been cut off. Hers hadn’t.
The Americans had come to eliminate the Montenegrin, another piece of the Pilgrim puzzle, but they’d underestimated the UDBA ’s lead assassin.
“When did they find her?”
Della Torre drank his coffee and lit another Lucky. The place still made a decent coffee — elsewhere, standards had started to slip as prices rose. He stared out in front of him. Even in a time of war the flower sellers were out, though some had little more on offer than bunches of rosehips, fat and luscious and red against the square’s drab grey concrete.
“Brg, our detective from Dubrovnik, went over two days ago. The Americans notified us that it was her yesterday afternoon,” Anzulović said.
“Nice of them. Saves us from having to keep looking.”
“Had we been looking?” Anzulović asked.
“I suppose not.”
“Interesting timing.”
“What?”
“You getting Strumbić’s message at around the same time they fished up the corpse.”
“And I suppose that’s when Horvat finally agreed to let the Americans interview me.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Anzulović said.
“Horvat’s quite the operator.”
“Whether he is or isn’t, he says you’re to talk to the Americans. Could be soon. Or maybe not. But let’s get your story straight. Remember, tell the truth. But only so long as it doesn’t tie a rope around your neck.”
LESS THAN A week later, an unmarked Zastava with a military police chauffeur drove up the concrete driveway of a house on the lower slope of Medvednica mountain, behind Zagreb’s medieval old town. It was an elegant 1930s villa with thick walls and a steep-pitched red-tiled roof, set in spacious grounds. The high iron gate, painted red with rustproofing, was closed behind the car by a soldier in dress uniform.
“Officially one of UDBA ’s safe houses,” Anzulović said.
“Not one I’ve ever known about,” della Torre said, getting out of the car.
Anzulović laughed. “Bit like your apartment. Requisitioned by the UDBA for reasons of national security, and then somehow . . . well, you know how it goes . . .”
Della Torre knew how it went. In the bad old days, a senior Communist could have a private property requisitioned from someone with inadequate political pull, claim it on behalf of the state, and then quietly move in. That’s what an UDBA agent had done with della Torre’s apartment. When the agent had fallen out of favour badly enough to end up in Goli Otok, his family was evicted. An accident of timing and a certain nous meant that della Torre got it.
“I thought the new regime promised to give these places back to their rightful owners,” della Torre said. “Rightful owners” generally meant the families of people who’d lost possession immediately after the Second World War, when socialist self-justification was at its strongest.
Anzulović’s right eyebrow arched like a furry caterpillar. “Once they’ve taken it through the courts. But the courts are stuffed full of old Communists. Most of the judges will be sympathetic to the old functionaries like them, and half are on the take, along with the lawyers and clerks and officers and recorders and stenographers and secretaries. How long do you think they’d be able to hold up a repossession? I’m banking on at least a decade.”
They climbed the stone steps from the driveway to the upper terrace. The house managed to be both grand and understated.
A young woman ushered them in. Della Torre’s heart leapt at the sight of her friendly, open face. But she disappeared immediately upon taking them through the hall and into the room beyond. The ceilings were more than three metres high and the floor was laid in a herringbone parquet. Autumn light filtered through thin gauze curtains draped like veils over three sets of tall French windows. The furniture was from the 1950s or ’60s. At first della Torre thought they were admirable Yugoslav knock-offs of western European
The Americans had come to eliminate the Montenegrin, another piece of the Pilgrim puzzle, but they’d underestimated the UDBA ’s lead assassin.
“When did they find her?”
Della Torre drank his coffee and lit another Lucky. The place still made a decent coffee — elsewhere, standards had started to slip as prices rose. He stared out in front of him. Even in a time of war the flower sellers were out, though some had little more on offer than bunches of rosehips, fat and luscious and red against the square’s drab grey concrete.
“Brg, our detective from Dubrovnik, went over two days ago. The Americans notified us that it was her yesterday afternoon,” Anzulović said.
“Nice of them. Saves us from having to keep looking.”
“Had we been looking?” Anzulović asked.
“I suppose not.”
“Interesting timing.”
“What?”
“You getting Strumbić’s message at around the same time they fished up the corpse.”
“And I suppose that’s when Horvat finally agreed to let the Americans interview me.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Anzulović said.
“Horvat’s quite the operator.”
“Whether he is or isn’t, he says you’re to talk to the Americans. Could be soon. Or maybe not. But let’s get your story straight. Remember, tell the truth. But only so long as it doesn’t tie a rope around your neck.”
LESS THAN A week later, an unmarked Zastava with a military police chauffeur drove up the concrete driveway of a house on the lower slope of Medvednica mountain, behind Zagreb’s medieval old town. It was an elegant 1930s villa with thick walls and a steep-pitched red-tiled roof, set in spacious grounds. The high iron gate, painted red with rustproofing, was closed behind the car by a soldier in dress uniform.
“Officially one of UDBA ’s safe houses,” Anzulović said.
“Not one I’ve ever known about,” della Torre said, getting out of the car.
Anzulović laughed. “Bit like your apartment. Requisitioned by the UDBA for reasons of national security, and then somehow . . . well, you know how it goes . . .”
Della Torre knew how it went. In the bad old days, a senior Communist could have a private property requisitioned from someone with inadequate political pull, claim it on behalf of the state, and then quietly move in. That’s what an UDBA agent had done with della Torre’s apartment. When the agent had fallen out of favour badly enough to end up in Goli Otok, his family was evicted. An accident of timing and a certain nous meant that della Torre got it.
“I thought the new regime promised to give these places back to their rightful owners,” della Torre said. “Rightful owners” generally meant the families of people who’d lost possession immediately after the Second World War, when socialist self-justification was at its strongest.
Anzulović’s right eyebrow arched like a furry caterpillar. “Once they’ve taken it through the courts. But the courts are stuffed full of old Communists. Most of the judges will be sympathetic to the old functionaries like them, and half are on the take, along with the lawyers and clerks and officers and recorders and stenographers and secretaries. How long do you think they’d be able to hold up a repossession? I’m banking on at least a decade.”
They climbed the stone steps from the driveway to the upper terrace. The house managed to be both grand and understated.
A young woman ushered them in. Della Torre’s heart leapt at the sight of her friendly, open face. But she disappeared immediately upon taking them through the hall and into the room beyond. The ceilings were more than three metres high and the floor was laid in a herringbone parquet. Autumn light filtered through thin gauze curtains draped like veils over three sets of tall French windows. The furniture was from the 1950s or ’60s. At first della Torre thought they were admirable Yugoslav knock-offs of western European
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