Free The Heart of Hell by Alen Mattich

examiner.”
    Della Torre was silent, wondering at the implications of the request. “This would necessitate your making a statement under oath within a United States–administered jurisdiction,” Grimston said. “That could be the embassy in Belgrade, though we appreciate it might cause you difficulty. So Rome or Vienna would do equally well.”
    And once in the embassy, he would be extradited to the United States. Then he’d be locked up as an enemy of the state, without trial. It unsettled him to think that his safety, his temporary immunity from these Americans, was down to the fact that no country in the world recognized Croatia as an independent state.
    “I’ll give it some thought,” della Torre said, and stood up to end the meeting.
    None of the others followed suit. Della Torre tried not to be obviously self-conscious. He had a sudden inkling that if he tried the doors they wouldn’t open. Dawes smirked. Even here, the Americans exert their power , della Torre thought as he stepped over to the French windows and lit another cigarette.
    “Of course, we could type up the minutes of our conversation today. We’ve recorded it, by the way; I knew you wouldn’t mind,” Grimston said. “And you could sign the documents without leaving Zagreb. That ought to be sufficient for the examiner.”
    “What’s the catch?” della Torre asked.
    “Catch? There’s no catch,” Grimston said. “But we would like some help. To apprehend Mr. Strumbić.”
    Della Torre had put the blame on Strumbić for the failed American mission to kill the Montenegrin and thus had implicated him in the Americans’ deaths. And these men now wanted him to compound the sin of bearing false witness with helping to arrange Strumbić’s murder. Because that, he had little doubt, was what it would lead to, whether it was a bullet in the back down a filthy alley or a lethal injection in the sterile death chamber of a federal penitentiary.
    Della Torre laughed. “What, so I take a flight to London on the promise that you’ll leave me alone once you have your hands on Julius?” Once he was out of the country, their promises, he knew, would be worthless.
    “No, not to London. You’d only have to go to Dubrovnik.”
    Della Torre turned to face the man, confusion etched into his expression.
    “That’s where we think he is, Mr. della Torre. In Dubrovnik.”
    Della Torre struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Anzulović looked just as taken aback. He’d understood that much of the conversation. Dubrovnik? Was that what Mrs. Strumbić had been hinting at? It seemed absurd. And yet, what had she said? The staircase he’d admired. It came to him that there was a staircase he’d admired in Strumbić’s island villa, until he learned it had been stolen from someone else’s house.
    “I’ll have to think about it,” della Torre said finally.
    “Don’t think too long, Mr. della Torre. You can let us know through Mr. Horvat’s office. He knows how to get in touch with us.”
    The girl showed della Torre and Anzulović out. “Gentlemen,” was all she said. The Americans stayed back, offering perfunctory goodbyes.
    The front door closed behind them. Della Torre noticed that the terracotta tiles on the terrace were showing their age, cracked from years of frosts. The gardens had once been beautiful, as elegant as the interior of the house, but now the pergola of vines was overgrown, weeds broke through between the paving stones, and the lawn was stubbly and scarred by molehills. It seemed that whatever senior UDBA official had had tenancy of the house was no longer around. If he was a Serb, it was likely he had left in the exodus at the turn of the year. Della Torre wondered whether Horvat was easing his way into the property. Good luck to its real owners.
    Their driver was standing by the Zastava.
    “Why don’t you take the car back. We’ll walk,” Anzulović said. He sniffed the air, damp with the threat of drizzle. “Or we’ll