by Alen Mattich
“My little secret,” she giggled.
“Do you have any other secrets?” the Montenegrin asked lightly, though there was an edge to his voice.
“No other secrets. Or not ones I tell to strange men.” Rebecca giggled again. She dipped her chin and looked up at the Montenegrin, that shy, abashed look della Torre had seen before. “It was in my bag all along. He just didn’t look very carefully.”
Della Torre was surprised at her. Except for the night after their firefight with the Bosnians, she’d always drunk moderately in his company. A glass of watered-down wine or two, and no more than a shot of slivovitz. But she’d already had a skinful and was looking like she’d dug in for an evening’s worth.
“Well, in that case, thank you very much,” said the Montenegrin. “I developed a taste for bourbon in America, but there is little opportunity to find it here. Shall we drink a toast?”
He was merry. The interview hadn’t been confrontational; indeed, it had been less of a formality than when della Torre had questioned him in the past. The mugginess of the day had dissipated, and now the evening air was cool and clear. And he was enjoying the company.
“I had better be careful of drinking too much. I still have work to do. You’re never so busy as when you’ve retired,” the Montenegrin said. “But don’t worry yourself, Gringo, we have time. My men won’t be here until after midnight. I’ll sleep on the boat.”
Out of the corner of his eye, della Torre saw Rebecca straighten for a moment. A brief turbulence rippled over her face and then disappeared. When he looked at her, he saw that she was smiling in the relaxed, lazy way of some drunks.
“But you, you must stay,” he said to them. “You cannot drive these mountains after what we’ve drunk, and there’s no hotel in the bay that’s as comfortable as my house. I have plenty of rooms.” The Montenegrin flicked his hand towards the building.
“I couldn’t possibly,” Rebecca said, leaning over the table so that the top of her blouse opened up. “It would be impert — impertinent,” she said. Her speech wasn’t slurred but was a semiquaver slower than usual. Neither of them was fit to drive in these mountains.
“Rebecca’s right,” della Torre said.
“Of course she’s not. I insist. My women will give you a fine breakfast, an American breakfast. Eggs and fried speck. And you’ll have freshly baked bread to soothe your stomachs after tonight, eh?”
Rebecca was leaning back in her chair, eyes half shut, smiling contentedly. Her cheeks were slightly flushed and her hair had come loose.
“Maybe it would be best if she took herself off now,” della Torre said, giving in, grateful not to have to risk the drive.
“Of course,” the Montenegrin agreed. He called his man over and told him to fetch his sister-in-law from the house.
A matronly woman with black whiskers above her lip came out. She wore a dark calico print with small deep red flowers. She nodded at the Montenegrin’s request and showed della Torre, who was helping prop Rebecca up, to a room on the same level as the terrace. Della Torre was to have the room next door. He went back out once he saw that Rebecca was settled on the bed, fully clothed.
“My apologies,” he said.
“Never mind,” the Montenegrin said. “Young women weren’t made to drink. It’s a lovely evening, and easy for someone unused to the strength of the liquor to succumb.”
“Yes,” della Torre said uncertainly.
“She is very pretty. Are you sure you have only a professional relationship?” the Montenegrin asked slyly.
“Purely functional.”
“Ah, well. Would that I were a younger man and you were here longer,” he laughed. “My life is complicated enough as it is without having to deal with a lawyer who works for the American government. Just imagine what the divorce would be like.”
Della Torre grinned. “Your offer of breakfast is generous, but I think we’ll leave early, as soon as we wake. It’s best we don’t stay too long.”
“You’ll have to mind the dogs. They are let loose in the courtyard at night. The men need their rest. Besides, nobody comes or goes along this road without my knowing. They’ll be chained up in the morning, even before you wake.”
“You have yourself well organized here.”
“I have to. Belgrade already sent somebody for me. The people who took over from the UDBA. They didn’t get far. I think perhaps Gorki is here for the same reason.”
“For you?”
“Maybe. Maybe not only for me. But he will be interested in my welfare. That it does poorly. As I mentioned, we have some bad blood. If he had the opportunity, he’d be quite content to put a bullet or two in me. I have to say, I wondered about you too.”
“Me?”
“You work for the Croats now,” he said. “The dissidents who sit in government in Zagreb have no reason to love me.”
“No. But they have plenty else on their plate to worry about without settling old scores,” della Torre said.
“And Horvat?”
“That I don’t know about. I was asked to bring along Rebecca because she wanted to ask you some questions on behalf of the U.S. government.” Della Torre shrugged, helping himself to a shot of rakija. “It’s nice, this. Smooth.”
“Mine. Made it myself.”
“I just do what I’m told. Like you did. Except my line of work is a little different.”
“Gringo, you say that as if blood doesn’t flow from pens. Trust me, there’s nothing more deadly than a writ signed by a lawyer.”
“Not my pen.”
“Don’t worry, Gringo. I trust you. As much as I trust anyone.”
The clouds had dissipated. In the depths of that walled-in bay, it was like looking at the sky from the bottom of a well. The stars were everywhere, though the moon tried hard to bleach them out.
“It’s good how well Snezhana seems. I’m sorry I didn’t bring her some picture books,” della Torre said.
“Picture books? She reads the most complex novels. Jules Verne, Dumas. I have for her a whole library of them. It’s difficult. She has problems holding her head still and it wearies her, but she makes great efforts and, with a patient nursemaid, reads and reads and reads.”
“Is that so?” Della Torre was genuinely surprised.
“Yes, it is wholly surprising, but I don’t lie when I say she has the finest mind I have ever encountered. She calculates in her brain enormous sums. Ask her eight to the power of three and it takes her longer to speak the answer than it does to figure it out. She doesn’t go to school, but I have a teacher come here three or four days a week to give her lessons in history and geography and anything else that catches her fancy. You saw how she walked. The doctors said she never would. But she has superhuman powers of will. She writes on a computer I bought for her. She writes wonderful stories, really wonderful ones. She understands Italian, speaks it too. And English. I taught her a little, but most of it she learned from watching videos and cartoons. German too. Everything. She has a little Sony Walkman, and I have people send me tapes from Frankfurt and London and other places, and she listens. For hours. Everything sinks in. What she could achieve if her body worked better, it frightens me to think.”
Della Torre smiled. “That’s wonderful.”
“You are skeptical, I know. So would I be too. It is difficult to see until you get to know her, but inside that broken machine is a miracle. The doctors said she would be mentally incompetent. She makes them look like fools. What she understands and observes is incomprehensible to me. She thinks and thinks and thinks. And never does she pity herself. Never.” The Montenegrin said the last word with finality.
“Do you think perhaps she might get better attention somewhere else?” della Torre said gently.
“Yes. She has a sister in Vienna, where they have a very good clinic for children like Snezhana. But she tell
s me she loves it here. I take her swimming; she enjoys the water. She enjoys the sun. She has no real playmates, but she says she doesn’t mind so long as she has books. What can I say? She is content. I can give to her whatever she demands, and she has aunts and people to help her with her needs.”
“And if something happens to you?”
“Then she’ll be provided for here or in Vienna, as she chooses. And it will be her choice. There’s a lawyer in Belgrade who looks after her interests. He will ensure all goes well.”
“I’m sure you’ll live a long time.”
“Oh, don’t bet on it. I spent too long in the UDBA to have any illusions. Eventually somebody will want to be rid of me enough to take the necessary risks.”
“Horvat?”
“Horvat?” The Montenegrin laughed. “Maybe. Though he’s an amateur next to some of the creatures Belgrade has.”
“Gorki.”
“Gorki. Him too, though I’m safe enough from him here. And when I’m on the water, we have some protection from the navy. Not everyone loves his paramilitaries. But there are other ways, and sometimes I have to be on the road.” He made an elaborate gesture of resignation.
“Why? Why Gorki?”
“He fascinates you, this man. Ah, well, the most dangerous, the most extreme criminals are fascinating,” the Montenegrin said, smoothing his fingers though his thick hair as he sat back in the chair. “Why Gorki? For me it was a job. For him, personal. There was a boy who got in the way. I was sorry for it.”
“His?”
“His son? No, not like that. I don’t know what it was. There were rumours about him, of course. That he liked boys in a less than paternal way, if you understand my meaning. It is not unusual among people who spend long periods in prison,” the Montenegrin said. “Gorki was in jail at the time that this happened. I hadn’t realized there was any . . . relationship between them. The boy was useful for a job that needed doing and, unfortunately, was expendable. Though I’m not sure Gorki sees it that way.”
They were silent for a while, smoking cigarettes. The older man seemed lost in introspection. Della Torre sensed a weakening. The Montenegrin couldn’t defeat age. The skin on his forearms had become a little looser, the face lined and burnt brown by the sun. Had he started to regret a life of constant secret war?
“Tell me about Pilgrim.”
“What?” The Montenegrin was startled into sudden vigilance, sitting up smartly, his eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear of Pilgrim?”
“It was in some files. Just a passing mention. Cross-referenced to you,” della Torre said, taken aback by the other man’s sudden intensity.
“It was nothing,” he said abruptly and then softened. “When I first met you —”
“In London?”
“Yes, in London, I felt . . . how can I say . . . regretful to have engaged you in the operation.”
“Svjet?”
“Yes. It had to be done. And I tried to keep you out of it as much as possible. You were never meant to be more than a messenger boy. But . . .” He raised his hands, palms upward, leaving the thought unspoken.
Della Torre finished it for him: “But the job needed doing.”
Della Torre wondered whether his younger self had been very different from Gorki’s boy. Another useful pawn in the game UDBA played. And the Montenegrin played the game professionally. Rare was the day when Svjet didn’t sneak through della Torre’s thoughts like a rat at a Christmas feast, making him shudder . . . Svjet had been in his late fifties, not much older than the Montenegrin was now, but had already slipped into decrepitude. Harmless. He’d taught della Torre to love late Beethoven. And in return, della Torre had helped to destroy him. Who had Gorki’s boy helped the Montenegrin to destroy?
“It can be quiet here, especially in the winter.” The Montenegrin spoke quietly. “There’s snow at the tops of the mountains, and it’s cold; the whole bowl of the bay here fills with mist. It’s like an army of ghosts. It seeps into your skin. Long evenings you spend talking to your memories.”
“Yes.” Della Torre understood. However much he struggled with Svjet’s memory, the Montenegrin would be torn at by legions.
“Gringo, I’ve had a soft spot for you since then. You’ve always been a man of conscience. And don’t think I haven’t been grateful for the times when those people in Belgrade wanted an excuse to use me as their sacrificial goat. You were a thin defence against their lies, but it was all I had, and it worked. So I thank you.” One of the reasons the Montenegrin had retired was because the Yugoslav government had begun to cast around for someone to blame for its murderous programs. Della Torre investigated assassinations. Not all were clean, but the Montenegrin had been scrupulous.
Della Torre lit a cigarette and offered one to the other man, who declined.
The Montenegrin sat back in his chair and watched della Torre against the sounds of the night. In the house a washing machine had flipped into the spin cycle, and somewhere across the bay a 50 cc motorbike could be heard going through the gears. The Montenegrin drank back his spirit.
“It’s important that you not ask too much about Pilgrim, Gringo. For your own good.”
Della Torre didn’t mention that someone had already tried to kill him over the file. That however much he might want it to go away, Pilgrim would nag at him.
“Gringo, believe me, if I could help, I would.” The Montenegrin stood up, unaffected by the evening’s drinking. “Now it’s late. My men will be here soon and I have some things to prepare. Get some sleep and pity me while you enjoy your breakfast. Especially if it’s raining. It was good to see you again.” He took della Torre hard by the hand. “Come see me again when you can. I’m afraid there might not be much more opportunity. And give Horvat a bit of advice: tell him to steer clear unless he can swim strong and far. Oh, before I forget — that American redhead of yours. Well, you’re a young man. Take every chance you get while you can. The wife doesn’t need to know everything.” He laughed, though with a certain hollowness.
HELSINGBORG, MARCH 1986
He was a big young man with red cheeks and an irritated expression. He was bundled up in his practical police uniform parka and a hat that covered his ears.
“You go there,” he said again after the Montenegrin had made it clear he didn’t understand Swedish. “There to behind the car and wait. You show papers.”
He spoke English with difficulty. The Montenegrin had grown so used to the Swedes’ fluency with the language that the young cop’s struggles surprised him.
The Montenegrin nodded and rolled up his window.
He’d started to make mistakes. He’d believed the man at the ticket office about the lack of police scrutiny at the entrance to the ferry. He should have taken a later boat, done reconnaissance on foot to confirm it. But he’d been in a rush to get on the ferry, to get to Denmark. He dug his heel back under the seat to nudge the revolver further out of sight.
In his youth, on weekends, through school and then when on leave from the army, he’d mountaineered with friends all over the Dinaric and Julian Alps, the many sharp limestone peaks. They’d had neither the equipment nor the experience to match professional climbers, though they still managed some dangerous routes. Yet the biggest risks were always coming back down, when they were tired and in a rush to get to their hostel to drink and sing into the small hours. Sometimes they took shortcuts, failed to check their equipment properly. Rope burns and sprains, crushed fingers and cuts from falling rocks were typical. But on one trip a boy had fallen badly, breaking his back. He lay there overnight, in a deep ravine, until a military alpine rescue team could be brought in. The Montenegrin remembered him crying in pain, hour after hour, begging for death. Had he carried a gun then, he might have . . .
The boy walked again, but only after a year in bed and then only stiffly, always in pain.
The Montenegri
n’s climbing stopped after that, but it was a lesson he’d always applied to his work: beware the exit.
He could have blamed his lack of attention on fatigue, on the aftermath of the previous night’s adrenaline, on the long drive and the little pills he’d used to stay awake. It had been too long since he’d been an active operative; maybe it was the stress of having to both plan and act that had made him slip.
But he suspected it had been something else. Killing the boy had distracted him. From the first day, he’d thought hard about what he’d do with him. He hadn’t wanted the boy involved at all, but, well, there he’d been from the start — useful, involved, a gift from the gods. And then one to be sacrificed back to them.
As discreet as he seemed, the boy would have eventually guessed what had happened, would have figured out the Montenegrin’s involvement in Palme’s death. The risk was too great, and it was a risk the Montenegrin wasn’t permitted to take. It was a solo job, always had been.
Whatever the source of his error, he had to deal with the fact that the Smith & Wesson was under his seat.
Another policeman was searching a car farther ahead. The driver, a youngish woman, stood by her car door, remonstrating with him, pointing towards the ferry. The policeman shrugged and continued to poke around the car’s boot, his breath steaming in the cold. Farther along, the Montenegrin saw another policeman holding a dog, an Alsatian, on a lead.
His heart sank. He remembered the scraps of hashish the boy had had. They were in the plastic bag in the back of the car.
The young policeman waved the Montenegrin on towards a space behind the woman’s car. The policeman ahead didn’t seem to be very methodical about how he was conducting the search. As far as the Montenegrin could tell, these looked like ordinary traffic cops, not border guards or specialists.
The Montenegrin put the car in gear and gently pressed on the accelerator while letting up on the clutch. The car juddered and stalled. He started again and the same thing happened.
The young policeman came over to him, speaking loudly in Swedish to make himself heard through the closed windows. The Montenegrin shrugged.
