Zagreb Cowboy (19 page)

“Tell me.”

“Do you see that little wooden bookcase beside you?”

Della
Torre
looked at the simple
three-shelf stand,
then turned his attention back to her, puzzled.

“Think you can pick it up?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. Only the bottom shelf was full, a few broken-spined paperbacks skulked on the other two.

“Pull it out from the wall a little. Then get behind it and pick it up.”

“Pick it up?”

“Pick it up and don’t let any of the books fall off,” she said. There was a determined air about her, a hard, metallic edge, despite her obvious unease.

He did as she demanded: stood behind the bookcase and picked it up. It was heavier than he’d thought. His back didn’t thank him. Nor did his ribs or knee.

“Now put it on your feet,” she said.

“On my feet?” He looked down at his bare toes and couldn’t avoid wincing. “Is that really necessary? I mean —”

“If you want to talk, you keep that bookcase on your feet. Otherwise I go straight down to the porter and he calls the police.”

Looking at her, he knew there’d be no give. He shrugged and then regretted it; the muscles in his shoulders complained at the weight. So he lowered the case onto the tops of his feet, taking some of the strain with his arms to prevent it from crushing his arches and to keep the books from piling onto the floor.

“I see a book fall and I’m out of here,” she said.

He made a poor attempt at a smile. This was going to be a painful conversation.

“So talk now.” She’d regained control of her voice but tugged on her clothes nervously.

“My clothes are in the machine, the rest were stolen from me this morning when I came in from the airport. I didn’t know this was your dressing gown. I didn’t know anyone was living here. Strumbić didn’t tell me.”

“Who is Strumbić?”

“Strumbić? Julius Strumbić? He’s the owner. He owns this place.”

“I know the owner and his name isn’t Strumbić.”

“Not Strumbić?”

“No.”

She had wavy flaxen hair down to her shoulders and the bluest eyes he could ever remember seeing. She was slim and small-breasted. Her skin was pale, though her cheeks had coloured, and she had full, red lips. He’d have put her in her late twenties, thirty tops.

“You wouldn’t happen to be the agent who handles this place for Strumbić, would you?”

“I’m an agent. But I don’t know anyone named Strumbić.”

“He’s about forty years old, a couple of centimetres shorter than you, big belly. The hair’s thinning a bit, but it’s mostly curly and sort of sandy coloured. Piggy eyes, fat cheeks, and smokes constantly. He might have tried to pinch your bottom. That’s his style, anyway. Carries a big roll of cash and likes to show it off.” His lower back was aching and the edge of the wood was cutting into the tops of his feet.

“It sounds like the owner. But that’s not his name. I suggest you get your clothes and leave before I call the porter and he calls the police.”

“The porter?”

“Yes, the one downstairs. How did you get past him?”

“I didn’t see anyone downstairs.”

“Well, he’ll hear about this,” she said. “Anyway, it was nice to meet you but really it’s time for you to go.”

He was tempted to leave, if only to get out from under the bookcase, but he kept at her.

“Just out of curiosity, what right do you have to be here? You know the owner. Are you a tenant?”

“This isn’t about my right to be here. This is about you having to go now.”

“I’m just curious. You see, Police Constable Nicholas, who drove me here this morning, knows that I’m staying at a friend’s place. He saw that I had the keys and he knew that I’d flown in this morning. So I think he’d vouch for me. I could also give Strumbić a call, and he could call your office and confirm that he offered to let me stay,” he said, hoping the strain from holding the bookcase meant his eyes didn’t give away the bluff. “Could you get the owner to agree that you’ve got the right to be here? Whoever that might be.”

She contemplated him.

“Why don’t you call down to the porter and tell him to come up in half an hour or twenty minutes if you don’t call back down again,” he said. “That way you’ll know a rescuer is at hand. And then why don’t you shut the door and sit down and we can talk, and I can take this thing off my feet before it cripples me.”

Her eyes didn’t leave him. She ran her hand over her forearm. She took a deep breath and then shut the door behind her.

“So what does he call himself, the owner of this very nice apartment?” he asked.

“Julius Smirnoff.”

“Like the vodka?”

“Yes. He said that it had been a family business.”

Della Torre laughed. “You could certainly say it runs in his veins. But so does just about any alcohol you could name, and some you couldn’t. Can I take this thing off my feet before they start looking like flippers?”

She barely nodded.

“I didn’t think it was his real name.”

Della Torre edged his feet out from under the case and then settled it on the floor. He shook each foot a little and balled and unballed his fists to work the blood back into them.

“What did he say he did?” he asked, edging his way from behind the bookcase but not moving any closer to the woman.

“He said he was a businessman. He’s from east Europe, but he wouldn’t say where.”

“I can tell you that he’s a businessman. Whatever else he is, he’s certainly a businessman. A Yugoslav businessman.”

“Maybe that explains the contact address.”

“Oh?”

“We handle his affairs, his bills and things, but we send invoices and statements to an address in Mestre — that’s just outside of Venice. That’s not too far from Yugoslavia.”

“I know, I came through it last night. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Henrietta. Henrietta Martingale. Everyone calls me Harry.”

“How do you do, Harry. I’m Marko della Torre. Nobody calls me Marko.” He held his hand out but she showed no interest.

“What do they call you, then?”

“Plenty that’s unprintable. But you can stick to della Torre.”

“How do you do . . . della Torre. You’re American, or you sound American, but not completely.”

“You’re right. I’m American. But the accent’s changed a little. I grew up in Yugoslavia and spent most of a year here as a student. I did international law in London.”

“Is that what you are? A lawyer?”

“Yes. Among other things.”

“What might those other things be?”

“Oh, I find things out. Are you going to call the porter?”

“No. I think we’ll be fine for now.”

“So you live here. Does Strumbić know?”

“No. Are you going to tell him?”

“No. He and I . . . well, we’ve got what you might call an on-again, off-again friendship. We’re off again.”

“So how did you get the keys?”

“Long story.”

“Entertain me.”

“Mind if I smoke while I do?”

“Yes.”

“Do you tell Strumbić not to smoke in his own place?” He hoped he hadn’t damaged his feet. Holding the case up had made his rib hurt again. And his knee was still swollen.

“No. But I air it out when he leaves.”

“Do you mind if I sit? I was in a car accident a couple of days ago and I’m still sore,” he said.

Her face registered a brief flash of concern but then she brought it back under control. He could see her thinking it probably served him right.

“So how do you rig it? I mean, staying here without him knowing?” he asked.

“He calls about a week before he comes, and I move out until he leaves.”

“All your stuff?”

“Most of it stays, except the clothes.”

“How do you explain it away?”

“I offered to furnish the place and he liked what I did.”

“He bought all this furniture?”

“Oh, no. I took it when I moved out of the place I was sharing with a banker boyfriend. He owned the flat and I owned everything in it.”

“Don’t tell me: Strumbić bought this place around the same time that you split with your boyfriend and it was just too tempting to move in, seeing as he was never going to be here.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“So what happens when he moves here permanently?”

“It doesn’t sound like he will for a while. That’s what he told me. It was for his retirement and he didn’t look that old. But when he does, I’ll move out and take my stuff with me.”

“So what’ll you tell him? Sorry, but your furniture is gone? Here’s a camp bed?”

“He’s renting the furniture for now, just to keep the place homey.”

Della Torre stared at Harry, astonishment washing over him like a cold shower. “He’s renting the furniture from you?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re not paying him to stay here?”

“No.”

“How much is he paying you?”

“Not much. Just a couple of hundred a month. That’s all.”

“He’s paying you a couple of hundred pounds a month so that you can live in his flat.”

“He’s not paying me to live here. He’s paying for the furniture.”

Communism was a pig of a system, but at least he understood it. Capitalism was something else. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do,” Harry said. She walked round and opened the window behind della Torre. “So where are you planning on staying?” She sat down at the far end of the table, away from him.

“You seem to have a comfortable spare bedroom.”

“That’s for friends.”

“Of Strumbić’s?”

“Of mine. You were going to tell me how you got the keys.”

“I wasn’t, but I will. I stole them. Sorry, that’s not right. They were on the ring with the
BMW
key when I . . . um . . . borrowed his car.”

“You stole his car?”

“No, he lent it to me.”

“I thought you said you weren’t on speaking terms.”

“Only temporarily. We had a little disagreement, but I’m sure it’s fine now.”

“I see.”

“But really, we’re old friends. That’s why he said I could stay here.”

“He said he’d always be in touch before he came. He didn’t say anything about lending the apartment to friends.”

Della Torre shrugged. “Maybe he forgot . . . I have to say, you took it well, finding a stranger in your apartment wearing your dressing gown.”

“My school taught us to be prepared for every situation.”

“Some school. For commandos, was it?”

“A girls’ school in west London. Much tougher than the army.”

“Remind me to stay on your good side.”

Della Torre wasn’t a particularly sociable person. In fact, he preferred to be on his own. But his charm and easy smile made people want his company, made them want to talk to him. He prattled for a little while, admiring the apartment and the furnishings, asking innocuous questions she could answer easily until some of her wariness dissipated.

She gave him a long look during a break in the conversation. “You know, you remind me of somebody.”

“Don’t tell me, it was on a wanted poster.”

“No. You look like . . . the name’s on the tip of my tongue. George . . .”

“Washington?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“The Third?”

“No, and not the Second, First, or Fourth either. No . . .” She wandered off to look for a magazine and came back, holding a page open. “Hamilton. George Hamilton.”

“Never heard of him.”

She showed him a picture of a man at least fifteen years older than he was.

“I’m not sure I’m very flattered.”

“No, not how he looks now. How he looked in the late 1970s.”

“Oh.”

“You should be flattered,” she said, colouring slightly.
“Though your hair could do with a bit of growing out. And that moustache — I know they’re popular in east Europe, but I think you’ll find they’re pretty unfashionable in the fashionable parts of London. In fact, they’re unfashionable in the unfashionable parts of London too. They’re sort of a minority interest. Although I’m told some men find them very attractive.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling the bristles under his nose. He’d had the moustache since he’d been conscripted into the Yugoslav army after university. Irena wasn’t a particular fan, but most of the men he knew had one. “My clothes are in the machine. Do you mind if I finish washing them before I go? Otherwise, I’ll have to take your dressing gown. I don’t feel like getting arrested for indecent exposure.”

Harry got up and checked on the machine.

“You’ve been running it on a delicate woollens setting. I had to start it up again,” she said when she got back.

“Sorry. It’s an unfamiliar machine. So how long will it take?”

“To wash and dry? About three hours. You sure you don’t have any other clothes?”

“Just an old cardigan.”

“Well,” she said, giving him a long, hard look, “you might as well stay for supper.”

ANZULOVIĆ DIDN’T DO
stakeouts. He was too old. He’d done enough of them as a young cop to have lost any vestige of a romantic illusion about the routines of detective work. That’s why he’d taken the
UDBA
job. It meant he’d never have to run up another set of stairs again unless it was to catch a movie. It was a pen-pushing job. Sometimes arm-twisting. Or politician-stroking. But those were the limits of the physical work he wanted to do.

So why, he asked himself, was he watching it drizzle in the forlorn Dolac market, waiting like some hungry, near-toothless wolf? Why wasn’t somebody else doing it for him? Somebody who could write a nice crisp report that he could read over a freshly made coffee in a warm, dry office?

He didn’t have to answer himself.

Messar had lost track of della Torre. And he’d been irritated when Anzulović had let Irena leave, though Anzulović mollified him slightly by pointing out that they might be able to track down della Torre through her. The
UDBA
had some leverage over the friend she was staying with in London.

Messar was also managing to accumulate an interesting dossier on Strumbić. As well as bits and pieces about the Bosnians, though they were out of reach. But so far he hadn’t found out about della Torre’s little money-making sideline with Strumbić, nor about della Torre’s hobby files. Anzulović had tidied those up himself.

Anzulović found it strange to be directing an operation that, he was, at the same time, trying to subvert. Or maybe not so strange. Those things happened in the
UDBA
.

Belgrade was still only peripherally involved. Messar had used
UDBA
agents to track della Torre and to monitor various people, but as far as Belgrade was concerned it was still a routine investigation. Internal witch hunts were frequent enough that they didn’t tend to generate much interest from the top brass unless one of them was involved.

But if the Belgrade hierarchy became interested, if Pilgrim proved to be not just a bee in some old Communist’s bonnet but a nest of vipers, then none of them would be safe. Not Gringo. Not Strumbić. Not Anzulović. Not even Messar.

Anzulović hoped the Dispatcher would give him some clues. He had to be the old man Strumbić had met at the Metusalem Restaurant. No one else fit the description. But having reviewed what there was of the old man’s file, he questioned how much he’d know about Pilgrim. He’d been called the Dispatcher for a reason. Under Tito, he had merely taken orders and passed them on.

There was only one way to find out. And that meant waiting in the near-empty Dolac market on a damp early spring day, lighting one cigarette with the embers of the last.

Dolac was the old town’s open-air food market, a walk along a broad promenade between flower stalls from Zagreb’s main square and up a flight of stairs. A shorter flight at the opposite end of Dolac led to the city’s twin-spired cathedral.

In normal times, the market was packed from first light to midday, when it shut. Professionals, wholesalers, and restaurateurs would get there early for the best of the day’s produce, while later it was thick with housewives and grandmothers circulating between the tightly packed tables laid out with fruit and vegetables, homemade jams, cakes and cordials, nuts and sweets, honey and beeswax candles. The meat, dairy, and fish stalls were in covered arcades that formed two sides of the square.

But uncertainty about the future, the war, steep inflation, and general economic malaise had crippled trade. Few people had the money to buy, and those who had something to sell tended to keep it for themselves, insurance against even worse times.

Anzulović knew all that. Even so, he was shocked by the state of the market. He hadn’t been in months. His wife or daughters did most of the shopping, and he’d long since stopped listening to their complaints about how little they could find.

Early spring had never been a good time to buy fresh food, but these were the Dolac’s hardest days since Tito had broken with the Soviets.

Only one stall in three was manned; those missing made for forlorn gaps. A few old ladies wandered around the square, wilted beetroot leaves or limp kale hanging out of their woven plastic baskets. The produce on offer was either more of the same or too dear. Beetroots. Potatoes indistinguishable from clumps of mud. Tired leaves.

It was even worse in the covered part of the market. Anzulović counted six open stalls, each with slim pickings. A bucket of sardines, a few squid, and an unidentifiable whitefish fillet were displayed at the fishmonger’s. The two butchers were no better, one limited to formless lumps of red meat that could have come from a horse or an ox, and the other selling waxy-looking pig oddments. Anzulović was too depressed to even bother with the cheese stalls. Only those with money and connections in Zagreb could still get good food. He was beginning to forget what normal times had been like.

What it must be like to shop in an American supermarket! Though he’d always suspected the ones he saw in movies were figments of Hollywood’s imagination. Della Torre had told him it was true, the supermarkets really were like that, but Anzulović put it down to unreliable childhood memories.

He wandered around the square, keeping his eyes on the steps up to the old town. It was getting towards noon, and he worried he’d missed the old man.

The Dispatcher had been Tito’s hangman. He’d made sure the right people were there at the end with the nooses around their necks, that the rope was sufficiently strong and long, and that the hinge on the trapdoor was well greased. It was said his tendrils reached into all corners of Yugoslav life, through the army, the political establishment, the criminal underworld. Even the Church.

He’d been a man in the shadows. But in the late 1960s he’d completely disappeared from the scene, not long after Tito discovered someone had been tapping his telephone calls, bugging his office and car. The files said the Dispatcher had been sent to Goli Otok. But unlike most, he came back from the island of the living dead alive. Alive and even more powerful than he’d been before.

In the early 1970s, when Croatia’s reawakening national identity threatened to become an independence movement, Tito found he needed the Dispatcher. Once he’d reappeared, high-minded Croat liberationists found themselves breaking stones on Goli Otok, or in exile, hounded by the
UDBA
’s murder squads.

And then, after Tito’s death in 1980, the Dispatcher had disappeared again into a quiet retirement in Zagreb, where the
UDBA
kept half a sleepy eye on him.

Retired? Anzulović shook his head. Do people who have swum in blood all their lives ever retire? Or do they lurk in the shadows, waiting for the next opportunity to drink from the infernal pools? The times were becoming ripe for Yugoslavia’s vampires to rise once again. A sketchy observation report noted that the Dispatcher had been more active lately. His telephone, long silent, had begun to ring again. And there were visitors. The old man’s days once again involved more than just a morning routine of going to the Dolac market to collect his cigarettes and newspaper and cutlet for lunch.

Anzulović was skulking in the covered market when an old man made his way down the shallow flight of stairs from the old town. He was limping, walking with a stick, his wispy hair looking like a wreath of white laurel. The square, dark-plastic-framed glasses that magnified his eyes were unchanged, and he looked at least a decade younger than his eighty-plus years. Though his file photograph was a dozen years out of date, there was no doubt this was him.

As the Dispatcher was buying his cigarettes and newspaper, Anzulović mulled over how to approach him. He had hoped to do it in the thick of the crowds. Pull him aside for a quick chat. But he didn’t want to expose himself now, where even a casual observer wouldn’t fail to notice him bending over the ancient gnome.

Anzulović’s difficulty resolved itself as the Dispatcher made his way towards the covered part of the market. Anzulović backed into a metal shutter, where he was sheltered by some concrete arcading.

“Excuse me, you wouldn’t have a light?” he asked as the old man passed, the ember on Anzulović’s cigarette clearly glowing in the gloom of the arcade.

“Seems to me that you’re wanting either a lesson on how to smoke or a conversation about something else.”

“Very perceptive of you, sir.” Anzulović used formal language with the old man.

“When you get to my age, you’re surprised if you’ve seen something only twice. There used to be a time when it wouldn’t be safe for a stranger to stop me in public. Not a chance. Not safe at all. But these days, well, how much supervision does a pensioner need, anyway?”

“So you know what I’m going to ask about?”

“I’ve got a general idea you’re not looking to pass the time of day about the weather or how Dinamo did over the weekend. And I suspect you know who I am. So what can I do for you, bearing in mind I’ve mostly forgotten anything remotely interesting to anyone?”

“I’m pretty sure you won’t have forgotten this.”

The little man’s owlish eyes stared up at him.

“Sometime in the last month,” continued Anzulović, “three amateur Bosnian criminals tried to kill a man called della Torre. I’m trying to find out why.”

“I wish I could say the name rings bells. But it doesn’t. And as I may have mentioned, I’ve been retired more or less since Tito died. Write your number down for me, and I’ll give you a call if anything comes to mind. I’m often fresher in the afternoon, after I’ve had a little siesta.” He made to leave, but Anzulović put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. A firm hand.

“The Bosnians are now ex-Bosnian ex-hitmen, as I’m sure you know. But before they ex-pired, they ex-plained a thing or two about what had happened. They mentioned being hired by a certain elderly gentleman.”

“How indiscreet of them. But even so, I’m not sure how I can help. I don’t know any old gentlemen. They’re all dead. And some might say that when they were alive, they weren’t gentlemen.” The Dispatcher looked at him, bemused.

“What I don’t understand is why an old professional like you should employ such abject amateurs.”

Was that a flicker of embarrassment Anzulović saw crossing the old man’s face? Or had it been merely irritation?

“Are you taking issue because you think I did a job badly? I thought the man was your friend.”

“No, I’m glad you made a mistake.” Anzulović smiled. “I suppose anyone coming out of retirement might be a bit rusty. But really, what I want to know is who you were acting on behalf of. And why.”

The old man turned away without responding.

Anzulović sighed. “I suppose this conversation could be much less cordial,” he said.

“Are you making a threat? If you are, you must make yourself clear. I need things spelled out. Vagueness won’t do. I’m afraid the subtlety is all gone.” The Dispatcher shrugged, showing no fear, his expression returning to an ironic half-smile.

“Perhaps.”

“Then I must warn you. Someone who spent four years on Goli Otok fears very little from life.”

“You had a daughter.”

“I had a daughter.”

“When Tito packed you off to Goli Otok, you thought that at least your daughter was safe because she was in Munich. But she wasn’t, was she.”

“Yes?”

“And she had two children. And because Munich was too close after all, they moved to Canada, didn’t they.”

“Did they?”

“You still speak to them once a week.”

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. You must forgive me. The years constantly creep up on me. Canada, yes. But I’ll give you a little advice for free. You’re a policeman . . . or something.” Anzulović showed no sign of agreeing or disagreeing. “If you speak to your people, you will understand very quickly that I am not a person to abuse lightly. I have many friends who still have considerable influence.”

“Even in Zagreb? Even now?”

The old man shrugged. “Even in Zagreb. Even now.”

Did the old man still have ties to the
UDBA
? The Croat government? No one like that lived to his great age without the indulgence of a powerful protector.

“What happens when Croatia becomes independent? What happens when your friends in Belgrade can no longer help you?”

“My dear boy, that you approached me as you did tells me you’re working alone,” the Dispatcher said with amusement. “You should think a little more about the risks you’re taking rather than being concerned about me.”

The Dispatcher’s ironic smile was beginning to grate. Anzulović had come prepared for a simple game of draughts, only to find himself on the wrong side of a fool’s mate. He’d never been particularly good at threats. Had he been Messar, he might have taken a swipe at the Dispatcher. And if his papery skin and desiccated bones crumbled into dust, well, that’d just save the cost of a cremation.

“Son, I forgive you because you are clearly impassioned over your . . . friend’s misfortune. But you are sadly mistaken in the role you attribute to me. It’s like blaming the man in the control tower for the engine that fell off the plane. Now, if you permit me, I would like to buy something for my lunch before the butchers close.”