The Heart of Hell by Alen Mattich Page B

American. He had short greying hair and looked military, even though he was wearing a civilian suit.
    “Mr. Anzic and Mr. della Torre,” Dawes said, lazily failing to pronounce Anzulović’s name. The smile was professional. “This is my colleague Jack Grimston.”
    Grimston’s hand was surprisingly elegant for a man who looked like a marine. His fingers were long and he had clean, well-trimmed nails. But the grip was strong, with considerable reserves of power.
    The Americans sat in the remaining two armchairs, leaving della Torre on his own in the corner of the sofa. He felt as if he were facing a tribunal.
    “I would like to thank you for your cooperation, Mr. della Torre,” Dawes began. He took a folder out of his black briefcase and opened it on his lap. Grimston did the same. “Your written statement about the events in Dubrovink was appreciated, as were your answers to our follow-up questions. The United States government cannot formally discuss these matters with the current Croatian administration, since it does not recognize Croatia as an independent state. And because of Croatia’s . . . ah . . . estrangement from Yugoslavia, this has put the United States government in a difficult position with respect to investigating the deaths of the three American citizens who were killed in or around Dubrovnik.” He paused. “Our agreement with Deputy Defence Minister Horvat is that we are here to speak with you informally and merely as an exercise in clarifying some details.”
    Anzulović wore a troubled expression, concentrating hard on the American’s words. He spoke some English, but far from enough to decipher legalistic hedging.
    “How can I help you gentlemen?” della Torre said.
    “As you know, two American men were killed in a house on the island of Šipan, north of Dubrovnik, approximately one month ago,” Dawes said. “We have just confirmed that a third American, a woman, died probably the same night. Her body was discovered on the Italian coast, and over the past week or so her identity was confirmed by officers from the U.S. embassy in Rome. We wish to understand in detail the events leading up to their deaths.”
    “Everything I knew was in the statement.”
    “For which we thank you. But there are some gaps —”
    “Mr. della Torre, we’re here to find out who killed these three American citizens and the circumstances of their deaths,” Grimston cut in. He had a light Southern accent and a gritty voice. “I’m sure you don’t want us to waste your time, so why don’t we just cover that ground.”
    Della Torre nodded. “Rebecca Vees, Bill, and Rob — I’m sorry, I don’t know their surnames — were killed by the former UDBA senior operative they were sent to assassinate.”
    “Mr. D-jay-las . . .” Dawes interjected.
    “It’s spelled D-J-I-L-A-S and is pronounced gee-las , as in giants . He’s commonly called ‘the Montenegrin’ because that’s where he’s from. The Republic of Montenegro touches Croatia at its southern extremity, just beyond Dubrovnik.” Dawes would know all this, but della Torre didn’t want to presume that Grimston had any knowledge of the former Yugoslavia. Grimston showed no reaction.
    “You were saying,” Dawes said. Grimston remained silent, sitting back and observing.
    “They were killed by the Montenegrin. He came at night, in a boat, and shot the two men in the villa. The villa is very private, on an isolated island, and the locals generally steer clear, so nobody took too much notice. I assume Rebecca was wounded while being captured.”
    “Did you see how she sustained her wounds?”
    “No, but I saw that there was blood on her side when we were in the boat.”
    “What did you and Rebecca discuss on the boat?”
    “Nothing. She was gagged.”
    “And you weren’t?”
    “I had been unconscious. It took me a while to regain my senses. The Montenegrin took us for a boat ride. Then he threw me into the sea late at night