Killing Pilgrim (16 page)

He looked over to Kakav and felt a ripple of sympathy for the apparatchik, sitting there in his blue suit with his pasted-on grin, fathoms below the surface of any understanding.

“As you can appreciate, we won’t go into detail here,” Dawes continued. “But if the major is happy to take on the assignment, my colleague here will brief him separately.”

All eyes turned to della Torre. For a moment he couldn’t understand why. Anzulović was the major. But then he remembered his promotion.

“I have complete confidence Major della Torre will do everything he can,” Horvat said, breaking the silence.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” della Torre said.

“Then it is agreed.” Horvat filled the shot glasses from the clear bottle. They were one glass short, and Horvat made sure Anzulović was the one left out. “So we drink to this friendship. The major and the beautiful miss.”

He laughed, then raised his glass and threw back the slivovitz. Della Torre saw that the Americans barely touched their lips to the liquid, leaving full glasses on the table. If Horvat noticed, he didn’t betray it.

As they rose to leave, Rebecca stepped towards della Torre and rested her fingers on his forearm, holding him back.

“Let’s go upstairs,” she said. “I have a nice suite. We can talk.”

Della Torre nodded. He was starting to realize that he was little more than an automaton, there to be programmed and then set into motion. It was like being back in the commandos. Of course it was. He was in the army now.

As they passed the front desk on the way to the elevators, della Torre caught sight of the Dispatcher sitting in a large winged chair, contemplating him with a beatific smile.

Della
Torre and Rebecca took the elevator up to her suite in silence. Its sitting room was tired, like much of the hotel, but nevertheless it was spacious and had extravagant views of Zagreb Cathedral’s double spire and, far beyond it, the low, forested ridge of mountains to the north. Della Torre took the armchair by the window.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked.

“No. Care to explain yourself?”

“You’re a smart guy. What explanation do you need?”

“They sent me to my father’s so that you could inspect me. I suppose I passed.”

“You passed.”

“Couldn’t you do that in Zagreb? Why did you need to involve Dad?”

“Why do you think?”

“Because you wanted as much background as possible before meeting me.”

“We like to be thorough.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” He knew. Or close enough. Whether it was the
CIA
or a branch of U.S. military intelligence hardly mattered. It made no difference to him. Croatia was desperate to do what it could for the Americans, and hopeful of favours in return.

She moved off her perch on the arm of her chair and helped herself to a bottle of clear soda from the mini-bar, examining the label before opening it. “Inka . . . What is it?”

“Tonic water,” he said.

“Oh. Maybe not.”

“I’ll have some, then.”

“Thought you weren’t thirsty,” she said.

“Maybe it’ll get the bitter taste out of my mouth.”

She gave him a sideways glance and opened the bottle. She poured him the drink, helping herself to a diet Coke instead.

The Inka was tepid.

“What we need is to talk to someone called Petar Djilas. He worked for the
UDBA
but is retired now.”

Della Torre paused. Djilas. The Montenegrin.

“You want his phone number?” della Torre asked, taking out a cigarette.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in here,” she said.

He lit it anyway.

“We’ve got his phone number,” she continued, not pressing the issue. “And his address too. We’d like to see him and have a little chat.”

“Call him up and make an appointment.”

“We’d love to do that, but we have it on good authority he wouldn’t be interested in talking to strangers.”

“And what do you want to talk to him about?”

“Some of the people he killed. In the States.”

“I don’t think he actually killed anyone in the U.S. He ran some teams that did, but he never pulled the trigger.”

“We’re interested anyway.”

“Well, in that case, I can tell you for nothing that Djilas only ever did what he was ordered to do. I’ve investigated him a few times. Now, the American government may not like what he was doing — I don’t like what he was doing — but he was doing what the Yugoslav presidency told him to do. Take it up with Belgrade, not Mr. Djilas, who executed his job exactly within the limits of Yugoslav law.”

She watched him with a patient smile. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes told him she was something other than just amused by him.

“Marko, all we want to do is ask him a few questions about what went on.”

“There’s a good chance I’ve got my notes on those operations. You probably know that my job was to investigate old
UDBA
assassinations. I kept my notes. Against the rules, but I’ve got them. Why don’t I give you what I’ve got, and then you don’t need to bother the Montenegrin.”

“The Montenegrin?”

“It’s what we called — call — Mr. Djilas,” he said. “Montenegro is where he’s from. The black mountains, down south. Where he lives now. In a place that’s like a fortress.”

“We’d like to talk to him because what we want won’t be on file.”

File. It made della Torre think of the tangle he’d tied himself into. It had started with the Pilgrim file, something about nuclear centrifuges that had involved the Montenegrin. The file that had somehow led the Dispatcher to send the Bosnian killers after him. And now for some reason the Montenegrin had entangled della Torre with these Americans. Did this have something to do with Pilgrim too?

There wouldn’t be any budging her. Somebody further up the chain had presented her and her friend Dawes with a job, and she was doing it. He understood that.

“He won’t fly up to Zagreb to see you. I can guarantee that. Even if you ask pretty please.”

“We’re not going to be asking. You are. He knows you and trusts you. That’s why we need you.”

“You seem well informed.”

“We are. And we know he’s not going to come to us. So we’re going to go to him.”

“To Montenegro?”

“Unless he’ll meet us in Dubrovnik.” Croatia’s ancient walled city — as given over to tourists as Venice, and even more beautiful — was a short drive from the Montenegrin’s haven.

“I doubt it. He won’t cross the border. He’s too sensible for that. In fact, he won’t go to Serbia either. Old
UDBA
wetworks agents don’t tend to have long life expectancies. He’s got himself a very nice, very safe arrangement where he is,” della Torre said.

“Which is why you’re going to help us plan it all out. So that we have a nice, comfortable chat with Mr. Djilas.” That smile again.

“What if I said no?”

“Well, I think your minister was pretty keen that you do what you can. But if that’s not convincing enough, the U.S. government isn’t very happy about its citizens working for foreign governments. Especially foreign intelligence services. And especially when they’re Communist.”

Della Torre nodded. His face betrayed no emotion. Rebecca gave him a sympathetic smile. He looked out at the view of the city.

“But really, that isn’t meant to be a threat,” she continued. “I heard you have enough trouble here without having to worry about what the U.S. government thinks. Something about shooting a police officer.”

There had been a time when della Torre fantasized about running away to America; he’d wondered whether he might not quietly disappear once the war started in earnest. Not back to Ohio. But maybe California. The
UDBA
would no longer take an interest in him. And the Zagreb police, well, their reach barely made it to the city’s streets.

“What do you want from me?”

She smiled a broad, slow, lazy smile that made it clear she’d always known she’d win.

“I need a bit of organization. First I need a secluded location near here with a three-hundred-yard clearing. For tomorrow or the day after. Then I need a house near Dubrovnik that’s very, very private . . .”

“At this time of year? Even with the political situation like it is, Dubrovnik has more than a few tourists around. I mean, it’s one of the biggest attractions in the Mediterranean.”

“You’ll have to be clever, then. But I’ll make it easy for you. It can be half an hour, maybe forty minutes away from the city.”

“How big?”

“It doesn’t have to be huge. But it’s got to be able to sleep . . . let’s see, make it five or six people.”

“Who else is involved?”

“That comes later.”

“Anything else?” he asked.

“I need as much background on Mr. Djilas as you can get. A nice briefing note.”

“I thought you already had that.”

“I do. But I want one from you.”

“When do we go?”

“We? You’re just helping us to fix things so that they won’t go wrong.” She emptied the can into a glass and threw it into a bedside bin. “How long do you think it’ll take to drive down the coast?”

“Drive? What’s wrong with flying?”

“People watch airports. Driving draws less attention.”

“Well, you see, that’s a little problem. The Krajina Serbs have blocked the main road. The only other way is to take a ferry or to drive the coast road. But that’ll be busy.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

He finished his Inka. The warm bubbles scoured his mouth. He got up to go.

“Should I get in touch with you here?” he asked.

“I’m registered under my name.”

I’m sure you are, he thought.

“You have my keys,” he said.

“I do, don’t I.” She made no move to return them.

“My father will be disappointed.”

Her eyebrows rose in amused puzzlement.

“That I’ve got your keys?” she asked.

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry. Piero’s a very nice man, but he shouldn’t feel too hurt. Not as hurt as innocent people sometimes get.”

He didn’t bother to shut the door behind him.

• • •

On the way back to the office, he smoked a couple of Luckys. Lucky Strike. The irony that it was his favourite brand never escaped him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been lucky. Overhead, the filigree of tram wires held the city in a web. He was oblivious to the old man walking on the other pavement, barking orders like a drill sergeant and then pausing to whimper like a dog. Or the young nun in a wimple and green mirrored sunglasses, the top buttons of her grey shirt undone and a cigarette hanging off her bottom lip.

He’d been stitched up. He’d been sent from one end of the country to the other so that the Americans and Horvat could inspect him. A piece of military chattel. The Croat government would do everything it could to get the Americans involved in its affairs, though he was sure Horvat was playing another angle. He just didn’t know what.

Whatever it was, Horvat was a dangerous man. Even more dangerous was the fact that he had dealings with somebody who only a few months before had tried to have della Torre killed. What the hell did the Dispatcher have to do with this?

And what did the Americans want with the Montenegrin? To talk to him? The thought made della Torre laugh out loud, so that the woman walking beside him gave a little skip of surprise and then sidled away.

Della Torre wouldn’t have noticed the black Toyota Hilux with tinted windows parked opposite the military intelligence building, had it not been involved in a standoff with a Zagreb tram. The Hilux was pulled halfway up onto the pavement, making itself an obstacle to pedestrian traffic, though this wasn’t particularly unusual. Yugoslav drivers were notoriously inconsiderate, especially ones who had the sort of money to afford expensive Japanese trucks. But it also blocked the road enough to keep the tram from passing. The tram driver kept ringing his bell, but the Hilux wouldn’t move. Only when a traffic cop took an interest did it finally pull away.

Della Torre showed his old
UDBA
ID to the uniformed soldiers at the entrance to his new office building.

“I’m sorry, sir, but who are you visiting?”

“I’m not visiting anyone. I’m going to my office.”

The soldier looked blank.

“We’ve moved upstairs,” della Torre said.

“I’ve been told that only people with military ID are allowed through. They’re on our sheet.”

“I haven’t got mine yet. It’s coming,” della Torre said, folding his arms over the top of the high reception desk.

“I’m afraid, sir, you’ll need someone to get you, then. We’ve been told only military ID.”

“Look, my whole office, my whole department, has moved upstairs. As far as I know, none of us has military ID,” della Torre said.

The soldier continued to stare blankly.

“Have other people come through with
UDBA
IDs?” he asked, exasperated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you let them in?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So let me in too.”

“But they had someone come down to collect them.”

“All of them? How did the first one get in?”

“Well, we haven’t been on duty all day . . .”

“If I get one of my
UDBA
colleagues to come down to vouch for me, will you let me in?”

“Yes, sir, if your name’s on the list.”

“You mean you have a list?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why don’t you check my name against the list?”

“Sorry, sir. We need to see military ID. Lieutenant Colonel Kakav —” the soldier started to say but then caught himself as della Torre dropped his head onto the high reception desk. “Are you all right, sir? It’s just that your forehead might smudge the forms.”

Della Torre was rescued from the fit of impotent pique he usually reserved for Yugoslav bank tellers, clerks at the gas board, and post office officials, by a colleague who was just leaving the building. He vouched for della Torre on condition that della Torre came down to collect him later.

He went in search of Anzulović to fill him in about his meeting with Rebecca and to talk over the morning more generally, but Anzulović was out. The secretary didn’t know where. He figured he might as well start writing up the report on the Montenegrin that Rebecca had asked for. But when he got to his office, a man was sitting in his chair, smoking a cigarette and gazing out the window.

“Julius,” della Torre said. “As if my day wasn’t awful enough already.”