The Small Boat of Great Sorrows (29 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

In a small, gloomy pension a few miles across town, General Marko Andric decided that it was no use pretending he was a man of the world. He had been traveling for three days yet still couldn't shake his uneasiness over being in a foreign land. In a word, he was homesick. And to think of all the times in years past when he had tried so hard to come to this very place, only to fail to secure permission. It had taken help from one of the enemy to finally make it possible, but now that he was here he was spending most of his waking hours feeling awkward and uncomfortable.

To his mind, the only way to cover new ground was with an army, a consort at your fore and aft, tramping along in common cause. And his landscape of choice was rolling green hills, not these bare crags that tumbled straight into the sea.

The most jarring problem had been the language, an endless stream of bafflement that gave him headaches and made him feel like a child. The words here were like rubber balls, slippery and bouncing, moving so fast you could only grasp one or two at a time. By the time you had your pocket dictionary out, another twenty had bounded past.

The food, at least, was worthwhile, but even that was growing tiresome. What he'd really like now was a slab of meat, grilled to the bone, a substantial piece, not a mere slice or a few medallions like they always served you here. He pulled out a cigarette. Those, at least, were the same everywhere now. The American cowboy who ruled the world. After a few puffs he felt better, but he was worn out, sleepy. The strangeness of his journey had been giving him nightmares. Or that's what he chose to blame for the visions that had been visiting him lately.

The previous evening he had awakened in the dark believing that the dead were reaching out for him from the walls and floor, where they writhed like worms, their rotting fingertips outstretched, brushing against his bare arms and legs. Twisted faces loomed above him, cursing incomprehensibly. Speaking Italian, no doubt. He jolted to his senses, sitting upright and turning on the bedside lamp, comforted to find the walls bare and quiet. The ceiling was a blank. Children were shooting firecrackers outside in the street below. That must have caused it all, he told himself. But the taste in his mouth said otherwise. It was all too familiar. Lands, languages, and cuisine might change, but the chalky dust of Srebrenica still coated his tongue, as if his system were unable to expel it. Even now, in the wake of a late-afternoon rest, he could taste just a hint. So he set aside his cigarette and rose to rinse his mouth in the bathroom sink.

It was lonely, this way of living, and as he turned on the tap, swallowing, spitting, he wondered how long he'd have to endure it. His bare feet were chilly against the floor. Still cold and damp outside, he supposed, flipping back the shutter to see the clouds that had been settling on the town throughout the day. The daylight was nearly gone. Good. In a few hours, then, if all went as scheduled, everything would be over. Any moment he should have a visitor, someone who spoke his language, no less.

The thought was enough to get him moving, throwing on his clothes and allowing himself some excitement. Taught by experience and rigid training never to expect anything to go smoothly, he had taken a while to finally begin believing this might happen, that everything might really come off without a hitch. He'd been feeling that way a few hours now. Ever since he'd made his furtive reconnaissance, strolling past the place where the items were said to be stored. Thinking of the walk, he reached into his pocket. Finding nothing, he experienced a momentary panic. But at last there it was, rolled into a crease of the fabric. The old key. How amazing, he thought, that it still fit the lock. He had tried it, ever so briefly, turning it just enough to slide back the bolt without opening the door. Then he'd quickly relocked it. Too many visitors around at that hour to feel comfortable enough to do more. It would be more amazing yet if everything was still inside. But such things were possible, he knew, having seen it happen in his own land—secrets going to ground in one conflict, only to be resurrected in another.

For a while during his walk he'd thought that he'd seen his contact, his benefactor, so to speak, although it wasn't as if the man's services came free of charge. It had been the briefest of glances, an eerie sense of footfalls that seemed to match his own. But when he'd turned for a look he'd seen nothing but a small boy and a man gazing at a rack of newspapers.

The moment had unnerved him enough to give him second thoughts about continuing his walk. And what if someone recognized him, or started to ask questions? He'd been jittery that way since crossing the border, too nervous to even read a paper or turn on the news, for fear of seeing his own face. Better to lie low, now that the hour was approaching. So much planning, and it had all come down to a single evening.

But now, as if in answer to his thoughts, there was a knock at the door. The maid, perhaps? Or was it someone he was expecting?

“Yes?” he said, easing toward the door, reaching for the gun that bulged from a pocket in a jacket hanging by a brass hook.

“Marko? It's me.”

So it really was him, then, speaking his own tongue, although with the slightest difference in tone and timbre from how he sounded on the phone. He'd swear that much of the man's accent was gone, too. Or maybe it was just nerves. But it was such a relief to hear words he could understand that he neglected to take the gun from the pocket. His guest was early, but any good general knew that even the most careful plans changed and shifted.

So he opened the door unarmed, his first and last mistake. Staring back at him was an entirely different face from the one he'd expected, although it, too, seemed oddly familiar. Who is this old man, he wondered, but before he could ask he found himself staring at the barrel of a gun, a thick ugly thing with something heavy jammed on the end. A silencer, he surmised. Not a good sign, even to someone so open to changes in plans.

“I know you, don't I?” he said, realizing as the words were out exactly who it was. “Oh my God. Yes. From the border.”

The man nodded. He seemed to be wheezing, just a bit out of breath.

“Yes, now you remember,” the old man said. “And you've come here to rob me blind. So I thought I might drop by for my key. So I'll have it now, if you don't mind. Just tell me where it is. And no reaching into drawers or pockets, please, unless you want our little chat to end prematurely.”

The general was still trying to remember the man's name. Matek? Or was it Petric? He couldn't remember which of them had been the talker, the schemer, the one who'd ultimately come up with the plan that won his approval. But the man was now waving the gun in a very disagreeable manner, and General Andric felt his stomach going queasy, rolling on its side like a foundering ship. He wanted to burp, or worse, already tasting the chalkiness of the bile rising in his throat, flavored by the infernal dust. He licked his lips, a sticky sound.

“It's in my pants pocket,” he answered, shamed by the quavering of his voice. His performance was dishonorable, and the general imagined his staff watching from the doorway, eyes downcast with disgrace as they witnessed his humiliation, the old warrior melting into a pile of jelly. It was this thought, finally, that rallied him, and with a sudden twisting lunge he reached for the hateful barrel, once again a soldier on the attack.

He died a soldier's death, shot full in the front with two thumping, whooshing impacts and a pair of great yellow flashes, throwing him clear to the window, where the rear of his head struck the sill with the loudest bang yet. Slumping to the floor, back pressed to the wall, he looked down to see his entrails wriggling free like a nest of wet snakes. It made an awful slurping noise, all the more surreal for its painlessness. He felt only a vast and empty cold down there. Then, pouring into his head, a great rush of heat and blackness, as if someone had torn open a door at the top of his spine. A nimble claw of a hand darted into his pants pocket, probing frantically, and the last thing the general heard was the voice of a gleeful old man, like some old troll in the woods. Or perhaps it was only a neighborly farmer from back home.

“There you are,” the voice croaked. “Just as I left you.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Vlado was relieved to find Torello still at his desk. But the man's first question was the very one Vlado hadn't wanted to answer. “Where is your American colleague?”

“Mr. Pine is back at the hotel.”

Torello seemed to consider the response with great deliberation. Normally that would be a bad sign, an indication that maybe Vlado was about to be shown the door, exposed as the rogue operative he'd become.

But Torello wasn't frowning, wasn't nervous or reaching for his phone. If anything, he seemed a trifle pleased.

“Tell me,” he said at last, “you're not authorized to be here, are you? On your own like this.”

Vlado decided to level with him. “We've been taken off the case. It seems we've become an irritant to U.S. authorities. So I'm not here as a representative of the tribunal. I'm now working for myself, mostly because my father was a colleague of the older suspect. Which I wasn't aware of until a few days ago, when the tribunal roped me into this job. So for me it's strictly personal.”

Torello eyed him a moment. Now the question was whether he'd play along.

“A missing-persons case, then, is that how you'd characterize it? But no longer a war-crimes manhunt. In case my superiors ask later.”

He said it with the beginnings of a smile. Vlado sensed a compatriot, even if he wasn't sure why.

“Exactly.”

“It's nice that we agree. Coffee? You look like you could use some.”

“Yes.”

“And please,” Torello said, pulling a cigarette pack from his jacket. “Feel free to smoke. This isn't America, you know.”

“So you don't like Americans?”

“Far from it. I think Americans are wonderful. Especially their women, who seem to think Italian men are wonderful, as long as we're taken in limited doses.” Torello's smile widened.

Yes, Vlado could just imagine him during the tourist season. The dark good looks that the rest of the world had come to expect of young Italian men. Slim and at ease, hair falling perfectly across the forehead, the impeccable English, and just enough sun in his face to suggest a man of action.

“But let's face it,” Torello continued. “How often do people like you and me, from countries that generally remain on the sidelines, get the chance to do what we damn well please, especially when people from rather powerful embassies are demanding that we do otherwise? This fax, for instance, landed on my desk just this afternoon.”

He handed it to Vlado. It was a message from the U.S. State Department urging police authorities to please check with embassy contacts in Rome before cooperating with any investigators claiming to be searching for suspects Marko Andric or Pero Matek, due to unspecified “diplomatic irregularities.”

“They shout. We jump. And look at the two of us, speaking their language. But I will uphold the letter of this memo, of course.” He held aloft the fax. “So if, for example, an official representative of the tribunal were to happen to telephone, looking for a missing colleague, I would of course have to refer him to these instructions, and say nothing. But a missing-persons case for a visiting policeman from Bosnia? That's another matter altogether.”

Vlado let a moment pass, assessing the gravity of the leap he was about to make with Torello's help. He worried mostly about his family. He'd likely have a day, perhaps less, before being run to ground, either by Pine or by Harkness. He also worried on Pine's behalf, not wanting to ruin the man's career, although at one level he felt that Pine might actually approve. And if not? Likable or not, Pine and the tribunal had used him, and Vlado had earned his shot at rebellion.

“So, then,” Torello said. “What brought you back in here, looking for help?”

“These names.” He handed Torello the scribbled sheet of paper with the names DiFlorio and Barzini at the top, plus the eleven phone numbers below.

“DiFlorio was my father's name while he was here. Barzini was Matek. They probably arrived in the summer of '46, and stayed until '61. Then they went back to Yugoslavia. Why, I'm not sure, but my guess is that they had to leave in a hurry. Maybe some of the Ustasha people had finally found them. And they may have left something behind. Something Matek might have come back for.” Vlado paused. This was the one piece of information he still felt uncomfortable about disclosing, but there seemed to be no other choice.

“They may have left behind two crates of gold bars, plus some documents that the United States, even today, might find embarrassing. Even damaging, for some people.”

Torello leaned back in his chair, exuding an almost boyish pleasure as he steepled his hands in the air.
“Fantastico,”
he said in a low voice. “No wonder everyone is in such a, how would they say it, a tizzy. A lather. Perfect.” Then his smile faded. “But those names. I'm afraid those alone won't do us much good.”

“There was also this,” Vlado said, and he placed the old photograph on Torello's desk, then explained why he'd copied the eleven phone numbers.

“I was going to try simply calling them—a wild shot, I know.”

“A crapshoot, yes.” Torello seemed to enjoy collecting scraps of American slang as much as Vlado.

“But, well, I don't speak Italian. Only a few words.”

“I could make the calls for you, of course, but do we really want to start asking families all over town questions about this, getting them gossiping about who knows what? I don't think so. Checking records, that would be better.” He looked at his watch. “I have a friend in the municipal authority who might be able to let us in after hours—marriage licenses, vital statistics, that kind of thing. But we can try here first. Police records. If your man Matek is as devious as his sheet from Interpol indicates, I can't imagine him being able to stay anywhere fifteen years without getting into some kind of scrape. Come on. Into the basement.”

It took only twenty minutes. Torello thumbed open a few dusty ledgers, indexing arrests and incident reports from decades prior to 1970. The rest had been computerized. The first line to catch their attention was a smuggling case from 1953. The suspect was Piro Barzini. His date of birth matched the one on the Red Cross passport. The charges were dropped.

“But look,” Torello said, thumbing to another page. “This one is better.”

It was a 1961 citation, the report of an accidental death by drowning. There were two victims: Giuseppe DiFlorio and Piro Barzini.

“It seems they decided on the ultimate exit for their return home, one that would leave no expectation of return. Some sort of boating accident. With no bodies recovered, of course. And look. They both had wives.”

So his father had married here. Even though Vlado had expected as much, the news went down like a ball of lead in his stomach. Torello was still staring into the book, oblivious to the effect of his words. But when Vlado remained silent the man turned, seeing right away what had happened.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “This must be hard for you.”

Vlado shook his head, cleared his throat. “What were their names?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Torello turned back to the ledger.

“Lia. And Gianna. Lia DiFlorio and Gianna Barzini. And if Lia is that woman in your picture, she probably still thinks of herself as your father's widow.”

“If she's still alive.”

“Let's see those phone numbers.”

Lia DiFlorio was the seventh name on the list.

“Her address is the same as in the police report. Still no guarantee she's alive. Her children might have kept the listing in her name.”

“Children. I hadn't even considered that.”

“Would you like me to call?” Vlado swallowed hard. He nodded. “Come on, then. Back up to my office.”

Torello pushed the numbers on the phone, then they waited. Just about everyone had cleared out of the station. There was no sound but the hum of the fax machine. The light of the desk lamp pooled around them as if they were characters on a small stage.

Vlado heard the line click, followed by a faint “Sì? ”

“
Buona sera,
” Torello said. The rest was gibberish to Vlado, a rapid exchange that for all he knew was with a son or daughter, or someone else altogether. It was probably better not knowing what was being said. Just learn everything at once.

“Sì, sì,” Torello finally said emphatically, waving his free hand in the air. “
Prego. Ciao.
” Then he hung up. “It's her. And she will see us. Tonight.”

Vlado nodded, not quite convinced it was happening.

“I think she's as curious as you, actually.”

“What did you tell her? What did she say?”

“I told her I was a policeman, of course, and asked if her husband had been Giuseppe DiFlorio, the man reported drowned in 1961. She said yes. After that the rest wasn't so hard. I told her we had some new information about the events of those years, but mostly I wanted to ask her about one of her husband's friends from those times. Piro Barzini. She sort of scoffed, and said something about Barzini not being much of a friend. And I told her I was with a colleague of mine from Yugoslavia who might be able to offer her more information. She seemed to find that a little strange, as you might expect. She even sounded a little fearful, for whatever that's worth. But I wouldn't say she was alarmed. Then she invited us over, but asked us to give her a while to prepare. Meaning, I'm sure, that she needs time to cook for us. She's that type, I'm positive. It could be three a.m. and she would feel like she has to feed us.”

“Just as well. I never ate lunch.”

“Then she will love you like a son.”

Torello reddened, having let the words go before realizing their import. But Vlado didn't mind. The moment had become so dream-like that nothing would have jarred him. Well, almost nothing. He hesitated before asking the next question.

“Does she have children?”

“I didn't ask. She lives alone, for what that's worth. But I'd rather you be the one who asks that question.”

“Did you tell her . . . anything else about me?”

“I'll leave that to you as well. As hard as this is for you, it's probably going to be worse for her, finding out that her husband lived, what, another twenty-two years? You'd better bring that photo with us. She may need some convincing. And we should leave now. It's a good half hour of driving. She's way up in the hills.”

The sidewalks of the town were crowded with people heading for dinner or straggling home. As the car began to climb, the road narrowed, and after about ten minutes they eased into a forest, then an open field, the road twisting as it rose. Halfway up the hillside they pulled free of the dense bank of clouds that had squatted on the town all day. The stars were out, and as Vlado gazed through the windshield he thought: I am going to my father's old house. He wondered if this road had once been a daily route home from work. He turned to look back down the hill, but the town had disappeared, its lights a pale yellow smudge against the clouds.

He felt awkward from the moment they entered the door, the old woman nervous and fussing, flour on her hands, her apron still tied at the waist. The place smelled of spices and steam, a pot of pasta on the boil. But Vlado's senses were on full alert for other reasons. He felt shamefully like a bloodhound, an intruder. A spy scenting and searching for any sign of a past life, any remnant of a presence that had vanished thirty-seven years ago. That meant scanning the walls for pictures and looking for any sign of recognition in the woman's eyes. He remembered all too well the way Fordham had immediately noted his resemblance to his father. Perhaps she would detect it, too, although Fordham had held the advantage of knowing the name Petric, and what that might signify. She'd probably never heard that name in her life.

The woman watched Torello and him closely as they walked together into her living room, but the scrutiny was more in the manner of someone unaccustomed to visitors, of a wary soul assessing strangers who'd arrived after dark—and both of them policemen, no less.

She didn't speak English, so they agreed that Torello would handle the questions, translating for Vlado along the way. “I'll identify you as a Bosnian cop who has an interest in some of the events from her past,” Torello had said on their way up the hill. “You can get more specific if you'd like.”

It had been too dark to get a good look at the outside of the house. It was set back from the road in the crease of the hill. But in front of a stone outcrop to the left was a nearby grove of what looked like citrus trees. A welter of bushes and briars was on the right. Inside, the plaster walls were old and cracked but whitewashed clean. The glimpse of her kitchen as they strolled past revealed an ancient stove—reminiscent of the one at Aunt Melania's—with every burner in use.

As Torello and he settled onto the couch, Vlado saw a small framed photo in a far corner. Without thinking he crossed the room for a better look. Yes, he saw with a leap in his heart, it was Lia with his father. The photo had probably been taken within a year or so of the one in his satchel, but this one was from down on the beach. Round stones at their feet, clear waters behind them, with a steaming ferry visible in the distance. They wore the same look of deep contentment, or so he supposed. But it was the only photo in sight. No snaps of children, or babies, or anyone else. And no sign of Matek.

“
Scusi,
” Vlado said, employing his limited Italian when he realized that both Lia and Torello were staring at him, Torello somewhat uneasily. He returned to the couch, then Torello began speaking. Vlado quickly lost track of the conversation, but he did hear the name Piro Barzini and saw the woman frown. She said a few words in a low voice, then Torello turned to translate.

“I'm afraid this isn't going to be easy, and maybe not even productive. She seems very reluctant. She says her memory of those times is hazy. But I think it might be more of the case that the memories aren't very pleasant. At least as far as Barzini is concerned. The moment I mentioned he was really our focus, she seemed to clam up. But if you have any ideas—”