Read Online Killing Pilgrim by Alen Mattich - Free Book Online Page A

courses run by the North Koreans. They were unimaginably tough, brutal men who seldom talked about their experiences in that strange, distant country. Nothing their charges went through, they said, would even approach the pain they themselves had endured. This the younger men took as bravado. But, the trainers continued, what they themselves had suffered was small discomfort compared to what their North Korean peers were subjected to. Only a handful of the Yugoslav commandos in North Korea had died because of the training. Not more than one in twenty or thirty. Whereas the mortality rate for the North Korean commandos was one in four or even three.
    As he watched Rebecca, della Torre realized she wasn’t an amateur using the martial arts movements as another way of staying lean and healthy. The exactness and speed of her repetition, the steady, inexorable increase in pace, told him she’d been doing this for years and had learned from professionals.
    He knew the dance she did could be put to deadly effect.
    “She’s the real thing, Dad,” della Torre said. And when his father gave him a puzzled look, he added, “Let’s just say that if you’ve got it in mind to have somebody’s legs broken, she’s your man. To move that fast and with that much control is very, very hard, I promise you. If you came at her with a knife, you’d be dead. If you had a gun, you’d better be shooting straight.”
    • • •
    He passed the rest of the weekend swimming, eating, and reading novels, trying to stay out of the way, though Rebecca sought him out. They had gone, without Piero, to a little-frequented stony cove a twenty-minute drive south of the port. His father had decided to stay back at the house. “To write,” he said.
    When they got there, they waded in the water and then sat under the shade of a broad pine tree. Rebecca sat facing him, knees drawn up, feet apart so that he had to look away from the cleft barely covered by her bikini bottom. She talked about movies della Torre hadn’t heard of. He knew nothing about the music she mentioned, but they had similar tastes in trash novels. They talked a little about travelling. He was curious about her experiences in the Soviet Union. She asked him what it had been like to serve in the Yugoslav army, her questions making it clear she knew what she was talking about, though she wouldn’t be drawn out on why. She deflected all conversation about her family, her friends, her history. At most, she gave anodyne answers.
    He felt frustrated at having been sent to Istria on a pointless errand, and that while there he’d managed to wedge himself between his father and whatever brief contentment had befallen him.
    On Sunday he told them he’d be leaving for Zagreb early the following morning.
    “I’ll come too,” Rebecca said. “It’s time I got going.”
    Della Torre’s father made a frail effort to dissuade her. But she was adamant. Della Torre was intrigued at how firm she could be without being the least bit abrasive.
    “But where are you staying in Zagreb?” the old man demanded, as if such a problem was insurmountable and might persuade her to stay in Istria.
    “I’m sure there are hotels,” she said. “I stayed in one when I came. It’s probably still there.”
    “They’re so expensive. No, you have to stay at my apartment. I insist.”
    Della Torre was surprised. His wife . . . ex-wife, Irena, lived in his father’s apartment. There was a spare room, but he wasn’t sure what she’d think about having a stranger drop in on her. She’d go along with it, of course. But he didn’t think it’d be fair.
    “That’s a very kind offer. Maybe I’ll take you up on it,” Rebecca said.
    His father looked pleased at the small victory.
    “She can stay with me. Your place wouldn’t do,” della Torre said reluctantly.
    “My flat’s much nicer,” his father argued.
    “Yes, but Irena’s living there. I’m sure Rebecca would be happy enough to stay with