The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (28 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A wave of cold gray air rolled in overnight from the Bay of Naples. The false spring fled, and with it the sharp golden light that had scrubbed the town of its age and heaviness. The ocean had turned dark and choppy. The hills above the town had seemingly vanished, cloaked now by the drooping clouds. It was the sort of dreary winter morning, in other words, that made it difficult just to get out of bed.

Yet, even as Vlado and Pine were meeting for an early breakfast, Pero Matek was arriving refreshed and renewed, undaunted by the misty chill, at the entrance of the designated lookout post he'd scouted out the previous afternoon.

It was perfectly located, just across the street from a huge stone arch that would be the focus of his vigil. And because the chosen vantage point was a small and pleasant café, he wouldn't have to pass the time without warmth or sustenance. He sipped his first cup of coffee while scanning the surroundings. Besides the commanding view, the café also met his other needs—a rear exit, should he need one; suitably dim lighting, accentuated this morning by the prevailing gloom; and a calm and agreeable waitress, the sort who probably wouldn't mind letting an old man monopolize a single table as long as he tipped regularly and well, or even if he flirted just a bit.

The day before Matek had done a little shopping, buying some decent clothes, something more like what the locals wore. No more peasant garb; that look was gone forever. He felt a little embarrassed by the silly hat and these bulky sunglasses, especially on such a cloudy day. But cover was cover, and who knew whether the local police had been alerted, or perhaps even offered a photo.

Opening a newspaper, even as he glanced above the pages toward the massive arch, he fleetingly wondered what poor Azudin must be doing just now, the boy probably still in a panic after one of the mines had actually blown up as planned. At least he'd dutifully carried out his last orders. Although that would be the end of Azudin's career, of course. Just as well. The boy never could have stood up to all those country roughnecks. Now even the timid authorities of the Travnik municipality would probably feel emboldened to begin dismantling Matek's sprawling operation—after parceling out a percentage to their superiors, of course. He sighed. It had all been built with such patience and skill. Ah, well. Never too late to build something new, although this time his fortune would arrive ready-made.

He checked the time with the waitress, but only for the sake of precision, of keeping his bearings. It was far too soon to make any moves. He was here merely to watch and pass the time, playing out the idle hours and gathering information, while making sure no one beat him to the punch. Further action now might attract the attention of his competition. Best to let someone else move first. Then he would tend to the business of clearing the field for his final play.

His only other duty this morning was to recruit a young confederate, some lad with little to do and no schooling on his mind, and it wasn't long before he spotted a likely candidate lingering outside.

“Boy,” he hissed, feeling proud that his accent had nearly returned to normal. “I've got something for a lad like you who might be willing to show a little initiative.”

The child was probably around twelve. Old enough for the necessary stamina but probably still young enough to fear a tone of authority. He was wide-eyed, skinny, a little wary, too. Just the sort who'd appreciate an easy way to make a few thousand lire with a minimum of labor.

“How would you like to do a favor for me and make some money?” The boy backed away from the table just a shade. “Nothing to do with me, mind you.” No sense having the boy think he was some sort of old fairy. “I just need someone to help me watch that old stone gate over there. The arch across the street. Sì? ”

He held forward two 10,000-lira notes. More money than the boy would probably see for a month. The eyes lit up. Perfect.

“Sì,” the boy said eagerly.

“There's a man I'm waiting for,” Matek said, lowering his voice so the boy would lean closer. “A man who will be going through that entrance, then leaving through it once he's done his business. You won't need to recognize him, because I'll be watching for him. But it might be hours before he comes. He might not come at all. But if he does, and when he exits, I'd like you to follow him. I'm old and can't do it myself, so I need a set of fresh legs like your own. He'll be from out of town, so he'll be going back to some pension or hotel. I just need to know which one, and which room. It would mean a lot to me.” Matek unfolded five more 10,000-lira notes, holding on to them this time. “And these would be yours if you can find that out. Can you do that? Do you have the day to spend for a nice wage like this?”

The boy nodded solemnly, as if too stunned by his good turn of fortune to speak.

“Good,” Matek said, smiling warmly. “That's very good. So when any man passes through that arch, you look my way. And when it's finally the right one, I'll nod and raise this newspaper in the air. Like this. You see?”

The boy nodded gravely once again.

“Very good then. And remember, this could take hours, even all day. You're okay with that, right?”

“Sì,” the boy said, regaining his voice. And without further prompting he left the café, taking up a station just across the street in a Plexiglas bus shelter that would protect him from the rain and mist yet allow a full view in both directions. He took out his new money from time to time, scrutinizing it as if fearful it might have vanished, or transmuted to mere paper. But after a while he seemed convinced that there was nothing illusory about the day's windfall, and he settled down stoically to await the call to action.

Satisfied that he had chosen well, Matek settled back into his chair and resumed the guise of studying his newspaper, even reading a line or two. He might as well find some way to pass the time. But if there was one thing that an old man knew, it was patience. And after fifty-two years of waiting, what did one more day matter?

By early afternoon, Matek had removed his sunglasses, deciding that on a cloudy day they attracted more attention than they deflected. The ridiculous hat remained in place, if only because it seemed perfectly in keeping with what his local contemporaries wore. He had read six different newspapers cover to cover, and his young confederate across the way had seemed in danger of nodding off several times already. Matek was bored with his table, bored with the view, bored with the tired old arch that stared back at him with nothing but grayness. He was bored as well with the seemingly endless clatter issuing from the café's kitchen. But his waitress, though not as attractive as he would have liked, had been tolerant and polite. Only an older man would have been allowed to get away with this sort of camping out, he reflected, while ordering only a few coffees, a light lunch, and a bottle of mineral water. Or maybe it was his generous tips that had done the trick.

From time to time he had experienced fleeting bouts of panic. Perhaps he'd arrived too late. Maybe his quarry had come and gone. Or worse, perhaps the items he'd come for were gone altogether. Discovered and looted years ago, merely by chance. He'd certainly heard of worse luck. But such moments passed quickly. He'd planned too well and for too long to be upstaged even by ill fortune.

Then, looking up once again from his paper, as he weighed whether he could stomach yet another cup of coffee, he saw a face that banished all thoughts of failure. The man was across the street, walking slowly, headed straight for the arch. He, too, wore a hat, although his had not been as wisely chosen—no one in this town would be caught dead in it. In fact, to Matek's eye the man's entire appearance, from his clothes to his movements, screamed Balkan with a capital
B,
even if he doubted anyone from around here had a similarly discerning eye.

The boy, fortunately, was paying attention, and sprang to his feet the moment Matek gave the sign, nodding and raising the rolled-up paper as if preparing to scold a dog.

The man paused for a moment, then passed beneath the arch. He had gone gray at the temples, gray all over, in fact, and he seemed rounder toward the middle. Matek had seen enough newspaper photos to know what changes to expect. And the eyes, he knew, would be the same—the cool blue-gray that, so many years ago, had alerted him to the likelihood that this fellow was a hard bargainer, but a bargainer nonetheless.

But wait, Matek thought, setting down his paper, leaning forward across the table. Who was that lagging in the man's wake, floating to the rear as if on a long leash, if only the first man had the gumption to realize it? That was one of the pitfalls of being a general, Matek supposed. You grew accustomed to having others watch your back. Because it was clear this second fellow was paying attention, using too many of the old tricks to be anything other than a shadow, a man on the make, now pausing to light a cigarette, then simply waiting, just like the boy, with his eyes on the arch.

Or might it only be his imagination, because now the man was departing, well before his quarry had emerged. He was even heading in this direction, glancing toward the café, stopping outside at the rack of newspapers, and for the briefest moment he seemed to glance toward Matek, who retreated behind his paper, peeping above the edges to see that the man was again simply gazing at the newsstand, scanning the headlines. Was he local? Perhaps. Or British. That would be the better guess. Then the figure turned and headed back the way he had come, stopping occasionally to glance in a shop window, but inexorably heading out of sight.

A false alarm, it seemed, but one Matek could have done without.

It was another fifteen minutes before the first man emerged back through the arch, and the boy was off on his pursuit like a cat, as if he'd been born to the job. Matek smiled, briefly even considering a tip once the boy returned with the information.

But, no, he concluded. A bargain was a bargain. Besides, he'd soon have more pressing business to attend to.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Vlado Petric and Calvin Pine worked fast on Monday, just as they'd hoped, but their labors produced little more than sore feet and empty stomachs. They hired an interpreter and roamed the suddenly chilly town from its docks to its foggy hillsides, checking pensions and truck-rental agencies, citrus growers and labor pools. But none of it turned up any sign of Matek or Andric, or even anyone with a Balkan name or connection.

Their visit to one of the lemon growers was typical—half an hour of waiting to see the boss, even though this was the slow season, a time for pruning and bookkeeping. At the first mention of employment records the man gave them a wary sidelong glance, as if sniffing a sting operation by labor regulators. He went so far as to hint at a possible bribe before being convinced they were truly who they said they were. At which point he lost interest altogether, assuring them that in the years following the war, workers had come and gone like fruit flies, too numerous and insignificant to count, much less keep any record of their names and wages. Payroll taxes? Those were for chumps, for men of little influence and less intelligence. Don't trouble me again, gentlemen, unless you have something serious to discuss.

“He reminded me of some of my father's clients back home,” Pine remarked. “That's probably how he still thinks of his employees, as fruit flies.”

But it was the perfect sort of supervisory attitude, Vlado figured, if you were a worker trying not to be noticed or traced. With employers like that, this would have been an easy place to lie low in the chaotic years following the war.

They returned to the hotel at dusk. Vlado was heading toward the elevator with his key when Pine groaned from behind him at the front desk. Vlado turned to see him holding another phone message.

“Janet again?”

“Worse. Here.”

It was a fax on tribunal letterhead, and the message was as terse as a telegram.

Contact Chief Prosecutor Contreras at once at the following number. Make no further contacts, repeat, NONE, by phone, interview or otherwise with regard to this case. Return passage booked. Details to follow. Spratt.

Vlado checked the timeline across the top. The fax had arrived two hours ago.

“Then there's this one,” Pine said, holding aloft a second sheet.

“Came in a few minutes ago. Our itinerary. Ten a.m. flight out of Rome, meaning we'll have to leave around five in the morning if we're going to make it.”

“They're recalling us?”

“Sure looks that way. Let's hope it's either the result of a hot tip or a change in strategy. Care to listen in?”

Vlado felt suddenly panic-stricken. To come all this way and feel they were so close to a breakthrough, only to be recalled, or perhaps redeployed, although his better judgment told him the former was likelier. For the moment his only solace was imagining Spratt's reaction, his ears spouting steam like those of a cartoon character.

“C'mon,” Pine said. “Let's get it over with.”

Vlado took up his appointed listening post on the edge of the tub. The only noise was the slow drip of the bathroom sink. A secretary answered and quickly patched them through, then Contreras came onto the line with the brusque tone of a news bulletin, without the slightest pleasantry or preamble. He was no longer playing the gracious and charming grandee, the welcoming cheerleader for justice in all nations. He was instead the imperious judge issuing a fiery proclamation from the bench.

“Are you aware, Mr. Pine, that between you and your partner's actions, as well as those of Janet Ecker, the American State Department has now lodged an official complaint with my office?” His voice had risen on the word
official,
as if that put their transgressions on a par with mass murder. “They say, and not without some justification, from what I've heard at my end, that you've been inquiring into matters and places that are completely out of bounds. And frankly I can't help but wonder what sort of freelance operation the three of you are running. Can you tell me that?”

“None, sir. We're just pursuing leads on the possible whereabouts of—”

“Pursuing leads? Do you refer to harassing an elderly former intelligence agent as merely pursuing leads? To the point where he has apparently suffered some sort of stroke? Or poking around old intelligence files, not even officially declassified, as merely pursuing leads?”

“We were harassing no one, sir. The man spoke to us of his own free will.”

“The same man, I presume, who for years has been discredited as hopelessly unreliable. To the point that he became an embarrassment to his own government and was relieved of his duties. But nonetheless, he, too, filed an official complaint about your behavior, before his misfortune.”

“Fordham? But he's . . . he spoke to us willingly.”

“We received it straight from the American embassy in Rome this morning.”

Pine said nothing in response. Janet Ecker had been right. Someone was pulling out all the stops, and it could only have been Harkness and those above him.

“Exactly what you're trying to accomplish, none of us are sure,” Contreras continued. “But given the level of betrayal we seem to have experienced on this case to date, involving not just the escape of Andric but that of Matek as well, several of us have begun to question the motives of all of you. And bringing in the Bosnian on this, which I'm told was your idea, was our first mistake.”

“My idea?”

“We were wrong to expect objectivity from a native. His personal connection to all this only made matters sloppier once things began to fall apart.”

Vlado realized Contreras wasn't aware he was on the line, and he would have hung up then and there if it wouldn't have drawn attention to his presence.

“As for you and Miss Ecker,” Contreras continued, “whatever grudges you may have against your old employers obviously have no place in your current work.”

“But we—”

“Enough. This is not the proper forum for defending or explaining yourself. There will be ample time for that on your return. You're to leave Italy tomorrow, and in the meantime you're to make no further calls, conduct no further interviews, and pursue no further ‘leads,' as you choose to call them. And you're expressly forbidden from any further contact with local law enforcement. There's nothing to be gained from disseminating our embarrassment any further. Clear on all counts?”

“Very clear.”

“Report to me as soon as you arrive. Bring Spratt with you, as well as the Bosnian. He'll be discharged from employment and returned to Berlin. The sooner the better. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

Contreras hung up, the voice vanishing as instantly as a tornado that had moved on down the road.

So this was how it would end, Vlado mused as the line went dead. He raised the mute receiver like a hammer, then brought it down across the edge of the tub, cracking the porcelain as well as the receiver. Let the tribunal pay the damages, he thought savagely, his elbow aching with the shock of the blow. He gazed at the dripping sink, still tapping out the seconds, then he rose stiffly from his uncomfortable perch. The jolts and agonies of the past several days had been difficult, but they had at least led to the doorstep of discovery, or so it had seemed. Now he would be turned away before even knocking, and all he'd have for his trouble would be the humiliation of a peremptory dismissal. Sent home like a boy who had misbehaved at summer camp. He wondered vaguely what had become of all the grand promises of resettlement, of finding him a new job as an investigator, but none of that seemed relevant now. At least his family would be safe, although who even knew if that would hold true if LeBlanc or Harkness leaked word on the fate of Popovic.

“Sorry you had to hear that,” Pine said, appearing at the bathroom door. “Pretty brutal.”

Vlado nodded, too angry to speak.

“I'm sorry, Vlado. You've been treated terribly. And for what it's worth, using you
wasn't
my idea. Well, you know where it came from. But I guess somebody has already started rewriting the history.”

“Yes. Funny how that keeps happening.”

“If I—”

“Never mind,” Vlado said. He was quivering, uncertain whether from his temper or from his anguish. “Just . . . never mind.”

“Well,” Pine said, at a loss. “I guess there's nothing left but to sit tight. We'll get some sleep and clear out as early as possible in the morning. Maybe later we can grab some dinner, if you feel up to it.”

Vlado could think of no suitable reply, so he left, walking numbly to his room. After shutting the door he sat on the bed a few minutes. Then he rose to unlock the small refrigerator of the minibar, peering inside at the neat row of soft drinks, spirits, and beer. He selected a small bottle—Scotch, not at all his favorite, but it would do, and so would the rest of the little bottles, regardless of their contents. Once again, the tribunal could pay the damn tab. He would drink the place dry. Call out for room service.

But halfway through the first swallow he found he had no taste for it, and he poured the rest down the sink before changing his mind. He opened the window, then the shutters, gazing up into the dim haze of the hills, the contours of the land barely visible in the evening gloom. It was too cold to look for long, so he shut the window, the room now raw with the dampness of the sea air. Then he lay back on the bed, shoes on. The red digital display of the clock on the bedside table said 5:37. The people in the streets were headed home to meals and quiet evenings. The end of the workday. And then he remembered Amira, and her invitation to call. Perhaps she had found the names, the ones from the Red Cross passports, if they'd ever even existed. Officially, it was now useless information, he supposed. But only if you were working for the tribunal. He'd just been as good as fired. So why obey orders when all promises have been broken? He sat up, reaching eagerly for the phone. He was still a policeman, still a curious son, eager to learn what he could. Without thinking he punched the number for an outside line, only to be connected to the night manager, who politely reminded him that his line was blocked.

Of course, he thought. Never trusted and never really considered anything but a utility, a lubricant for a rough and hasty coupling that had gone awry from the beginning. That angry thought was enough to get him out the door and down the stairs, his heart beating in the way that fingers drum a desktop in impatience and irritation. He ran the stairs, too impatient for the elevator, then burst through the lobby, barreling into the evening air as he threw on his overcoat. It took only five minutes to hunt down a
tabacchi,
where he used the lire he'd cadged from Pine the night before to buy a phone card. Then he found a nearby machine and dialed Amira's home number, pen and notebook at the ready.

She answered immediately, sounding as eager as Janet Ecker had yesterday. Happy, even. “I think I found what you were looking for,” she said. “Two names. Both Italian, with birth dates matching the ones you gave me. Do you have something to write with?”

When she was finished he thanked her, told her he'd be in touch, then hung up, sorry to be so abrupt but wanting to preserve every possible second on the card. A block later he ducked into a café. When a waiter approached he reached for his wallet, calculating what he might be able to afford. But all he really wanted now, he realized, was time, so he waved the man away, then rummaged in his satchel until he found the photo.

“An Italian name,” he said to himself in a low voice, scanning his father's face, then the woman's. “So who is this woman you're with, Signor Giuseppe DiFlorio? Your lover? Your wife? My stepmother, even? And is she still alive?”

He carried his satchel to the bar, marshaling the fragments of his meager Italian. “
Telefono libro?
” he asked uncertainly.

“Sì,” the barman answered, stepping a few feet away and reaching low for a thin, dog-eared volume, which he plopped onto the polished counter.

“
Grazie.
”

“
Prego.
”

There were eleven DiFlorios listed. If she'd remarried—presuming she'd even been his wife to begin with—then none of these would do the trick. But assuming she hadn't, and that she'd stayed, and that she was still alive—a weight of assumptions that suddenly seemed crushing—then she might be one of these eleven. He was that close, perhaps. So he scribbled every number and dropped the book back onto the bar, strolling past the baffled waiter back to the phone box outside, where he inserted his card and began punching in the first number.

But with his limited Italian, what would he say? Even if he were fluent, he wasn't sure he'd know how to proceed. “Hello. My father had the same last name as you and may have been your husband, can we talk?” Slow down, he told himself. Hang up and think this through.

Torello, he thought. He was the only hope. So he cradled the receiver and began walking toward the station, an investigator once again on the prowl.