The Heart of Hell Read online

  “Julius. There was an article you wrote describing somebody uncannily like Strumbić.”

  “A lot of middle-aged men in this country look like Strumbić.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean his looks, though you described him to a T. I meant — how can I say this delicately? — someone who acted only as Strumbić could, taking advantage of the situation.”

  “Oh, you mean the article about the profiteer. The papers loved that one.”

  “Exactly what I mean. Caesar. Not a very good alias.”

  “His choice. Seemed rather proud of it.” Higgins grinned.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’d love to help. But I have to protect my sources.”

  “Tell you what,” della Torre said, lighting another cigarette. He was thirsty and in the mood for a coffee. He stood up and leaned against the balcony rail. “Why don’t you tell Julius I’m here and looking for him. Tell him that I won’t be the only person looking for him, and that the other people looking for him are neither as friendly nor as gentle as me.”

  “If Julius were around, which he isn’t, he’d be sure to get that message,” Higgins said. He yawned.

  “I’m keeping you from your rest. You’re tired.”

  Higgins demurred, but without much conviction, walking his guest to the door. “I’m not in much today, but if you and your friend are free, I’ll be buying drinks tomorrow night,” he said, showing della Torre out.

  “On expenses?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then how could I say no?”

  Della Torre walked the two flights up to his garret room, where he found Miranda dressing.

  “Good swim?”

  “Water’s surprisingly warm, though it’s cold getting out.”

  “I could see your goosebumps from the balcony. A pair of them, anyway.”

  “You’re being vulgar.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was a pair of Croat militiamen, rifles over their shoulders.

  “Mr. della Torre, Mrs. . . .”

  “Walker,” she said.

  “We are under instruction to take you to the police headquarters. Please bring your documents.”

  They walked back along the coast road into Dubrovnik, a little nervously because of the crackle of distant rifle fire. The big guns had gone quiet again, having played their brief orchestral part. The whole of Dubrovnik seemed surreal to della Torre, as if the siege were a theatrical production put on for tourists.

  They were led along the high walkway overlooking the harbour and then across the wooden drawbridge and through the narrow southern gate. They went across the barbican, an alley-like passage between steeply sloped white walls, over another high walkway, and finally through a gate carved into the fortress’s huge stone bulk. And then they were guided along a winding alley with a high wall to one side, before they passed through another gate that opened out into the city’s main square.

  Della Torre looked up and wondered what sort of bombardment would be needed to break through this bastion. And then, if the Serbs tried an assault, how many soldiers would bloody these white stones before the citadel capitulated.

  The old town was crowded with people, not the tourist throngs of summer, with their expensive cameras and expansive shorts, but ordinary people sheltering under the massive high white stone walls and filling the cobbled alleys, where open shops and cafés offered a semblance of normal life.

  They were led to the town hall, which was in a grand building by the Rector’s Palace, on a narrow square with a monastery at one end and a lovely baroque church at the other.

  People were milling at the entrance, supplicants held back by fatigue-wearing militiamen. At the reception desk, della Torre showed his military ID and Miranda her British passport, and a policeman wrote down their details in a ledger.

  The interior echoed with footsteps clattering against the terrazzo, voices pleading, admonishing, bewildered. The militiamen led the way up the grand staircase and along a tall, wide hallway. One of them knocked and opened the office door.

  The secretary looked over the newcomers. She was thin, middle-­aged, and della Torre guessed she must have plucked her eyebrows to achieve that particularly skeptical arch.

  “Mr. della Torre and Mrs. Valker,” said one of the militiamen, mispronouncing Miranda’s name. “To see the chief. These are the people who broke the blockade last night.”

  The secretary gave a thin, pinched smile. “Do you have some identification?” Della Torre passed over his military ID. The secretary seemed puzzled. “You’re Italian?”

  “No, Istrian.”

  “Is the lady Italian?”

  “No, she’s British.”

  “Why isn’t she Italian?”

  “Why should she be Italian?”

  “Well, the Italian name, for one thing.”

  “That’s my name,” della Torre said.

  “But you’re not Italian?”

  “I’m not. The name is. I’m Istrian. Some of us have Italian names.”

  “We’re always having to deal with Italians here. And other foreigners. And journalists constantly demanding to use the satellite phone. You’re not going to want to use the phone, are you?”

  “Not right now,” della Torre said impatiently. “We came here because we were brought here by your officers.”

  “You want to see the captain, then. He’s the director of security.”

  Della Torre nodded.

  “He’s not here right now,” the secretary added as an afterthought.

  “How long before he is?”

  “A while. This afternoon.”

  “So you want us to wait here until then?”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “His deputy will see you. But he’s engaged just now.”

  “He’s in this office here?” della Torre said, reaching for a door handle.

  “You can’t go —”

  The man inside looked up. He was solid, square, and wreathed in cigarette smoke.

  “Are you the director of security or his deputy?” della Torre asked.

  “I’m very sorry, but you can’t barge in —” the secretary started to say.

  “I’m his deputy in charge of policing. I’m afraid the director is in a meeting right now.”

  “You’ll do. I’ve had a very nice chat with your secretary, but now I’d like to speak to a grown-up.”

  The man grinned and stood up. “The name’s Brg. You’re not the fellow who claims to have sailed a boat through the blockade, are you?”

  “I didn’t do the sailing. The lady did the sailing.” Della Torre motioned towards Miranda, who followed him in. “I sat.”

  Brg scratched his head, bemused. “Well, let’s have a look at your papers.” He took Miranda’s passport and della Torre’s ID card.

  “Mrs. Miranda Valker,” he said. “You speak Italian maybe?”

  “I speak Serbo-Croat,” she replied, to Brg’s surprise and relief.

  “It says here you have a right of annual residence, and you have renewed this right for . . . four, no, five years. Is this correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you live where?”

  “In Korčula.”

  “And you presumably knew about the Yugoslav naval blockade but still came with this gentleman.” And then, closely inspecting della Torre’s card: “Major della Torre.” Puzzlement creasing his brow, Brg looked up sharply at della Torre. “Major. You are in military intelligence.”

  “As the card says.”

  “In Zagreb?”

  “Yes.”

  “I believe it is very unlikely that there are two Major della Torres in military intelligence,” Brg said, sitting back in his chair and blowing out his cheeks.

  “I can guarantee it.”

 
“Then, Major, I know why you’re here,” Brg said, shaking his head as if he’d known this day would come.

  It was della Torre’s turn to be surprised, but he hid it by reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes, pulling one out, and passing the pack to Brg, who accepted it as the subject of a police interrogation might. Grateful and resigned.

  “Maybe we should discuss this in private,” Brg said, smiling uneasily at Miranda.

  Della Torre turned to her. “Can you do me a favour and babysit the woman out there? I’m afraid she might do herself harm with a stapler.”

  “I’m sure we’ll have plenty to chat about,” Miranda replied, deadpan.

  “Don’t bother,” della Torre said. “She’ll just confuse you.”

  Miranda shut the door behind her.

  “I apologize for our . . . secretary. She’s the boss’s . . . um . . . friend. Makes life interesting, because running a city under siege might otherwise be dull.” Brg motioned for della Torre to sit. “Major, before we begin, can you tell me how you really arrived? Straight up.”

  “Sailed. In a little boat. From Korčula.”

  There was an embarrassed pause, as if Brg knew della Torre wasn’t telling him everything but was afraid to insist.

  “So, Captain,” della Torre began.

  “It’s Detective,” Brg said. “Who would I call in Zagreb to confirm that you’re legit?”

  “Well, I suppose Major Messar is around, though he’s a little bit hard to understand these days. Got shot in the mouth a few months back. Normally it’d be Major Anzulović, but he’s cooling his heels in Korčula right now.”

  “Are you all majors in Zagreb? No minors?” Brg smiled at his own weak joke. “That’s okay. I won’t need to make the call. Anzulović is in charge of the case, isn’t he?”

  Then della Torre remembered. Brg was the Dubrovnik cop who had been handling the dead Americans case.

  “I’m afraid we’ve been too busy to do much detective work. We have had more pressing problems,” Brg said, trying not to sound belligerent.

  “I can see,” della Torre said. He’d learned from Anzulović that the secret to successful interviews was to say as little as possible, let the subject fill the silences, and never be surprised by what came out. Act as if it was just a matter of confirming something already known.

  Brg smoked down the Lucky before he finally spoke. “I’m afraid we haven’t been able to track down Julius Strumbić again.”

  “Oh?”

  “We think he’s still here. There are various . . . signs. But we don’t have the resources to conduct a proper search for him. Just keeping the situation stable is hard enough.”

  Della Torre fixed on the word again, wondering what it meant, trying to formulate a question without betraying his ignorance and silencing Brg. “What happened?” he asked quietly, like a priest gently drawing out a confession.

  Brg turned up his hands in embarrassed apology. “I was exhausted. We didn’t realize we’d had him the whole while. We thought the man we had in custody was some smuggler, and we kept him in a cell until we could devote some time to figuring out what he was doing. I got a call from the Italian police in Bari, asking me to come identify a corpse that washed up there. It was the American redhead. By the time I got back, it was morning and I hadn’t slept, but the prosecutors said I had to interview this smuggler or let him go. If I’d seen him before, I might have put two and two together sooner. But I finally twigged, so we put him back in his cell. I went home for a few hours’ shut-eye before getting in touch with Zagreb to tell them we had him. I figured a few hours wouldn’t make any difference.” He shrugged.

  “But he got out.”

  “It seems he had a key. The keys. He must have picked somebody’s pocket. Unlocked the cell and the door out of the jail wing and walked past the desk sergeant as cool as a night in November.”

  “And then?”

  “And then he disappeared. We looked for him. I was going to make a full report. But circumstances . . .”

  Della Torre smiled with some sympathy. He thought back to when they had found the body in Italy. It coincided closely with the timing of the coded message from Mrs. Strumbić. Why hadn’t Strumbić tried to get in touch again? Maybe he had.

  “And now you don’t know where he is?”

  “There are reports . . .” Brg said. “He’s a smart guy. Smarter than any cop I’ve ever met.”

  “He is.”

  “I’ll write a report as soon as this is over,” Brg said. “When I get a couple of minutes. If I survive. I come in here to get my thoughts in order. We need to plan, and this is the only place I can get any quiet. Otherwise we’re out there.” He waved his arms towards the window. “It’s only here that I can coordinate anything. We’re so undermanned, we take the bodies we can get and try to do our best.”

  “I understand,” della Torre said. “But before you write anything, get in touch with me or Major Anzulović. We’ll help.”

  He passed the detective another cigarette.

  “You took all those risks to find Strumbić,” Brg said, shaking his head. “I still don’t know how you managed to sail past the blockade. Few people do. Smugglers from Montenegro, mostly, who pay off the naval captains. There were rumours of one or two boats making the trip from Korčula, but I didn’t believe them. I guess they’re not just rumours.”

  Della Torre stood up to go.

  “You know, Strumbić isn’t all bad,” Brg said. “They say he’s a smuggler and a profiteer. But from some of the things I hear and see . . .”

  “Like what?”

  The detective shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing. Rumours.”

  Della Torre knew he wasn’t going to get much more out of the man, but there wasn’t much more he needed. Other than to find Strumbić.

  THEY PLAYED TOURIST over the next couple of days. Though rain threatened often, there were long breaks of sunshine and warmth.

  They swam in the mornings and got to know a few of the other journalists staying at the Argentina. The Serb artillery would bang on for a while in the suburbs after breakfast, and sometimes they’d hear gunfire up on the mountain overlooking the city. But apart from that and the ever-present warships and occasional low-flying jet, Dubrovnik seemed to be in a fugue state, without past or future, a purgatory of waiting.

  But there were worse places to wait out a siege. The Argentina’s linen was pressed. Lunch and dinner were served on the terrace; chicken and rice seemed to feature often.

  Steve Higgins missed their drinks appointment and there was no sign of Strumbić, but the hotel was stocked with plenty of English-language paperbacks to keep them occupied, left behind by generations of British and American tourists.

  Della Torre kept track of the news as best as he could. A fleet of ferries and other boats was being assembled to break the blockade. Every day it was to depart and every day it was delayed. The news from Vukovar was grim. The European medical convoy had finally entered the town but got caught in crossfire on its way out. People had been injured.

  Though he and Miranda slept together, the sex had the quality of sport. She kept him at a distance, divulging very little about herself. Except once.

  “You were married,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Any children?”

  “No. I mean, yes, one. A boy.”

  “It seems strange for someone to forget they have a child,” he said with gentle humour.

  “I didn’t forget. I had a boy. He died,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I understand now. I guess that’s what made you leave England.”

  “No, in fact you understand wrong.”

  She wouldn’t be drawn any further. Instead she asked how much longer they were going to wait.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he turned his attention to the sliced
ham and cheese they’d ordered with their cocktails. They were at a table on the hotel terrace, watching the sun set over the Adriatic and wash the old city in shades of pink and then deeper red, silhouetting the warships just offshore. Et in arcadia ego.

  That night, della Torre fell asleep on his back and Miranda was lying on her side, facing away from him. He woke, struggling for breath.

  Half-dreaming, he thought Miranda had leaned over to kiss him, but one of his nostrils was blocked and he wasn’t getting enough air from the other one. Something was pressing hard on his face. He tried to sit up, to say something, but the hand pressed down on him. There was a nearly overpowering smell of nicotine.

  A voice next to his head hissed, “Shut up, keep still, and listen.”

  Della Torre wanted to say he couldn’t breathe. He reached up to push the hand away but the voice was insistent.

  “For once in your life, do as you’re told, okay?”

  The hand lifted and della Torre took a deep breath. “Okay.” He recognized the voice and knew it was sensible to keep still.

  “She’s a dish,” Strumbić said. “You couldn’t pull the sheet down a little more? Can’t see much in the dark.”

  “Julius, what the fuck?”

  “Shhh, I’d rather you didn’t wake her. Get up and come out onto the balcony. We’ll have a smoke.”

  Della Torre slid shut the balcony door as quietly as he could and sat on a plastic chair. The other man was only a vague form in the darkness until he lit a match. The guttering orange light momentarily carved Strumbić’s likeness from twisting shadows, and then he disappeared again behind the amber-red ember glow of tobacco.

  The night air was cold and damp, and della Torre shivered in his heightened state of waking. He’d pulled on some trousers; the wool of his jersey scratched against his bare skin as his bare feet grew numb on the smooth concrete.

  “Long time no see, Gringo,” Strumbić said in a hoarse smoker’s whisper.

  “Julius, you could have been less dramatic,” della Torre said. “Not sure my heart could take that again.”

  “Then you better stay out of the Serb gunners’ sights.”