Killing Pilgrim (31 page)

“Montenegro. Black mountains,” della Torre said.

“They’re something. You feel hemmed in here, don’t you.”

“You can only get in or out of this bay along the shore road or on one that goes east, up across the mountains.” Della Torre pointed towards the opposite corner of the bay. “But that inland road just takes you deeper into Montenegro.”

“There’s a track on the map, seems to go straight up the mountain, on this side. Little town or village at the bottom. Just where the channel opens into the bay. If you trace it all the way up, it joins with the road to the little border crossing we used, doesn’t it,” Rebecca said.

Della Torre opened the detailed survey map in front of him. “There’s a track that goes up from this side of the mountain and another one that goes up the other side. It finishes up not too far from the border post we used, but they don’t actually meet up.”

“So what’s in between?”

“Meadows? Fields? Pastureland? Something like that,” della Torre said, wondering why Rebecca had committed the route to memory.

“Let’s have a look.”

“Those little mountain roads are terrible. If somebody doesn’t run you off the road, you end up in some ditch or in a house-sized pothole. These maps ought to come with a health warning.”

“We’ve got time to do a little exploring.”

Della Torre shrugged, knowing better than to protest. He didn’t particularly want to be at the mercy of a local farmer or militiaman if they got stuck. But better that than carry on to the Montenegrin’s. So he used the map to guide them through the waterside village, counting off the little side streets and alleys until he found the unmarked turning to the track up the mountainside.

“Why do you ask me for advice if you already know what you’re going to be doing?” della Torre asked.

“To make you feel useful.”

“Thanks.”

They left the road that wound its way around the bay and followed a series of alpine hairpins, always rising. The road was asphalted until they passed the last houses, and then it became a rutted gravel track. The Hilux bounced up to what proved to be a steep pass. They stopped at the top and pulled over on a rocky verge. Della Torre got out of the truck and lit a cigarette. The clouds had started to break up and the landscape opened below them, heady scenery of brush and rock ending in the bay’s deep metallic blue waters.

“I think I like this road,” Rebecca said, stretching.

She stood with her toes over the edge of the steep escarpment. Della Torre steered clear of precipices. People overestimate risks they have no control over and underestimate the ones they can do something about. Falling down a cliff face, he figured, was something worth avoiding.

They got back into the truck and reversed back onto the track, della Torre’s heart in his mouth and his feet grinding hard into an imaginary brake and clutch as Rebecca cut the corner so fine that one of the back wheels seemed to spin in empty space.

Then they drove on up the mountain until they finally reached a meadow, where two flattened grooves marked a route through hip-high stalks of dried yellow grass. It would have been too much for most cars, but the Hilux managed. They drove through the fields until they once again reached track; the path they’d taken connected the two sides of the mountain.

“I can’t see why everybody doesn’t use this shortcut,” Rebecca said, putting the Hilux through a five-point turn to head back in the direction they’d come from.

Because most people worry about replacing their exhaust manifolds
, della Torre thought to himself.

They bounced their way back up through the high mountain meadow and down the hairpins, the track forever threatening to crumble into a cascade of rock at the bends. They reached the main road along the bay and continued their journey until they were at the far side of the inner bay. The road there had been carved out of rock, threading its way between mountain and water.

“The Montenegrin has a real fortress here. They’ll have been watching us coming for the past half-hour, wondering what we were doing going up the mountainside.”

“We’ll have to tell him we got lost,” Rebecca said.

Della Torre laughed.

“I’m sure we’re not the first people who’ve gone up there to get a view of the bay,” she said.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

She slowed down coming into the Montenegrin’s little fishing village. Della Torre suggested she park just off the main road, next to a little pebble beach, but Rebecca turned left and drove up the slope, making the Hilux’s engine whine as the grade steepened.

“This it?” she asked when they reached the end of the path, deftly balancing the truck, pointed skyward towards the mountain’s high peak, with clutch and accelerator. A young man with black hair was standing by a low steel gate that opened onto a courtyard.

“This is it. Pull up to the side of the house and put the truck in gear. If it rolls backwards, you’d better hope the Hilux floats.”

“Don’t worry about the truck,” she said, parking it next to a recent-model white Ford Bronco. It was the first American car they’d seen in Montenegro.

Della
Torre took the bag of biscuits and booze that the militiaman at the border had refrained from stealing. Rebecca carried a straw shoulder bag. The man at the gate gave their bags a cursory search and asked them if they were armed. He looked them over with a practised eye. From somewhere behind the house came the rattle of heavy chains and the deep, throaty sound of dogs baying at the visitors’ strange scent.

The young man shut the gate behind them with a solid clang as the Montenegrin briskly took the stairs down from the house’s raised terrace.

“Gringo, how good to see you,” he said, gripping della Torre’s hand and grasping his shoulder at the same time. “Apologies for my dogs, but you can never be too careful. They’re being taken to the back barn. It’ll shut them up. Fine truck you’ve got there.”

“You too,” della Torre said.

Ever since he’d first met the man, all those years ago in his student digs in London, the Montenegrin triggered a ripple of . . . was it fear? . . . in della Torre.

“Need them around here. They’re good, the Broncos. I’ve got another one at my son-in-law’s. The Mercedes I don’t dare drive up here anymore. I park that down in the village. Forgot to leave it in gear one day and almost had to go fishing for it. Can you imagine what the bill would have looked like getting that cleaned up?” Della Torre whistled appreciatively. The Montenegrin had an S-Class saloon. “But I like those Hiluxes.”

“They’re not bad. We picked up ours on a whim, you might say, but we’ve been happy with it,” della Torre said, and then switched to English. “Sorry. Mr. Djilas, this is Rebecca Vees.”

“How do you do,” the Montenegrin replied in accented but clear English. He was as tall as della Torre, but more solidly built. His face was tanned and lined, his eyes dark, almost black. A neat greying moustache covered his lip. “Shame about the weather, but at least it’s not raining. Was a real pig last night. We were on the water, though it felt more like we were under it,” the Montenegrin said.

“I just caught the start of the storm,” della Torre said.

“Well, you were up late, then. Pissed down around three o’clock. Didn’t last all that long, but it was damn wet,” the Montenegrin said in Serbo-Croat. “Excuse me, I will talk English now. I forget sometimes,” he said to Rebecca.

“That’s fine. I brought my translator,” she said, offering the Montenegrin one of her most vibrant smiles. He was a good-looking man and not unused to women’s attention, but he still took her smile with pleasure.

“I brought a few little things,” della Torre said. “I know you pensioners get thirsty lounging around in the sun, and here’s something for the lady of the house.” Della Torre handed over the bottle and the biscuits. “If I remember correctly, these are the biscuits your daughter likes.”

“You have an excellent memory, Gringo. She will be very pleased. Very pleased. She doesn’t often come to say hello to guests, but she remembers you fondly. She still has that German toy bear you brought her. But for me, you shouldn’t have. This is nice slivovitz, but you’ll see the rakija we make here is even more special,” he said, with real warmth.

They went up the stairs to a shaded table on the terrace, laid with sliced ham, salami, and cheese with red pepper, radishes, and tomatoes that glowed with ripeness.

“Something to nibble on. It’s early yet for dinner. Come, you’ll have some wine and we’ll try the slivovitz and rakija later.”

They sat and exchanged pleasantries, della Torre and Rebecca admiring the dramatic view of the bay, its looming mountains and sparkling waters made fierce by the red evening light.

“It seems that troops are building up in the mountains,” della Torre said.

The Montenegrin nodded and then shrugged. “What they want with Dubrovnik, I don’t know.”

“It’s attracting some strange types. Gorki’s paramilitaries are down here.”

“Yes, I heard. They’re not welcome,” the older man said.

“I once heard a rumour that there was friction between the two of you,” della Torre ventured. He tried to sound casual but heard the tension in his voice.

“I don’t think we ever met, though he might say different. There was a time when I came into contact with any number of petty criminals,” the Montenegrin said, dismissing della Torre’s weak volley.

“Didn’t you work with him?”

“No. He worked for people at the firm but not for me. Someone dear to him was once . . .” The Montenegrin paused, careful with his words. “Damaged. As part of a special operation I was involved in. Nothing we ever discussed. It wouldn’t ever have been part of your investigative remit. And nothing that is relevant to our conversation this evening. Anyway, that is the source of his grievance.”

“The
UDBA
always kept him at arm’s length. They never used him on any big jobs, as far as I know. What was wrong with him?” della Torre asked.

“You mean besides being a psychotic? He was stupid. Took stupid risks. Even for a criminal he made unacceptable mistakes.”

“And yet Belgrade now loves him.”

“Ah . . . Cometh the hour, cometh the man. And the hour that’s coming is a time of monsters. Even so . . .” The Montenegrin shrugged and smiled, staring off into the distance. Rebecca continued to listen quietly. Della Torre found it uncanny how unobtrusive she’d made herself, sitting back in her chair so that she was out of the Montenegrin’s immediate line of sight, her expression mild.

“So you’re not involving yourself?” della Torre said.

“As long as the war doesn’t come to me, I am staying out of it. I am happy fishing.”

“I hear you fish up some interesting things.”

“I hear a Zagreb cop was in Dubrovnik asking about me. Anything to do with you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“So what did he tell you?”

“That you fish Chinese guns from the Adriatic, among other things.”

The Montenegrin smiled. “Your friend is a capable cop, then.”

“Lucrative business, isn’t it? The Croats need guns.”

“Could be better. But I don’t sell to Croats.”

“Oh?”

“No. They’re the enemy, I’m told. I’m a wholesaler. The people I deal with do retail. Who they then sell on to is none of my business.”

“I see. So why’s business poor? I thought it’d be booming.”

“It was. But it seems somebody is trying to nudge his way into this little corner of the market.”

“And who might that be?”

The Montenegrin laughed. “Gringo, I’ve never known you to be naive or ill-informed.”

“He was in Dubrovnik last night.” Della Torre looked at Rebecca, who was nibbling some bread. She smiled as if oblivious as to what they were talking about.

“Was he now? He’s made a habit of spending holiday time down here,” the Montenegrin said.

“And in Vukovar.”

“Who?” Rebecca piped up. She spoke with that naive, cheerful ignorance that della Torre had seen briefly when he first met her at his father’s, and then again when he introduced her to Strumbić. She liked it when men underestimated her.

“Croatia’s new deputy defence minister. A Mr. Horvat,” said the Montenegrin, in an accommodating way. “But we’re not here to talk about my business. You have questions to ask of me.”

“Oh, yes, that would be terrific. Get all the bureaucracy out of the way,” Rebecca said in a bubbly tone, like a Hollywood ingenue. Della Torre noticed how effortlessly she vaulted from the background to the centre of the conversation. “It really is just filling in history. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that U.S. government law enforcement doesn’t like mysteries. And if we can clear them up, well, that gets me a promotion. As for what we’d do in return, we would be happy to talk about a plea deal in exchange for your testimony, if you ever happened to travel to the States . . .”

The Montenegrin laughed.

“And we wouldn’t look to extradite you if you travelled to other European countries.”

Here the Montenegrin held up a hand. “That’s not necessary. Most European governments would be more than happy to put me on trial themselves without having to pay the price of a flight to New York. In my time, the
UDBA
was active across the continent. I will talk to you because sometimes it is useful that people should think I have friends.”

She pulled a plastic file folder and a yellow legal pad out of her straw bag.

“Really I ought to be recording this, but Marko said not to bring any electronics, just in case.”

Della Torre looked surprised but Rebecca just smiled at him.

“I’ve become too cautious in my old age. I guess I saw what happened to too many people who had senior positions in my department,” the Montenegrin said soothingly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will talk slowly and clearly. Ask away.”

She went through the formalities, asking for his full name, date of birth, when he’d worked for the
UDBA
, and his rank and responsibility at each point.

“So we know now that since the late ’70s you were an officer in the liquidation squad and that in 1985 you became head of the department and then retired in 1989. During that time were you directly involved in the deaths of American citizens or of anyone on American soil?”

“American citizens, no, I don’t believe so. Though I can’t be sure one or two of the people we will be discussing were not dual nationals. Because I speak good English, or maybe not so good but better than most Yugoslavs, I was from the start involved in directing operations in the English-language countries and in the Nordic countries, because they often speak English there and because we had no senior people fluent in Nordic languages. We had people who spoke Dutch and German, so those were not my responsibilities until I took over the department. In 1978 we had one operation in the United States. In 1979 we had two operations in Canada and two in the United States. I was involved in all of those, together with a liaison in the Yugoslav embassy who was an
UDBA
officer but not part of the black operations squad.”

“Black operations?” Rebecca asked innocently.

“Liquidations. Killings. Internally we called it black operations and sometimes wetworks.”

“Oh.”

From memory, he listed names, locations, and dates; he gave the code names of the assassination teams but wouldn’t give the names of the people who had pulled the trigger.

“That you will not get from me. Most of these people are criminals, but they were acting under legal orders just as I was.”

“You seem to remember these things well,” she said.

“When you have a hand in death, you remember,” he said.

“Who gave the orders?”

“They came from the presidency, down to my superiors in the
UDBA
— even when they renamed it the
SDB
, we called it
UDBA
— and then I helped to organize or supervise the operations. I arranged whatever equipment was necessary — guns, cars, money. Everything was accounted for.”

“How did you come into the United States?”

“On a Yugoslav passport. Not my own, but an official one in different names. Usually with residency stamps for a western European country, so that I could say I was going to the United States on holiday. I would always be given a visa.”

“Never turned down?”

“No. I had money and a ticket out of the country. Why would they refuse a tourist? Or someone going on a business trip?”

“What kind of business?”

“Bookbinding. I know a little bit about that. As a boy I was apprenticed into the trade. That’s what I would tell them. I am going to such-and-such a library to look at their bindings. Or book preservation. Or something like that. Who would refuse entry to a bookbinder with a bit of money?”

“And then?”

“And then I would establish myself in the same town as the target or the nearest big city, rent an apartment in a big building, and organize the operations. Usually we would get any specialist equipment through the diplomatic pouch or I would buy a gun from an official gun dealer. In the United States this was very easy. No problem. In Canada, I would have to bring the gun from the United States or from the embassy in Ottawa. In Europe it is a little more difficult to arrange, but not much.”

“And?”

“Before the job, sometimes for months before, we would have someone in the target’s community making trouble. Telling stories about the target so that there was confusion about his intentions, or even an idea that he was an agent provocateur acting on behalf of the
UDBA
, or that he wanted to start another faction away from the consensus. Something like that. News would rise to the local police authorities and they would think, ‘Oh, no, another quarrelsome émigré.’

“Then the team would be assembled. Usually no more than three or four, though sometimes it was a sole agent. We would use people with criminal backgrounds so that if they were caught, the Yugoslav government could distance itself from the operation. They would usually meet me or another agent for a detailed briefing of what we wanted and how and when it could be achieved. They would then do a little groundwork and then do the job.

“When the job was done, we’d all leave pretty quickly. The authorities almost always put the killing down to ordinary criminal activity or to rivalries within the émigré community. Sometimes it was made to look like an accident, but usually the presidency wanted to send a clear message so that there would be no mistaking why someone was killed, at least among the émigrés. That would serve a dual function. The local police would think the dissidents were paranoid and crazy, and the dissidents would be terrified and at odds with each other. It was a very good system.”