styles. But then he realized they were actual western European pieces. A long rosewood sideboard to one side. Scandinavian sofas and armchairs. A stylish coffee table. The broad rug covering the floor around the seating area was a blue Persian kilim, either an antique or a very good imitation. Della Torre recognized an Odilon Redon painting on the wall, depicting flowers in a vase. He wondered if it was an original.
But mostly his attention was on Zlatko Horvat. The deputy minister sat in an armchair reading a document almost as if he were playing a role on stage. They stood in silence until at long last he acknowledged them.
“Major,” he said, not rising. “How nice to see you again. Please sit.” He motioned across the room. Della Torre took a corner of a long, low sofa, Anzulović a wing chair. After a first fleeting look of displeasure, Horvat studiously ignored Anzulović.
“Deputy Minister,” della Torre said.
Horvat’s half-smile was more insincere than ever, turned up in one corner, the other side of his face frozen by an old stroke. He pulled on a cigarette in an ivory holder. His skin was papery, his fingers stained yellow. His eyes showed intelligence, an efficient malevolence.
“Our American friends would like to speak with you,” Horvat began. “I am confident that you gave their colleagues every assistance on their mission in Dubrovnik. I have read your account of the matter. I find it conclusive. The Americans overreached, and they suffered the consequences of underestimating the Balkans. But I fear the Americans are concerned that they don’t have the complete story. It is understandable. No one likes to admit to errors of judgement.”
Horvat spoke with studied neutrality, but there was something about the way he said the last sentence that made della Torre wonder whether the deputy minister was also referring to his own error of placing his considerable faith in della Torre. Horvat was not very different from Strumbić, an opportunist whose agenda primarily involved enriching himself. Except — unlike Strumbić, whose cynicism ran deep — Horvat suffered from a streak of idealism. Nationalism was his cause. And it was the hope of leveraging advantage for himself and his country that had originally encouraged him to offer della Torre’s services to the American team sent to kill the Montenegrin.
Horvat rose, and della Torre and Anzulović with him.
“You will wait here,” he said. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters to attend to. There is no end to governing during a war. You will give our friends all the information they require.” He left, shaking neither man’s hand.
The same young woman who had shown them in now arrived with a coffee service, which she placed on the low table between a pair of heavy cut-glass ashtrays. She poured four rich Turkish coffees into thimble-sized cups and then went back out, not having spoken a word to them.
Della Torre sat back down on the sofa and lit a cigarette, feeling seedy in his cheap leather jacket and polycotton trousers. At least he had on nice shoes, sturdy but elegant handmade Grenson chukka boots he’d bought in London during his brief escape from the Bosnian killers earlier in the year. Paid for with money he’d stolen from Strumbić.
“The minister seemed pleased to see you,” della Torre said, irony helping to lift his tension a little. He’d barely slept for the past week, his thoughts constantly flitting between Irena and the Americans, from his father to the war to the regimented emptiness of his days at work.
“Nice man. A fine one to have in government,” Anzulović said. They both knew the place was bugged.
They’d waited only the length of two leisurely cigarettes before the door opened again.
It didn’t surprise della Torre to see John Dawes, the American who’d assembled the failed team and now undoubtedly hoped to lay the cause of the catastrophe at somebody else’s feet. The man with him was also
But mostly his attention was on Zlatko Horvat. The deputy minister sat in an armchair reading a document almost as if he were playing a role on stage. They stood in silence until at long last he acknowledged them.
“Major,” he said, not rising. “How nice to see you again. Please sit.” He motioned across the room. Della Torre took a corner of a long, low sofa, Anzulović a wing chair. After a first fleeting look of displeasure, Horvat studiously ignored Anzulović.
“Deputy Minister,” della Torre said.
Horvat’s half-smile was more insincere than ever, turned up in one corner, the other side of his face frozen by an old stroke. He pulled on a cigarette in an ivory holder. His skin was papery, his fingers stained yellow. His eyes showed intelligence, an efficient malevolence.
“Our American friends would like to speak with you,” Horvat began. “I am confident that you gave their colleagues every assistance on their mission in Dubrovnik. I have read your account of the matter. I find it conclusive. The Americans overreached, and they suffered the consequences of underestimating the Balkans. But I fear the Americans are concerned that they don’t have the complete story. It is understandable. No one likes to admit to errors of judgement.”
Horvat spoke with studied neutrality, but there was something about the way he said the last sentence that made della Torre wonder whether the deputy minister was also referring to his own error of placing his considerable faith in della Torre. Horvat was not very different from Strumbić, an opportunist whose agenda primarily involved enriching himself. Except — unlike Strumbić, whose cynicism ran deep — Horvat suffered from a streak of idealism. Nationalism was his cause. And it was the hope of leveraging advantage for himself and his country that had originally encouraged him to offer della Torre’s services to the American team sent to kill the Montenegrin.
Horvat rose, and della Torre and Anzulović with him.
“You will wait here,” he said. “I’m afraid I have pressing matters to attend to. There is no end to governing during a war. You will give our friends all the information they require.” He left, shaking neither man’s hand.
The same young woman who had shown them in now arrived with a coffee service, which she placed on the low table between a pair of heavy cut-glass ashtrays. She poured four rich Turkish coffees into thimble-sized cups and then went back out, not having spoken a word to them.
Della Torre sat back down on the sofa and lit a cigarette, feeling seedy in his cheap leather jacket and polycotton trousers. At least he had on nice shoes, sturdy but elegant handmade Grenson chukka boots he’d bought in London during his brief escape from the Bosnian killers earlier in the year. Paid for with money he’d stolen from Strumbić.
“The minister seemed pleased to see you,” della Torre said, irony helping to lift his tension a little. He’d barely slept for the past week, his thoughts constantly flitting between Irena and the Americans, from his father to the war to the regimented emptiness of his days at work.
“Nice man. A fine one to have in government,” Anzulović said. They both knew the place was bugged.
They’d waited only the length of two leisurely cigarettes before the door opened again.
It didn’t surprise della Torre to see John Dawes, the American who’d assembled the failed team and now undoubtedly hoped to lay the cause of the catastrophe at somebody else’s feet. The man with him was also
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