by Alen Mattich
“We’re not clear on who the shooter was just yet. But the complaint is that one of our people’s involved. And the cop’s a detective. The head of internal investigations from the Zagreb force, Lieutenant Colonel Kakav, is wetting himself over the prospect of getting an UDBA scalp. He’s here, by the way.”
“Kakav, eh? At least they didn’t send anybody competent. By ‘our people’ I assume you mean Department VI?” Anzulović was developing an uneasy feeling that he knew what was coming.
“Yup, della Torre.”
“Gringo, eh? As far as I know, he’s never carried his service pistol. Uses it as a paperweight, doesn’t he? What’d he shoot the cop with, a staple gun?” Anzulović kept the tone light, but there was a note of irritation in his voice. Irritation with della Torre for not having told him the whole truth.
“A popgun. A nine millimetre with all the force of an air pellet,” Messar said, their steps echoing up the stairwell.
“So not so much wounding with intent as scratching without a chance. Who’s the lucky flatfoot with an extended holiday?” he asked.
“Detective Strumbić. Heard of him?”
“Oh yes . . .” he said.
“Anyway, he says he was minding his own business at his weekend house when della Torre — our della Torre —”
“Naturally, who else’s?”
“When della Torre dropped in on him uninvited, along with some Bosnian hoods. They threatened Strumbić, wanted him to do something for them — Strumbić isn’t very clear on this point. Suffice it to say he refused on grounds that it was corrupt and illegal. They got angry and shot him, and then locked him in the cellar of his weekend house.”
“Della Torre shot him?”
“Something else he’s not clear on. He got shot. Della Torre was with the Bosnians. They all had guns. Strumbić says he’s not sure who pulled the trigger. I think his memory will improve when he sees where his advantage lies.”
“I think you’re right.”
“He strikes me as a pretty crooked cop.”
“Messar, your perceptiveness never fails to astound me. But right now we’re not the ones to be making any accusations. We’re just going to listen and offer suggestions. By we, I mean me. The Zagreb cops will take every opportunity they possibly can to give us a good kicking, and these days they’re the ones in favour. We might have to bend over for this one.”
“I got his statement from the Zagreb homicide dick who’s been put on the case.”
“Homicide?”
“The most senior staffer Kakav could round up on such short notice. They were here first thing. The detective has gone back to Zagreb to start pushing paper.”
“Smart of you to get here so quickly,” Anzulović said.
“Nothing else going on. Most of my people take turns waiting in line at the bread shop. Either that or they’re moonlighting, if they can find another job.”
Anzulović nodded. Not only had Department VI been starved of funds, but for the past six months its workload had been shrunk. Belgrade had pulled its investigations, worried about how sympathetic Department VI might be to the new Croatian administration. And the Croats, well, they’d hated the UDBA ever since the early 1970s, when the service had crushed the republic’s independence movement and set about kidnapping or killing dissidents.
Two police officers were on guard outside of the hospital room. Anzulović showed them his ID, and they demanded the same of Messar. Instead, Messar gave them a look of withering contempt and then turned to Anzulović.
“Did you know that at the bottom of both sides of the page of a Zagreb police exam it says, ‘Please turn over’? That’s the test. Anyone who keeps flipping the page is considered prime cop material. Memories of goldfish,” Messar said. The cops backed down, bristling, but nonetheless fearful of the UDBA man.
Messar was still talking when they walked into the room. Strumbić was in bed, his face china white. Kakav took up the only chair in the room.
“Detective,” said Anzulović to Strumbić, and then stretched his hand out to Kakav, a fat, middle-aged man in a too-tight, shiny suit. “Colonel, thank you so much for waiting for me to arrive.”
Kakav wore a serious expression, but Anzulović could see from the man’s eyes that he was feasting on something at least as delicious as a fresh custard cream cake: the prospect of revenge on the intelligence service, an enemy the whole of his professional life.
“Major,” Kakav said to Anzulović. Like most Department VI staff, Anzulović rarely used his official rank. “This is a regrettably serious matter, as we explained to your officer here,” he said with pompous gravity.
“It must be, for someone of such seniority as you to have given up his morning,” Anzulović said.
“Of course, our primary concern is the health and well-being of our comrade, Detective Strumbić. But his accusation against one of your people is shocking. Shocking that a wanton attack should be made on an unimpeachable member of the Zagreb force.”
“I’ve heard the outlines of the accusation from Captain Messar here, one of our finest officers,” Anzulović countered. “As you know, because the complaint has been made against one of our people, the rules say that the investigation falls under the remit of the security services of the Ministry of the Interior.”
“Major —” Kakav started to protest, but Anzulović held up his hand.
“Colonel, we all know that times are changing. Rules are being adapted and amended to fit the new reality. I don’t know if you’ve met Captain Messar before, but you’ll know him by reputation.” Anzulović wasn’t flattering Messar. He had an astonishingly high reputation even among the civilian forces. Few Department VI people had nailed more UDBA agents on corruption charges. Or Zagreb cops along the way.
Kakav nodded.
“You will know that he’s probably the best investigating officer in the intelligence services, if not the whole of Yugoslav law enforcement.”
Kakav raised his eyebrows slightly, wrinkled up his face, and shrugged.
“My suggestion is,” Anzulović went on, “that Messar takes charge of the investigation, but otherwise that it is handled by the Zagreb police. That way we can say we followed the rules, in case some authority raises questions about procedures. We can always say that since Messar led it, it was an UDBA-directed operation. But it will be entirely transparent to the civilian service.” Anzulović’s warning to Kakav that the Zagreb police’s new-found authority could well prove temporary if the Yugoslav state asserted its will in Croatia again was not lost on the senior Zagreb policeman. “But we can also show the new spirit of co-operation between the agencies of the new Croatian state.”
“There aren’t many precedents for these arrangements. We’d have to come up with a protocol and get our senior people to agree to it,” Kakav sputtered.
“Colonel, this is a matter of great and immediate urgency. By delaying, by insisting that all the details be nailed down, you do realize you run the risk of losing sight of what needs to be done in the name of justice? Of appraising this very serious complaint and finding the perpetrator? If you wanted to be . . . legally precise, you would have to leave it to the intelligence service and then revert to the courts for permission to take over the case. We could be arguing about who has what powers in this case for the next three years. All I’m suggesting is that the Zagreb police carry out the investigation, but with Messar supervising efforts. If your detectives think he’s doing a bad job, they can take it to you and you can take it to me and we’ll replace Messar with me and your choice of appointee as co-heads of the investigation. Does that sound reasonable?”
Kakav nodded, knowing that everything Anzulović had said was reasonable, but at the same time understanding he’d somehow had his trousers pulled down and a bull’s eye painted on his ass.
“And now, Colon
el, I have no doubt that you have pressing concerns in Zagreb. Captain Messar will go back as well and start proceedings, if I understand correctly that a statement has already been taken from Detective Strumbić.”
Anzulović shook Kakav’s hand and the colonel found himself being ushered out of the hospital room by Messar.
“Messar,” Anzulović said when it was just the two of them and Strumbić, “do you mind giving me and the detective here five minutes? We know each other from way back, and I think a man who’s suffered such a shock as he has might find it less overwhelming to talk to an old friend. If you’ve got a car, you might as well go back to Zagreb and start organizing things. But try to keep the cops from getting too far ahead of themselves. Wait for me.”
“I’ll have to track down della Torre.”
Anzulović nodded. It was out of his hands. Della Torre would have to be brought in. Unless he’d had the wit to leave already. Stupid boy. If only he’d admitted to shooting Strumbić. No. Anzulović would have had to take him in and launch formal proceedings. It just wasn’t done to shoot Zagreb cops. Especially not these days, however much they might deserve it.
Messar walked over to Strumbić’s bed. “Detective, we’ll catch your man. You can rest assured. You’re in good hands,” he said, giving Strumbić’s leg a hearty slap.
Strumbić howled with pain. “You stupid —” He bit his tongue as Messar walked out, smirking to himself.
Anzulović said nothing. Messar had his methods.
“Anzulović, where’d you get Messar from? Left over from the Nazis? What’d he do before? Torture children and maim puppies?”
Anzulović shrugged. “He was just trying to reassure you he’ll be on top of this case.”
“Yeah? Well, tell him della Torre’s the guy to be kicking around, not me.”
“I’m surprised Kakav came out. He must love you.”
“We’re like this,” Strumbić said, crossing his fingers. “Except he’s this one” — Strumbić wagged one of the fingers — “the one I wipe my ass with. My luck to have the village idiot fighting in my corner. You guys don’t fool me for a second. You’re going to be batting for Gringo and screwing me.”
“Listen, Julius,” Anzulović said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, “I haven’t got a lot of time to talk crap.” He paused almost apologetically. “We don’t need to mince words, do we? You tell me what really happened and I’ll listen sympathetically. You bullshit me and you will, I guarantee you, regret it.”
“Just don’t touch the fucking leg. They’re being stingy with the painkillers. A bit of local, and that’s mostly worn off,” Strumbić said, feeling sorry for himself. He rubbed his leg. “It was like I said. Gringo and these three hicks came down and made me an offer. I said no thanks and one of them shot me.”
“Not della Torre?”
“Might have done. Couldn’t tell. Gun went off, bullet hit me, and suddenly I had other things on my mind.”
“Julius, I won’t fool around with you here. We haven’t got a huge amount of time. You see, I actually know what happened. You set Gringo up with those Bosnians. For some reason they screwed up and Gringo decided to take a bit of revenge on you.” Anzulović was guessing, but figured it was probably close to the truth. “What happened to the Bosnians?”
“Who knows? They disappeared. Their car’s wrapped around a tree, but they went, puff, into thin air,” Strumbić said, not bothering to deny Anzulović ‘s accusations.
“Now, Julius, you’re right. I’ve got Gringo’s interests in mind. He shouldn’t have shot you, but he did. When it comes up in front of the judge, he’ll get plenty of sympathy. Nobody thinks it’s a bad thing to wound somebody who conspired in trying to kill you. Except between here and there, Gringo might end up in a lot of trouble. If your Zagreb cops get hold of him, whoever is trying to get rid of him will have a free ride. So we’ll do our best to get him into UDBA custody. But that’s not an optimal solution either. Not for you, anyway. You see, Julius, life for you will be very tricky if Messar happens to get hold of Gringo or the Bosnians. Sure, Gringo will be in trouble for selling you crap files, but not as much trouble as you’ll be in for having stolen good ones off him. Or for being party to a hit on him. I may not be able to bury this, because your bosses want to give me as much grief as possible. I don’t know what advantage you thought you’d have in fingering Gringo. Did you think it would make you a hero with the Zagreb force? Or did you think that if you blamed the Bosnians they’d think it was a fight between a bunch of crooks and a corrupt cop? No, don’t answer me. I’ll put it down to shock. Normally you’re not that stupid. I suggest you start writing another version of what happened, one that puts Gringo in a better light. And then maybe, just maybe, we can make this whole thing go away, find the Bosnians, and figure out who wants to kill one of my employees.”
Strumbić stared sullenly at Anzulović. Before he joined the UDBA, Anzulović had a reputation for being able to cut through seven degrees of bullshit, and Strumbić knew that Anzulović was at least Messar’s equal in solving a case.
“Messar is as good an investigator as we’re likely to find,” continued Anzulović, “so there’s a very, very good chance we’ll have Gringo in by this afternoon. Which means you’ll have to pull your quill out and make Shakespeare look like an Albanian ditchdigger pretty damn quick. Do I make myself clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good. How bad’s the wound?”
“I’ll live.”
“How long they likely to keep you in here?”
“They say they’re sending me home today.” Strumbić didn’t sound too happy about the prospect.
“Even better. Tomorrow morning I want you in my office with that affidavit. I’ll have a lawyer in to witness it. Make it believable. And make it good. My motto is that what makes movies bad is bad scripts. Write me a script that wins Academy Awards. Explain exactly what happened, exactly the way it happened, so long as Gringo’s one of the good guys. Got that? I’ve got an urgent appointment right now. But you be sure you’re at that office at nine a.m. sharp. Understand?”
“Like you said it in Greek and I was born in Athens,” said Strumbić.
“Goodbye, Detective,” Anzulović said.
“I’d like to say it was a pleasure,” Strumbić said to Anzulović’s retreating back.
Anzulović looked at his watch as he was walking to the parking lot. Della Torre. He shook his head. The situation had certainly become complicated.
The young lawyer . . . No, he wasn’t young anymore. Della Torre was seeing the tail end of his thirties. Yet to Anzulović he was the same young prosecutor he’d first met when Anzulović was with the Zagreb detectives, what was it, a decade before? There’d been something joyfully boyish about him. Not quite naive but maybe an underlying optimism. Growing up in America must have rubbed off on della Torre. It was an attractive but strange quality for someone to have in Yugoslavia, a country where if people weren’t complaining they weren’t conversing.
The air felt crisp after the hospital’s oppressive heat. Anzulović quickened his step to the car, which he’d parked over the middle of two spaces. It felt colder in the car than it had outside. He’d heard the newest Mercedes had heated seats. He could have used them right then. Though he might as well wish he were Cary Grant.
His thoughts drifted back to della Torre. There was something Hollywood about his looks, though Anzulović could never pin down who it was that the lawyer reminded him of. None of the recent actors. None from the previous generation either — not Newman or McQueen or Eastwood. Though there were shades of Kristofferson playing Billy the Kid.
He couldn’t figure it out.
Anzulović wouldn’t have minded della Torre as a son-in-law, if he weren’t already married to Irena. They made a nice couple. Clever. Attractive. With a genuine streak of goodness.
Though anything Gringo had, Irena had more of. Shame they were on the rocks.
There was something innately lucky about the lawyer.
No, that wasn’t quite right. Della Torre’s mother had died when he was a boy. He’d been dragged back from America, back from the land of unlimited promise to . . . to this.
Anzulović checked his watch and pressed down on the car’s accelerator. Right now, the only thing that mattered was that if he hurried he might just be able to make it to the pastry shop before it shut for midday.
DELLA TORRE WALKED back through Zagreb’s main square, Trg Republike. There had been talk about changing its name back to the old one from before the Communists, Trg Ban Jelačić. It was named after Duke Jelačić, a bald man with a big moustache who’d run the country for the Austrians at one time. His statue had been taken down by the Communists when they’d changed the name. Apparently someone had kept it hidden since the war. No doubt another cavalryman on a prancing horse, thought della Torre. Another Zagreb cowboy.
The sound of an explosion made della Torre flinch. Pigeons, scrawnier than he remembered, wheeled into the air. It was the midday cannon booming out from the old watchtower on the hill. It aimed south towards the Bosnian border, where Croatia’s Serbs were getting restless. Maybe they should start loading it with shot, della Torre thought.
The drizzle had lifted slightly, but it was the sort of day that had all the colour wrung out of it. Trams trundled into the square. People hurried to wherever they were going. Few ambled these days.
Della Torre’s stomach churned with uncounted cups of strong, sweet coffee. He’d sat in the café after Anzulović left, but then finally went for a walk. He thought better that way.
Somebody wanted him dead. Somebody high up in Belgrade, if Strumbić was to be believed. They’d still want him dead now. An old Communist based in Zagreb had been dug up out of whatever hole he’d been in to make the arrangements. So either the people in Belgrade were no longer in a position of power or they didn’t want official involvement.
