Killing Pilgrim (25 page)

Throughout the morning Rebecca marched, following some internal map, some unspoken agenda, largely ignoring the interiors of historic buildings to focus on the ramparts, and dragging the two men in her wake like reluctant children.

When the sun rose high enough to rob the city of shade, they finally called an end to Rebecca’s adventure. Della Torre and Strumbić were all for lunching at a well-known harbour-side restaurant in the old town, but Rebecca insisted on driving the little way down the coast to the Hotel Argentina, where they ate on a terrace above the sea, with spectacular views of Dubrovnik.

Their conversation was desultory. Rebecca never spoke about herself, and if she asked questions, her curiosity always seemed to have an end in mind. Strumbić seemed content with the past few days. He hadn’t been very enthusiastic about being made to rise early or the physical regimen Rebecca had imposed on them, but he liked shooting in the woods and eating and drinking in the afternoon. Enforced indolence suited him, as long as it didn’t last too long and he felt that there’d be a payoff at the end. Besides, it sounded like Rebecca was keeping him more than entertained at night.

But della Torre was finding the time spent with Strumbić and Rebecca awkward. He felt as if he was in limbo, powerless over his own future. The killings had affected him.

Mostly he was worried about Irena. She was on his mind as he looked over the serene waters of the Adriatic towards the city. She’d be in Vukovar by now. Television news reported an increase in Yugoslav military activity along the Danube, though mostly mortar and rocket-propelled grenade attacks on surrounding villages. But there was talk of heavier artillery being drawn up on the opposite bank. Casualty numbers were growing and people were fleeing deeper into Croatia.

They’d finished their meal when a man approached them. He’d been sitting alone at a neighbouring table and stood up to ask della Torre for a light, ignoring the book of hotel matches on his own table.

“Thanks,” he said, inhaling. “I couldn’t help hearing that you’re American.”

“I live in Zagreb,” said della Torre noncommittally. “You?”

“I’m trying to get a measure of what’s happening around here,” he said. “Steve Higgins.”

Della Torre shook Higgins’s extended hand. “Marko. This here is Julius and that’s Rebecca.”

“Mind if I join you? Not too many people other than waiters speak English around here. I don’t speak Croat, and my German’s not up to conversation.”

“By all means,” della Torre said.

A cloud of irritation passed over Rebecca’s eyes, but then she gave Steve Higgins one of her well-toothed smiles.

“If you gentlemen don’t mind, I’ll duck out of the cigarette smoke for a little bit and have a look around,” she said.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” said Higgins, slightly flustered and half rising out of the seat he’d just taken.

“Never mind, these two will be smoking like chimneys anyway,” Rebecca said airily as she left.

“I’m sorry for driving your companion away,” Higgins said.

“Think nothing of it,” della Torre replied.

Strumbić pulled his chair further into the shade and leaned back in it. He wasn’t interested in conversations with tourists. “I am not so good conversation after lunch, Mr. Higgins,” he said. “Too much hot sun and wine.”

“Looks like I’m chasing everybody away,” Higgins said uncomfortably.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re on your own in one of the most beautiful cities in the world and thirsting for conversation. Happens to all of us,” della Torre said.

“Yes, also because I heard you speaking American English and Croat. I was hoping I might be able to pick your brain a little.”

“Pick away, though I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

“I’m a reporter, a stringer for the wires and some newspapers in the U.K. and Canada. I’m working on the States, but you know how it is. It’s tough making them interested in the world, even when there are revolutions and civil wars happening.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re not going to get much of a story out of me, Mr. Higgins. I don’t know anything and I’d rather not be quoted.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. I’m not writing anything right now. Just working on some background.”

“You certainly found a nice place to do it. But the story isn’t here. Unless you want to write about how badly the tourist trade is doing.”

“I’ve written that story a couple of times already. My editors aren’t interested. I’ll probably head up to Krajina in the next few days to report on the Serb separatists. Crossed my mind to go up to Zagreb and then east. Things seem to be heating up there.”

“Sounds like you’ll be busy.”

“Sort of. Not many of us Western journalists in Yugoslavia, and it’s a nice patch to stakeout, especially if things start happening when the ceasefire ends.”

The internationally brokered truce would expire in a week or so. The whole country was on tenterhooks about what would happen after.

“You’re right. But you’re in the wrong corner of the country for excitement,” della Torre said.

“You think so? I’m not so sure,” Higgins said. “So how is it that you speak Croat so well? And English?”

“I grew up in the States, but I live here now. Have lived here for a while.”

“And what do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Here with clients? Or friends?”

“A mixture of business and pleasure. What about you, Mr. Higgins? I assume you haven’t been here long.”

“No,” he laughed. “I’ve been circulating around eastern Europe for the past couple of years, the revolution trail. I was in Romania last.”

“And you’re American?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m both American and Canadian. Usually I stick to Canadian because it makes people less inclined to argue about what a terrible thing Vietnam was or ask me to sign their green card application form.” He laughed again.

“I’ll bear that in mind when I’m filling mine in,” della Torre said. Other than his father and Irena, and his friend Harry in London, no one knew he was American. And Rebecca. “Where in Canada, or the States?”

“I grew up in a little place you’ve never heard of, called Lethbridge. It’s in Alberta. My dad’s an oil geologist. He’s from Texas, but they’ve got gas in Alberta and that’s why I grew up there.”

“You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.”

“What about you?”

“I grew up in Ohio.”

“Never been.”

“I think you’re missing about as much as I am never having gone to Lethbridge.”

“You’re probably right.”

“They must pay well, your employers, for you to take a room here,” della Torre said.

Higgins smiled apologetically. “Seemed like a nice place to stay.”

He was in his early thirties, sandy-haired and tall. Della Torre didn’t know what journalists were supposed to look like, but this one looked more like a cowboy. There was a rangy boniness to him that spoke of outdoor living, skin that looked like it had been buffeted by strong wind.

“So what have you found out in your time in Dubrovnik, Mr. Higgins? Other than that most of the tourists are gone.”

“Well, if you go over to the other side of that mountain a little way —” He waved his hand inland. “— you will find a surprising amount of military activity, given that there’s nothing on this side except for a very old walled city that has no strategic significance to anyone.”

Della Torre sat up straight. “Is that so?”

“Really, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. I’ve been asking everybody, but nobody seems to believe it.”

“I have to say it sounds unlikely. Did you hear this or did you see it for yourself?”

“Oh, I saw it for myself. Hard getting over that way. They don’t like people crossing the border.”

“But you managed.”

“I managed.”

“Even though you don’t speak the language.”

“I found a waiter who speaks decent English to help me out. Very useful translator, and happens to know people who know people. The right amount of cash can sort out most difficulties.”

“Expensive business, this reporting.”

“Yup.”

Strumbić was reclined as if he might be sleeping, but della Torre could tell from how he shifted his head now and again that from behind his mirrored sunglasses he’d been tracking a couple of girls in skimpy bikinis going down to the hotel’s swimming pool on the lower terrace.

“So you crossed over with the help of a waiter and found out stuff that nobody here believes,” della Torre said.

“Something like that. Though I also met a couple of British mercenaries. They’re training soldiers on the other side of the mountain. Friendly fellows, until they get drunk. And then they’re a couple of teddy bears. Anyway, if you hear of anything that might be interesting . . .”

“If I do I’ll let you know.”

Della Torre turned away slightly, as if to end the conversation. Higgins didn’t take the hint.

“Since I’m here, can I get you a glass of wine?”

“I’m okay,” della Torre said. “But I’ve never known Julius to turn down a drink. Even when he’s unconscious he manages to nod.”

“Thank you,” Strumbić said, though it sounded more like “Sank you.”

“My pleasure,” Higgins said, calling over a waiter.

“Not that I’ve been of much help, but I’ve got a question for you,” della Torre said. “Have you ever heard of a guy called Horvat? Owns a pizza chain in Canada?”

“The guy who’s been made Croatia’s defence minister.”

“Deputy defence minister,” della Torre corrected him. “Anyway, I was just wondering if he ever made the news in Canada.”

“He used to talk about Croatia, but he mostly stayed away from the hard-line nationalists. I had an editor look up a clippings file on him after he got the government job. Really, it looked like his main preoccupation was making money rather than liberating his people. His pizza places were mostly across the prairie provinces, though he had a couple in Toronto and Montreal. Excuses to spend time in the big city.”

“Oh.” Della Torre wasn’t surprised but was still disappointed. The
UDBA
had a file on Horvat and it said more or less the same thing. Liked to posture, but really just a businessman. In fact, not much more than a year earlier he’d been in very quiet discussions with the Yugoslav consulate in Toronto about bringing his pizza chain to the Dalmatian coast.

Higgins put out his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. He wore a funny grin. “Course, there are the rumours,” he said.

“Rumours?”

“Not even rumours. I mean, just a bit of two plus two equals a very shady character.”

“And what might those two be?”

Higgins paused and smiled. “This is so frivolous, so speculative that it’s probably nothing,” he began.

“Try me.”

“Well, Horvat’s pizza shops get supplied from the States. His trucks go up from the Midwest to the prairie provinces, loaded with whatever supplies he needs. They go west to east across Canada. And east to west. Big country. Lots of transport.”

Della Torre watched Higgins light up another cigarette.

“I don’t normally smoke much, but it’s hard not to in this country,” Higgins said, looking at the cigarette. “Anyway, Horvat has quite a logistical operation. One of his trucks got stopped in Nebraska or somewhere like that. Couple of handguns in the back. The driver was fined for not having a permit, and the case dropped right off the map. Except that a reporter friend noticed the story. Then there was the story that one of his trucks going from B.C.—”

“B.C.?”

“British Columbia. Our west coast. Anyway, it was pulled over for speeding, and the cops found that the back smelled funny. The truck was empty, but they found some dust in the corners that was clearly crumbs of dried pot. The driver said that when he was on break, he’d sometimes smoke a joint. But the way my friend tells it, there was more than a couple of roaches’ worth back there.”

“So you think he employs criminals.”

“I think he makes money in ways other than just pizza.”

“Seems a stretch on the basis of a couple of guns and some dusty marijuana.”

“A friend of my journalist friend, a crime statistician at the University of Toronto, noticed some interesting correlations between a rise in gun crime and a drop in pot and cocaine prices, associated with Horvat’s pizzerias opening up locally.”

“Correlation?”

“That’s math.”

Della Torre shot Higgins a sharp look. “I know what
correlation
means.”

Higgins shrugged. “Not everybody does. Anyway, as far as I can tell, nobody’s looked into it much. But when I was a kid and we wanted to buy some dope, we could order some from Horvat’s. The pizza was average. Cheap, but nothing special. But the delivery guy always seemed to know how to get some grass.”

“You think Horvat’s a drug trafficker?”

“I think making money is what he does, however he can. I think he made it easy for the people who worked for him to do stuff that wasn’t maybe legit, and he seemed to profit from it.”

“Thanks.” Della Torre nodded. “Maybe it’s my turn to buy you a glass of wine.”

“Love to, but it’ll have to be next time. I’ve got a man to talk to about getting over the border,” he said. “I’d be awfully grateful if you passed along anything interesting you’ve heard about anything going on around here.”

“I’m not really the sort of person who knows much,” della Torre said, thinking that was truer than it sounded. “But I’ll let you know. Good luck.” Della Torre watched the journalist disappear. A funny, perceptive, and indiscreet fellow. He liked him.

Strumbić really had fallen asleep by the time Rebecca came back.

“You gentlemen ready to go?” she asked.

“Wherever you demand,” della Torre said. “Though I think Julius is settled in for the afternoon. Interesting fellow, that Mr. Higgins. A journalist.”

“Oh?” Rebecca said, though she didn’t seem interested.

“At least that’s what he claims to be.”

“I’m sure he is. This is where journalists stay,” she said. “See if you can get Julius up.”

“Thought that was your speciality.”

She flashed him a look of irritation.

“Let’s go,” she said.