Killing Pilgrim (32 page)

“And when you ran the operations, how many killings?”

“There was one in the United States and one in Canada.”

“Who ordered them?”

“Gringo here investigated both — he knows as much about them as I do, more even — but the order came down from the presidency.”

“Directly to you?”

“No, through the
UDBA
hierarchy. I would be passed orders from the head of the
UDBA
, who would get them directly from the presidency. Things became more complicated when I took over; there was more supervision and the black operations involved more paperwork. The parliament took a more direct interest in what the
UDBA
was doing. That’s why Gringo here had a job. To monitor us. But before 1986, when I was head of teams, operations were assigned mostly by verbal command. Much less would be written down, or only in codes where the cipher was in people’s heads. The order then would also come from the presidency, but it would often go through the Dispatcher . . .”

“The Dispatcher?” Rebecca asked.

“He was Tito’s man, and then after Tito’s death the presidency kept him on because he was very efficient at what he did. Belgrade would issue vague orders and he would interpret them and put them into action; he’d organize things. He would say, ‘This person needs to be arrested and put away for this long. It needs to be done quietly.’ Or ‘Do it so everybody knows.’ Or ‘This person needs to be liquidated. Make sure it stands as a lesson.’ Sometimes — not that I have direct experience of this — he would say, ‘This person needs help. Make sure he is successful in his endeavours,’ and that would be done. The person would be given money, or paperwork would be made easier, or he would suddenly be able to hire a very good employee for not a big expense. But the Dispatcher retired in 1986.”

Rebecca was busy taking notes. The Montenegrin spoke freely, but he refused to divulge any names.

“If you wish to use this against me in the international courts, my defence would be that I acted lawfully, according to the rules and laws of Yugoslavia and in the interest of the state. There were unlawful killings, those that were not determined by the whole of the presidency and with the approval of the supreme court, but done on behalf of a single member of the presidency to further his own interests. Those were usually domestic, but sometimes they were done abroad.” He paused for a beat and then added: “But I only ever acted on direct legal orders.”

For the first time, della Torre felt that the Montenegrin was . . . no, not lying, but more than just concealing the truth.

Rebecca had a list of other names — people of Yugoslav ancestry who’d died in the U.S., and U.S. citizens who had been killed abroad — but the Montenegrin couldn’t help. Della Torre knew it was all for show, that the American didn’t really care about the answers. She asked the questions mechanically, with intelligence but without interest. Exactly as a dispassionate bureaucrat might do it. The Montenegrin might not have realized any differently, but della Torre knew that Rebecca was anything but a dispassionate bureaucrat. The interview was a sideline, no more than a ruse. Rebecca didn’t care about what the Montenegrin had done or who he’d done it to or where. Her interest was in the man himself.

As the conversation wound down, the Montenegrin sent a man who had been hovering in the background to tell the woman who cooked for him to start supper. Della Torre watched the man go into the house. In its shadows he saw the girl.

The
Montenegrin followed della Torre’s eyes.

“Snezhana,” he called across the table. “Come, it’s your friend Mr. della Torre, who brought you the German bear.”

The girl shuffled towards them. Her legs, never fully straightened, moved at odd angles. One arm was twisted like a claw in front of her, while the other seemed to act on its own orders. The girl’s head was turned down to one side; her mouth and neck twitched. Her father sat forward in his chair but left her to her own effort, beaming at her progress.

“Isn’t she a clever girl. The doctors said she would never walk, and look at her. Oh, she’ll never win a hundred-metre race, but neither will I. Will I, darling?”

They watched as she made it over to her father and applauded with him when she got close enough for him to lift her on his lap.

“Well done, my angel. And now you can thank Mr. della Torre for the bear, which you’ve been meaning to do since you last saw him.”

With huge effort she stammered out a comprehensible thanks and then went on to ask della Torre how he was. She was like a broken bird, tiny, much smaller than a normal ten-year-old. For a while her father fed her bits of cheese and helped her drink water from his glass and then, when the young man came back to say that their food was almost prepared, the Montenegrin sent his daughter back into the house, watching her the whole way, again fighting the urge to spring to her side.

“Her aunt, who’s cooking for us tonight, will help put her to bed. Though when I’m home, it’s something I like to do,” said the Montenegrin. “She’s named after her mother, who died when she was born. For a long time I used to think I was cursed, that she and her mother were paying for my sins. Maybe they were. But I know now I am blessed. Because this girl is more precious than even my two older daughters. They are normal and ordinary in every way, but this one here, she is exceptional. She never ceases to amaze me.”

“Oh,” Rebecca said politely, her warm smile belying the incredulity that della Torre could see in her eyes. Parents always find something to brag about in their children; they always drive their expectations low enough to find something notable.

“She is one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met,” the Montenegrin said, not noticing Rebecca’s skepticism. But before he could warm to his theme, the food was brought out.

They had fried fish with fried potatoes, boiled chard, and a salad of cucumber, tomatoes, onions, and a hard, salty cheese not unlike a Greek feta. Simple food, well made, that della Torre enjoyed. The clouds had broken up to fill the evening sky with dark reds and oranges and purples above the black mountains.

After they’d eaten, the Montenegrin brought out a couple of unlabelled bottles full of a clear liquid with a pale blue tint. He poured three shots, and with a salutation they knocked them back.

Della Torre found Rebecca puzzling. All evening she’d been drinking her wine ostentatiously; she giggled at the smallest jokes and, though she’d dressed soberly in a suit, he noticed the top of her blouse had fewer buttons done up than when they’d started. They talked some politics but mostly it was about travel, places the Montenegrin had been to that she’d also visited. They talked about London and Paris and Stockholm, New York and Toronto. When she spoke, she put her hand on the Montenegrin’s arm and he returned her bright smiles.

“As fine as your booze is, I have something interesting too,” she said, pulling a bottle of Maker’s Mark out of her bag. “I thought maybe you gentlemen might not have had much experience of old bourbon.”

“How did you get that past the militiaman at the border?” della Torre asked, surprised.

“My little secret,” she giggled.

“Do you have any other secrets?” the Montenegrin asked lightly, though there was an edge to his voice.

“No other secrets. Or not ones I tell to strange men.” Rebecca giggled again. She dipped her chin and looked up at the Montenegrin, that shy, abashed look della Torre had seen before. “It was in my bag all along. He just didn’t look very carefully.”

Della Torre was surprised at her. Except for the night after their firefight with the Bosnians, she’d always drunk moderately in his company. A glass of watered-down wine or two, and no more than a shot of slivovitz. But she’d already had a skinful and was looking like she’d dug in for an evening’s worth.

“Well, in that case, thank you very much,” said the Montenegrin. “I developed a taste for bourbon in America, but there is little opportunity to find it here. Shall we drink a toast?”

He was merry. The interview hadn’t been confrontational; indeed, it had been less of a formality than when della Torre had questioned him in the past. The mugginess of the day had dissipated, and now the evening air was cool and clear. And he was enjoying the company.

“I had better be careful of drinking too much. I still have work to do. You’re never so busy as when you’ve retired,” the Montenegrin said. “But don’t worry yourself, Gringo, we have time. My men won’t be here until after midnight. I’ll sleep on the boat.”

Out of the corner of his eye, della Torre saw Rebecca straighten for a moment. A brief turbulence rippled over her face and then disappeared. When he looked at her, he saw that she was smiling in the relaxed, lazy way of some drunks.

“But you, you must stay,” he said to them. “You cannot drive these mountains after what we’ve drunk, and there’s no hotel in the bay that’s as comfortable as my house. I have plenty of rooms.” The Montenegrin flicked his hand towards the building.

“I couldn’t possibly,” Rebecca said, leaning over the table so that the top of her blouse opened up. “It would be impert — impertinent,” she said. Her speech wasn’t slurred but was a semiquaver slower than usual. Neither of them was fit to drive in these mountains.

“Rebecca’s right,” della Torre said.

“Of course she’s not. I insist. My women will give you a fine breakfast, an American breakfast. Eggs and fried speck. And you’ll have freshly baked bread to soothe your stomachs after tonight, eh?”

Rebecca was leaning back in her chair, eyes half shut, smiling contentedly. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her hair had come loose.

“Maybe it would be best if she took herself off now,” della Torre said, giving in, grateful not to have to risk the drive.

“Of course,” the Montenegrin agreed. He called his man over and told him to fetch his sister-in-law from the house.

A matronly woman with black whiskers above her lip came out. She wore a dark calico print with small deep red flowers. She nodded at the Montenegrin’s request and showed della Torre, who was helping prop Rebecca up, to a room on the same level as the terrace. Della Torre was to have the room next door. He went back out once he saw that Rebecca was settled on the bed, fully clothed.

“My apologies,” he said.

“Never mind,” the Montenegrin said. “Young women weren’t made to drink. It’s a lovely evening, and easy for someone unused to the strength of the liquor to succumb.”

“Yes,” della Torre said uncertainly.

“She is very pretty. Are you sure you have only a professional relationship?” the Montenegrin asked slyly.

“Purely functional.”

“Ah, well. Would that I were a younger man and you were here longer,” he laughed. “My life is complicated enough as it is without having to deal with a lawyer who works for the American government. Just imagine what the divorce would be like.”

Della Torre grinned. “Your offer of breakfast is generous, but I think we’ll leave early, as soon as we wake. It’s best we don’t stay too long.”

“You’ll have to mind the dogs. They are let loose in the courtyard at night. The men need their rest. Besides, nobody comes or goes along this road without my knowing. They’ll be chained up in the morning, even before you wake.”

“You have yourself well organized here.”

“I have to. Belgrade already sent somebody for me. The people who took over from the
UDBA
. They didn’t get far. I think perhaps Gorki is here for the same reason.”

“For you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not only for me. But he will be interested in my welfare. That it does poorly. As I mentioned, we have some bad blood. If he had the opportunity, he’d be quite content to put a bullet or two in me. I have to say, I wondered about you too.”

“Me?”

“You work for the Croats now,” he said. “The dissidents who sit in government in Zagreb have no reason to love me.”

“No. But they have plenty else on their plate to worry about without settling old scores,” della Torre said.

“And Horvat?”

“That I don’t know about. I was asked to bring along Rebecca because she wanted to ask you some questions on behalf of the U.S. government.” Della Torre shrugged, helping himself to a shot of rakija. “It’s nice, this. Smooth.”

“Mine. Made it myself.”

“I just do what I’m told. Like you did. Except my line of work is a little different.”

“Gringo, you say that as if blood doesn’t flow from pens. Trust me, there’s nothing more deadly than a writ signed by a lawyer.”

“Not my pen.”

“Don’t worry, Gringo. I trust you. As much as I trust anyone.”

The clouds had dissipated. In the depths of that walled-in bay, it was like looking at the sky from the bottom of a well. The stars were everywhere, though the moon tried hard to bleach them out.

“It’s good how well Snezhana seems. I’m sorry I didn’t bring her some picture books,” della Torre said.

“Picture books? She reads the most complex novels. Jules Verne, Dumas. I have for her a whole library of them. It’s difficult. She has problems holding her head still and it wearies her, but she makes great efforts and, with a patient nursemaid, reads and reads and reads.”

“Is that so?” Della Torre was genuinely surprised.

“Yes, it is wholly surprising, but I don’t lie when I say she has the finest mind I have ever encountered. She calculates in her brain enormous sums. Ask her eight to the power of three and it takes her longer to speak the answer than it does to figure it out. She doesn’t go to school, but I have a teacher come here three or four days a week to give her lessons in history and geography and anything else that catches her fancy. You saw how she walked. The doctors said she never would. But she has superhuman powers of will. She writes on a computer I bought for her. She writes wonderful stories, really wonderful ones. She understands Italian, speaks it too. And English. I taught her a little, but most of it she learned from watching videos and cartoons. German too. Everything. She has a little Sony Walkman, and I have people send me tapes from Frankfurt and London and other places, and she listens. For hours. Everything sinks in. What she could achieve if her body worked better, it frightens me to think.”

Della Torre smiled. “That’s wonderful.”

“You are skeptical, I know. So would I be too. It is difficult to see until you get to know her, but inside that broken machine is a miracle. The doctors said she would be mentally incompetent. She makes them look like fools. What she understands and observes is incomprehensible to me. She thinks and thinks and thinks. And never does she pity herself. Never.” The Montenegrin said the last word with finality.

“Do you think perhaps she might get better attention somewhere else?” della Torre said gently.

“Yes. She has a sister in Vienna, where they have a very good clinic for children like Snezhana. But she tells me she loves it here. I take her swimming; she enjoys the water. She enjoys the sun. She has no real playmates, but she says she doesn’t mind so long as she has books. What can I say? She is content. I can give to her whatever she demands, and she has aunts and people to help her with her needs.”

“And if something happens to you?”

“Then she’ll be provided for here or in Vienna, as she chooses. And it will be her choice. There’s a lawyer in Belgrade who looks after her interests. He will ensure all goes well.”

“I’m sure you’ll live a long time.”

“Oh, don’t bet on it. I spent too long in the
UDBA
to have any illusions. Eventually somebody will want to be rid of me enough to take the necessary risks.”

“Horvat?”

“Horvat?” The Montenegrin laughed. “Maybe. Though he’s an amateur next to some of the creatures Belgrade has.”

“Gorki.”

“Gorki. Him too, though I’m safe enough from him here. And when I’m on the water, we have some protection from the navy. Not everyone loves his paramilitaries. But there are other ways, and sometimes I have to be on the road.” He made an elaborate gesture of resignation.

“Why? Why Gorki?”

“He fascinates you, this man. Ah, well, the most dangerous, the most extreme criminals are fascinating,” the Montenegrin said, smoothing his fingers though his thick hair as he sat back in the chair. “Why Gorki? For me it was a job. For him, personal. There was a boy who got in the way. I was sorry for it.”

“His?”

“His son? No, not like that. I don’t know what it was. There were rumours about him, of course. That he liked boys in a less than paternal way, if you understand my meaning. It is not unusual among people who spend long periods in prison,” the Montenegrin said. “Gorki was in jail at the time that this happened. I hadn’t realized there was any . . . relationship between them. The boy was useful for a job that needed doing and, unfortunately, was expendable. Though I’m not sure Gorki sees it that way.”