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the ashtray.
    “Whether at your instigation or not,” Grimston continued, “did someone else interfere directly with this operation?”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Who else knew about what was going on?”
    “No one.”
    “Your colleague Julius Strumbić?”
    “I don’t know what he knew. I don’t know what Rebecca told him. They had . . . intimate conversations.”
    Grimston nodded. Another, shorter silence.
    “If the Montenegrin thought you were involved in planning his liquidation, why did he let you swim to shore?”
    “Maybe he thought I’d drown.”
    “He could have guaranteed it.”
    “Maybe he’s a good sport.”
    “Did you collude with the Montenegrin in the murder of any of the three United States citizens?”
    “No.”
    “It seems strange to me that he should have let you swim to shore but that he threw Rebecca overboard with her hands tied. She had no chance of surviving. Was that the sign of a good sport? Drowning a defenceless woman?”
    “She was a professional assassin and she had tried to kill him. I was just a go-between,” della Torre said.
    There was a long pause. Dawes glanced over at Grimston, but Grimston had leaned slightly forward in his seat, keeping his eyes on della Torre.
    John Dawes broke the silence. “Mr. della Torre, since this is an informal conversation, I won’t challenge your assumption other than to say it is incorrect, and that Rebecca’s only intention was to persuade the target of our investigation to surrender himself to American justice so he could be made to answer for the murders he committed on American soil.”
    “Mr. Dawes, you may continue with that fiction for the purposes of any record being made, but you and I know you are being disingenuous.”
    Dawes smiled in an exaggerated show of patience. “We’re not here to throw around accusations. Shall we continue?” he said, after a moment’s silence. “Your contention is that the Montenegrin was punishing Rebecca for what he thought her intentions were. Surely, since you helped her, he’d have wanted you dead too.”
    “Is that a question or an assertion?”
    “I am asking why he should have sought to save you and to kill Rebecca.”
    “You seem disappointed that I survived. Like I said, I don’t think he particularly cared one way or the other with me. He was inclined to give me a chance.”
    “Why?”
    “Because, I suppose, he knew my role was merely to offer an introduction.”
    “Yet you were instrumental in . . . ah . . . arranging the contact between Rebecca and the Montenegrin.”
    “Yes.”
    “He forgave you for that?”
    “I suppose he must have.”
    “Mr. della Torre, your good fortune is a little hard to believe.”
    “Isn’t that the nature of luck? Then again, maybe he wanted me to live so that I could tell you what happened. As a warning against trying it again.”
    There was another long pause. Della Torre stared longingly at the coffees on the table. He and Anzulović had drunk theirs but the other two remained untouched. He wondered whether the Americans would notice if he helped himself.
    “What was Mr. Strumbić’s role in these events?” Grimston said.
    “He offered use of his house on Šipan.”
    “The house the two men were murdered in?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did he provide any other services?”
    “He was useful in getting us down to Dubrovnik, and there he did some background investigation into the Montenegrin for Rebecca.”
    “He left early to go back to Zagreb, at Rebecca’s request.”
    “Yes. I believe Mr. Dawes travelled with him on the flight.”
    “But he returned to Dubrovnik immediately after,” Grimston said.
    “I think so.”
    “Why?”
    “Because he . . . he had some business.”
    “What sort of business?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Could it have been business with the Montenegrin?”
    Yes , della Torre thought, but not in the way you suppose.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Did Mr. Strumbić set up Rebecca?” Grimston asked, catching