Killing Pilgrim (29 page)

The wind had picked up and the sky was darker, but the rain that had threatened most of the day continued to hold off. They entered through the old city’s massive ramparts. The walls never failed to awe della Torre. The city had been largely rebuilt in the seventeenth century, after an earthquake destroyed much of the medieval fortress. It was hard to believe anything could dent the solidity of those walls.

There were few people in the city’s narrow, straight streets. The smell of rain kept what tourists there were under cover. Higgins and della Torre found a bar built into the wine cellar of a grand house near one of Dubrovnik’s best fish restaurants, and sat on high stools by the window. Both ordered beers. Della Torre lit up a Lucky Strike and offered one to the Canadian, who hesitated before taking it.

“I don’t know if I’m trying to quit or to start,” he said apologetically. “I took it up when I was nineteen to annoy a girlfriend and have been stopping ever since.”

“You couldn’t irritate her any other way?”

“She hated it, and I was trying to be a wounded romantic. Besides, we were in Spain. Everyone smokes in Spain.”

“So what happened?”

“She went off with another guy. In fact that’s why I started smoking, because she kept getting friendly with this guy. I wanted to make a point, not thinking she’d ever dump me.”

“And you were left with a habit and no girl.”

“Exactly. One of the worst trips of my life, and I’ve spent most of my time since university in war zones or shitholes, if you pardon my language.” He paused, catching sight of a man walking down the Dubrovnik alley. “Here they are, or one of them, anyway.”

The lights in the bar were dimmed and the windows small, but even with the storm clouds they could see outside. A man in late middle age passed them. Horvat. He was with someone else. Someone della Torre recognized.

“Any idea who that is with Horvat? Or is it just a bodyguard?” Higgins asked.

“He’s a fellow who goes by the name of Zdenko. Killed the chief of police in eastern Slavonia a couple of weeks back.”

Higgins’ eyebrows jumped. Della Torre was strangely pleased to be able to surprise the journalist with this nugget.

“Heard about that. Can’t remember the cop’s name.”

“Rejkart.”

“I assume the police might like to talk to this fellow.”

“You’d be assuming right. Though it looks like he’s under Horvat’s protection.”

“So Horvat had something to do with the killing?”

“Maybe,” della Torre said. Like an iceberg maybe had something to do with the
Titanic
.

“Shall we order another beer and see if anyone else comes along?” Higgins asked.

“I was just thinking how thirsty I am,” della Torre said, but stopped short of calling the bartender over. John Dawes and Rebecca were passing in front of the bar on the way to the same restaurant.

“Isn’t that your pretty American friend?”

“A coincidence, I’m sure.”

“It is Dubrovnik’s best restaurant. No reason she shouldn’t be going, though it looks like a double date,” Higgins said.

“Yes,” della Torre said. “Shall we see if it’s a coincidence?”

They ambled across the Stradun, its paving stones smoothed to a perfect sheen by generations of pedestrians.

They looked in the windows of the restaurant but saw no sign of Horvat or the Americans. Della Torre went in and spoke to the maitre d’, who told them the guests were in a private dining room and he could leave them a message, hinting there might be a price for the service. Della Torre declined, saying he thought the woman looked like an actress he’d seen in a film.

Deciding not to loiter, della Torre and Higgins wandered over to another, cheaper place for dinner. Overhead, an enormous flock of starlings took over the heavy dusk, wheeling through the alleyways and down the Stradun.

“How’d you know Horvat was coming?”

“A waiter friend of my waiter friend.”

“Sounds like you’ve got diligent spies.”

“I pay well.”

“And Horvat being in Dubrovnik was of interest?” della Torre asked.

“Horvat being in Dubrovnik when I know there are gun trades going on is of interest. For war reporters, gun running is an interesting business. Because it usually leads to gun shooting. And when two sides are doing the shooting, sounds an awful lot like war. And when Canadian citizens who happen to be ministers in foreign governments are involved, especially citizens who own well-known pizza chains? I can see the headlines now. ‘Dough Bullets. Daily .45 Specials. Fully Loaded Pizzas. Kalashnikovs to Go.’ That he’s associating with a cop killer makes it all the more interesting.”

“You know, I suspect you could do this for a living.”

“Mighty kind of you to say. After dinner, what do you think about finding your friend Mr. Strumbić? He’s entertaining. And informative.”

“And I suppose you know where he is?”

“No,” the Canadian cowboy said. “But I know where he will be.”

The
ringing woke him. It was persistent, refusing to stop even when he hid his head under the pillow. When he finally struggled into consciousness, the telephone made itself hard to find.

“You awake?” It was Rebecca.

“Not yet,” he said. “What time is it?”

“Time to get up. I just put Julius and John on an airplane, and now we start dealing with today.”

“What time did you wake up Julius?”

“About two hours ago.”

“He must have been happy.”

“You could have got drunk licking him,” she said.

“Would have poisoned you first.”

“Have a shower, get some breakfast, and then come up to my room.”

Della Torre hung up. He winced at the pain in his head, at the foul taste in his mouth, and the memory of the previous evening. Sometimes he wished he was one of those people whose minds went blank.

It had been him and Higgins and Strumbić. They had found Strumbić at a cellar bar in one of the houses in the thick of Dubrovnik’s landward alleys. Dark lighting and red fabrics. Strumbić was happy to see them both. They drank to the loud music, mostly metal from the 1970s. Della Torre particularly remembered the Led Zeppelin and Deep Purple, songs to which the bar’s patrons, long-haired types in leather, knew all the words. Half-hearted graffiti marked the stone walls. Someone had inked the words “Pink Rock.”

He pointed it out to Higgins.

“Maybe they were thinking floral,” Higgins said. “The Six Pistils. No, the colours would Clash. Maybe Dead-heading the Kennedy Roses. Or Big Black Dahlia, or the . . . shit, can’t think of how to work the Ramones into this. I’m losing my touch.”

“I can promise you that I haven’t got the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about,” della Torre said.

“Never mind. They’re bad puns about difficult-listening music of the ’70s.”

Strumbić introduced them to his girl from Zagreb. She was tall and young and slutty in the way Strumbić liked them, with lots of makeup, big breasts, pretty if strong features, and a low-cut blouse. Strumbić had arrested her twice in Zagreb on vice charges but had let her off with a warning. He said.

There were a few other girls like her in the bar, which was surprisingly full for how early in the evening it was. The three men drank shots of slivovitz. Higgins went to the other side of the room to talk to one of the patrons he’d recognized.

“How do you feel about having to go back to Zagreb tomorrow?” della Torre asked.

Strumbić gave an elaborate shrug and then grinned, tapping his nose. “Maybe it’ll be a flying visit.”

“Any idea why they want you out of here?”

“Don’t know, other than they’re pricks and they got what they wanted out of me.”

“You mean about the Montenegrin?”

“That and a stay in Šipan.”

“I don’t get it. What did we do there?”

“I don’t either. I don’t believe the stuff about wanting to see if the Bosnians taking potshots at us had friends. Or not entirely. She hadn’t lined the place up for that. Nothing about these people makes much sense to me.”

“Higgins says you’ve got an interesting deal going on down here. Mind telling me what?”

“None of your fucking business, and Higgins shouldn’t have been talking to you.”

“Smart guy. He’s been here for a couple of weeks and knows more than the whole local police force already,” della Torre said. “So what’s your deal? Women? Drugs? Guns?”

Strumbić laughed. “Gringo, what kind of criminal do you take me for?”

“One with a practised eye for a lucrative deal and an easy piece of ass. So what is it?”

“CDs.”

“What?”

Strumbić pointed to the big floor speakers in the corner of the bar. “Shit we’re listening to now.”

“Compact discs?” The technology had only just started making modest inroads among Croatia’s wealthy. Della Torre was surprised there was any market.

“Yup,” Strumbić said. “Bloody expensive. But Higgins knows a man who runs a boat from Istanbul to Bari.”

“And?”

“He’s got these machines back in Turkey that copy CDs. Copies them, packs them up, and sells them to the Italians. Once he’s in international waters off Dubrovnik, he’ll drop them off with somebody who’ll run them to shore for me.”

“How the hell does Higgins know this Turk?”

“Met him in Bulgaria or somewhere. I don’t know. How the hell does he know me or you?”

Della Torre thought about how easily and smoothly Higgins had inveigled his way into their acquaintance. He was a man who seemed to know how to find informative people.

“So you talked to this Turk?” della Torre said.

“Sure did. He’ll make a dry run. He’ll get one of his usual smugglers to drop off some samples for me next week. If it’s agreeable, we’ve got a business. He’ll do whatever CDs I want. All I’ve got to do is figure out which ones are going to sell. I know some people in Zagreb who’ll distribute them for me. Plenty of out-of-work pimps needing a bit of cash.”

“Which is why our ears are bleeding now?” della Torre asked.

“Oh, it’s not so bad. And it makes the girls hot. And when they’re hot, they start jiggling.”

“One day I’m going to have a word with Mrs. Strumbić.”

“Gringo, I’d rather you just shot me in the leg.”

They had a wary laugh. Both had grown hoarse talking over the music and so they just drank, played some pool, pretended to dance with the girls, and drank some more. Della Torre wasn’t sure what time they’d made their way back to the hotel, but he remembered walking in the rain, singing “House of the Rising Sun,” swapping Dubrovnik for New Orleans in the lyrics.

It wasn’t until Rebecca woke him that he realized how much he’d drunk the previous night. A quick swim and a breakfast of black coffee brought him close enough to life to be able to face her.

She looked amused when she answered the door. “Heard you singing last night.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Well, come in.”

She had a big suite with a view to Lokrum, Dubrovnik’s island. Bill and Rob were sitting on the balcony, drinking coffee. Rebecca handed della Torre his passport.

“See, I told you you’d get it back.”

“Thanks,” he said, flipping through it. He stopped at some newly stamped pages. On one was an endorsed Croatian visa. On another a visa to enter Yugoslavia. Della Torre looked up.

“Oh, we thought you might like to travel as an American. That way if something happens, the State Department can get you out.” Rebecca said it in a chipper way, but della Torre understood. Whatever happened, the American government had made sure it could get hold of him. And keep hold of him.

“Gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling,” he said.

“Maybe you can do something for me now?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve bright lights or loud noises.”

“That bad, eh? Well, we’re not heading off until this afternoon, so you’ve got time to recover. But first I’d like you to go down to the hotel kitchen and get me a whole fillet steak, one of those long, thin cuts of meat. Think you can do that?”

“Developed a taste for beef?”

“You might say.”

“How do you want it cooked?”

“Raw, please. Get it cut into four chunks. And see if you can get them to put it in a strong plastic bag with a good seal. I don’t want it bleeding all over the place. Here’s some cash, unless you can get them to charge it to your room.” She handed over a sheaf of Deutschmarks.

He came back straightaway, the meat wrapped in newspaper and a couple of plastic shopping bags. It had taken a substantial bribe to get the catering people to give it to him. They demanded to know why he wanted it, seeing as they had an excellent chef and a very good kitchen that would prepare it any way he liked. He told them the American redhead staying on the top floor liked to rub raw meat on her breasts to keep them looking young. But it was the money that shut them up.

Bill and Rob had spread out photographs on a table, along with a detailed map of the Bay of Kotor. Della Torre was called over to have a look. There were pictures of the Montenegrin, of his house and his village from various vantage points, some on the water, some from higher up.

“If your people can get these, what do you need me for?” he asked.

“Oh, our people didn’t. They’re mostly from your people. They come from
UDBA
files. Though Bill and Rob filled in some gaps,” Rebecca said.

Della Torre looked through the photographs. She was right. They’d have needed unusually good access.

“Recognize all this?” she asked.

“Yes.” He’d been there not long after the Montenegrin had retired. Before that, the interviews had always been held in Zagreb or at the Montenegrin’s offices in Belgrade.

“You’ve been there before, haven’t you?”

“Once.”

“Tell me how you approached the village and the house, and what you did with your car.”

“Well, the usual way would be to follow the coast road until you get to the main border crossing. Then you go to Herceg Novi.” Della Torre traced the main road south with his finger. He was pretty sure they’d be turned back. Politely but firmly. And that would be the end of that.

“What about this?” asked Rebecca, pointing to a little route through the mountains. It was the route the Montenegrin had recommended and the one Higgins used to cross the border. He should have figured she’d know about it.

“Smugglers who know the local cops use it, but it’s the best bet. We’d be pretty unlucky to get shot at,” he said.

Rebecca nodded but didn’t say any more.

“Anyway, once we’re across we just follow the main road in to the bay. There’s not a lot of choice of how to get in,” he said.

The Bay of Kotor was one of nature’s wonders. The outer bay was shaped like a plumber’s bend, leading from the Adriatic into a harbour ringed by rocky hills. On the north shore was the port town Herceg Novi, overlooked by its angular, thick-walled fourteenth-century castle. The inland end of the outer bay narrowed into a tight channel, guarded on either side by steep escarpments, that led into the inner bay. The inner bay looked like a fjord transplanted to the Mediterranean, completely surrounded by the sharp-edged black mountains for which Montenegro was named. It was nature’s equivalent of Dubrovnik’s walled harbour, but on a much grander scale. Its defensive attributes made it a natural home for the Yugoslav navy; the dark mouths of submarine pens opened into the bay’s secret corners.

The ancient and pretty town of Kotor, still being rebuilt after the earthquake that had destroyed the area a dozen years before, sat at the far end. Opposite Kotor and across the water, in one of the bay’s other small inlets was the Montenegrin’s village. The navy dissuaded tourists from visiting much of the inner bay. The steepness of the mountains meant that nearly all traffic went by boat or along the meandering road that wound its way around the bay, only just above where water met raw limestone.

“As far as I know, the Yugoslav navy hasn’t reinstated its travel restrictions. Up until the ’70s you’d have to go through a checkpoint to get into the inner bay, and you’d have to have a pretty good reason to be there. But that’s neither here nor there for us, because the Montenegrin has his own security.

“As defensive positions go, you don’t get much better. His people will know about every car before it gets within ten kilometres of the house. You could come in by water, but the neck of the bay is so narrow you’d have to get past half the Yugoslav navy first. And anyway, he’ll have his informants there too.

“It’s too mountainous for planes or parachutists, and helicopters wouldn’t have anywhere to land, never mind the weird thermals. Even if some enemy force did make it in, he’s got lots of deep ravines to hide in. This is his house,” della Torre said, shifting his attention to a high-resolution aerial photograph, “the highest one in the village. It has good views. It’s not far up the hill, but the road to the house is steep. Most people park down at the bottom and walk up.” He paused, sifting through some of the surveillance photographs of the Montenegrin’s house. “These ones weren’t taken by the
UDBA
.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because they were taken with a telephoto. A very powerful telephoto. The
UDBA
wouldn’t have needed to do that.”

“You’re right.”

“They’re recent as well.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Banner,” he said, pointing to a corner of the photograph.

“Well spotted. Yes, it was taken in the spring.”

“Around the time you were organizing your visit to my father?”

“Bingo.”

He nodded. They’d had it all planned out. Get to the Montenegrin through della Torre. And get to della Torre through his father.

Della Torre straightened, turning to look out over the Adriatic at the forbidding sky.

“So what normally happens when somebody arrives at Djilas’s house? How does he welcome guests?” she asked.

“Like Strumbić said, he’s got somebody at the gate.”

“Day and night?”

“I was only there the one time.”

One of the Americans spoke up. “Two men keep sentry during the day; they disappear at night. Then, as far as we know, one man stays at the little cottage at the entrance to the courtyard. It’s sort of a gatehouse. The overnight security seems to be just the two dogs that they let loose in the courtyard. I suppose they’re there to wake up the guy in the cottage.”