Killing Pilgrim Read online

  They went up the stairs to a shaded table on the terrace, laid with sliced ham, salami, and cheese with red pepper, radishes, and tomatoes that glowed with ripeness.

  “Something to nibble on. It’s early yet for dinner. Come, you’ll have some wine and we’ll try the slivovitz and rakija later.”

  They sat and exchanged pleasantries, della Torre and Rebecca admiring the dramatic view of the bay, its looming mountains and sparkling waters made fierce by the red evening light.

  “It seems that troops are building up in the mountains,” della Torre said.

  The Montenegrin nodded and then shrugged. “What they want with Dubrovnik, I don’t know.”

  “It’s attracting some strange types. Gorki’s paramilitaries are down here.”

  “Yes, I heard. They’re not welcome,” the older man said.

  “I once heard a rumour that there was friction between the two of you,” della Torre ventured. He tried to sound casual but heard the tension in his voice.

  “I don’t think we ever met, though he might say different. There was a time when I came into contact with any number of petty criminals,” the Montenegrin said, dismissing della Torre’s weak volley.

  “Didn’t you work with him?”

  “No. He worked for people at the firm but not for me. Someone dear to him was once . . .” The Montenegrin paused, careful with his words. “Damaged. As part of a special operation I was involved in. Nothing we ever discussed. It wouldn’t ever have been part of your investigative remit. And nothing that is relevant to our conversation this evening. Anyway, that is the source of his grievance.”

  “The UDBA always kept him at arm’s length. They never used him on any big jobs, as far as I know. What was wrong with him?” della Torre asked.

  “You mean besides being a psychotic? He was stupid. Took stupid risks. Even for a criminal he made unacceptable mistakes.”

  “And yet Belgrade now loves him.”

  “Ah . . . Cometh the hour, cometh the man. And the hour that’s coming is a time of monsters. Even so . . .” The Montenegrin shrugged and smiled, staring off into the distance. Rebecca continued to listen quietly. Della Torre found it uncanny how unobtrusive she’d made herself, sitting back in her chair so that she was out of the Montenegrin’s immediate line of sight, her expression mild.

  “So you’re not involving yourself?” della Torre said.

  “As long as the war doesn’t come to me, I am staying out of it. I am happy fishing.”

  “I hear you fish up some interesting things.”

  “I hear a Zagreb cop was in Dubrovnik asking about me. Anything to do with you?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “So what did he tell you?”

  “That you fish Chinese guns from the Adriatic, among other things.”

  The Montenegrin smiled. “Your friend is a capable cop, then.”

  “Lucrative business, isn’t it? The Croats need guns.”

  “Could be better. But I don’t sell to Croats.”

  “Oh?”

  “No. They’re the enemy, I’m told. I’m a wholesaler. The people I deal with do retail. Who they then sell on to is none of my business.”

  “I see. So why’s business poor? I thought it’d be booming.”

  “It was. But it seems somebody is trying to nudge his way into this little corner of the market.”

  “And who might that be?”

  The Montenegrin laughed. “Gringo, I’ve never known you to be naive or ill-informed.”

  “He was in Dubrovnik last night.” Della Torre looked at Rebecca, who was nibbling some bread. She smiled as if oblivious as to what they were talking about.

  “Was he now? He’s made a habit of spending holiday time down here,” the Montenegrin said.

  “And in Vukovar.”

  “Who?” Rebecca piped up. She spoke with that naive, cheerful ignorance that della Torre had seen briefly when he first met her at his father’s, and then again when he introduced her to Strumbić. She liked it when men underestimated her.

  “Croatia’s new deputy defence minister. A Mr. Horvat,” said the Montenegrin, in an accommodating way. “But we’re not here to talk about my business. You have questions to ask of me.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be terrific. Get all the bureaucracy out of the way,” Rebecca said in a bubbly tone, like a Hollywood ingenue. Della Torre noticed how effortlessly she vaulted from the background to the centre of the conversation. “It really is just filling in history. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that U.S. government law enforcement doesn’t like mysteries. And if we can clear them up, well, that gets me a promotion. As for what we’d do in return, we would be happy to talk about a plea deal in exchange for your testimony, if you ever happened to travel to the States . . .”

  The Montenegrin laughed.

  “And we wouldn’t look to extradite you if you travelled to other European countries.”

  Here the Montenegrin held up a hand. “That’s not necessary. Most European governments would be more than happy to put me on trial themselves without having to pay the price of a flight to New York. In my time, the UDBA was active across the continent. I will talk to you because sometimes it is useful that people should think I have friends.”

  She pulled a plastic file folder and a yellow legal pad out of her straw bag.

  “Really I ought to be recording this, but Marko said not to bring any electronics, just in case.”

  Della Torre looked surprised but Rebecca just smiled at him.

  “I’ve become too cautious in my old age. I guess I saw what happened to too many people who had senior positions in my department,” the Montenegrin said soothingly. “But it doesn’t matter. I will talk slowly and clearly. Ask away.”

  She went through the formalities, asking for his full name, date of birth, when he’d worked for the UDBA, and his rank and responsibility at each point.

  “So we know now that since the late ’70s you were an officer in the liquidation squad and that in 1985 you became head of the department and then retired in 1989. During that time were you directly involved in the deaths of American citizens or of anyone on American soil?”

  “American citizens, no, I don’t believe so. Though I can’t be sure one or two of the people we will be discussing were not dual nationals. Because I speak good English, or maybe not so good but better than most Yugoslavs, I was from the start involved in directing operations in the English-language countries and in the Nordic countries, because they often speak English there and because we had no senior people fluent in Nordic languages. We had people who spoke Dutch and German, so those were not my responsibilities until I took over the department. In 1978 we had one operation in the United States. In 1979 we had two operations in Canada and two in the United States. I was involved in all of those, together with a liaison in the Yugoslav embassy who was an UDBA officer but not part of the black operations squad.”

  “Black operations?” Rebecca asked innocently.

  “Liquidations. Killings. Internally we called it black operations and sometimes wetworks.”

  “Oh.”

  From memory, he listed names, locations, and dates; he gave the code names of the assassination teams but wouldn’t give the names of the people who had pulled the trigger.

  “That you will not get from me. Most of these people are criminals, but they were acting under legal orders just as I was.”

  “You seem to remember these things well,” she said.

  “When you have a hand in death, you remember,” he said.

  “Who gave the orders?”

  “They came from the presidency, down to my superiors in the UDBA — even when they renamed it the SDB, we called it UDBA — and then I helped to organize or supervise the operations. I arranged whatever equipment was necessary — guns, cars, money. Everything was a
ccounted for.”

  “How did you come into the United States?”

  “On a Yugoslav passport. Not my own, but an official one in different names. Usually with residency stamps for a western European country, so that I could say I was going to the United States on holiday. I would always be given a visa.”

  “Never turned down?”

  “No. I had money and a ticket out of the country. Why would they refuse a tourist? Or someone going on a business trip?”

  “What kind of business?”

  “Bookbinding. I know a little bit about that. As a boy I was apprenticed into the trade. That’s what I would tell them. I am going to such-and-such a library to look at their bindings. Or book preservation. Or something like that. Who would refuse entry to a bookbinder with a bit of money?”

  “And then?”

  “And then I would establish myself in the same town as the target or the nearest big city, rent an apartment in a big building, and organize the operations. Usually we would get any specialist equipment through the diplomatic pouch or I would buy a gun from an official gun dealer. In the United States this was very easy. No problem. In Canada, I would have to bring the gun from the United States or from the embassy in Ottawa. In Europe it is a little more difficult to arrange, but not much.”

  “And?”

  “Before the job, sometimes for months before, we would have someone in the target’s community making trouble. Telling stories about the target so that there was confusion about his intentions, or even an idea that he was an agent provocateur acting on behalf of the UDBA, or that he wanted to start another faction away from the consensus. Something like that. News would rise to the local police authorities and they would think, ‘Oh, no, another quarrelsome émigré.’

  “Then the team would be assembled. Usually no more than three or four, though sometimes it was a sole agent. We would use people with criminal backgrounds so that if they were caught, the Yugoslav government could distance itself from the operation. They would usually meet me or another agent for a detailed briefing of what we wanted and how and when it could be achieved. They would then do a little groundwork and then do the job.

  “When the job was done, we’d all leave pretty quickly. The authorities almost always put the killing down to ordinary criminal activity or to rivalries within the émigré community. Sometimes it was made to look like an accident, but usually the presidency wanted to send a clear message so that there would be no mistaking why someone was killed, at least among the émigrés. That would serve a dual function. The local police would think the dissidents were paranoid and crazy, and the dissidents would be terrified and at odds with each other. It was a very good system.”

  “And when you ran the operations, how many killings?”

  “There was one in the United States and one in Canada.”

  “Who ordered them?”

  “Gringo here investigated both — he knows as much about them as I do, more even — but the order came down from the presidency.”

  “Directly to you?”

  “No, through the UDBA hierarchy. I would be passed orders from the head of the UDBA, who would get them directly from the presidency. Things became more complicated when I took over; there was more supervision and the black operations involved more paperwork. The parliament took a more direct interest in what the UDBA was doing. That’s why Gringo here had a job. To monitor us. But before 1986, when I was head of teams, operations were assigned mostly by verbal command. Much less would be written down, or only in codes where the cipher was in people’s heads. The order then would also come from the presidency, but it would often go through the Dispatcher . . .”

  “The Dispatcher?” Rebecca asked.

  “He was Tito’s man, and then after Tito’s death the presidency kept him on because he was very efficient at what he did. Belgrade would issue vague orders and he would interpret them and put them into action; he’d organize things. He would say, ‘This person needs to be arrested and put away for this long. It needs to be done quietly.’ Or ‘Do it so everybody knows.’ Or ‘This person needs to be liquidated. Make sure it stands as a lesson.’ Sometimes — not that I have direct experience of this — he would say, ‘This person needs help. Make sure he is successful in his endeavours,’ and that would be done. The person would be given money, or paperwork would be made easier, or he would suddenly be able to hire a very good employee for not a big expense. But the Dispatcher retired in 1986.”

  Rebecca was busy taking notes. The Montenegrin spoke freely, but he refused to divulge any names.

  “If you wish to use this against me in the international courts, my defence would be that I acted lawfully, according to the rules and laws of Yugoslavia and in the interest of the state. There were unlawful killings, those that were not determined by the whole of the presidency and with the approval of the supreme court, but done on behalf of a single member of the presidency to further his own interests. Those were usually domestic, but sometimes they were done abroad.” He paused for a beat and then added: “But I only ever acted on direct legal orders.”

  For the first time, della Torre felt that the Montenegrin was . . . no, not lying, but more than just concealing the truth.

  Rebecca had a list of other names — people of Yugoslav ancestry who’d died in the U.S., and U.S. citizens who had been killed abroad — but the Montenegrin couldn’t help. Della Torre knew it was all for show, that the American didn’t really care about the answers. She asked the questions mechanically, with intelligence but without interest. Exactly as a dispassionate bureaucrat might do it. The Montenegrin might not have realized any differently, but della Torre knew that Rebecca was anything but a dispassionate bureaucrat. The interview was a sideline, no more than a ruse. Rebecca didn’t care about what the Montenegrin had done or who he’d done it to or where. Her interest was in the man himself.

  As the conversation wound down, the Montenegrin sent a man who had been hovering in the background to tell the woman who cooked for him to start supper. Della Torre watched the man go into the house. In its shadows he saw the girl.

  The Montenegrin followed della Torre’s eyes.

  “Snezhana,” he called across the table. “Come, it’s your friend Mr. della Torre, who brought you the German bear.”

  The girl shuffled towards them. Her legs, never fully straightened, moved at odd angles. One arm was twisted like a claw in front of her, while the other seemed to act on its own orders. The girl’s head was turned down to one side; her mouth and neck twitched. Her father sat forward in his chair but left her to her own effort, beaming at her progress.

  “Isn’t she a clever girl. The doctors said she would never walk, and look at her. Oh, she’ll never win a hundred-metre race, but neither will I. Will I, darling?”

  They watched as she made it over to her father and applauded with him when she got close enough for him to lift her on his lap.

  “Well done, my angel. And now you can thank Mr. della Torre for the bear, which you’ve been meaning to do since you last saw him.”

  With huge effort she stammered out a comprehensible thanks and then went on to ask della Torre how he was. She was like a broken bird, tiny, much smaller than a normal ten-year-old. For a while her father fed her bits of cheese and helped her drink water from his glass and then, when the young man came back to say that their food was almost prepared, the Montenegrin sent his daughter back into the house, watching her the whole way, again fighting the urge to spring to her side.

  “Her aunt, who’s cooking for us tonight, will help put her to bed. Though when I’m home, it’s something I like to do,” said the Montenegrin. “She’s named after her mother, who died when she was born. For a long time I used to think I was cursed, that she and her mother were paying for my sins. Maybe they were. But I know now I am blessed. Because this girl is more precious than even my two older daughters. They are nor
mal and ordinary in every way, but this one here, she is exceptional. She never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Oh,” Rebecca said politely, her warm smile belying the incredulity that della Torre could see in her eyes. Parents always find something to brag about in their children; they always drive their expectations low enough to find something notable.

  “She is one of the cleverest people I’ve ever met,” the Montenegrin said, not noticing Rebecca’s skepticism. But before he could warm to his theme, the food was brought out.

  They had fried fish with fried potatoes, boiled chard, and a salad of cucumber, tomatoes, onions, and a hard, salty cheese not unlike a Greek feta. Simple food, well made, that della Torre enjoyed. The clouds had broken up to fill the evening sky with dark reds and oranges and purples above the black mountains.

  After they’d eaten, the Montenegrin brought out a couple of unlabelled bottles full of a clear liquid with a pale blue tint. He poured three shots, and with a salutation they knocked them back.

  Della Torre found Rebecca puzzling. All evening she’d been drinking her wine ostentatiously; she giggled at the smallest jokes and, though she’d dressed soberly in a suit, he noticed the top of her blouse had fewer buttons done up than when they’d started. They talked some politics but mostly it was about travel, places the Montenegrin had been to that she’d also visited. They talked about London and Paris and Stockholm, New York and Toronto. When she spoke, she put her hand on the Montenegrin’s arm and he returned her bright smiles.

  “As fine as your booze is, I have something interesting too,” she said, pulling a bottle of Maker’s Mark out of her bag. “I thought maybe you gentlemen might not have had much experience of old bourbon.”

  “How did you get that past the militiaman at the border?” della Torre asked, surprised.