by Alen Mattich
“I’d forgotten you did nuclear medicine.”
“Oh, it only took up three years of my life.”
“I was in London for one of them.”
“Yes. Anyway, that’s the prime reason they gave me this X-ray job without demanding any training. I guess having most of the coursework towards a Ph.D. in a subject lets you off lab technician qualification,” she said.
“So tell me more.”
“What more?”
“I mean, would anyone need more than a dozen?”
“Sure. You need a few hundred to purify the fuel for a power station. And a couple of thousand to make a bomb.”
“A bomb? We never made a bomb in Yugoslavia, as far as I can remember.”
“We had a program. I remember in the late seventies having to compete with the national weapons lab for equipment and radioactive material. And people. I don’t think it was a big secret. Tito talked about it in the papers. But it mostly ended when he died, if I remember well. It was too expensive to keep going.”
“Maybe Belgrade restarted the program in the mid-eighties.”
“Maybe. But I’m pretty sure they didn’t. We’d have noticed at the university. They’d have taken our physicists and equipment, like they did in the seventies. But there wasn’t any interference with my radiological work. So unless it was top secret and somehow conjured a couple of hundred experts out of thin air, I doubt there was any program.”
“Oh. Now that you mention it, I think they were mostly exported again.”
“There you go. Yugoslavia bought the centrifuges from Sweden and then sold them on to some suspect Third World dictatorship afterwards,” she said. “Capitalism with a Communist face.”
“Would we have been allowed to?” he said, mostly to himself.
“Not really. These things are tightly controlled. The West let us have a program because they knew we were more scared of the Soviets than we were of America. I don’t think they’d have been happy for us to sell the equipment on to some tinpot dictatorship,” she said.
“Some other tinpot dictatorship.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“So we’d have been doing it quietly.”
“I never heard anything about us buying thousands of centrifuges. And I know a lot of physicists.”
There was knock at the door. Irena opened it.
Harry stepped into the room, her expression for all the world looking like Billy the Kid’s when he ran into Pat Garrett that last time.
“I can come back when you’re free,” she said. She was wearing a severe skirt, cut just above her knees, and a cotton jersey. Her hair was pulled back. There was a certain bloodlessness to her expression. She smiled, but her eyes had a wariness in them.
“No, that’s fine. Come on in, Harry. This is my radiologist. She happens to be my ex-cousin’s husband’s wife.”
“His cousin’s ex-wife.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Must have been a surprise. Finding each other in the same hospital,” said Harry in a tone suggesting nothing was about to surprise her.
“A big one. For both of us,” della Torre said.
“I’ll be back in a bit. When the urologist comes,” Irena said in English, leaving the room.
“Hi. Do I get a kiss?” he asked.
Harry stared at him without answering. She reached into her bag and pulled out his wallet.
“When I got home, I went through your wallet. In case I had to find your next of kin.”
Della Torre winced, suspecting what was coming next.
“I noticed an ID with your picture on it. It said UDBA. I had no idea what that meant, but it looked pretty important. I mean, it clearly wasn’t a bus pass. So I looked it up. It’s handy having lots of modern history books. And do you know what?”
“Look, I can —”
“Please let me finish. Do you know what they say about UDBA? It’s the Yugoslav secret police, notorious for domestic repression, running concentration camps, and killing dissidents in foreign countries. Is that what you are?”
“Harry —”
She held her hand up to silence him. “Of course you are. Once I got over the shock, I looked at your things. Italian and American passports? They look real. Are they? A gun and bullets. Do you know you can go to jail in this country for having an unlicensed handgun? Who’d you come to kill?”
For some reason, he’d put the Beretta back together while she’d been away. Out of boredom. Or maybe unease at being alone in the apartment. It crossed his mind that she might not have recognized it for what it was had he left it in bits. Though it would have been hard to justify the bullets. They looked nothing like earplugs.
There was a long silence. Her look was cold, and underneath that it showed fear.
“I have some explaining to do. But I didn’t lie to you.”
“You’d need to be a lawyer to argue that,” she said in disgust.
“Okay, maybe there were a couple of little white lies. But most of what I told you is true. I am a lawyer, though I work for the UDBA. But I’m not one of the bad guys. I investigate the secret police for corruption. Actually my job is — was — to investigate UDBA killings, the ones you mentioned. About five years ago, an internal department was set up to prevent the UDBA from becoming a law unto itself. I’d been in the prosecutor’s office and I joined from there. A lot of those killings, I’m sorry to say, were legal. I mean, within Yugoslav law. My job was to find the ones that weren’t.”
“So if they had somebody to kill, they’d go to you to make sure all the paperwork was done properly,” she said bitterly.
“No. No. I investigated past assassinations. I had nothing to do with current UDBA operations. Really, I didn’t.”
She looked sceptical.
“It’s a hard job, Harry. Everybody in the UDBA hated us because they were afraid we’d find out what they were up to. But as far as the wider world is concerned, we’re as bad as the rest.”
“My heart bleeds. Nobody made you do it.” She stood with her back against the wall.
“You’re right. But to tell you the truth, it was one of the few jobs where I really felt as if I could properly serve justice. And I did. We caught killers and had them put away —”
“In concentration camps?”
“Living under a dictatorship means compromise. For everyone. You can’t lead a pure life. It’s just the way it is. I’m sorry.”
“So why did you come here? Was it a holiday?”
“I was running. Somebody wanted to kill me for something I knew. Even now I don’t know what.”
She didn’t look convinced. He shrugged.
“Somebody wanted me killed and Strumbić helped to set me up. So I shot him. Accidentally. But now I’ve got killers and the police — Strumbić is a cop — after me. I had to go.”
“We’ve been stealing from a killer?”
“No, I don’t know of anybody Strumbić has ever killed. But he’s a crook. That’s where he got all the money to pay for the place in London. We just stole it back from him.”
Her eyes had turned a grey shade of blue. They were wet. She looked as pale as he’d been the previous night on the hospital gurney. He worried she’d faint.
“You’re right, I didn’t believe you. I just thought you were running some scam. That you were some con man.”
“Look, Harry, I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re in any danger. Strumbić will be tied up in Zagreb for a long time yet, and when he does come, we’ll be long gone. As far as the money goes, he’ll just eat the loss for a quiet life.”
“I hope you’re right.”
So do I, thought della Torre.
“What about your second cousin’s ex-husband’s mother-in-law’s niece wh
o works at the hospital just accidentally?” Harry watched him expectantly. Della Torre scratched his head and sank further into the bed.
“If I were to tell you she’s my cousin’s ex-wife’s best friend, would you believe me?”
“No.”
“What about a long-lost great-aunt?”
“No.”
“What sort of answer might be satisfactory?”
“Maybe telling me she’s your ex-wife, and whether she’s really still your wife.”
“Why would you think she’s not my ex-wife?”
“Her ring finger has fresh marks. It looks like she’s only recently stopped wearing it. Have you got divorced since you’ve been here?”
“You’re sharp. Ever think of becoming a secret policeman?” His smile got no response. “It’s very amicable.”
“I’m sure it is amicably ambiguous. If it weren’t, you’d probably be glowing by now.”
“Glowing?”
“She was the one who operated the X-ray machine on you, wasn’t she?”
“Ah, yes. Glowing. We’ve been meaning to get divorced, but, well, neither of us really had a good reason. But now she seems to have found herself a very smart and very nice doctor. I might get to meet him.”
“How convenient. To go from a husband who puts bullets in to a boyfriend who takes them out.”
“He probably specializes in hemorrhoids. It won’t last. He’ll bore her. Like they say, you can take the girl out of the ex-Communist totalitarian war zone but you can’t take the war-zone totalitarian out of the girl Communist.”
“You make it sound so romantic. Did she work with you in your secret police place? Like Dr. Mengele or something?” He could almost taste her bitterness.
“No. She worked in ordinary hospitals. And I’m not sure how thrilled she’d be to be compared to a Nazi torturer, seeing as she’s one of the few remaining Croat Jews.”
“Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I’m sure there were plenty of Jewish secret policemen and worse working in east Europe. But none I can think of for the UDBA. Anyway, she’s an X-ray techie here because that’s what they allow her to do, but in real life she’s a very good specialist. She does lungs. Special sorts of radiotherapy to fight cancer.”
“Forget I mentioned it.”
“Forgotten.”
They watched each other: she wary, he with a mixture of pity and sorrow. For himself. A thought struck him.
“Harry, can I ask you something?”
“What?” She seemed unsure whether she wanted to hear what he wanted to ask.
“When we were away for the weekend.”
“Yes?”
“And we were sailing.”
“Yes?”
“You pointed out some buildings but you couldn’t remember what they were called. They started with an s, you thought.”
She seemed more bewildered by this question than anything he’d said so far.
“What about it?”
“Were they centrifuge buildings?”
She thought for a moment.
“Yes, I think they were.” She sounded distracted, annoyed. Della Torre’s question had been as perversely mistimed as asking the bereaved at a funeral for a pizza take-away’s phone number.
They didn’t have time for any more conversation, as the urologist interrupted. He was older, shorter, and fatter than della Torre, and balding besides. He shot lecherous looks at Harry, who was oblivious to him.
“Well, well, well, and how do you do.” He was talking to della Torre but stayed focused on Harry.
“I need to go away for a couple of days,” Harry said to della Torre. “I’ll call you on Monday, but I need some time to think about all this.” Her voice trembled. “We can sort some things out when you get out of here, with the flat and money.”
“You’re not staying at the apartment?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “No. I’ll stay with . . . friends. We’ll talk on Monday.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go to work now. I have some appointments . . .” Her explanation trailed away, unneeded.
She left the room.
The urologist’s smile was short on sympathy. “Well, looks like this weekend just isn’t working out for you,” he said.
Della Torre was tired. He ignored the doctor.
“How long am I going to be in here?”
“I’m sure we’ll want to keep you in here for a bit of observation. One more night, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t be out tomorrow morning.”
Yesterday everything had seemed to be falling into place. Now it was falling apart. He’d started building a new life for himself in his mind. With Harry. He and Irena were too far gone. He’d known that. But Harry could have been . . .
They had nearly as much of Strumbić’s money as they could reasonably want without risking bloody vengeance — enough to set up a new life. Della Torre felt sorry for himself.
“So, shall we get down to business?” asked the doctor.
“I’ve cleared my diary,” della Torre said distractedly.
The urologist ran through della Torre’s local difficulty and prescribed some medication, including more of the magic painkillers, with a warning that he shouldn’t overuse them.
Irena returned. The urologist gave her a peck on each cheek, deeply un-English. “I take it we’re still on for tomorrow night?”
“We’re still on,” she said.
Della Torre felt as if he were being stabbed from every angle at once. When he was alone with Irena, he turned to her, hurt and amazed.
“That’s him? That’s the guy you threw me over for. A gnome?”
She laughed. “And what if it were?”
“Because it would make me sad for the rest of my days that you’d fallen so low and I’d done so little to help.”
“In that case, you can rest easy. I’m interested in someone else. In fact, he’ll be stopping by to pick me up in a few minutes. My shift finished hours ago, and he’s also done for the night.”
“So you’re going back to his place? On a Saturday morning? On your Sabbath?”
“And?”
“But that’s adultery. We’re still married.”
“Does your friend know that?”
“She’s merely my criminal accomplice. We aren’t doing anything as contemptible as breaking marriage vows on a Saturday morning. Besides, I don’t think she likes me anymore. She found out I was UDBA.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. She’s very attractive.” Irena paused. “Listen, Marko, I don’t want to make your life any worse, but we’re going to have to go through with a divorce. We really are. I’ve been calling your father to find out where you were. I mean, I didn’t want to break it to you now, so suddenly, but it’s not sudden. It’s something we need to get done.”
“Your man?”
“I’m sorry, Marko. I gave you my best. I really did,” Irena said. “It’s just that I’ve got to start thinking of my future. I can have a new life here. A nice one.”
“When do you want to do it?”
“When did the urologist say you’d leave the hospital?”
“He said they wanted to keep an eye on me tonight, just in case, but I’d be home tomorrow morning.”
“He’s being over-cautious. You’d have been home already if this was back in Zagreb. Anyway, I have a lawyer friend who’s coming to dinner tomorrow. So is the urologist and a couple of other people. It’s informal. Why don’t you come? He’ll give you a checkup there. Free.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And after dinner I’ll get the lawyer to stay back and we’ll talk about what we need to file. He’s very nice. He won’t charge us for the consultation. Just a bit of background.”
/>
“What about your man? Won’t he feel awkward having dinner with his lover’s husband?”
“You won’t tell him. Besides, he won’t be coming. He’s working tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” della Torre said dully. “Sunday.”
“The very same.”
“I can’t really refuse you, can I?”
There was an apologetic cast to her mouth, which was drawn straight. Her eyes glistened slightly. But he could tell she was determined.
“I wouldn’t refuse you, Irena. It’s been a long time coming.”
“Thanks, Marko.” She kissed his forehead.
There was a knock on the door. A tall, slim man stepped in. He had a sharp widow’s peak and small, round glasses perched on a finely chiselled Roman nose. His hair was flecked with grey, but he couldn’t have been any older than della Torre.
“Marko, this is David Cohen.”
“How do you do, Doctor.”
“Irena’s cousin. What an extraordinary coincidence you should pitch up here,” he said in a rather sonorous voice.
“Her ex-husband’s cousin’s daughter’s best friend, to be precise. But we call it cousins,” della Torre said, finding comfort in sarcasm.
David Cohen looked quizzical for a moment and then smiled. “I’m afraid I’m a little slow this morning. It’s been a long shift.”
“Don’t tell me, you’re an emergency urologist or dermatologist or proctologist or —”
“None of the above. I do trauma. And trauma tends to be very popular on a Friday or Saturday night.”
“Is that so? Trauma in Hampstead? Let me guess, catastrophic hernias from people making the mistake of picking up their sacks of money. Or reaching up for a book on a top shelf and being bludgeoned by a misplaced gold bar. Or trophy wives discovering a friend is wearing the exact same dress to a party.”
“You have to excuse Marko,” said Irena. “He’s an unreformed Communist, already nostalgic for the days when you could pass a whole leisurely morning queuing up for a loaf of bread.”
“No, that’s all right. That’s pretty funny, actually. I’ll remember to use it sometime. We get people from Hampstead — muggings gone wrong, domestic disasters, or car accidents, mostly. But we cater to a lot of poor neighbourhoods around here as well. And people have a nasty habit of getting into fights when they’re drunk, whether they’re rich or poor. But I spent most of last night in south London, working on some boys who got themselves shot in a train.”
