—Branko Popovic didn't operate in a vacuum, either, Vlado. Had plenty of friends. You really ought to call home more often, you know. And, please, let's not bump into each other again. The next time it won't be so pleasant.
Ciao.
”

Harkness turned sharply on his heels toward Saint Peter's, disappearing beneath the shadows of the colonnade without once looking back. Vlado was left standing by his table, where his roll lay uneaten on the plate. Stomach knotted, he walked slowly at first, then quickened his pace, and before he knew it he was running full tilt for the hotel, sweat beading on his forehead.

After a few blocks he stopped in confusion. What good would it do, hurrying back, when his phone line would be blocked, as it had been everywhere else? He pulled out his wallet, shuffling through the small stack of lire. There was just enough, only because Harkness had picked up the tab. He stopped in a small
tabacchi
shop where the proprietor was just rolling open the metal grille and bought a ten-thousand-lira phone card, hoping it would give him enough minutes to Berlin.

Jasmina picked up on the first ring, sounding sleepy and warm, speaking from their bed.

“Hello. Sorry to wake you, but I've got to hurry. There are only a few minutes on the card.”

“Vlado? Finally.” She sounded relieved. “It's so good to hear from you.”

“I'm sorry I haven't been able to call.”

“A secretary told me you weren't allowed. She said it might be a week or more, so this is a nice surprise. You're in Sarajevo?” She didn't sound alarmed, which was something, he supposed. Perhaps Harkness had been bluffing. If so, it had worked.

“I'm in Rome. Since yesterday.”

“And you went without me? I'm insanely jealous.” She laughed, but he thought he detected a nervous edge. Was she alone? Of course she was. Don't be a fool for the man's bluster. “Sonja will be jealous, too. I'd put her on if she was up.”

Vlado checked the digital display on the phone. The card was draining alarmingly fast. He was already down to six thousand lire.

“No. Let her sleep.” Vlado already felt guilty for doubting Jasmina. It was Harkness who'd been lying. “We're driving south today, leaving in an hour. I just wanted to make sure everything there was okay.”

She must have detected the tension in his voice because her tone changed as well. “She really misses you, Vlado. And so do I. It's too much like during the war.”

“I'm sorry. And I'm glad. It's good to be missed.”

The meter had dropped to four thousand. He had to find some way of warning her, quickly, without either alarming her or having to explain too much. But she preempted him. “Vlado, a strange thing happened yesterday. It upset me.”

“Yes?”

“You remember . . . Haris?”

“Yes. Go on.”

“He telephoned. From Sarajevo. When I first heard the static I thought it was you. He had a message for you. It was you he wanted to speak with, in fact. But he seemed to know you were out of the country.”

The coffee was burning a hole in Vlado's empty stomach. The meter was down to three thousand. He thought of Harkness, smiling, somewhere out on the streets of Rome, leisurely awaiting his next move.

“What was the message?”

“He said they'd come looking for him, and he wanted to know if you were the reason. I asked what he meant, but he said you'd know, and that he had to go. He sounded scared. Maybe for both of you. But it all happened so fast, then he hung up.”

So. It hadn't all been a bluff. Maybe none of it.

“What did he mean, ‘they'? Who's looking for him?”

“He didn't say. I thought you'd know. I couldn't sleep after he called. What haven't you told me, Vlado? What should Sonja and I do?”

Two thousand lire.

“Stay at home from work a few days. Keep Sonja with you. There's more we need to talk about, but there isn't time now. I've kept too many secrets from you. I'm too much my father's son. I'm sorry, I know I'm not making sense. Go to the Vrancics' down the hall if you think you need help. Go to the police if you have to. But try not to worry. Everything should be okay.”

“Vlado, are you in trouble?”

One thousand lire.

“I might be. I don't know. But I should be finished here in a few days. I'll be home as quick as I can. I have to go, the phone card's running out.”

“I love you. Good-bye.”

The connection went dead before he could answer.

“Goddamn it!”

His shout drew the disapproving stare of a passing nun as he slammed down the receiver. Here he was, in a city where cell phones bleated from every pocket, and he couldn't even arrange a decent call home. He cursed Pine, the tribunal, the city of Rome. Then he cursed Harkness, but the thought of the man's face dimmed his anger with apprehension. His first impulse was to try to catch the next plane to Berlin. The hell with everyone else.

But that was exactly what Harkness wanted. And no matter how ruthless the man might be, Vlado doubted he was the sloppy type. His threats had hit home, but Vlado's gut feeling was that he'd exaggerated to make a point. Perhaps he'd even found Haris, and had put him up to making the call. How else would he have discovered by now that Popovic was dead? Did Popovic still have goons out there? Probably. But they'd be fighting over the leftovers, more dangerous to one another than to him or his family. Or so he hoped. What had Harkness called it, during the meeting in Sarajevo? “Whistling past the graveyard.” Another American idiom that seemed all too apt.

He felt a keen sense of urgency, as if the meter on the phone was still clicking downward. He'd have to be more careful than ever, and faster, more efficient. If they didn't find Matek within the next day or so, they might never, and all remaining secrets would stay buried.

Reaching the hotel room, he found that Pine had slid a note under the door.

“Vlado,” it read. “I'm picking up the rental car. Back by 9. Calvin.”

Just as well. On the walk back he'd come up with an idea, and this might give him time to carry it out. If his father and Matek had indeed robbed Draganovic, he'd realized, they wouldn't have relied on fake identities from San Girolamo to help them make their way south. And if their booty included some of Angleton's most embarrassing secrets, then they wouldn't have wanted to use the identities furnished by the Americans, either. The case file had told him of only one other reliable source for bogus identity in those days, and that was the Red Cross. For once, he had an inside source. He pulled Amira's calling card from his satchel. Now if he only had a phone.

He checked the line, just in case, but it was blocked. Ducking into the hall, he saw a maid emerging from a room along the corridor. The door was open. Gently shutting his own door, he stepped toward the linen cart, where the maid was collecting a stack of fresh towels.