by Alen Mattich
Also in the Marko della Torre Series
Zagreb Cowboy
Copyright © 2014 Alen Mattich
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This edition published in 2014 by
House of Anansi Press Inc.
110 Spadina Avenue, Suite 801
Toronto, ON, M5V 2K4
Tel. 416-363-4343
Fax 416-363-1017
www.houseofanansi.com
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Mattich, Alen, 1965–, author
Killing pilgrim : a Marko della Torre novel / Alen Mattich.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77089-109-8 (pbk.). — ISBN 978-1-77089-418-1
(html)
I. Title.
PS8626.A874K55 2014 C813’.6 C2013-903901-5
C2013-903902-3
Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk
Cover image: Zero Creatives/Getty Images
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
For Pippa, Tilly, Kit, and Bee
STOCKHOLM, FEBRUARY 1986
The Montenegrin had been smoking, fiddling with the car’s tuner, searching out something other than inane pop music or indecipherable talk radio, when Pilgrim and his wife walked past, unaccompanied.
He hadn’t seen them leave the building because, he shamefully realized, he hadn’t been looking. Every time before, Pilgrim’s chauffeured car had drawn up outside. But that night there was no car.
The Montenegrin reached under the seat and brushed the smooth metal of the Smith & Wesson revolver with his finger. It had become a talisman. At first, he hadn’t been sure of the gun. He would have preferred a smaller-calibre pistol with an efficient silencer, one of the official standard issues. But he hadn’t dared risk smuggling a weapon across Europe, not now that he was working alone, even though he’d worried about the quality of equipment he’d be able to get his hands on in Sweden.
But the boy had done well. Not only had he found a pristine weapon, but he’d taken the Montenegrin to an isolated spot in a forest two hours west of Stockholm where he could test it to his heart’s content, assured of privacy.
The Montenegrin slipped the gun into his coat pocket and got out of the stolen Opel, shutting the door behind him quietly. He followed the couple on foot, at a discreet distance, as he’d learned to do over long years of practice.
Pilgrim and his wife walked to the nearest metro station, where they waited for a train in the direction of the city’s shopping district. People recognized the man but left him alone, though one youth made a mocking two-fingered sign behind his back. Pilgrim’s face was unmistakable, round, with a beak nose and hooded eyes, like a vulture’s. The wife was unexceptional. Small, dowdy, utterly forgettable, though by now the Montenegrin was familiar with her too, having even watched her do her shopping at the local supermarket like any other middle-aged Swedish housewife, filling a basket with milk, vegetables, a roll of aluminium foil, and toilet paper.
The Montenegrin bought a ticket and waited at the other end of the platform. The train was full but not crowded. He stood well away from the couple but within sight. Pilgrim seemed agitated, glancing frequently at his watch. His wife patted his arm, a gesture that spoke of long familiarity with her husband’s impatience. They went three stops on the green line from the old town, with its island of narrow cobbled streets and its mustard-coloured stone buildings with gas lamps, and got off in a nondescript part of Stockholm marked by nineteenth-century apartment blocks lined with restaurants and shops on a long, straight avenue. Except for the cold, the city reminded the Montenegrin of Belgrade.
He joined the flow of passengers leaving the station, keeping Pilgrim and his wife in sight as they and a handful of others hurried to a cinema a block away.
Pilgrim walked to the front of the queue, as was only natural, but his wife gently upbraided him for his rudeness, making him take his place at the back. Pilgrim looked both irritated and chastened, but when he got to the ticket window he paid like everybody else and disappeared into the theatre.
The Montenegrin checked the running time to see when the show would end. It was something frivolous about Mozart, a summer comedy for the dead of winter, according to the poster. Popular. Maybe because there wasn’t much else to do in Stockholm. It was an expensive town in which to drink, eat, smoke.
He took the metro back to the car. It was a short drive, but it took him a while to find somewhere to park that was out of sight but within easy access. His sense of direction had failed him in this unfamiliar town; he ended up on the wrong side of the cinema from the metro stop, on a parallel side street farther away than he’d intended.
He walked back towards the theatre and stood silent sentry at a shop window diagonally opposite, in clear sight of its entrance. He was early, but he wanted to be ready if Pilgrim walked out before the end of the film. So he waited, half-staring at the darkened display, illuminated solely by streetlight, struggling not to shiver despite the new blue overcoat and cheap knitted cap he’d bought a couple of weeks before in Copenhagen, where he’d briefly stopped to find a car with Swedish plates.
Several times he glanced around the intersection, but the streets were mostly empty. There wasn’t much snow on the ground, but it was cold enough for him to feel the fine hairs in his nose start to freeze.
He stamped his feet, the dance cold people do when they’re waiting, but resisted the temptation to walk some warmth back into his legs. The film would be ending soon.
He pressed his fingers to his neck, feeling for his pulse, using the psychological tools he’d been taught to force himself to relax. Nerves were inevitable, expected, even for a professional. They kept him sharp, alert. But unfettered, they caused mistakes.
It worried him that he hadn’t had time to plan properly, to get a clear idea of each subsequent move. Normally he’d have been directing a team from a safe distance. He’d have had people doing fieldwork for weeks in advance, with a whole intelligence portfolio at his disposal. Then there would have been a separate squad, given exact instructions, down to the colours of their ties. They wouldn’t know why, but they’d know when and where, to the minute and metre. And if they got it wrong . . . they were deniable. All with criminal backgrounds and a good reason to keep their mouths shut.
Not now. This time he was standing at the front with no one behind him. The intelligence, the fieldwork, and the execution were all down to him. No safety net. No support. Just an unwritten promise in return for success.
No, he wasn’t quite alone. But he didn’t count the boy, whom providence had seemingly sent. Despite his youth, the boy was capable and smart, even if he smoked dope most evenings or went out to sell it. The boy was a piece of luck.
It was also lucky that Pilgrim and his wife had decided to take the metro to the cinema that evening. And that they’d gone unaccompanied by a bodyguard.
Even professionals get lucky, the Montenegrin reminded himself.
Every day since he’d arrived in Stockholm, he’d driven to Pilgrim’s apartment building well before dawn, waiting and watching. Then he would shadow the man and his two uniformed bodyguards, tracing the short route to his nearby offices. Once, Pilgrim had caught the Montenegrin off guard by returning home unaccompanied mid-afternoon. A missed opportun
ity.
Most evenings, the Montenegrin would sit in his car, engine running, smoking cigarettes, watching. Pilgrim would return home flanked by a pair of uniformed men, different ones from the morning team. Usually he’d go out again, collected by a chauffeured car, mostly alone, though his wife had gone with him once or twice. He’d come back the same way, the driver getting out and opening Pilgrim’s door and then escorting him to his building.
At first the Montenegrin worried he’d draw attention to himself, sitting in a parked car in this affluent Old Stockholm neighbourhood for hours on end. But then he noticed other men doing the same, in similar cars, cheap Opels, rusty Volvos, Fords. It puzzled him at first, but then he realized that husbands were dropping off their wives for their night cleaning jobs. Some worked for only a couple of hours, and the husbands would wait. Others came back early in the morning. He was just another waiting husband, another poor immigrant.
It was the third week of this slow, methodical surveillance. He had another month to work out how to get the job done in a way that got him out of the country, safe and anonymous.
Maybe if he spoke Swedish as well as the boy did. He got by on his English and German but . . . No, it didn’t matter what language he spoke. Even if he succeeded, he’d never escape Pilgrim’s security.
Except that evening there was no security.
It was after eleven o’clock when the film ended. His feet were numb. He should have bought felt-lined boots, like the Korean-made pairs he’d seen the Kurdish immigrants wearing in the suburb where he was staying. The cinema doors opened and people spread into the deserted street like oil from a ruptured pipe. The crowd broke up into couples and small groups, some of whom passed the Montenegrin, talking animatedly before dispersing into the night.
He felt a sudden panic when he saw people emerging from around the corner. He’d been stupid not to check for a second exit. He swore under his breath but restrained himself from racing round to see whether Pilgrim had used it. If Pilgrim was going to the same metro station he’d arrived at, he would have to pass the front of the cinema anyway.
Pilgrim. The Montenegrin didn’t understand why the man had been given that code name. Or who chose it. Pilgrim seemed neither religious nor holy.
But where was he? The Montenegrin grew anxious. Maybe he’d been absorbed into the departing crowd. He’d worn a nondescript overcoat and hat, was of average height and build. Bundled up against the cold, he could have been any middle-aged man.
The Montenegrin’s thoughts adjusted to failure, returning to what he needed to do over the coming days, weeks, willing patience on himself. But he couldn’t suppress the ripple of regret. He grimaced at the acres of time he would have to spend on dull surveillance, the mountain of work ahead. He’d wait until the crowd disappeared and then drive back to the suburbs. Sleep and then start again early tomorrow.
The Montenegrin was cold. Even the short walk back to the car would be a chore.
But his discomfort, his gloom, evaporated in an instant, his focus narrowing sharply when he saw, from across the light flow of traffic, Pilgrim exit the cinema. The man and his wife were among the last to leave.
They and another couple stopped under the cinema’s rigid awning, talking in a huddle, as people did in these cold places. There was a lack of formality in the encounter, though it wasn’t overly animated, suggesting they saw each other frequently. The couples exchanged kisses and broke off.
The younger couple walked towards the Montenegrin, but Pilgrim and his wife turned in the opposite direction. Whatever they were doing, they weren’t taking the route they’d come by.
It could be that they were going to walk home. Or perhaps they were heading to the other metro station, just beyond the stairs he’d parked by. One stop less for them to travel.
The Montenegrin crossed two roads — he resisted taking the shorter diagonal route for fear of drawing attention to himself — putting himself directly behind Pilgrim and his wife as they ambled down the long main avenue, which was lined with young trees, their bare dark trunks made stark by the street lights. His gloveless hand was in his pocket, securing the revolver’s heft against his thigh.
The couple was fifty metres ahead of him. A plan coalesced as he drew closer.
His shirt was clammy with sweat. White fluorescent street lamps cast a hard steel light on the night. The couple came to a tall white church with a domed tower, where Pilgrim again showed his impulsiveness by crossing the road without using a crosswalk, his wife scurrying behind. For a moment the Montenegrin wondered whether the man had sensed he was being followed, but then saw that the couple had been drawn to a shop’s illuminated window display. The Montenegrin continued on his side of the road, walking past the church and not crossing until he’d reached the traffic lights, waiting patiently for a green signal, as he’d seen Swedes do.
He took a few strides off the main road onto a smaller, perpendicular street, but stopping close enough to the intersection that he’d be able to see when Pilgrim and his wife walked past. It was risky. It meant they’d be out of sight. But it also meant they wouldn’t notice him when they resumed their walk.
He stood in front of a lit stationer’s window, wishing his daughter had the physical ability to hold the expensive Faber-Castell coloured pencils on display. He tried to push her out of his thoughts. To focus. Solo surveillance was hard. Teams of three or four, or better yet two teams of three, were ideal. How he wished he had the people to do this job properly. Professionally.
He mocked himself for wishing the impossible. Why not just wish his wife back to life?
A young man brushed past him, absorbed in the headphones of his Sony Walkman, a miracle of Japanese engineering. Maybe he’d buy one for his daughter. That was something she might enjoy more than pencils. He breathed steadily, consciously, the crisp air making him cough.
He looked up and saw Pilgrim and his wife crossing the intersection, continuing along the main avenue, walking a little more briskly now.
The Montenegrin looked around to make sure no one else was following. The street was nearly empty. He turned the corner, lengthening his stride so that he caught up with them before they’d made it halfway along the block.
He was now directly behind the couple, though they hadn’t noticed him. With an assured smoothness, he put his arm over the man’s shoulder, and said “Hej” in a hearty tone. Pilgrim and his wife looked up at the Montenegrin, startled.
They smiled as if to show they knew him, yet doubt creased their foreheads. It often happened to famous people. People recognizing them, but not knowing quite why, thinking perhaps they were old acquaintances. The woman said something to him in Swedish. The Montenegrin smiled apologetically, shrugging his shoulders. He exhaled a little sigh of relief. He’d confirmed the target. There was no mistake.
The couple kept glancing nervously at the silent stranger in the cheap coat. He stepped away from them and they walked, perhaps slightly faster, though it was hard to tell.
Pilgrim and his wife hadn’t gone more than a couple of metres before the Montenegrin started following again, hand deep in the overcoat pocket, gripping the butt of the gun, index finger straight beside the trigger. With a practised thumb he cocked the gun as he drew it out of his pocket, and in a smooth move he slid his finger between the trigger and its guard.
The red and white muzzle flame was brief and bright against the city’s hollow, artificial light.
The first bullet took Pilgrim down. The second, fired immediately after, was wasted.
Pilgrim fell hard, in the way the Montenegrin had seen other men fall, not even twitching once he’d hit the ground.
They were at the bottom of an alley that led up to a set of stairs, near the top of which the Montenegrin had parked his car. He jogged away from the dead man, along the alley and then up the stairs, which he took two at a time, keeping his right hand in his pocket t
o prevent the still-warm gun from falling out, and gripping the rail with the other.
Halfway up, he stopped, thinking he could hear footsteps behind him.
But from below, there rose only the echo of a woman’s screams.
He counted as he climbed. Eighty-nine steps.
Soon people would be coming. Very soon.
The car wasn’t far now. He knew this was only the start of a very long night. But it had been a good beginning. A lucky one.
Behind him Pilgrim lay prone, his wife kneeling, keening by his side.
Olof Palme, prime minister of Sweden, was dead.
ZAGREB, AUGUST 1991
At first only a single air-raid siren wailed in the distance, somewhere to the east. But like the baying of dogs, its call was rapidly taken up, so that within moments the whole of Zagreb was caught up in the fearful ululation.
Marko della Torre watched from the window of his office as nervous pedestrians stopped, looked skyward as if sniffing the air, and then rushed away, heads bowed, ducking the invisible enemy. He felt a bead of sweat run under his arm to his scarred elbow.
Zagreb’s sticky summer heat was made even more oppressive by the fear of looming war, which piled up like impossibly high and ever blacker thunderclouds. So far, all the city’s air-raid warnings had been false alarms. It had been less than two months since Croatia and Slovenia declared their independence from Yugoslavia. The country had been cobbled together after the First World War from a collection of the Balkans’ Slav nations, anchored by the relatively large and powerful Serbia. But any sense of brotherhood was riven by two alphabets, three religions, innumerable dialects, and a history of mutual loathing. From the first days, the country’s smaller republics had chafed under Serb hegemony. The Nazi invasion during the Second World War triggered a civil war. Tito’s Communist Partizans won and for nearly half a century bound the country through fear and ideology. And an effective secret police apparatus, for which della Torre worked.
