Zagreb Cowboy (11 page)

C
AUGHT IN A
convoy of Yugoslav army vehicles heading towards Slovenia, Anzulović took longer than he’d expected to drive out to the hospital. Having to take one of the old Zastavas made it all the less pleasant. There were a couple of official Mercs left, but one was in the garage for servicing while somebody else was using the other one. Maybe Messar.

Setting off, he’d had a little fantasy about making a quick stop in the centre of the little town. Under the ornate verdigris steeple of the yellow Baroque church, in sight of the ruins of an old castle built for the tax collectors of the Magyar nobles who’d once ruled those forested valleys, was a pastry shop.

It wasn’t just any pastry shop but a pastry shop that specialized in one specific sort of cake, an improbably fluffy custard cream on a delicate filo base topped with yet more filo and a dusting of powdered sugar. The pastries had the absurdly ugly German name of
krem
š
nita
. There were cake shops that sold versions in Zagreb, but nothing to compare with the ones in Samobor. The mere mention of a Samobor
krem
š
nita
made Anzulović blush with joy and anticipation like a teenage girl. Even the smallest pretence would spur him to take the round trip to Samobor if he could make it coincide with the shop’s criminally short opening hours — confined to when the pastry was freshly baked and still at blood temperature.

Except now that he had a reason to be in Samobor, he didn’t have time to make a detour into the centre of town from the provincial hospital on its fringes. Maybe on the way back, though he’d have to hurry. The shop shut for lunch.

Messar was waiting for him at the front reception, where he gave Anzulović a quick rundown. Messar was tall and blond; he looked the way movie people thought jackboot-wearing Germans ought to look. But his ethnic Germanness went deeper than looks. He operated on German notions of efficiency and was a stickler for rules, though when the two conflicted, he preferred efficiency. Efficiency meant that he had one of his junior officers monitoring the Zagreb police frequency at all times, as well as the ticker of telephone traffic to and from the police headquarters produced by the
UDBA
’s communications team.

Which was how Messar had come to know that a Zagreb cop had been shot by an
UDBA
officer. That was the entirety of the message he’d left for Anzulović, along with instructions for Anzulović to meet him at the Samobor community hospital. And because Anzulović trusted Messar, as he did all his staff, and because there was the prospect of
krem
š
nita
at the end of it, he went when called.

“So what’s the emergency, then? An
UDBA
agent shooting a Zagreb cop ought to be cause for celebration,” Anzulović said with forced levity.

“We’re not clear on who the shooter was just yet. But the complaint is that one of our people’s involved. And the cop’s a detective. The head of internal investigations from the Zagreb force, Lieutenant Colonel Kakav, is wetting himself over the prospect of getting an
UDBA
scalp. He’s here, by the way.”

“Kakav, eh? At least they didn’t send anybody competent. By ‘our people’ I assume you mean Department VI?” Anzulović was developing an uneasy feeling that he knew what was coming.

“Yup, della Torre.”

“Gringo, eh? As far as I know, he’s never carried his service pistol. Uses it as a paperweight, doesn’t he? What’d he shoot the cop with, a staple gun?” Anzulović kept the tone light, but there was a note of irritation in his voice. Irritation with della Torre for not having told him the whole truth.

“A popgun. A nine millimetre with all the force of an air pellet,” Messar said, their steps echoing up the stairwell.

“So not so much wounding with intent as scratching without a chance. Who’s the lucky flatfoot with an extended holiday?” he asked.

“Detective Strumbić. Heard of him?”

“Oh yes . . .” he said.

“Anyway, he says he was minding his own business at his weekend house when della Torre — our della Torre —”

“Naturally, who else’s?”

“When della Torre dropped in on him uninvited, along with some Bosnian hoods. They threatened Strumbić, wanted him to do something for them — Strumbić isn’t very clear on this point. Suffice it to say he refused on grounds that it was corrupt and illegal. They got angry and shot him, and then locked him in the cellar of his weekend house.”

“Della Torre shot him?”

“Something else he’s not clear on. He got shot. Della Torre was with the Bosnians. They all had guns. Strumbić says he’s not sure who pulled the trigger. I think his memory will improve when he sees where his advantage lies.”

“I think you’re right.”

“He strikes me as a pretty crooked cop.”

“Messar, your perceptiveness never fails to astound me. But right now we’re not the ones to be making any accusations. We’re just going to listen and offer suggestions. By we, I mean me. The Zagreb cops will take every opportunity they possibly can to give us a good kicking, and these days they’re the ones in favour. We might have to bend over for this one.”

“I got his statement from the Zagreb homicide dick who’s been put on the case.”

“Homicide?”

“The most senior staffer Kakav could round up on such short notice. They were here first thing. The detective has gone back to Zagreb to start pushing paper.”

“Smart of you to get here so quickly,” Anzulović said.

“Nothing else going on. Most of my people take turns waiting in line at the bread shop. Either that or they’re moonlighting, if they can find another job.”

Anzulović nodded. Not only had Department VI been starved of funds, but for the past six months its workload had been shrunk. Belgrade had pulled its investigations, worried about how sympathetic Department VI might be to the new Croatian administration. And the Croats, well, they’d hated the
UDBA
ever since the early 1970s, when the service had crushed the republic’s independence movement and set about kidnapping or killing dissidents.

Two police officers were on guard outside of the hospital room. Anzulović showed them his ID, and they demanded the same of Messar. Instead, Messar gave them a look of withering contempt and then turned to Anzulović.

“Did you know that at the bottom of both sides of the page of a Zagreb police exam it says, ‘Please turn over’? That’s the test. Anyone who keeps flipping the page is considered prime cop material. Memories of goldfish,” Messar said. The cops backed down, bristling, but nonetheless fearful of the
UDBA
man.

Messar was still talking when they walked into the room. Strumbić was in bed, his face china white. Kakav took up the only chair in the room.

“Detective,” said Anzulović to Strumbić, and then stretched his hand out to Kakav, a fat, middle-aged man in a too-tight, shiny suit. “Colonel, thank you so much for waiting for me to arrive.”

Kakav wore a serious expression, but Anzulović could see from the man’s eyes that he was feasting on something at least as delicious as a fresh custard cream cake: the prospect of revenge on the intelligence service, an enemy the whole of his professional life.

“Major,” Kakav said to Anzulović. Like most Department VI staff, Anzulović rarely used his official rank. “This is a regrettably serious matter, as we explained to your officer here,” he said with pompous gravity.

“It must be, for someone of such seniority as you to have given up his morning,” Anzulović said.

“Of course, our primary concern is the health and well-being of our comrade, Detective Strumbić. But his accusation against one of your people is shocking. Shocking that a wanton attack should be made on an unimpeachable member of the Zagreb force.”

“I’ve heard the outlines of the accusation from Captain Messar here, one of our finest officers,” Anzulović countered. “As you know, because the complaint has been made against one of our people, the rules say that the investigation falls under the remit of the security services of the Ministry of the Interior.”

“Major —” Kakav started to protest, but Anzulović held up his hand.

“Colonel, we all know that times are changing. Rules are being adapted and amended to fit the new reality. I don’t know if you’ve met Captain Messar before, but you’ll know him by reputation.” Anzulović wasn’t flattering Messar. He had an astonishingly high reputation even among the civilian forces. Few Department VI people had nailed more
UDBA
agents on corruption charges. Or Zagreb cops along the way.

Kakav nodded.

“You will know that he’s probably the best investigating officer in the intelligence services, if not the whole of Yugoslav law enforcement.”

Kakav raised his eyebrows slightly, wrinkled up his face, and shrugged.

“My suggestion is,” Anzulović went on, “that Messar takes charge of the investigation, but otherwise that it is handled by the Zagreb police. That way we can say we followed the rules, in case some authority raises questions about procedures. We can always say that since Messar led it, it was an
UDBA
-directed operation. But it will be entirely transparent to the civilian service.” Anzulović’s warning to Kakav that the Zagreb police’s new-found authority could well prove temporary if the Yugoslav state asserted its will in Croatia again was not lost on the senior Zagreb policeman. “But we can also show the new spirit of co-operation between the agencies of the new Croatian state.”

“There aren’t many precedents for these arrangements. We’d have to come up with a protocol and get our senior people to agree to it,” Kakav sputtered.

“Colonel, this is a matter of great and immediate urgency. By delaying, by insisting that all the details be nailed down, you do realize you run the risk of losing sight of what needs to be done in the name of justice? Of appraising this very serious complaint and finding the perpetrator? If you wanted to be . . . legally precise, you would have to leave it to the intelligence service and then revert to the courts for permission to take over the case. We could be arguing about who has what powers in this case for the next three years. All I’m suggesting is that the Zagreb police carry out the investigation, but with Messar supervising efforts. If your detectives think he’s doing a bad job, they can take it to you and you can take it to me and we’ll replace Messar with me and your choice of appointee as co-heads of the investigation. Does that sound reasonable?”

Kakav nodded, knowing that everything Anzulović had said was reasonable, but at the same time understanding he’d somehow had his trousers pulled down and a bull’s eye painted on his ass.

“And now, Colonel, I have no doubt that you have pressing concerns in Zagreb. Captain Messar will go back as well and start proceedings, if I understand correctly that a statement has already been taken from Detective Strumbić.”

Anzulović shook Kakav’s hand and the colonel found himself being ushered out of the hospital room by Messar.

“Messar,” Anzulović said when it was just the two of them and Strumbić, “do you mind giving me and the detective here five minutes? We know each other from way back, and I think a man who’s suffered such a shock as he has might find it less overwhelming to talk to an old friend. If you’ve got a car, you might as well go back to Zagreb and start organizing things. But try to keep the cops from getting too far ahead of themselves. Wait for me.”

“I’ll have to track down della Torre.”

Anzulović nodded. It was out of his hands. Della Torre would have to be brought in. Unless he’d had the wit to leave already. Stupid boy. If only he’d admitted to shooting Strumbić. No. Anzulović would have had to take him in and launch formal proceedings. It just wasn’t done to shoot Zagreb cops. Especially not these days, however much they might deserve it.

Messar walked over to Strumbić’s bed. “Detective, we’ll catch your man. You can rest assured. You’re in good hands,” he said, giving Strumbić’s leg a hearty slap.

Strumbić howled with pain. “You stupid —” He bit his tongue as Messar walked out, smirking to himself.

Anzulović said nothing. Messar had his methods.

“Anzulović, where’d you get Messar from? Left over from the Nazis? What’d he do before? Torture children and maim puppies?”

Anzulović shrugged. “He was just trying to reassure you he’ll be on top of this case.”

“Yeah? Well, tell him della Torre’s the guy to be kicking around, not me.”

“I’m surprised Kakav came out. He must love you.”

“We’re like this,” Strumbić said, crossing his fingers. “Except he’s this one” — Strumbić wagged one of the fingers — “the one I wipe my ass with. My luck to have the village idiot fighting in my corner. You guys don’t fool me for a second. You’re going to be batting for Gringo and screwing me.”

“Listen, Julius,” Anzulović said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “I haven’t got a lot of time to talk crap.” He paused almost apologetically. “We don’t need to mince words, do we? You tell me what really happened and I’ll listen sympathetically. You bullshit me and you will, I guarantee you, regret it.”