by Alen Mattich
“Down the service elevator at the back. What are you doing?”
“I’d like to have a look to see who’s wanting so badly to say hello.”
“Yes? And I come with you?”
“No.”
“So what happens to me, then?”
“Either I knock you out or I tie you up. Or both. I feel like knocking you out,” Strumbić said, with too much relish in his voice for della Torre’s liking.
“Hit me too hard and you’ll kill me. Very hard to get rid of a body on your own.”
“Thanks for the tip. You’re right. I’ll tie you up and then give you a good kicking.”
“Why don’t you just save the aggression for later? — I mean, when you’re shooting me. It’ll be a lot more satisfying then.”
“You know, that’s what I like about you, Gringo. Always helpful.”
Strumbić wasn’t gentle about how he tied della Torre up, using the tough nylon cord from the curtain pulls. He was thorough, precise, and didn’t leave della Torre any opening to struggle. By the time Strumbić was finished, della Torre was trussed as expertly as if the Ancient Mariner had been tying the knots himself, wrists tied to ankles behind his back.
Della Torre tried as best he could to bear the pain like a man and hoped his hands and feet wouldn’t gangrene.
“Want a gag?”
“Not really,” said della Torre, trying to keep the tears out of his eyes.
“I’d love to say I trust you not to yell, but I don’t. Can you breathe out your nose?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway. I’ll be back before your hands fall off. If I’m not, you’ll have a new nickname. Stumpy.”
“Mmmm,” della Torre moaned through his gag as he struggled to find a comfortable position on the living room floor. There wasn’t a hope in hell. Nor was there any chance of getting to a sharp object that he might use to saw through the cords. Strumbić was too smart for that. He’d tied him to the radiator.
Della Torre waited. He counted seconds at first. His heartbeat. His breaths. He tried thinking pleasant thoughts to get his mind off his shoulders, thighs, and back. Momentarily he was hopeful. If he couldn’t walk, Strumbić wouldn’t be able to get him onto the Heath to shoot him. But then his spirits sank. Strumbić would just throttle him in the flat and work out some other way of getting rid of the corpse. Besides, della Torre found it hard to be positive when he was in so much pain.
The telephone rang. It rang on and off — for how long, della Torre couldn’t tell.
Strumbić’s quick trip to see who was taking an interest was becoming endless. The afternoon light crawled along the floor of the flat and then up the opposite wall. At least he hadn’t had the sun in his eyes, della Torre thought, reflecting on the victims of the Apaches who’d been staked out on their backs in the open desert, face up, with their eyelids cut off so they couldn’t blink. Nothing like reflecting on somebody worse off to make you feel better, della Torre thought. Only it didn’t work.
He’d developed so many cramps and his hands and feet were feeling such crushing pain from lack of blood flow, that he started looking forward to Strumbić getting back and shooting him. He was trying to remember if the kidney stone pain was as bad. Couldn’t have been. Nothing could be. It felt like hours, though he knew it hadn’t been that long. Thirty, forty minutes from when Strumbić had left?
He almost wept with relief when he heard the key at the door. The coffee table blocked his view and he couldn’t see Strumbić come in, but he was willing the bastard to be quick. Why was he taking so goddamn long?
“Marko. I didn’t see you down there.” The voice he heard wasn’t Strumbić’s.
Harry used a kitchen knife to cut him free. For the first few minutes all he could do was suck air and try not to scream with the explosion of pain as blood recirculated through his hands and feet.
“Strumbić. Careful, he’ll be back anytime.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why the hell not?” della Torre asked through parched lips, his jaw barely functioning better than his useless limbs.
“I was outside on a bench. I wanted to see what was happening but I didn’t want to come in. I rushed home from work after I called here. Somebody had broken in. A colleague finally tracked me down at my mother’s.”
“Slow down.”
“I came back and sat on a bench outside, watching the building. I saw Strumbić come out. A couple of guys got to him really quickly. I think they had guns. They walked him into the woods.”
“Shit. What’d they look like?”
“One was pretty tall and sort of bent to one side. The other one was shorter, looked like a boxer. He didn’t seem to have any front teeth.”
The descriptions meant nothing to della Torre.
“Was either of them white and blond? And looked like he stepped out of a Nazi recruitment poster? I mean original Nazi, not neo-Nazi skinhead.”
“No. But there were a couple of other guys, and one of them looked like that. They followed the guys with Strumbić, I think.”
“Which way did they go?”
“Down the path to the woods.”
“Stay here. I mean, don’t stay here. Get the hell out of here. Go back to your mother’s or something. I’ll get in touch. Stay the hell out of the woods, though.”
Della Torre kissed her hard and fast and hobbled out of the flat as quickly as his near-crippled feet could take him. The door slammed behind him before he could hear Harry shout, “Your gun, Marko . . .”
STRUMBIĆ KNEW HE’D been stupid. Deeply stupid, because he thought he’d been so clever. Where’d he think they’d be, in the trees?
They’d got to him before he’d even noticed them. He’d been careful, waiting a long time by the back door before sneaking out of the building. He’d stayed hidden behind some big bushes until the stupid birds caught his attention, a squawking flock of green parakeets that belonged on the Heath about as much as the Bosnian holding a gun in the small of his back.
The other Bosnian relieved him of his Beretta.
“Nice to see you boys,” he said. “Coincidence bumping into you in London.”
“Heh, Besim. Say hello to Mr. Strumbić, who happens to owe us a lot of money. What a coincidence. Where’s your friend from Zagreb?”
“Up in the apartment,” Strumbić said. “Shall I take you up? We can have a beer and talk about the old days.”
“We’ll deal with him later. Right now it’s Mr. Strumbić’s turn,” the banana-shaped Bosnian said. “We want our money.”
“It’s up in the apartment. Just back there. We can go up, I’ll give you what I owe you, and we’ll have a drink and a laugh. What do you think?” Strumbić put on the sort of soothing, friendly tone that worked so well when he played good cop.
“How does that sound, eh, Besim? Mr. Strumbić wouldn’t try to screw us, would he? He’s a nice honest fellow, isn’t he?” said the skinny, bent Bosnian. “Or maybe his friend will try to wrap his tie around your neck again, eh?”
Besim the driver pulled Strumbić’s wallet out of his back pocket.
“Not bad. Must be about ten thousand Deutschmarks here. And about a thousand pounds,” said the skinny one. Besim snuffled a laugh.
“That should make us square, boys,” said Strumbić amiably. Besim was prodding him towards the woods while the talkative one walked beside him.
“We’ve got expenses to think about. London’s not cheap. Then there’s the funeral money for our dear cousin. And Besim could use some new teeth.”
“Dear cousin . . . teeth,” Besim repeated, whistling the words across his naked gums.
“Maybe we’ll see what you’ve got back at the apartment later. Nice place, is it?” said the skinny one. “Maybe we can sort out t
he other guy too. Finish the contract, see what you’ve got up there.”
“If you fellows are sore that I didn’t let you in when you buzzed, it’s a misunderstanding,” Strumbić said.
The Bosnians stopped.
“Buzzed?” asked the talkative one.
“Yeah, just a little while ago. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“No. We didn’t know you lived there until we saw you prowling around.”
“So you mean it’s just bad luck that I bumped into you? That out of the whole of London you should find me here by chance?” Strumbić asked, incredulous. Had all the gods decided to piss on him at once?
“Naw. We had the name of the road you live on from that friend of yours in the hospital in Venice. Didn’t get the address, though. We’ve been driving up and down the street since we got here yesterday. Long drive from Venice.”
“Shit. I knew it was too much to expect Branko to keep his mouth shut. How’d you find him, by the way?”
“Pink Mercedes. Very easy to find. We had some friends keeping an eye on you in Zagreb, and then when you got on the bus, we followed you out. Almost fooled us when you got off in Rijeka, didn’t he, Besim? Very sneaky of Mr. Strumbić, almost like he expected somebody to be following him. We got a bit muddled in Trieste, but there we were at a traffic light and who should pull up behind us in a pink Mercedes with no roof? You looked like you were driving a pair of lady’s underpants. Fast, that car. We’d have lost you again, but we kept seeing the pink Mercedes. Saw you talking to your friend’s landlady and then you disappeared again. Didn’t matter.” The Bosnian laughed silently. “Your friend’s landlady took us to him. And he told us where you’d be.”
Strumbić swore. Fucking pink Mercedes.
“You didn’t do anything to the poor guy, did you?” he asked. “Though he probably deserved whatever it was.”
“Not really. But he was legless when we left.”
Besim laughed, a snuffling sort of laugh that sounded like a mastiff with a cold.
“So who was buzzing the flat, then?” Strumbić asked, more to himself than the Bosnians.
It was that changeover time for the Heath. Kids, young families, joggers, and dog-walkers were heading home, while men, single or in groups of two or three, made their furtive way into that pocket of wilderness.
Strumbić and the two Bosnians attracted no notice. They were in the shadows, following narrow tracks among the brambles, moving in single file. Strumbić knew he hadn’t a hope in hell of making a run for it. These guys wouldn’t think twice about making a sieve out of him.
Past the shrubbery and bushes they came into a beech wood, clear of undergrowth but canopied by high branches, last year’s mast making a carpet for them. A woodpecker drilled away somewhere above. At one point a dog lolloped up to them, an overweight black Labrador. The talkative Bosnian turned his gun on it and for a moment Strumbić thought the dog had had it. But its owner called and it ambled off.
They crossed a broad path. There were a few people in the distance, but no one Strumbić could have begged mercy from. It was astounding how the park could absorb people and still seem empty.
“You boys seem to know where you’re going,” Strumbić said, a note of false bonhomie in his voice.
“So do you,” said the talkative one.
“Do I?”
“Yup. Just here.”
They’d gone up a little hill, all the while under the cover of the wood, except for when they’d skirted a hidden meadow the size of a country garden. They stopped at a big oak tree with a cleft in its trunk around waist height. The hole ran vertically for about half a metre, fat at the edges and widest at the middle, so that it looked like a vulva you could put your fist through.
“Okay, time to give us your keys,” said the talkative one.
Strumbić raised his hands and gave a shrug as if to say You can’t be serious.
“Keys. Or we’ll have to shoot you first.”
Strumbić got his keys out and handed them over.
“Isn’t that nice. It’s got the apartment number written down on the little tag,” said the skinny, bent Bosnian. “Okay, now up the tree.”
“You want me to climb the tree? Go up the tree?” Strumbić was puzzled. Did they want him to get as high as possible so they could shoot him down? Was this some strange Bosnian sport? He wouldn’t put it past them. He’d heard of them planting victims head-first in the ground, feet up in the air. Alive.
“I hate to tell you boys, but this climb looks a bit challenging for a forty-a-day guy like me. It’s been nearly twenty years since I got myself up a tree. And that was only to get into a girl’s bedroom.”
“Trunk’s hollow. Get inside from the top. It opens just over your head.”
“You want me in a hollow tree?”
“Sure. Easier than digging a grave.”
“Oh. Thanks. A living coffin.”
“Get on with it.”
“And you shoot me through that hole, is that the game?”
“Yup. Besim might even let me have a few goes. What do you think, Besim?”
The toothless Bosnian shrugged.
“Up you get, or we’ll have to shoot you first and then tip you in.”
There really was nothing for it. Strumbić climbed the tree.
• • •
Anzulović couldn’t quite believe his eyes. It couldn’t have been anybody other than della Torre going into the building. Della Torre minus a moustache.
They’d staked it out, parking the Mercedes on a side street where they had a clear line of sight to its main entrance, and were waiting for Strumbić when della Torre showed up. He was inside before they could react.
“Looks like I was right: our friends are in this together. What do you think? Is Strumbić already in there? Do we say hello?” Messar smiled ironically. It irritated Anzulović.
“Give it a little while. See if they come out together. Or maybe Gringo’s waiting for him,” Anzulović replied curtly.
“It’s nice that we’ll be able to sew up all the loose threads in one go,” Messar said.
“We’ll wait to see what happens. We know Strumbić is in town. With just the two of us, we’ll have to think about how to get them back.”
“I was thinking in the trunk, in a couple of body bags, if they don’t want to go in cuffs.”
“Maybe that’s a little drastic. I’m still not so sure they’re the bosom buddies you think they are.” Anzulović whistled a little tune that Messar didn’t recognize. It was from The Odd Couple.
“I might check on them.” Messar was impatient. It was unlikely that if they went back to Croatia they’d be able to send a team to pick up della Torre and Strumbić. They weren’t even sure whether the UDBA would exist after Croatia declared independence, which, together with Slovenia, it threatened to do the following day.
Messar left the car and went into the building. He’d wanted to go up but the porter stopped him, so he buzzed the apartment instead. He came back to the car but didn’t stay long before trying the apartment again.
“He’s not answering. Think he knows it’s us?” Messar asked.
“Maybe he’s worried it’s somebody else.”
They waited. How long had it been since della Torre showed up? Almost two hours? It was getting on for early evening; they’d have to think of something soon.
A dish of a blond who got out of a taxi by the building and then went to sit on a park bench under a tree offered Anzulović a distraction. You’re never too old or dull to look and imagine what might have been, he told himself. He felt a pang of regret. If only he were twenty years younger, and richer. And better-looking . . .
He shrugged it off. Goli Otok was real life. Not beautiful blonds. Still, his mind wandered to happier subjects. He
pictured himself in the Cary Grant role in To Catch a Thief. If anything, this one was even better-looking than Grace Kelly. He tried not to look at her too much, to keep his eyes on the building. It was hard to exercise discipline. He hadn’t done a proper stakeout in years; he didn’t really count the wasted wait for the Dispatcher. But he’d spent a lot of time watching Grace Kelly movies.
And then, there was Strumbić.
“Eyes sharp,” said Messar, the moment Anzulović spotted him.
Strumbić had come from around the back of the building looking up, something catching his attention. He wasn’t alone long. A couple of guys joined him. One went right up against his back while the other frisked him.
They seemed to know each other. Talking and walking towards the woods. No rush. No sudden moves. Like they were old friends standing very close to each other, except Anzulović would have bet good money that the one at the back, dressed in a farmer’s navy suit, was holding a gun.
“What do you think?” Messar asked.
“I think we follow those guys,” Anzulović said, getting out of the car.
“What about della Torre?” Messar asked.
“Forget about della Torre for now. Strumbić and his friends are the people we need to talk to. We’ll look for Gringo later.” Maybe he’ll get away, Anzulović thought.
Anzulović was across the road, Messar right behind him.
“Recognize those two?” Anzulović asked.
“No. But if I were a betting man, I’d lay good money on their being Bosnian. Or Macedonian.”
“Or from any very small village that hasn’t discovered television or indoor plumbing.”
“Bosnian, then. Macedonians have TV.”
They followed behind, keeping just at the limits of sight, as quietly as possible, into the gloaming of the Hampstead woods.
• • •
Everything hurt. His hands hurt and his feet hurt and it hurt to run. Della Torre loosened his tie with fingers that were swollen like cooked sausages. He’d put it on when he left the hospital but had regretted it every second he spent on the floor. Christ, how much pain could life inflict on a person?
