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shamed, and exiled to Goli Otok, Yugoslavia’s infamous political prison.
    No one played the system better than Strumbić, but in these past weeks della Torre had wondered whether Strumbić’s luck had finally run out. The consensus view was that he’d skipped the country, maybe to one of his secret boltholes. Della Torre’s conscience was assuaged by his knowledge of Strumbić’s resourcefulness. More than any other man, Strumbić could weave gold out of a noose wrapped around his neck and buy not just his freedom but the thoroughbred to carry him as well. Della Torre was sure of it. He prayed it was true. Because he was fond of the man, as fond as he might have been of a brother.
    “Nothing for me,” Mrs. Strumbić said abruptly.
    “I’m sorry, I have nothing to report on Julius. We still don’t know where he is. I would have called, but —”
    “I’m not here to find out where Julius is. I’m here to pass on a message from him.”
    “Julius sent you a message?”
    “Well, what are you waiting for?” she snapped. “Get a pen, you’ll need to write this down.”
    Under a stack of files on top of his desk, della Torre found a notepad and one of the fine-point mechanical pencils he favoured. “Please, carry on, Mrs. Strumbić,” he said, sitting. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a seat?
    She continued to stand, her oversized Italian leather handbag hanging off the crook of her arm. Her mouth was stern, her lips pleated, her cloying rose scent mixing unpleasantly with the room’s cigarette-ash smell. “He said this would mean something to you, though only heaven knows what. He told me to tell you he’s with colleagues near the staircase you so liked, and is using his pub name.”
    Della Torre looked at her blankly. “Could you repeat that, please?”
    “He’s with colleagues near the staircase you so liked, and is using his pub name. Don’t tell me you don’t know what he’s talking about, because if military intelligence doesn’t know its own codes, then we might as well be pissing on paper when it comes time to fight this war.”
    “No, of course. Yes, code, of course,” della Torre said, looking at the words he’d written down in his tiny, neat handwriting.
    “So now that I’ve told you, maybe you can tell your people to stop bothering me. I don’t mind that you’ve got my phone tapped — don’t deny it — but there’s no point in having people telephoning asking for Julius. I’ll unplug it if this carries on. As for the idiots you’ve posted to keep a watch on the building — well, at least they keep the vandals away. Little bastards. The vandals, I mean. Though the surveillance people probably are too. Stupid bastards at that. You can hear their brains rattle when they move. So it’s just as well they don’t move much. They’d give themselves a concussion otherwise,” she muttered.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Strumbić . . .” Della Torre reeled from the torrent of words. She talked faster than he could think.
    “No point in being sorry. If I wanted an apology, you’d have known about it. Julius is enough of a pain in my backside without having to deal with everything else.”
    “I’m sure it’s not intentional. Bureaucracy. You know how it is.”
    “Julius? Bureaucracy? What are you talking about, Major?”
    “I mean keeping a watch . . . it’s, you know, we like to keep an eye on the families — I mean, to ensure the safety of the families of missing officers.”
    “I just told you, he’s not missing. Though I haven’t a clue where he is. Disappears for months on end. He’s lucky I’m not the jealous type, though it’d take some fancy imagination to be jealous over Julius.”
    “I’m sure you haven’t got —” Della Torre stopped himself from saying imagination . “— reason to be worried.”
    “If you can’t make those irritating phone calls stop, I’ll find somebody who can.”
    “My apologies,” della Torre said again. “Did Julius