‘Us?’ Her hand was to her mouth. And her frown had suddenly acquired a dark cast of self-doubt, its meaning as yet impenetrable.
‘Who did this, Zineta? That’s what I’m asking myself. Serbs?’
She nodded dismally. ‘I guess so.’
‘Ingrid said I should watch out for a man called Todorović. Does that mean anything to you?’
Very clearly, it did. ‘Todorović. No. It can’t be. He couldn’t have …’ She shook her head slowly. ‘This makes no sense.’
‘Could he have been responsible?’
‘Yes. But …’ She raised her hands to her forehead and ran her fingers down tightly over her temples and cheeks. ‘How would he have found out?’ The question seemed posed more to herself than to Hammond. ‘How would …’ The repetition trailed into silence. Then she looked across at him, the ghastliness of Felltrini’s fate eclipsed in her mind by something ghastlier still. ‘Edward, I … I …’
‘What is it?’
She closed her eyes for a moment, then said, ‘This is my fault.’
‘Your fault?’
‘Todorović found out about Felltrini … through me.’
So, it was true. Zineta was the traitor. But why was she admitting it so readily? Hammond stared at her, still unsure what exactly she was admitting. ‘You told him?’
‘No. Todorović?’ She shuddered. ‘I would never … help such a man.’
Frustration won out over the paracetamol-dulled pain in his side. Hammond pushed himself out of his chair and grabbed Zineta by the shoulders. He would have the truth from her now, without further ado. ‘You just said he found out through you. How?’
She looked up at him, her eyes full of pleading. ‘I am sorry, Edward.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Before I left Serbia, I was … approached by an ICEFA agent.’
‘Who are ICEFA?’
‘The Investigating Commission of Economic and Financial Abuses. They’re a government body responsible for tracing billions of dollars of public funds that went missing under the Milošević regime.’
‘What did they want with you?’
‘The agent offered Foreign Ministry help to locate Monir if I … helped them find Gazi’s money. I couldn’t help them. I told him that. Marco controlled the money. And I had no idea where Marco was. Neither did they. But that changed … when I met you.’
‘So, you told them we were trying to get to Marco through Felltrini?’
She swallowed hard. ‘Yes.’
‘Why? Marco was going to lead you to Monir anyway.’
‘I never believed he would. He’s still bitter about what I did to him. The Foreign Ministry, with all their resources, were a safer bet. I phoned my contact before we left The Hague.’
‘A government agent?’
‘Yes.’
‘So where the hell does Todorović come in?’
‘There’s so much corruption in Serbia, Edward. Don’t you see? My contact must have passed the information on to Todorović. He betrayed me. And … poor Signor Felltrini paid the price.’
‘What was all that you said in The Hague to me about honesty and truth?’
‘They were things I badly wanted to believe.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Hammond let go of her and took a stride towards the window. A stubborn prod of pain in his side doubled him up over the armchair, from where he looked back, breathing hard, at her guilty, anguished face. ‘How could you be so … so stupid?’
She began to cry, a single tear trickling down her left cheek. ‘I never … suspected … anything like this … might happen.’
‘Well, it has, Zineta. Thanks to you.’
More tears came, flowing freely. ‘God forgive me,’ she sobbed. ‘How will I ever … find Monir now?’
He felt sorry for her then, sorrier than ever, despite what she had done. She should have trusted him. But after the life she had led, had it ever been likely she would? He stood slowly upright and ferried a box of tissues from the desk behind the chair to Zineta’s lap. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, pulling the first one out for her. ‘I understand why you did it.’ He sat down stiffly on the bed beside her. ‘I wish to God you hadn’t. But … I do understand.’
‘I am so sorry, Edward.’
‘Me too.’
‘Shall we go to the police?’ She mopped her eyes and turned to look at him. ‘If you say we should, I will.’
He shook his head. ‘We can’t risk it.’
‘Then what are we going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’ He sighed. ‘We’ll think of something.’ Then he sighed again. ‘We have to.’
THIRTEEN
It was still dark when the 07.10 Cisalpino pulled out of Milano Centrale at the start of its journey to Zürich. Edward Hammond sat in a window-seat in the first-class carriage, hoping he looked the part of a businessman making an early start to a routine day. His reflection in the glass was reassuring on the point. There were no obvious signs of the stress he was under or the paracetamol-dulled pain he was in.
It was Thursday morning. Last Thursday morning at this time, he had been towelling down after a swim before setting off for St George’s and a crowded but undemanding schedule of consultations and case conferences. The recollection felt absurdly and impossibly distant, like the memory of another life accessed under hypnosis – an easier, safer, surer life than the one he was now leading.
Further back in the train, Zineta would be blending in as best she could with other travellers to Switzerland, fearfully wondering, no doubt, whether Hammond was equal to the task he had set them. He was to leave the train at Lugano to meet Piravani as agreed, but she was to stay on until the next stop, Bellinzona, and return to Lugano an hour later. In the intervening period, Hammond was to persuade Piravani that they could trust her despite her indirect responsibility for Felltrini’s death. And if it was hard to predict what they would do next if he succeeded, it was impossible to imagine the consequences of failure.
‘Whatever happens, I’ll meet you at the station in Lugano,’ he had said. ‘If I’m not there when you arrive, just wait.’ There was nothing else she could do in that event, of course. They could no longer safely use their phones and there had been no opportunity to buy replacements. She was utterly reliant on him. Circumstances had forced trust upon them.
Dawn had broken by the time the train reached Como. The rain of Milan had turned to snow and the whiteness of the world beyond the window merged in Hammond’s mind with the blankness of his immediate future. If Zineta was relying on him, then he was relying on Piravani: to be reasonable, to be rational, to be persuadable. But whether he would be any of those things in the wake of his best friend’s death was seriously doubtful.
Lugano. The snow was heavier, falling steadily from a low, grey sky. The surrounding peaks were barely discernible, the roofs of the city thickly carpeted. Hammond stood on the platform as the other disembarking passengers left. He looked around in search of Piravani, but there was no sign of him. The train pulled out, with Zineta on board. And still Piravani did not show.
Hammond headed for the exit. He passed the queue for the funicular down into the city centre and emerged at the front of the station. Traffic ground past through the slush. On the other side of the road, taxis waited in an exhaust-clouded line. The few pedestrians to be seen did not include Piravani. ‘Where are you, Marco?’ Hammond muttered to himself. ‘For God’s sake, where are you?’
As if in answer, the front window of one of the taxis slid open and the driver’s hand emerged, clutching a square of cardboard with DOTT. HAMMOD written on it in prominent felt-tipped capitals.
Hammond hurried across the road, wincing as every minor slip told on his broken rib. Shielding himself from the snow with his day-old copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport, he peered in at the swarthy, smiling man holding the card. ‘My name’s Hammond. Are you looking for me?’
‘Dottore Hammod?’
‘Hammond.’
‘Si,
si. Hammond. I am … to take you.’
‘Take me where?’
‘Incontrare Marco. Si, si? Andiamo. Andiamo subito.’
There seemed no point arguing. Hammond climbed into the back and they sped away, studded tyres gripping the road cleanly as they followed a zigzag route down into the city. The driver, whose younger, skinnier likeness dangled in front of him on a laminated licence card, spied the snow-blushed pink of La Gazzetta dello Sport and launched into what sounded like a critical assessment of last night’s televised football. Hammond was required to do no more than grin and nod as the head-tosses and steering-wheel slaps proceeded.
The rush hour was in progress in Lugano and the going was slow. Hammond had no idea how long the journey to wherever Piravani was waiting would take. He supposed he should have guessed Marco would judge meeting him at the station too risky. He was a cautious man, with a lot to be cautious about.
Lake Lugano, flat, grey and cold, stretched suddenly ahead of them as the driver took a right off the main road heading east out of the city. The football-themed monologue cut off as he pulled in and pointed to a gateway leading into a lakeside park. ‘Parco Ciani,’ he announced. ‘Where I bring you … for Marco. Arrivederci, dottore.’
The park was no doubt a pleasant spot for children, mothers, dogs and venerable citizens at most times of the year, with trees reaching to the shoreline and flower borders brightening the scene, the mountains that now loomed vaguely through the murk prettily reflected in calm blue water, with ducks dabbling and songbirds twittering.
All was very different this chill, snow-blanked morning. Hammond made his way gingerly along the main path towards the office- and apartment-blocks of downtown Lugano that loomed ahead of him further round the bay. He was tired and cold, his stomach growling from lack of breakfast. The bag he was carrying and the smooth soles of his shoes prevented him from walking fast enough to warm himself up. He felt foolish as well as desperate. He should have found a way out of this long before now, he reflected bitterly, he really should.
The park appeared to be deserted, though it would have been easy enough for Piravani to hide behind one of the numerous large trees or bushes. Not knowing whether he was meant to wait for him to show himself or not, Hammond moved on at a slow but steady pace. It was as he passed a summerhouse-styled public toilet at a confluence of several paths that he was suddenly aware of a figure falling in beside him.
‘You don’t look well, doctor,’ said Piravani. He was dressed for the weather, in stout shoes, thick trousers, parka and woolly hat, with an umbrella to shelter him from the snow. ‘You’re walking like an old man.’
‘I broke a rib last night.’
‘You should be more careful.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘Got rid of your phone yet?’
‘No. But I haven’t used it.’
‘Give it to me.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘Oh yes. It is necessary.’
Hammond wrestled the phone out of his pocket and handed it over. They walked on in silence. As the path drew closer to the edge of the lake, Piravani stopped and hurled the phone far out into the water. ‘I’ll buy you a new one later,’ he said, smiling grimly.
‘I am sorry about Guido, Marco,’ said Hammond, aware how lame the sentiment must sound. ‘Truly.’
‘I believe you.’
‘I had no idea—’
‘You have an idea now, though, yes? The same one Guido probably had when he realized he was going to die.’
‘Why did you agree to meet me?’
‘I didn’t. Your memory’s failing, doctor. You agreed to meet me.’
‘If you say so.’
‘You really don’t look well.’
‘Neither would you if you’d had the kind of night I had.’
‘But you look better than Guido, right?’
‘Yes.’ Hammond nodded dismally. ‘Right.’
‘I guess we should find you a coffee somewhere warm. Got any Swiss francs on you?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll pay, then. On the way there, I’ll tell you about Todorović.’
The walk from the park along the promenade into the old city was not a long one, though it seemed so to Hammond, especially when he had to negotiate the snow-caked steps of an underpass below the lakeside highway. He had neither the energy nor the inclination to interrupt Piravani’s potted biography of Branko Todorović, small-time crook turned big-time villain.
According to Piravani, Todorović was just the sort of closet sadist and aspiring racketeer who would have stayed safely locked in the Pandora’s Box that was Tito’s Yugoslavia if only Milošević and his kind had not insisted on opening it. Todorović was cleverer, crueller and, crucially, more realistic than most. He was content to work for others and thrive on the commission they paid him. He began as little more than an errand-boy for Gazi, but had become, by the time Piravani arrived on the scene, a vital middleman between Gazi and criminal elements at home and abroad. He was also an enthusiastic dispenser of rough justice to those who talked too much or failed to pay their debts. He managed Gazi’s smuggling operations while the boss was busy butchering Muslims in Bosnia or Kosovo. Since Gazi’s disappearance, however, he had moved into semi-respectable business on his own account, his name linked with office and hotel developments in the new, disinfected, post-Milošević Serbia. He had survived and he had adapted. But he was still at heart the same merciless and murderous Branko Todorović, as Felltrini’s fate amply demonstrated.
The obvious question, which Hammond did not actually pose, was how Piravani could be sure Todorović was responsible for Felltrini’s death. The answer was delayed until they had reached a large Viennese-style café near the foot of the funicular station and ordered breakfast.
‘Todorović used to have a nickname, doctor. They called him “Torto”, short for Tortura: torturer. You see? It always was his … speciality. His and the people he used when he rose above doing it himself. I follow Serbian news on the Politika website. It’s the main national paper. That’s how I know about his business ventures. A shopping mall in New Belgrade; a ski-chalet complex in Kopaonik; a boutique hotel just round the corner from Belgrade cathedral: the guy’s trying to buy himself some class. Gazi’s arrest must have scared the shit out of him. What would the old man say? More importantly, what could he prove? Todorović was never directly involved in the Wolves’ military activities, but he ran their armaments supply chain and there are dozens of murders he could be tried for if there was the evidence to tie him to them. Which there is. As he knows.
‘Gazi turned a little paranoid after Dayton. Well, it was a paranoid time, so I guess it made sense. Anyhow, he started recording selected meetings and telephone calls at the villa in Dedinje. Insurance, he called it, against betrayal. “If anyone takes me down,” he said, “they go down with me.” There was a lot of dirty stuff on those tapes. Pay-offs for politicians. Gangland hits. Drug deals. Arms shipments. Everything he was into. Todorović was a frequent visitor, to report on jobs he’d done for Gazi, to take instructions. The tapes would destroy him if they got out. In Belgrade or The Hague. He must have been afraid they’d be found with Gazi. But Gazi didn’t have them. They were too hot for him to hold on to. They damned him as well as the other people on them. That’s why Todorović is looking for me, doctor. He thinks I have them.’
‘But you don’t?’
‘No. When Gazi went into hiding, he left the tapes at the villa. They were too dangerous to carry and too valuable to destroy. So, he put them in a wall safe, bricked and plastered over so you’d never find it unless you demolished the whole building … or you knew where to look.’
‘Which you do?’
‘Of course. I actually helped him brick the safe in. He trusted me, you see. Because I wasn’t Serbian. Because I wasn’t one of them. And also because the tapes incriminate me as well. But that doesn’t matter. The Serbs are welcome to lock me up if they ever c
atch me as long as Todorović gets what he deserves. Guido was my friend. It is a bond that cannot be broken. Todorović is responsible for his death. I’m going to make him pay for that. I’m going to make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison. And you’re going to help me do it.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, doctor. You. There are too many people in Belgrade, Todorović included, who would recognize me. I need someone they wouldn’t recognize to check out the villa so we can decide what we need to do to retrieve the tapes.’
A croissant and a cup of strong coffee had begun to revitalize Hammond. The realization had just dawned on him that Piravani wanted to recruit him for a particularly hazardous burglary. ‘That’s crazy. How the hell do you propose to get inside, knock down half a wall and make off with the safe without anyone noticing?’
Piravani scowled. ‘I don’t know,’ he said levelly. ‘I’ll work it out when we get there.’
‘You keep saying we. What makes you think I’m going to let you drag me into this?’
‘Two reasons, doctor. One, Guido would still be alive if you hadn’t led Zineta to him. This is your chance to make up for that. Two, with Guido dead, you can’t force me to transfer Gazi’s money to Ingrid’s account in the Cayman Islands. But I’ll do it, if you help me nail Todorović.’
‘Which probably involves getting myself arrested by the Serbian police for breaking and entering.’
Piravani shrugged. ‘There’ll be risks, naturally.’
‘Too many risks.’
‘Not for someone Gazi’s threatening to accuse of complicity in his own wife’s murder. Think, the tapes might actually exonerate you. I don’t know. But it’s possible. Anyhow, I’m going too fast. This is the deal. The money’s here, in Lugano. In one of the banks the locals run so discreetly and efficiently. I used to own a small apartment in Campione d’Italia, on the other side of the lake. As an Italian citizen, I was free to travel there from Belgrade during the sanctions period. That was crucial to managing Gazi’s finances. It meant we could get his money out of Serbia and keep it safe here in Switzerland. It’s still waiting for him. Or for Ingrid. A simple signature or telephone call from me and the whole lot flies across the Atlantic to Grand Cayman. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s all you want. Well, you can have it. If you help me.’
Blood Count Page 11
