Free The Heart of Hell by Alen Mattich Page A

take the tram.”
    “I take it you didn’t find that rewarding,” Anzulović said as they passed through the wrought-iron gate, held open by the soldier in dress uniform.
    “Did you understand any of it?” della Torre asked.
    “A little. Enough to know they want Strumbić and that they think he’s in Dubrovnik. The rest, it doesn’t matter. The translated transcript will pass across my desk on its way to Horvat,” Anzulović said. “Any ideas why they think Strumbić is in Dubrovnik?”
    “Because they have better intelligence than we do?”
    “Then why the hell don’t they just pick him up?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe because of the blockade.” In the past few days Dubrovnik had been subject to a land assault by the Yugoslav forces, Serbs and Montenegrins mostly, cutting off the city and its littoral from the rest of Croatia. At the same time, the Yugoslav navy had raised a sea blockade.
    “But they want you to help find him?”
    “That’s what they say.”
    “What do you think?”
    “They want me and Strumbić dead. Or in some military jail. Both, probably. You can bet they tried to find him themselves, without any luck. I’m the bait to lure him out of whatever velvet-lined hole he’s curled up in. And then they’ll have us both.”
    “You’d think they’d have learned by now,” Anzulović said. “I mean, you fucked it royally for them with the Montenegrin. Why are they putting themselves in a position for you to screw them again?”
    “I don’t know.”
    They walked through the autumn leaves, down the hill, back towards the centre of the city. Rich, earthy smells filled the air, mushrooms and the compost from the forest floor. Zagreb was a green city, pocket-sized and close to wilderness.
    “So, are you going to help?”
    Della Torre was silent for a long time, long enough for Anzulović to suspect he might not have heard him. Something deep inside della Torre rebelled. A visceral reflex, like the urge to vomit. He was tired of running, tired of being set in clockwork motion at the whim of others. And he was tired of evading his responsibilities to Irena, to his father, to Strumbić. To himself.
    They were back in the old town, gloomy under grey skies, when della Torre said, “No. No, I don’t think I’ll help.”

THEY CAME FOR him three days later.
    Della Torre was on his way to the office, called in earlier than usual by Anzulović. Around the corner from his apartment, a young couple was horsing around on the sidewalk. The boy had taken her scarf and was making her jump for it. University students , della Torre thought. Wealthy ones, in their foreign jeans and Benetton sweaters. Maybe a pair of Yugo-Germans visiting family. No, the clothes weren’t quite German. It made him smile that there could be lightheartedness at a time of such general despair.
    He stepped to one side in an effort to avoid them, and from the corner of his eye he saw a man step towards him from a building’s shadowy doorway. Before he could react, the man had put a hand on della Torre’s shoulder with a firm grip and slurred a greeting. He was unkempt, unshaven, his hair askew, his clothes rough and patched.
    The man’s thick accent was impenetrable. Della Torre wondered if he was speaking Slovene.
    “Wish I could help, but you might just want to sleep it off,” della Torre said.
    The man continued to hold on to him, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other his arm. He was leaning against him, almost pushing him.
    “Mister, I won’t say it again. Let go of me and find somewhere to get a bit of rest and tidy yourself up.”
    The tramp ignored him.
    “I’m from the UDBA ,” della Torre said.
    Those four letters could chill the blood of a Yugoslav and sober a drunk. People might shrug off the ordinary cops, dim flatfeet who shuffled away after being palmed a couple of folded banknotes. But everyone down to a primary school child knew the UDBA were another matter. They could make people disappear into the