Killing Pilgrim

by Alen Mattich

  Chains were fixed into the wall at one end, with a rough wooden manger built in below them. The floor was stained in the corner there. A black stain like oil. Or dried blood.

  He was fit to burst and pissed into a drain cut into the wall. It wasn’t a terrible prison, though he’d have liked somewhere better to sit than a scrap of old straw.

  He’d been there for maybe twenty minutes, squatting in the cool dark, comforted by the faded smells of cattle and wondering what would happen, when he heard the door bolt open. He stood nervously before it opened. It was his sergeant. For a moment relief washed over him, but the expression on the old soldier’s face brought him back down.

  “Gringo, I really don’t know what you were thinking, but this is an enormous fuck-up. Kidnapping isn’t taken lightly around here.”

  “Is the girl okay?”

  “Who knows? Nobody can get any sense out of her. But she’s being treated well.”

  “Good.”

  “No, not so good. Bad. I mean, I don’t know whether she’s okay or not, but you won’t be. You’ve got a Montenegrin godfather called Djilas whose people are kicking like a field of mules being eaten by horseflies. But he’s not your most pressing problem. Mr. Gorki is coming. Gringo, I will do all I can to keep you alive, but even though I’m regular army — maybe because I’m regular army — I don’t carry any more weight than a peanut seller these days. I brought you a bit of paper and a pen. In case anything happens to you, write to your folks. I know your mother’s dead, but your father’s still around, isn’t he? We sometimes read him in the paper. Gorki will be here in half an hour. Write to your father and your wife. I’ll make sure your letters get to them.”

  The old soldier looked sad and puzzled at the seriousness of what had befallen them all. Even if della Torre escaped frontier justice, the law wouldn’t be kind to him, wherever it might choose to weigh his guilt.

  “What about the woman?” della Torre asked.

  “The redhead? She’s an American. A real American, not like you, Gringo. As long as America doesn’t let the Croats buy weapons to shoot back at us, we’re not going to step on any American toes. Even a dumb peasant like me knows that. But you, Gringo . . .” He shook his head as if in wonder. “Well, I’ll do what I can, though I’ll be in the shit for letting you through yesterday. Here —” The sergeant handed della Torre a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Just don’t set yourself on fire. And don’t try to climb out. They caught a smuggler the other day who tried to pay the import taxes with fake Deutschmarks — photocopies, if you can believe it. He thought he could get through the roof. He couldn’t. Got stuck. Somebody had to shoot him down. Anyway, write, Gringo, write. It may be the last chance you have. Leave the letters in the manger. I’ll find them later.”

  He shut and bolted the door behind him. Della Torre understood the catastrophic consequences of having been caught with the girl. He thought of Gorki’s men near Vukovar — Rejkart had said Gorki’d killed how many? Forty civilians and Croat police, shot through the eye. Would Gorki dare to kill him, here, now? He was rabid, but not stupid.

  Gorki would either deliver him to Belgrade or sell him to the Montenegrin. Wherever his best advantage lay. Della Torre took some comfort in the fact that he’d been treated well so far. Would the Americans intercede if he was sent to Belgrade? Or would they deny his citizenship? If Gorki delivered him to the Montenegrin, would he be able to convince the old man he’d had no part in his daughter’s kidnapping?

  Della Torre weighed the odds. They tilted heavily in the wrong direction.

  He stared at the clean white paper, almost as thin as onion skin, held firmly by the clipboard’s metal teeth, and took the lid off the cheap Biro. What could he write?

  He scribbled out a tremulous note to his father, apologizing for the hurt he was bound to cause. For once, his neat, tiny, mechanical handwriting was fractured. He wrote to Irena to tell her that he loved her still and wished her love and luck and children. He wrote to Anzulović, explaining what had happened in as few words as he could, with a farewell to Strumbić. He’d always liked the rogue. And a few last lines to Harry, remembering most of the address in London. The British postal system would get it to her.

  The letters seemed pathetic, insufficient even as a gesture. He’d tried to steer clear of platitudes but realized there was little else left. Small, empty scratchings of a life. He hid the pages under the hay when he heard the bolt being drawn back.

  • • •

  Della Torre recognized the warlord from old photographs. Gorki was a big man, not tall so much as massive, with a big, round head and strong shoulders, like a stevedore. He wore an ironic expression, one side of his mouth curled up in a half smile. He indicated for della Torre to sit.

  “We will speak in English so this cretin here doesn’t listen,” he said, motioning towards the soldier in the room.

  “You speak it well,” della Torre said.

  “And French and German and some Italian and more Swedish than I’ll ever find useful again.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. Most of these languages I learned in jails.”

  “Yes, I heard you’ve enjoyed the hospitality of a number of countries.”

  “They were holiday camps. Here in Yugoslavia we do things differently. And here —” He pointed at his desk. “— we do things differently still. Here, I’m the jailer. And the judge. And the jury. And the executioner.”

  Della Torre felt his pulse race. It took effort to remain calm. He lit a cigarette. The soldier had allowed him to keep the half-pack of Lords. His Lucky Strikes were still in the Hilux.

  “What is this I hear about Croat UDBA agents with American passports kidnapping Montenegrin children? It must be true that Croats drink our children’s blood. Eh? Vampires.”

  Della Torre said nothing.

  “The American woman said she was driving the girl to the hospital. The child certainly seems ill to me, but what do I know, I’m no doctor.”

  Gorki’s eyes were wide-set on his broad face, but his mouth was small and disapproving above a strong chin. It wasn’t an unpleasant face, but something about it suggested a casual violence. More generally, there seemed a certain fastidiousness to him. Della Torre could almost taste the other man’s cologne.

  “Are you a spy, Captain della Torre? An American spy?” He held up della Torre’s American passport, an edge of anger rising in his voice. “Or a Croat spy using American papers? Eh? We hang spies.”

  Still della Torre remained quiet, not knowing what was expected of him. Gorki exhaled and sat back in his chair, playing with della Torre’s passport.

  “We had an alert this morning. It went to all police and border posts that Mr. Djilas’s child had been kidnapped. The description matched that of the spastic in your car. But nobody can make any sense of what she’s saying, so we can’t confirm the name.” He shrugged, his voice calm again. “The child needs a hospital. It’s obvious. Eh? Needs a doctor. And Dubrovnik is just over there. I mean, she could go back to the hospital at Herceg Novi, but I think the Dubrovnik hospital is better. What do you think?”

  Della Torre remained silent. His throat was dry and he struggled to swallow.

  “So we have to make a judgement.”

  Gorki ran his hand over the top of his closely shaved head as if troubled by deep complications.

  Della Torre watched with the hollow eyes of a slave. How many photographs had he seen in the UDBA files, portraits of condemned men in profile and directly facing the camera, knowing their fate, their eyes simultaneously pleading and full of despair, shorn of hope? That’s what it was like, staring into dead men’s eyes.

  “Mr. Djilas is an unfortunate man. Unfortunate for not having taken better care of his daughter. But that’s not something I can help with, is it? Eh? Poor Mr. Djilas.”

  Gorki lit his own cigarett
e and drew hard on it, letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils. He sipped from a small cup of coffee.

  “My men were very excited when they saw you; they thought you must be the kidnappers of Mr. Djilas’s daughter.” He unrolled a long scroll of fax paper. “Same truck, same man, same red-headed woman. Crippled child. Such a close match, don’t you think?” he said, looking up at della Torre. “How likely is it that there could be another? Eh? But the world is a mysterious place.”

  He paused, glancing at the window and smiling.

  “I think they’re mistaken. You and the American woman are humanitarians, taking a crippled girl to the hospital in Dubrovnik. If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be delayed. And I’ll tell my men to keep a watch for a girl matching Mr. Djilas’s daughter’s description.” Gorki yawned like a sated wolf. “Poor Mr. Djilas. Truly, he has chosen his enemies badly,” he said, smiling. He drank down the coffee. “Once, a long time ago, he made a boy disappear. Poof. Into the Swedish night. Maybe he’ll regret that now that his daughter has disappeared. Poof. Into the Montenegrin night. Eh?”

  Della Torre had a hard time understanding what was happening. He heard Gorki’s words but stumbled over their meaning.

  “I don’t know why you’re sitting there. The American woman will be waiting in the truck and so is the girl. She looks so similar to the description of Djilas’s daughter. The world is so full of these strange coincidences. Don’t you think?” Gorki looked at his wristwatch, a chunky gold Rolex. “It is time the border post was opened.”

  He extended the blue-bound passport towards della Torre, his thumb on the American eagle crest, quiver of arrows in one talon, olive branch in the other. Della Torre reached to take it but Gorki wouldn’t let go, gripping it tightly. Della Torre didn’t dare pull hard. Maybe that was the message. Gorki’s eyes mocked him, and then he released the document.

  Della Torre left the room. Had the man not been an undying enemy of the Montenegrin’s, he might have had him executed in the ox shed.

  Della Torre climbed into the back seat of the Hilux, next to Snezhana, who twitched and trembled. He didn’t say a word to Rebecca, but instead put an arm around the girl and said, in Serbo-Croat, “I’m sorry. We shall continue the story if you like, and then I will think of how to get you back to your father. Have faith in me.”

  They drove to the coast, and then north. They drove under lidded skies, past the Hotel Argentina, past Dubrovnik’s high white walls. They didn’t stop until they reached the fishing village opposite Šipan. Strumbić’s motorboat was at the dock. One of Rebecca’s Americans was waiting to ferry them across to the island.

  “Is Strumbić back, then?” della Torre asked, breaking his long silence.

  “No.”

  “So you’ve taken over his house and his boat?”

  “We thought we’d need a nice safe place. The Hotel Argentina is a little too public and accessible.” She laughed and then stared at the girl sitting, small next to della Torre in the boat.

  “How did he know?” della Torre asked, looking at Bill.

  “I called. While you were indisposed back at the border.”

  Della Torre watched her. Had they planned things this way? Had it been one of a number of contingencies? Or were they merely infinitely adaptable, with their technology, their money, their unshakable confidence? They were Americans, after all.

  “Did you know my old sergeant would be there?” he asked over the engine’s motor.

  “Hmm? Oh, no. That was a lucky accident,” she said.

  “But Gorki wasn’t?”

  She turned away from him to keep her hair from blowing in her face. “We should have blindfolded her,” she said. “But the kid’s probably too retarded to really understand what’s going on, so I won’t worry about it.”

  Della Torre held the girl. She was still wrapped in the blanket. He’d removed some of her wet clothes but knew he needed to give her a bath and get her properly dry. He’d gently fed her water from a bottle during the drive, spilling it into his hand, which he wiped on himself so as not to get her more wet. But now he was worried she’d get cold in the wind during the crossing.

  “So what’s going to happen now?”

  “You’re going to call Djilas and arrange to hand over the girl.”

  “What if he’s not back yet?”

  “In that case, you’ll tell his people that he’s to be back tomorrow evening and that we’ll make arrangements for the following day. Otherwise we send the girl to an orphanage. We’ll find somewhere in Romania.” She laughed.

  “She needs clothes. Her things are wet. Let me settle her down and go to Dubrovnik to buy her something to wear.”

  “You can take a ferry tomorrow morning. Rob and Bill brought your stuff from the hotel. She’ll have to make do for today. All you’ve got to worry about is getting in touch with Djilas.”

  They docked against the concrete pier under the disapproving gaze of Strumbić’s villa. Della Torre carried Snezhana to the house. Without discussing matters with the Americans, he took her upstairs and bathed her in Strumbić’s ensuite bathroom. He dressed her in one of his T-shirts and then hand-washed her wet clothes while she sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a watchful eye on him. At first he thought she was moaning to herself. But slowly he made out what she was saying.

  She said not to worry. To be brave. He thought maybe she was talking to herself, but then realized she was talking to him. Telling him not to fear.

  He carried the girl downstairs, where he found some bread and cheese. He sat her on a cushioned chair and tore off small bits of the food for her, as he’d seen her father do the previous night. The morning clouds had broken up, and in the hot sun a small-leafed tree cast scattered shadows across the courtyard.

  He saw that she was less helpless than he’d thought. The right side of her body functioned poorly, but she had more control of the left. Slowly she fed herself. When he listened carefully, he could understand her. After they’d eaten, she spoke a little.

  “Milady,” Snezhana said, as if ruminating. For a moment he didn’t think that he’d heard properly, and then realized she was laughing. The Milady in Dumas’s novel had lost her head. Was she thinking of Rebecca?

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Daddy will find me. He leads a dangerous life and so must I. But he will get me.”

  “We’ll get you back to your father. Don’t you worry,” della Torre said again. “Your father said you like to swim. Would you like to go now? I will hold you. And then I’ll tell you some more stories, if you like. I haven’t any books you can read, but I’ll see if I can remember some stories from when I was your age. Tomorrow morning, early, I’ll go to Dubrovnik to get you some clothes. I’ll be back as quickly as I can, so that you’re not alone for long.”

  “Yes, please, I would like to swim,” she said, her tongue struggling to form the words. Each sentence ended in a sigh of relief.

  One of the Americans tried to stop della Torre, but Rebecca was there and she nodded her consent. It was an island, after all, and the child was incapable of making any escape.

  The water was warm in the midday heat. Snezhana clung to his neck with her left hand, bobbing with him. She laboriously explained that her father was much more daring when they swam.

  But once, as she thrashed on the little waves, she inhaled some water and coughed hard. He took her to the stone jetty until her lungs calmed and then carried her back up to the house, wrapped in a towel. He rinsed her of salt, dressed her back in his T-shirt, and kept her company in the room he’d taken for her, Strumbić’s room. He watched over her, always poised to catch her, as she exercised by walking slowly around the bed, until finally she asked to lie down.

  Rebecca called him before the little girl had fallen asleep.

  “Time to make your phone call,” she said, holding the satellite phone’s handset towards
him.

  • • •

  He was up before daybreak. He left the girl still sleeping, though he brought up a plastic glass of water and some crumbled bread and cheese for her to eat when she woke.

  He took the early ferry, and one of the Americans, Rob, who’d already been up when della Torre came down, went with him. Della Torre smoked by the rail, watching the cold dawn rise and spread across the mountains high above the shoreline, while the American watched him.

  They reached Dubrovnik’s port in less than three-quarters of an hour. The shops were mostly still shut, so he found a bar open for a coffee and a breakfast roll. Rob sat with him.

  He watched the news footage from Vukovar on a wall-mounted television. Sporadic fighting had broken out around the Serb villages that circled the town. The Serb militias were being supported by Yugoslav army regulars. The Croat national guard and police force seemed feeble by comparison, lightly armed and few in number. So far the violence had been contained. But della Torre wondered how long before the embers would be blown into a conflagration. His stomach sank at the thought of Irena caught in the middle of it all.

  Rob tapped on his watch until della Torre got the hint. It didn’t take much wandering around Dubrovnik’s modern northern port before he found a shop selling children’s clothes. It was shut but the proprietor was in, organizing stock. Della Torre spread a fan of Deutschmarks in front of the window. Business had been slow that summer, and the proprietor took the hint. Rob went in with him but quickly grew bored with della Torre’s indecision. When the American had assured himself there was no other way out of the shop, he walked across the road and waited on a bench.

  Della Torre didn’t know how long Rebecca planned on keeping the girl, so he bought her enough underwear and shirts to last a week, along with some loose pyjamas, a couple of dresses, and some warm slippers. As he went to pay, he noticed that the till was out of sight of the American.