‘Todorović?’
‘Yes. You know him?’
Hammond hesitated. ‘I’ve heard of him.’
‘Me too. He’s quite well known in Belgrade. Anyway, Gazi said Todorović was ready to deliver the boy as soon as Delmotte gave the go-ahead.’
‘Deliver him where?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t mentioned.’
But Todorović knew. That was clear. As it must have been to Zineta. He knew. And she had something he badly wanted: the tapes. Suddenly it was all too obvious why she could not let Hammond have them back. She was planning to trade them for her son. ‘You told Zineta all this?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘How did she react?’
‘She was wound up pretty tight. And doing a lot of thinking. You could see that on her face. She didn’t actually say much. She thanked me and … then she took the tape and left.’
‘You didn’t try to stop her?’
‘No. Though maybe I should have. It sounded like information ICTY would be interested in. It’s an open secret Branko Todorović is on the Prosecutor’s grey list – people likely to be indicted if serious evidence against them turns up. I suppose I was … too taken up with Zineta’s side of things. I mean, she’s the boy’s mother, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. His name’s Monir.’
‘Was. It probably isn’t now.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I got the impression there was more than just the one tape.’
‘There are … quite a few more.’
‘And what’s on them?’
‘I don’t know. The only parts I listened to were in Serbian. But they probably constitute the sort of evidence you’re talking about.’
‘That’s what I thought. How did you get hold of them?’
More hesitation. Hammond had only just met this man. He seemed trustworthy, but seeming and being were not the same. ‘Have you got any identification, Stevan?’
‘Sure.’ Vidor took out his wallet and produced a laminated card adorned with his photograph, the UN symbol and ICTY’s logo of a globe cradled in the scales of justice: Stevan Vidor, translator/traducteur. There was no doubt of its authenticity.
‘Well, I was actually planning to hand the tapes over to ICTY once Zineta had listened to them.’
‘Any idea where she’s gone?’
‘None.’
‘I might be able to help you with that.’
‘How?’
Vidor leant across the table and lowered his voice. ‘We need to come to an understanding, you and I. I want to help Zineta. I like her – a lot. Plus it’ll look bad for me if it comes out I’m involved with a member of Gazi’s family, which I guess the mother of his son kind of is, and didn’t stop her suppressing vital evidence against him.’
‘The last thing she’d do is suppress evidence against Gazi.’
‘Unless she felt she had to, in order to get her son back.’
It was true. And it was the only possible explanation for what she had done. ‘What do you want from me, Stevan?’
‘I’m suggesting we collaborate, Edward. We both want to find Zineta and deliver the tapes to ICTY. And we both know things the other doesn’t. For instance, Delmotte. I’m good at my job. I have an ear for accents. It’s why I came to see Zineta this evening. There was something in Delmotte’s voice that wasn’t pure French. It only came to me later. He isn’t French. French-speaking, but not actually French.’
‘What, then?’
‘He’s a Luxembourger. I tracked him down through the Luxembourg lawyers’ association website. I have his office address. That’s what I was planning to tell Zineta.’ Vidor sighed. ‘I thought it would impress her. I thought …’ He shrugged. ‘I guess I thought it would make her accept my help.’
Doing right by his employer apparently counted for less than winning Zineta’s attention any way he could. Hammond suddenly understood. Vidor was more than merely attracted to Zineta. He was in love with her. And that might be to Hammond’s advantage. In the circumstances, indeed, it was likely to be the only advantage he had.
‘I can’t even phone her now to tell her what I’ve found out,’ Vidor continued, shaking his head miserably.
‘No,’ said Hammond. ‘But I can.’
TWENTY-FOUR
‘This is Edward again, Zineta. Listen to what I have to say. I know what you’re doing. I understand. I really do. But there’s no need to involve Todorović. I have the information you need. Stevan Vidor’s with me. We’ve found out where Delmotte is. We can use the evidence you have of his dealings with Gazi to force Monir’s new name and address out of him. You see? We can get what you want without giving Todorović what he wants. Think about it. It’s the best way. It means Marco won’t have risked his life for nothing. Think about it and call me. Soon.’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t have mentioned me,’ Vidor said as Hammond rang off. There was self-mockery as well as self-pity in his tone. ‘She probably doesn’t trust my motives.’
‘I doubt she trusts her own motives. She probably panicked when she saw the chance the tape gave her. I’m hoping she’s already had second thoughts. With any luck, she won’t have contacted Todorović yet.’
‘But if she has?’
‘We can move faster than him.’
‘And if she doesn’t call?’
‘She’ll call. We just need to give her time to think the situation through. Meanwhile …’
‘We should head for Luxembourg.’
‘We should certainly make sure we’re there when Delmotte arrives at his office tomorrow morning. With or without Zineta.’
The obvious way to travel was in Vidor’s car. He estimated the journey would take three to four hours, so it was agreed he would collect Hammond from the Kurhaus at five o’clock the following morning.
Hammond paid his bill in advance when he returned to the hotel, then went straight up to his room. There had still been no response from Zineta, but even if there had he would not have told Bill what he and Vidor were going to do. Bill had taken his stand and Hammond doubted any argument he advanced would shift him from it. The forty-eight-hour deadline meant he had until Thursday to redeem himself in his brother-in-law’s eyes. It was not long. But if all went well it would be long enough.
He called Zineta again and left another message. Sooner or later, she would see reason. She had to. If not …
Sleep arrived, tardily and shallowly, courtesy of late-night Dutch television. The knowledge that the world was proceeding on its trivial and unintelligible way, heedless of his doubts and fears, acted as a kind of sedative. He had stopped asking himself what he had done to deserve his recent misfortunes. All that mattered now was what he had to do to end them.
Vidor was waiting outside in his car, engine idling, when Hammond emerged from the hotel just before five o’clock. It was cold and a fine drizzle was falling from the night-shrouded sky. Dawn felt a long way off.
The Peugeot was small and more than a decade old, with defective heating. But progress was swift, even if it was uncomfortable. Little was said, neither having the taste or energy for idle conversation. They were allies of necessity and the weight of that necessity rested heavily between them.
The going slowed as it grew light, commuter and commercial traffic rumbling in ever greater numbers on to the motorways of Belgium. Even so, they made good enough time for Vidor to propose a breakfast break at the last service area before Luxembourg City. As they sat hunched over their coffee, orange juice and croissants, Hammond’s phone rang, raising the hope that Zineta was at last responding to his repeated messages. But all he found was a text from Miljanović. ‘Looked in on your friend this morning. No change. Getting best attention.’ He shook his head dismally at Vidor. ‘It’s not from her.’
‘Still confident she’ll call, Edward?’
‘Yes. I am.’
‘Well, I guess you know her better than I do.’
‘I’m not sure about that.’
/>
‘Do you regret getting involved in all this?’
‘No. Strangely enough, I don’t.’
‘How did you, anyway? Get involved, I mean.’
‘It’s a long story. I’ll make a full statement of the circumstances when I deliver the tapes to ICTY. Talking of which, shouldn’t you be phoning in to say you’ll be absent today?’
‘Neat change of subject. I left a message, saying I wouldn’t be in, before I picked you up. Now we’ve dealt with that, why don’t you tell me where you got the tapes?’
‘Belgrade.’
‘It’s a big city.’
‘Your home town?’
Vidor chuckled at Hammond’s shameless evasiveness. ‘No. I’m from Subotica, up near the Hungarian border. Vidor’s a Hungarian name. Maybe you’ve heard of the Hollywood director King Vidor? My father claims we’re related to him.’
‘Your parents are still in Serbia?’
‘Yes. Parents. Plus brothers and sisters. They all stayed. I’m the only one who got out.’
‘Do you see much of them?’
Vidor grimaced. ‘Going back isn’t easy. For me or for them.’
‘How did you end up in The Hague?’
‘Serbo-Croatian translators aren’t in much demand anywhere else.’
‘Do you enjoy the work?’
‘Enjoy? That’s not exactly the—’
The chirruping of Hammond’s phone silenced them instantly. Hammond looked down at the caller display. ‘It’s her,’ he said quietly. ‘At last.’
He was already on the move when he answered, heading for the relative privacy of the open air after an explanatory signal to Vidor, designed to imply it was the eavesdropping of the other people in the cafeteria he was concerned about, although in truth he was grateful for the excuse to talk to Zineta alone.
‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ were literally her first words, uttered with a hoarseness he sensed had nothing to do with the quality of the connection.
‘There’s no need to apologize. I meant what I said in my messages. I understand why you did it. You should have waited and talked it over with me, but in your shoes I might have done the same.’
‘I saw a chance to find Monir and I felt I had to take it.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Schiphol. It must sound crazy, but I wanted to be ready … to go wherever he is … as soon as I heard.’
‘Have you contacted Todorović?’
She did not immediately reply. There was only static and guesswork to fill the void as he emerged into the drizzle-blurred morning.
‘Zineta?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice had sunk so low it was hard to catch her words. ‘I contacted him.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘Yes. I left a message with an … assistant. Then Todorović phoned back. In person. He wants the tapes badly. I had his complete attention.’
‘What did you agree with him?’
‘He said he would call me again some time today with arrangements for me to see Monir. When I saw him … when I was sure he was my son … I’d …’
‘Hand over the tapes?’
‘Yes. There’s enough on them to destroy Todorović, Edward. And he no longer owes Gazi anything. He doesn’t care about me or Monir. It’s just a … business transaction to him.’
‘Are you sure about that? You can’t trust a man like him. Doesn’t he deserve to be destroyed anyway? Marco certainly thinks so.’
‘Do you know … how Marco is?’
‘Stable. But it could still go either way.’
‘Poor Marco. Poor you.’ She shook her head. ‘What have I done?’
‘You took what you thought was your only chance. But now we have another chance. A better one. Thanks to Stevan Vidor.’
‘I never meant to involve him. I couldn’t think of any other way to find out what Gazi and Delmotte were discussing. Stevan is sweet, but … this isn’t his problem.’
‘Maybe not. But he’s a part of the solution. He’s worked out where Delmotte is. We plan to confront him this morning. Why don’t you come too?’
‘Where?’
‘Luxembourg. There must be plenty of flights from Schiphol.’
‘But … what do I do about Todorović?’
‘Nothing. If we get what we want out of Delmotte, you can leave Todorović dangling.’
‘He knows I have the tapes, Edward. He’ll come after me.’
‘Not if he’s under arrest. Which he will be as soon as we deliver the tapes to ICTY.’
She fell silent once more. Hammond paced up and down an empty parking bay, telling himself to give her the time she needed. It was not easy and he had nearly exhausted his patience when she said, ‘All right. I’ll come.’
Vidor’s spirits lifted when he heard Zineta had agreed. They headed towards Luxembourg City, hitting heavy rush-hour traffic as soon as they left the motorway. By the time they had found a space in an underground car park off Boulevard Royal, their plan to be waiting for Delmotte when he arrived at his office was in serious disarray.
The compactness of the Old Town told in their favour, however. With Vidor navigating expertly from an internet map, they reached Delmotte’s offices – the ground floor of an elegant old house hear the Grand-Ducal Palace – before assorted church clocks had finished striking nine.
A demure young receptionist was conveying a cup of coffee into one of the rooms overlooking the street when they entered. When she returned, Vidor explained, in his most fluent and flattering French, what they wanted: an immediate audience with Delmotte. As far as Hammond could gather, this was met with well-trained resistance. Vidor dropped the name Gazi, which clearly meant nothing to the secretary, and mentioned ‘une adoption’. She eventually consented to convey their message to Maître Delmotte.
As they waited for his response, Hammond’s phone rang. There was a text from Zineta. ‘Arr lux 1045. Can u meet me at airport?’ He was still maladroitly thumbing his reply – ‘May b late but will b there’ – on when the secretary returned, looking mildly surprised. Delmotte had granted them an audience.
‘She’s on her way,’ Hammond whispered as they went in.
‘So are we,’ said Vidor.
Delmotte’s office was a stylish graft of twenty-first-century work space onto eighteenth-century salon, yew panelling and old-master reproductions blending with Italian furniture and state-of-the-art desktop technology. The law was evidently a lucrative profession in Luxembourg, though Hammond reminded himself that Marcel Delmotte might have strayed beyond the letter of the law more than once in pursuit of a fat fee if his dealings with Gazi were anything to judge by.
Delmotte himself appeared, at first sight, to be the very embodiment of solicitorial self-effacement: middle-aged and soberly suited, thin, delicately bespectacled, blandly courteous. But the fretful workings of his tight little mouth and the frownful dartings of his gaze suggested a great deal of anxious thinking was going on behind the urbane façade.
There was some introductory sparring in French, but as soon as Delmotte appreciated that one of his visitors did not speak the language, he switched to English. ‘I have only a very little time that I can spare you, messieurs. What is it I can do for you?’
‘Is adoption law a speciality of yours?’ Hammond asked provocatively.
‘A speciality? I would not say so.’ Delmotte took a measured sip of coffee in a show of unconcern. ‘I may know of another notaire better qualified to advise you if—’
‘Do you know who Dragan Gazi is, maître?’ Vidor cut in.
‘Gazi? Mais oui, naturellement. The Serbian militia leader, arrested last year and … sent to stand trial at the International Court in The Hague.’
‘Have you ever met him?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Or had any dealings with him?’
Delmotte managed a smile. ‘Non.’
‘We know better,’ said Hammond. ‘Your discussions with him in March 2000 regarding the adoption
of his son were recorded. And we have the recording.’
The smile was still in place, but had become a caricature of itself. And a vein in Delmotte’s temple seemed suddenly more prominent. ‘You are mistaken. I have had no … dealings … with Dragan Gazi.’
‘The tape tells a different story. You supplied documentation enabling Monir Gazi to be classified under a different name as an orphan. And then you arranged his adoption by a client of yours. No doubt Gazi paid you well, since what you did must have amounted to a criminal act. Whether it would get you a prison sentence I can’t say. You know the Luxembourg courts better than we do. But a heavy fine and the end of your legal career would surely be the least you could expect.’
Delmotte licked his moustache nervously. He looked from one to the other of them, seeking in their faces some sign of what his choices might be. ‘Any such recording … must be a fake.’
‘It’s you on the tape, maître,’ said Vidor. ‘I recognize your voice. The conversation centred on Gazi’s wish to bring forward the date when “le gamin” could be shipped out of Serbia. Eventually, you agreed a ten per cent supplement to your fee in return for “l’expédition de la procédure”. Remember?’
‘This is … a lie.’
‘We have the tape.’
‘And therefore,’ said Hammond, surprised by his own coldness, ‘we have you at our mercy.’
Delmotte closed his eyes for a second, then said, ‘Supposing such a tape existed, your duty would be to take it to the police.’
‘We prefer not to have to do that.’
‘Vraiment?’
Hammond smiled. ‘Really.’
Delmotte reached for his coffee cup to win himself some thinking time, only to discover it was empty. With a heavy sigh he replaced it in the saucer. ‘How much do you want, messieurs?’
Blood Count Page 21
