The Heart of Hell

by Alen Mattich

  “Horvat gave you authority?” della Torre asked, incredulous. The deputy minister had a deep antipathy for Anzulović, resenting his lack of zeal for the nationalist cause.

  “No, Horvat gave authority to Messar. But seeing as Messar is still out of sorts —” Major Messar, an efficient secret policeman with enough private wealth through relatives in Germany that he remained an incorruptible and committed Communist, had taken a bullet to the jaw in the same incident that injured della Torre’s elbow. “— he passed it onto me.”

  “Does Horvat know?”

  Anzulović’s shrug at once said: yes, no, maybe, I can’t do anything about what he thinks anyway, I just do my job.

  “It’s like this, Gringo. The Americans want to think of themselves as St. Nicholas. They want to know when you’ve been good, when you’ve been bad, and when you’ve lied, so they can reward and punish fairly. Who knows, maybe they are — St. Nicholas, I mean. They’re certainly fat enough — at least the ones who come to our beaches. Maybe the thin ones stay at home. We don’t know what they know, what they think they know, and what they know they don’t know. So your best approach is to tell the truth and to be consistent to the point that you don’t incriminate yourself.”

  “You make it sound like you think I’ve got something to hide.”

  Anzulović ignored this. “So, two rules. Number one, don’t lie. Number two, don’t help them dig your grave. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right, so let’s start with the dead Americans.”

  “A couple of guys called Bill and Rob.”

  “And your friend Rebecca Vees . . .”

  Della Torre momentarily lifted his hands and then sat back. “Where did they find her?”

  “She washed up on an Italian beach and was formally identified by people from the American embassy in Rome. Though our guy from Dubrovnik had already had a look and was pretty sure it was her. I don’t think the Americans ever seriously thought she’d be found alive, do you?”

  “No.”

  Della Torre had written in his report that both he and Rebecca had been thrown off the Montenegrin’s boat. He’d neglected to mention that his bindings had been cut off. Hers hadn’t.

  The Americans had come to eliminate the Montenegrin, another piece of the Pilgrim puzzle, but they’d underestimated the UDBA’s lead assassin.

  “When did they find her?”

  Della Torre drank his coffee and lit another Lucky. The place still made a decent coffee — elsewhere, standards had started to slip as prices rose. He stared out in front of him. Even in a time of war the flower sellers were out, though some had little more on offer than bunches of rosehips, fat and luscious and red against the square’s drab grey concrete.

  “Brg, our detective from Dubrovnik, went over two days ago. The Americans notified us that it was her yesterday afternoon,” Anzulović said.

  “Nice of them. Saves us from having to keep looking.”

  “Had we been looking?” Anzulović asked.

  “I suppose not.”

  “Interesting timing.”

  “What?”

  “You getting Strumbić’s message at around the same time they fished up the corpse.”

  “And I suppose that’s when Horvat finally agreed to let the Americans interview me.”

  “Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Anzulović said.

  “Horvat’s quite the operator.”

  “Whether he is or isn’t, he says you’re to talk to the Americans. Could be soon. Or maybe not. But let’s get your story straight. Remember, tell the truth. But only so long as it doesn’t tie a rope around your neck.”

  LESS THAN A week later, an unmarked Zastava with a military police chauffeur drove up the concrete driveway of a house on the lower slope of Medvednica mountain, behind Zagreb’s medieval old town. It was an elegant 1930s villa with thick walls and a steep-pitched red-tiled roof, set in spacious grounds. The high iron gate, painted red with rustproofing, was closed behind the car by a soldier in dress uniform.

  “Officially one of UDBA’s safe houses,” Anzulović said.

  “Not one I’ve ever known about,” della Torre said, getting out of the car.

  Anzulović laughed. “Bit like your apartment. Requisitioned by the UDBA for reasons of national security, and then somehow . . . well, you know how it goes . . .”

  Della Torre knew how it went. In the bad old days, a senior Communist could have a private property requisitioned from someone with inadequate political pull, claim it on behalf of the state, and then quietly move in. That’s what an UDBA agent had done with della Torre’s apartment. When the agent had fallen out of favour badly enough to end up in Goli Otok, his family was evicted. An accident of timing and a certain nous meant that della Torre got it.

  “I thought the new regime promised to give these places back to their rightful owners,” della Torre said. “Rightful owners” generally meant the families of people who’d lost possession immediately after the Second World War, when socialist self-justification was at its strongest.

  Anzulović’s right eyebrow arched like a furry caterpillar. “Once they’ve taken it through the courts. But the courts are stuffed full of old Communists. Most of the judges will be sympathetic to the old functionaries like them, and half are on the take, along with the lawyers and clerks and officers and recorders and stenographers and secretaries. How long do you think they’d be able to hold up a repossession? I’m banking on at least a decade.”

  They climbed the stone steps from the driveway to the upper terrace. The house managed to be both grand and understated.

  A young woman ushered them in. Della Torre’s heart leapt at the sight of her friendly, open face. But she disappeared immediately upon taking them through the hall and into the room beyond. The ceilings were more than three metres high and the floor was laid in a herringbone parquet. Autumn light filtered through thin gauze curtains draped like veils over three sets of tall French windows. The furniture was from the 1950s or ’60s. At first della Torre thought they were admirable Yugoslav knock-offs of western European styles. But then he realized they were actual western European pieces. A long rosewood sideboard to one side. Scandinavian sofas and armchairs. A stylish coffee table. The broad rug covering the floor around the seating area was a blue Persian kilim, either an antique or a very good imitation. Della Torre recognized an Odilon Redon painting on the wall, depicting flowers in a vase. He wondered if it was an original.

  But mostly his attention was on Zlatko Horvat. The deputy minister sat in an armchair reading a document almost as if he were playing a role on stage. They stood in silence until at long last he acknowledged them.

  “Major,” he said, not rising. “How nice to see you again. Please sit.” He motioned across the room. Della Torre took a corner of a long, low sofa, Anzulović a wing chair. After a first fleeting look of displeasure, Horvat studiously ignored Anzulović.

  “Deputy Minister,” della Torre said.

  Horvat’s half-smile was more insincere than ever, turned up in one corner, the other side of his face frozen by an old stroke. He pulled on a cigarette in an ivory holder. His skin was papery, his fingers stained yellow. His eyes showed intelligence, an efficient malevolence.

  “Our American friends would like to speak with you,” Horvat began. “I am confident that you gave their colleagues every assistance on their mission in Dubrovnik. I have read your account of the matter. I find it conclusive. The Americans overreached, and they suffered the consequences of underestimating the Balkans. But I fear the Americans are concerned that they don’t have the complete story. It is understandable. No one likes to admit to errors of judgement.”

  Horvat spoke with studied neutrality, but there was something about the way he said the last sentence that made della Torre wonder whether the deputy minister was also referring to his own error of p
lacing his considerable faith in della Torre. Horvat was not very different from Strumbić, an opportunist whose agenda primarily involved enriching himself. Except — unlike Strumbić, whose cynicism ran deep — Horvat suffered from a streak of idealism. Nationalism was his cause. And it was the hope of leveraging advantage for himself and his country that had originally encouraged him to offer della Torre’s services to the American team sent to kill the Montenegrin.

  Horvat rose, and della Torre and Anzulović with him.

  “You will wait here,” he said. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters to attend to. There is no end to governing during a war. You will give our friends all the information they require.” He left, shaking neither man’s hand.

  The same young woman who had shown them in now arrived with a coffee service, which she placed on the low table between a pair of heavy cut-glass ashtrays. She poured four rich Turkish coffees into thimble-sized cups and then went back out, not having spoken a word to them.

  Della Torre sat back down on the sofa and lit a cigarette, feeling seedy in his cheap leather jacket and polycotton trousers. At least he had on nice shoes, sturdy but elegant handmade Grenson chukka boots he’d bought in London during his brief escape from the Bosnian killers earlier in the year. Paid for with money he’d stolen from Strumbić.

  “The minister seemed pleased to see you,” della Torre said, irony helping to lift his tension a little. He’d barely slept for the past week, his thoughts constantly flitting between Irena and the Americans, from his father to the war to the regimented emptiness of his days at work.

  “Nice man. A fine one to have in government,” Anzulović said. They both knew the place was bugged.

  They’d waited only the length of two leisurely cigarettes before the door opened again.

  It didn’t surprise della Torre to see John Dawes, the American who’d assembled the failed team and now undoubtedly hoped to lay the cause of the catastrophe at somebody else’s feet. The man with him was also American. He had short greying hair and looked military, even though he was wearing a civilian suit.

  “Mr. Anzic and Mr. della Torre,” Dawes said, lazily failing to pronounce Anzulović’s name. The smile was professional. “This is my colleague Jack Grimston.”

  Grimston’s hand was surprisingly elegant for a man who looked like a marine. His fingers were long and he had clean, well-trimmed nails. But the grip was strong, with considerable reserves of power.

  The Americans sat in the remaining two armchairs, leaving della Torre on his own in the corner of the sofa. He felt as if he were facing a tribunal.

  “I would like to thank you for your cooperation, Mr. della Torre,” Dawes began. He took a folder out of his black briefcase and opened it on his lap. Grimston did the same. “Your written statement about the events in Dubrovink was appreciated, as were your answers to our follow-up questions. The United States government cannot formally discuss these matters with the current Croatian administration, since it does not recognize Croatia as an independent state. And because of Croatia’s . . . ah . . . estrangement from Yugoslavia, this has put the United States government in a difficult position with respect to investigating the deaths of the three American citizens who were killed in or around Dubrovnik.” He paused. “Our agreement with Deputy Defence Minister Horvat is that we are here to speak with you informally and merely as an exercise in clarifying some details.”

  Anzulović wore a troubled expression, concentrating hard on the American’s words. He spoke some English, but far from enough to decipher legalistic hedging.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” della Torre said.

  “As you know, two American men were killed in a house on the island of Šipan, north of Dubrovnik, approximately one month ago,” Dawes said. “We have just confirmed that a third American, a woman, died probably the same night. Her body was discovered on the Italian coast, and over the past week or so her identity was confirmed by officers from the U.S. embassy in Rome. We wish to understand in detail the events leading up to their deaths.”

  “Everything I knew was in the statement.”

  “For which we thank you. But there are some gaps —”

  “Mr. della Torre, we’re here to find out who killed these three American citizens and the circumstances of their deaths,” Grimston cut in. He had a light Southern accent and a gritty voice. “I’m sure you don’t want us to waste your time, so why don’t we just cover that ground.”

  Della Torre nodded. “Rebecca Vees, Bill, and Rob — I’m sorry, I don’t know their surnames — were killed by the former UDBA senior operative they were sent to assassinate.”

  “Mr. D-jay-las . . .” Dawes interjected.

  “It’s spelled D-J-I-L-A-S and is pronounced gee-las, as in giants. He’s commonly called ‘the Montenegrin’ because that’s where he’s from. The Republic of Montenegro touches Croatia at its southern extremity, just beyond Dubrovnik.” Dawes would know all this, but della Torre didn’t want to presume that Grimston had any knowledge of the former Yugoslavia. Grimston showed no reaction.

  “You were saying,” Dawes said. Grimston remained silent, sitting back and observing.

  “They were killed by the Montenegrin. He came at night, in a boat, and shot the two men in the villa. The villa is very private, on an isolated island, and the locals generally steer clear, so nobody took too much notice. I assume Rebecca was wounded while being captured.”

  “Did you see how she sustained her wounds?”

  “No, but I saw that there was blood on her side when we were in the boat.”

  “What did you and Rebecca discuss on the boat?”

  “Nothing. She was gagged.”

  “And you weren’t?”

  “I had been unconscious. It took me a while to regain my senses. The Montenegrin took us for a boat ride. Then he threw me into the sea late at night just off Orebić. I had to swim to land.”

  “And Rebecca?”

  “He threw us both off,” della Torre said.

  “But you survived.”

  “I . . . I wasn’t . . . my bindings came undone. So I could swim.”

  “And Rebecca’s didn’t.”

  “No.”

  “Did you make any effort to save her?”

  “I . . . I couldn’t.”

  “But you knew she was still bound?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Because he threw her in first.”

  “And then you?”

  “Yes.”

  “He must have known she would drown.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you say anything? Did you do anything to save her?”

  “No.” No, he’d watched with horror, but he’d done nothing, said nothing.

  “So it was likely his intention — the Montenegrin’s intention — that Rebecca should die.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think that, Mr. della Torre?”

  “Because Rebecca and her team were sent there to kill him.”

  “This is your speculation.”

  “This is my absolute knowledge.”

  “It seems to me you’re making a leap of judgement, coloured perhaps by extenuating circumstances. Did you disagree with this supposed mission to assassinate Mr. Djil . . . the Montenegrin?”

  “It is contrary to law.”

  “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you, Mr. della Torre?”

  “Yes.”

  “Specialized in international law. I understand you studied for a master’s degree in London. From, let’s see, ’77 to ’78, I believe.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And what was Mr. . . . the Montenegrin’s past?”

  “He had been a senior member of the UDBA.”

  “With a responsibility for liquidations on foreign territory.”

 
“He headed the wetworks, yes.”

  “Was that legal?”

  “He always operated within the framework of Yugoslav law.”

  “This is something you know about, is it? This is within your expertise?”

  “Yes, I was a member of UDBA’s Department VI. We were in effect the UDBA’s internal affairs. My responsibility was to investigate past killings UDBA had been involved in on foreign territory, to ensure that they had been —” Della Torre was about to say executed but thought better of it. “That they had been undertaken within the letter of Yugoslav law.”

  He was limiting himself to telling the Americans only what he already knew they knew, though he suspected they knew a lot more.

  “And did these murders comply with international law?”

  “How so?” della Torre said.

  Grimston cut in: “Were the Montenegrin’s actions permissible within the context of international law?”

  “It was not my role to adjudicate on whether actions by officers of the Yugoslav state were in breach of international law, merely whether they had acted within the scope of domestic legislation. In my experience — and I investigated a number of past cases he had been involved in — he had always acted lawfully.”

  “Yet you’re a specialist in international law.”

  “Yes.”

  “Setting aside international considerations and purely within the context of Yugoslav law, did you feel that it was your responsibility to prevent the assassination of . . . the Montenegrin?”

  “It was my responsibility not to aid the operation directly.”

  “So, insofar as you thought Ms. Vees was out to kill this gentleman, you would have interfered.”

  “I would not have aided the project.”

  “But you wouldn’t have actively intervened to prevent it?”

  Della Torre paused, took out a cigarette, and lit it. How many had he already had that morning? He coughed. “I wouldn’t have gotten in the way.”