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Authors: Alen Mattich
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me.”
“It’s my apartment. I’m sure Irena wouldn’t mind for a few days. Besides, I can choose who stays there,” his father said, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’d always liked Irena and it surprised della Torre that he would put her in an awkward position.
“I think maybe Marko is right,” Rebecca said, putting a hand on the older man’s forearm. It looked to della Torre as if she was stroking it, very faintly. “You’ve done more than enough for me already, Piero. When you come to the States, you’ll let me return the favour. Promise?”
Della Torre’s father was beaten and didn’t offer up any more resistance. That night, he was the first to turn in.
STOCKHOLM, FEBRUARY 1986
The Montenegrin got to the top of the stairs and looked back down the alley, past a skeleton of builders’ scaffolding, and saw nothing. He hurried along the street at the top of the little hill until he found the car.
The blue Opel started with some gentle prompting. He’d worried about the cold. The boy had said the Swedish winter could freeze and crack engine blocks.
The Montenegrin swore as the inside of the car’s glass started to cloud up. He turned the heater on full, pulling away before the window had defrosted.
He listened hard for the sound of sirens, but heard none.
He drove carefully, avoiding black ice. Once the glass had cleared, he took a turn around a block to see if anyone was on his tail. No one. He crossed the bridge and drove out to the suburb with the low-rise tower blocks. It was mostly immigrants who lived there: Kurds, Turks, some Ethiopians, and various east Europeans and Balkans.
He pulled up in front of the building. The lock on the entrance was broken and the overhead light flickered. Graffiti wasn’t unusual in this part of Stockholm, but the area didn’t look obviously poor, just a little less well kempt. He climbed the three flights to the apartment’s landing. There were only four apartments to a floor. It wasn’t a big building, but it was anonymous; the neighbours all kept to themselves. The boy had said the residents were mostly itinerant. They came and went. Some families doubled up for a while, and then there’d be a whole new group of people a few weeks later.
He’d been given keys to the place by a contact in Belgrade. It was an UDBA safe house, most recently used by one of the agency’s tame criminals, the head of a Serbian gang that ran drugs and guns to Sweden, except he was cooling his heels in a Malmo prison for illegal possession of a firearm, downgraded from armed robbery. He was six months into a fifteen-month term. Long for possession, but short for armed robbery.
When the Montenegrin had first arrived in the city, late in the evening, he’d expected an empty apartment, but instead he found it occupied by a skinny boy sprawled on a sofa, wearing only a pair of underwear and a red and green tartan blanket draped over his shoulders. Smoking hash out of a water pipe, the boy had greeted him in Swedish, barely taking his eyes off the television.
For a moment the Montenegrin had frozen, uncertain about how to react. In his good English he’d demanded who the boy was and what he was doing there. The boy had replied in a slurred, incomprehensible mix of Swedish and English. The Montenegrin realized his plans would have to change. Whether the boy belonged there or not, he’d have to find somewhere else to stay. He’d cursed at the stupidity of it all, of having no fallback plan, of being alone, of having been deceived by the people in Belgrade, who’d said the apartment was empty and reliable. He’d sworn in Serbo-Croat, quietly. But not so quietly the boy didn’t hear. The boy had replied in the same language, accented but clear.
They talked. The boy was Kosovar, with mixed roots, a Serb first name but an Albanian surname. He’d grown up in Sweden and ran odd jobs for the Serbian gangster now in prison. He was the Serbian’s boy, he said, leaving it to the
“It’s my apartment. I’m sure Irena wouldn’t mind for a few days. Besides, I can choose who stays there,” his father said, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’d always liked Irena and it surprised della Torre that he would put her in an awkward position.
“I think maybe Marko is right,” Rebecca said, putting a hand on the older man’s forearm. It looked to della Torre as if she was stroking it, very faintly. “You’ve done more than enough for me already, Piero. When you come to the States, you’ll let me return the favour. Promise?”
Della Torre’s father was beaten and didn’t offer up any more resistance. That night, he was the first to turn in.
STOCKHOLM, FEBRUARY 1986
The Montenegrin got to the top of the stairs and looked back down the alley, past a skeleton of builders’ scaffolding, and saw nothing. He hurried along the street at the top of the little hill until he found the car.
The blue Opel started with some gentle prompting. He’d worried about the cold. The boy had said the Swedish winter could freeze and crack engine blocks.
The Montenegrin swore as the inside of the car’s glass started to cloud up. He turned the heater on full, pulling away before the window had defrosted.
He listened hard for the sound of sirens, but heard none.
He drove carefully, avoiding black ice. Once the glass had cleared, he took a turn around a block to see if anyone was on his tail. No one. He crossed the bridge and drove out to the suburb with the low-rise tower blocks. It was mostly immigrants who lived there: Kurds, Turks, some Ethiopians, and various east Europeans and Balkans.
He pulled up in front of the building. The lock on the entrance was broken and the overhead light flickered. Graffiti wasn’t unusual in this part of Stockholm, but the area didn’t look obviously poor, just a little less well kempt. He climbed the three flights to the apartment’s landing. There were only four apartments to a floor. It wasn’t a big building, but it was anonymous; the neighbours all kept to themselves. The boy had said the residents were mostly itinerant. They came and went. Some families doubled up for a while, and then there’d be a whole new group of people a few weeks later.
He’d been given keys to the place by a contact in Belgrade. It was an UDBA safe house, most recently used by one of the agency’s tame criminals, the head of a Serbian gang that ran drugs and guns to Sweden, except he was cooling his heels in a Malmo prison for illegal possession of a firearm, downgraded from armed robbery. He was six months into a fifteen-month term. Long for possession, but short for armed robbery.
When the Montenegrin had first arrived in the city, late in the evening, he’d expected an empty apartment, but instead he found it occupied by a skinny boy sprawled on a sofa, wearing only a pair of underwear and a red and green tartan blanket draped over his shoulders. Smoking hash out of a water pipe, the boy had greeted him in Swedish, barely taking his eyes off the television.
For a moment the Montenegrin had frozen, uncertain about how to react. In his good English he’d demanded who the boy was and what he was doing there. The boy had replied in a slurred, incomprehensible mix of Swedish and English. The Montenegrin realized his plans would have to change. Whether the boy belonged there or not, he’d have to find somewhere else to stay. He’d cursed at the stupidity of it all, of having no fallback plan, of being alone, of having been deceived by the people in Belgrade, who’d said the apartment was empty and reliable. He’d sworn in Serbo-Croat, quietly. But not so quietly the boy didn’t hear. The boy had replied in the same language, accented but clear.
They talked. The boy was Kosovar, with mixed roots, a Serb first name but an Albanian surname. He’d grown up in Sweden and ran odd jobs for the Serbian gangster now in prison. He was the Serbian’s boy, he said, leaving it to the
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