by Alen Mattich
Della Torre got to the edge of the woods and then didn’t know what to do. Three hundred hectares of park, and half of them forest. What day was it? Sunday? If he started looking now and Strumbić and his companions stood still, he might bump into them sometime before the end of the week.
London summer evenings seemed to last forever. The sun had dropped below a long, flat layer of clouds, turning their undersides a livid purple and black. But in the woods it was already twilight. Della Torre wished he’d brought a flashlight. His trousers kept catching in brambles.
And then, there it was. The sound of big branches breaking under sudden, heavy weight, three times in rapid succession. Except they weren’t branches. It reminded him he didn’t have a gun.
• • •
At the sound of the first gunshot, Strumbić thought that Besim had missed. How could he have missed from thirty centimetres? Then he thought that somehow he’d been shot but just hadn’t felt it. No, he’d been shot before. And he’d felt that. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was what being dead was like. The next two shots came close together, and he realized they had been fired away from the tree.
“Who was that?” Strumbić knew from the old-lady lisp that it was Besim asking.
“Don’t know. You hurt?” asked the other Bosnian.
“Didn’t hit me.”
“Me neither. Got him, though.”
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Is he dead?”
“Don’t know. I think I winged him with the first one. The second one took him down.”
“What’s he doing walking around the woods with a gun?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, see if he’s still alive.”
Strumbić could hear the one who curved like a banana walking away, then shouting back: “He’s breathing, but he’s very sleepy. Got him in under the jaw.”
“In the neck?”
“Naw, under the jaw and up. At least I think that’s what happened. Bleeding a bit. You’d have thought it’d be more, though.” The talkative one sounded disappointed.
“It’s that crap gun you use. Couldn’t put a hole in a turd. How many times did you have to shoot that guy in Karlovac?”
“Got him four times.”
“And he lived.”
“Well, I nailed that woman of his with just the one.”
“Heart attack,” Strumbić muttered.
“What?” asked Besim.
“She died of a heart attack,” Strumbić said a little louder, regretting calling attention to himself.
“See? What’d I tell you?”
“You going to talk to that tree or are you going to shoot it? Time we were leaving.”
“Heart attack. Should have guessed. That crap gun of yours.”
“My lucky gun. Anyway, let’s get on.”
“Hands up. Put your hands up.” The order came from behind a holly bush.
“What now?” asked Besim.
“I think it’s the cops,” said the talkative one.
“London cops talk Croat?”
“Hands up or I shoot.”
“Hey, I recognize that voice.”
“Last time. Hands up.”
“Okay. Shoot then,” said the talkative Bosnian.
That had della Torre stumped.
• • •
The shooting made Anzulović hurry. Whatever had happened, it wasn’t likely to be good. He told Messar to stay put and keep his head down while he went round through the shrubbery to cover the little knoll from the opposite end, bottling up the Bosnians in that patch of open wood. How was he to know he’d have to go through a bog to get there? And now that the shooting had started, there was a solid wall of brambles and holly between him and them. Anzulović hauled himself through the squelching mud as quickly as he could, breathing hard, stumbling in the deepening gloom. Twigs scratched at him. Cattle would have made less noise.
By the time he got there, all he could see was one Bosnian at the big tree in the middle and the other one a little further down the slope. Where the hell was Strumbić? And then he heard someone shouting from one of the bushes to the right for the others to get their hands up. If he didn’t know better, he’d have said it was della Torre.
In unison, the Bosnians fired into the shrubbery, their gunshots echoed by the sound of their bullets rending foliage. Anzulović rose from his crouch, holding the gun in regulation two-handed stance — unlike the Bosnians, who fired like cowboys in a third-rate western — and squeezed off one, two, three shots. The Bosnian in front of him spun and dropped to his knees, taking cover behind the tree. At exactly the same time there were two muzzle flashes directly opposite, on the path where Messar was hiding. Anzulović heard branches parting twenty metres above his head.
“Besim, what the hell happened?” asked the thin Bosnian.
“Get down. There’s somebody back that way.”
“There’s somebody this way too. You okay?”
“Bastard got me in the wrist. Hurts like hell,” Besim said in his odd, snuffling voice.
“Can you hold a gun?”
“Shooting hand’s fine.”
“Somebody’s shooting this end too.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Three at least,” said the skinny one.
“That’s two too many. Come on, we can get out back this way, that way’s the swamp.”
“What about Strumbić?”
“Oh yeah,” said Besim.
He stuck his gun into the tree and pulled the trigger twice. Anzulović could see enough of him to fire again, then the Bosnians made themselves scarce.
Carefully Anzulović crept forward, but the Bosnians had gone.
A flashlight shone in his face.
“Stop. Put the gun down. Put your hands up.” It was a woman, speaking English.
He left the gun on the ground and raised his hands, motioning her to lower the light. It was blinding him.
“Jesus,” he said once he could see her. It was Grace Kelly. Pointing a gun. Straight at him.
The bushes to his right moved. She half turned.
“Marko.”
• • •
Della Torre had been winging it, and then suddenly there was cavalry on both sides.
“That you, Gringo?” asked Anzulović.
“Anzulović? Where’s Strumbić?”
“No idea.”
“Who’s that?” Harry asked.
“Harry, what the hell are you doing here?” della Torre demanded.
“I brought your gun.”
“Hey, give me a hand with Messar. He’s been hit,” said Anzu-lović to della Torre, though he kept his eyes on the English blond.
“Dead?”
“No. He’s got a hole in his chin. But he’s breathing. He’s out, though.”
“Shit. Where’s Strumbić?”
“Think those Bosnians took him with them?”
Della Torre looked at Anzulović and then at Harry, and made up his mind. He switched to Italian.
“Harry, give me the gun and the flashlight. You two, see if you can get Messar back to the flat. You speak a bit of Italian, don’t you, Anzulović? Harry does too. I’ll see you back there.”
Della Torre went charging after the Bosnians.
• • •
Anzulović had just shifted Messar into a position where he could lift him when he heard a noise. A sort of grunt coming from the tree. He let Harry take Messar’s sitting weight, put his fingers to his lips, and did a squat run towards the tree. There was definitely a rustling, scraping noise coming from it. With some difficulty, Anzulović hauled himself up the trunk to where he could see into it. He
half-expected some wild animal. No, he wasn’t sure what he expected. Certainly not what he found.
“What the —”
“Here, give me a hand.”
“Strumbić.”
“Yeah. Who’s that?”
“Anzulović.”
“Who?”
“Anzulović.”
“Fucking Anzulović. I owe you one. Well, give me a hand out of this fucking tree.”
“What are you doing in there?”
“Sightseeing. What do you think? Getting shot at by a couple of fucking Bosnian jokers.”
Anzulović hauled him up. Strumbić slithered out over the edge of the trunk and down heavily, so that the two men fell in a heap.
“Bloody hell, you’re heavy. You okay?”
“I’ll live. Took a chunk out of my leg, though, bastard. Hurts like hell. I think I’m deaf in one ear. And I can’t hear out of the other one.”
“Can you help me carry Messar back to that apartment?”
“He dead?”
“No, though I don’t know how badly hurt.”
“Where’s della Torre?”
“He’s gone after the Bosnians. Thought they’d taken you.”
“Has he? Crazy bastard. Here, give me your gun. Wait, who’s that there?”
“Grace Kelly, I think.”
The woman looked familiar to Strumbić. It was too dark to tell, but he could have sworn it was that estate agent woman. “Well, you and Grace Kelly are going to have to deal with Messar on your own. I’m going to hobble after della Torre.”
“Can you manage? You’ve just been shot.”
“Flesh wound. Took a slice out of me, but that’s all. Give me your gun and I’ll make hamburger out of that Bosnian prick.”
• • •
Della Torre kept the flashlight aiming down in front of him. They had a lead on him but no light. He thought he heard them somewhere ahead. But when he got there, nothing. The woods had an earthy smell of rotting wood and leaves, a verdant and mossy maze. Now and again he could make out velvety sky. Overhead a songbird chirped bursts of sweet, high rhythm.
There was just enough remaining dusk to move at a cautious speed. He used the flashlight as little as possible, not wanting to draw attention to himself. This bit of the woods was mostly open, with not much undergrowth, though there was the occasional fallen tree to negotiate. He moved carefully across the soft, springy ground as it sloped gently downward. There were hardly any low branches to walk into. He took care not to stumble over protruding roots.
There. It sounded like somebody falling into a pile of kindling off to the right. Della Torre flipped on the flashlight and swung it round. He wasn’t sure. Yes. It looked like one of them. He kept the beam on the Bosnian, who was struggling through a barrier of heaped dead branches. Got you now, he thought to himself. Only then did he wonder where the other one was. Maybe the thought was prompted by the sound of a fat length of wood whistling through the air just before it hit him on the side of the head.
• • •
Strumbić’s leg hurt like hell. He didn’t get a good look at the woman, but it sure wasn’t Irena. The more he thought about it, the more she reminded him of the estate agent. Grace something-or-other, Anzulović had said. No, that wasn’t the name of the estate agent woman. It was . . . He couldn’t remember.
Had Gringo given them his key? If they were going to the flat, one of them must have it. Didn’t matter; Strumbić was going to get his own back from those bloody Bosnians.
Bloody, bloody Bosnians. Fancy them wanting to shoot him inside the tree. He’d straddled the hole as best he could, pressing his legs against the sides, lifting himself up out of range, but not high enough that a bullet didn’t put a furrow in his calf. It felt like a line of hornet stings, but at least he could walk. Problem was, he didn’t know where to go.
A couple of times he thought he saw a flash ahead. Little staccato spikes of light and then lengths of darkness. He couldn’t hear much beyond the constant motorway sound in his head. It was unbelievable, the concussive sound of the explosions concentrated in the hollow of that tree. So he kept his eyes as focused as possible inside the constricting darkness of that wood.
The light shone again, further to his right but now fixed on, bouncing slightly. Della Torre? he wondered. The Bosnians? Somebody walking a dog?
• • •
The wood was soft, mostly rotted through, which was why it splintered when it hit della Torre. Had it been fresh, the force of the blow would have fractured his skull. As it was, he figured on being left with an ugly headache. Which, under the circumstances, would probably last for the rest of his life.
“Who is it, Besim?”
“You got the flashlight?”
“Recognize him?”
“Maybe.” Besim bent down and tugged on della Torre’s tie.
“This thing sure smells familiar.”
“I do think it’s our old friend. The one who didn’t like your driving.”
“I think we owe him something.”
“Shame we haven’t got time to pay him back fully. I’d like to peel his skin off and salt him first, like the Turks do.”
They were distracted by a noise behind them. The skinny Bosnian swung della Torre’s flashlight in the general direction, raising his gun at the same time. A couple of men, naked below the waist, ran off into the undergrowth.
“You see what I see, Besim?”
“I see it. But I’m not understanding it.”
“I think that’s what we heard last night. I told you it wasn’t wild boars.”
The skinny Bosnian fired.
“Shit. Oh my god. Shit, oh my god, I’ve been shot.” The men raced into the woods screaming with fear and pain as the Bosnians doubled over with laughter.
“He shouldn’t have looked back. Think he’ll remember to wear trousers next time?”
“Uh-uh,” said Besim through bouts of snuffling-dog laughter.
“Your turn,” the banana-shaped one said, his attention shifting back to della Torre.
Besim raised the gun in his good right hand while the skinny Bosnian kept the light on della Torre.
“I’d rather throw you out of a moving car. But this will have to do,” said the banana-shaped one.
The two gunshots came so close together that della Torre could have sworn they were one.
BETWEEN THEM, THEY managed to drag Messar through the woods and up to the building. He was a big man, tall and muscular, and it wasn’t an easy job. They didn’t talk much, just enough for Anzulović to tell Grace Kelly that he worked with della Torre. She said, “I know.”
She went through the front door on her own, for once not passing the time of day with the porter, and then opened the back door by the garbage bins so they could take the service elevator up and avoid bumping into any people. Messar wasn’t bleeding too heavily, but his neck and chest were a mess. They got him to the apartment and laid him down on the bed in the spare room.
“He needs a doctor,” said Harry.
Anzulović shrugged. A doctor, once he’d seen the bullet holes, would mean police. Police would mean an inquest. And that would mean jail time for them all. Yugoslavia barely existed. There was little chance of the embassy’s bailing them out, getting them off the hook. The Croats wouldn’t do it for a bunch of UDBA people. And neither would Belgrade for a bunch of Department VI Croats. Besides, who knew how the UDBA would react?
On the other hand, if there was a friendly doctor, one who could keep things quiet, maybe keep Messar alive long enough to be got back to Yugoslavia, or what was left of it, maybe they’d be able to work something out. They’d driven to London in less than a day. He was sure that with Strumbić’s and della Torre’s help they could do the trip back even faster.
Anzulović knew he was clutching at straws.
“We need doctor, yes, but quiet doctor. Not talk about this to police,” he said.
“Do you think Marko’s wife, Irena, would help?”
That was it. He’d known she was in London. Only problem was, where? And did she care enough about della Torre to help?
“Yes, but how find her?” he asked.
“She works at the hospital down the hill. I’ll try her.” Anzulović had too much on his mind to think about how Grace Kelly and della Torre and Irena and Strumbić were tied together. But he made a mental note to find out. Some other time.
Harry spent a quarter of an hour on the phone, at first not getting through to the switchboard and then not getting through to the X-ray department. When she did, they told her Irena wasn’t working that night. And they wouldn’t give Harry her home number.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Anzulović.
But he had a thought. “Wait. I get.”
He’d taken the Department VI job so he’d never have to run stairs again. But the lift was busy and he didn’t have time to wait. He was out of breath by the time he got back to the flat, a folder in his hands.
“I have number for Irena home,” he said. It was from the time she’d called della Torre’s father. He gave it to Harry.
“Yes?”
“Irena? Irena della Torre?”
“Yes. Who is this?” Her English was accented but clear.
“My name is Harry. I’m Marko’s friend.”
“Ah, yes, Marko. Don’t tell me, you’re calling because he wants to apologize for not bothering to show up tonight, but he’s too much of a coward to do it himself. I called the hospital; he was discharged this afternoon.”
“I don’t know about any appointment he had with you. But he couldn’t. He was tied up. I mean really tied up. With rope. Strumbić did it. And now I need your help.” Harry was talking too fast, maybe too loudly, the pitch a little too high. She wasn’t one to panic. Never had been. But the stress of the situation was palpable down the phone line.
“What is it?” Irena’s voice echoed Harry’s edge.
“There’s a man here. He’s a colleague of Marko’s who’s been shot in the jaw. We need a doctor, but it has to be discreet.”
