‘No concern? You think that?’
‘I assure you they aren’t.’
‘And I assure you they are. These tapes prove who the boy’s real father is. Dragan Gazi. Heard of him?’
‘The war criminal?’ The words were out of her mouth before she had weighed their effect.
‘War criminal?’ Todorović roared, causing Mary and Patrick to flinch. ‘You sit here in your big house in a country that has no character or culture of its own and you judge us Serbs for what we have done to preserve ours?’
‘I … I’m not judging anyone.’
‘No. You let those fuckers in The Hague do that.’
‘Please. Please.’ She began to sob. Patrick looked up at her and began to cry too. ‘I don’t know … who Maître Delmotte … I mean, I don’t know … what he arranged … or who for. He … lied to my husband and me. But if the tapes are all you want, then … then …’
‘We should leave you in peace, yes, madame? We should leave you to go on with your comfortable life?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured. It was more of a plea than an answer.
Zineta said something in Serbian then, something that sounded pointed and practical. It was clear she had no intention of pleading.
Todorović replied curtly, without looking at her. Yet Hammond had the impression, based more on the man’s posture than his tone, that he reluctantly acknowledged the sense of what Zineta had said. He sighed and patted the pile of tapes. ‘OK, OK. Gazi and his son are nothing to me. The war is over. I have moved on. We have all moved on.’ Another, heavier sigh. ‘What I require now is certainty. Did you make copies of these tapes?’
‘No,’ said Hammond.
‘Is that the truth?’
‘We didn’t have time. There are no copies.’
‘So you say. But how can I believe you?’
‘There are no copies.’
Todorović gestured to Slavko, who passed him his gun. He flexed his fingers and thumb around it, then strode across the room to where Zineta was standing and clapped the weapon to her temple. Hammond saw her swallow hard and moisten her lips. But she did not react in any other way. Perhaps she had been preparing herself for such an event ever since the gunmen had burst out of the van.
‘Are there any copies?’
‘No,’ said Hammond. ‘There are none.’
‘Shooting Gazi’s whore would be no problem to me. It would actually be a pleasure. You are giving me the excuse I need, Hammond. Where are the copies?’
‘There aren’t any.’
‘I think there are. And I want to know where you’ve hidden them.’
‘For God’s sake, there aren’t any.’ Hammond looked into Todorović’s eyes and saw only the certainty that he was not bluffing. He was willing, if not eager, to kill Zineta.
‘I’ll count to three. Then—’
‘There are copies,’ said Vidor suddenly. Hammond swung round and stared at him in amazement. What was he saying? What was he thinking of?
‘Aha,’ said Todorović. ‘So, now there are some. When did you make them?’
‘He made them.’ Vidor pointed at Hammond. ‘Before he arrived in The Hague. One tape from each batch: a random sample.’
Vidor’s expression gave nothing away, but Hammond knew he had to trust him. He must have foreseen Todorović would assume copies existed, even though they did not. How he meant to sustain the pretence, and to what purpose, Hammond could only wait to find out.
‘Why didn’t you tell me this, Hammond?’ Todorović demanded.
Hammond turned to face him. ‘I … thought … I thought we could …’
‘Send me away with the originals, but still have some dirt to serve up to those bastards in The Hague? Is that what you mean?’
‘I …’
‘Maybe you’re the one I should shoot.’ Todorović whipped the gun away from Zineta’s temple and pointed it at him.
‘Shoot him and you’ll never get the copies,’ said Vidor bluntly.
With a visible effort, Todorović stifled his anger. ‘Where are they?’
‘In a left-luggage locker at Luxembourg central train station. We dropped them off there before we collected Zineta from the airport.’
‘And the key?’
‘In my pocket.’
‘Show me.’
Hammond could read the astonishment in Zineta’s gaze as she watched Vidor produce the key and hold it out for Todorović to take. It was hardly less than the astonishment he felt himself. Not only had they made no copies of the tapes, but Vidor had been nowhere near the railway station. Surely the key could not be authentic, though it certainly looked as if it fitted a locker somewhere.
‘The number?’
‘Ah, the number,’ said Vidor. ‘I’m not sure I can remember.’
‘Šta?’
‘It’s twenty-six.’ Vidor’s memory seemed suddenly to have been restored. But then— ‘Or is it? Maybe I’m holding back the real number in case you start shooting my friends, Branko.’ Something had altered in his voice. He was shedding a disguise. The real Stevan Vidor was only now making himself known. ‘Hammond doesn’t know it, you see. He waited outside in the car, while I went in to find a locker. So, it’s twenty-six. Unless or until I say otherwise.’
Todorović took several deep breaths as he glared at Vidor. His face was red with barely suppressed fury. His dearest wish appeared to be to punch his tormentor in the face before putting a bullet through his brain. But he could not. If there were copies of the tapes out there somewhere, he had to have them. And to do that he had to keep Vidor alive.
‘Why don’t you and I go and get them, Branko? Then you’ll have everything you need to safeguard your position in the Serbian business world. You can go back to making money and we can forget this ever happened. I’m sure your men can dispose of Delmotte’s body and clean up the mess. Madame Bartol isn’t going to involve the police with all those irregularities in her son’s adoption to worry about, are you, madame?’
‘No,’ said Mary Bartol. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘You see? It’s a good deal. And I know you like a good deal. Give and take on either side. And a healthy profit for you.’
Todorović was grinding his teeth so fiercely he was in danger of cracking a molar. But his breathing was slowing. He was beginning to see reason. He did not like the look of it, but he recognized it all the same. ‘OK.’ His acceptance came in a reluctant growl. ‘We will go to the station, Vidor. And you will give me the copies. One of my men will go with us. The other two will stay here, with Hammond, the women and the boy. If I am satisfied by what you give me, I will call my men and tell them to leave. If I am not satisfied, I will also call and tell them to leave. But they will kill the hostages first. You understand? All four. Their lives depend on you now, Vidor. That is the only deal there is going to be. I hope you like it.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
Zineta’s pained, questioning gaze was waiting whenever Hammond looked towards her. She believed Vidor, of course, and was wondering why Hammond had not told her he had copied some of the tapes. Letting her think he had deceived her was a small price to pay for surviving their brush with Todorović, but how Vidor’s ploy was designed to achieve that he did not know. He could only do as Vidor had asked: trust him.
Todorović had taken Obrad along when he set off with Vidor. The drive to the railway station in Luxembourg would take half an hour, maybe more. That left the hostages, as Todorović had all too accurately termed them, with an anxious wait for news. Though he could not afford to show it, Hammond had cause to be the most anxious of them all, tortured as he was by the question of what exactly Vidor planned to do. Zineta and Mary Bartol thought there really were copied tapes waiting in a left-luggage locker at the station. But he knew better. Or worse.
The key to the locker was surely the key to the puzzle. Either it fitted a locker in a different station – The Hague, maybe – or Vidor had an accomplice, who had delivered the key to him at the airpor
t while Hammond was waiting for Zineta in the arrivals hall. Whichever the case, Vidor could hardly be the lovesick translator he had presented himself as. He was playing an altogether deeper game.
Slavko and Miloš knew nothing of this. To them the interlude was merely a tiresome extension of the job in hand. They chatted idly, chewed gum and kept a close eye on their captives. Slavko was old enough to have fought in Bosnia or Kosovo, quite possibly with Gazi’s Wolves. He knew how to kill with an untroubled conscience. Obrad had dispatched Delmotte like a surplus kitten in a litter. There was no reason to suppose Miloš would behave any differently. Man, woman or child: it made no difference to them.
A quarter of an hour or so slowly passed, leadenly timed by the ticking of a longcase clock in the hall. By then little Patrick Bartol’s nerves had been stretched too far for his bladder to bear. His squirmings were becoming so desperate that Slavko demanded to know what was the matter with him.
His mother explained and asked if Patrick could use the toilet. Slavko refused. ‘Piss in your pants or hold it, kid.’ Patrick looked so aggrieved that Slavko laughed. Miloš joined in. And Patrick began to cry.
Then the telephone rang. Not Slavko’s mobile, which they were waiting for, but the Bartols’ land line. Receivers in other parts of the house began burbling in unison. Mary Bartol took an instinctive step forward, but Slavko barked at her to stop. ‘Let it ring,’ he rasped.
And it did ring, several times, before Mary said, ‘I think it’s my husband. I left him a message earlier … asking him to contact me.’
‘You can speak to him later.’
‘But—’
‘Later.’
‘No.’
‘Šta?’ Slavko was on his feet now, pointing his gun at her.
‘You don’t understand. I told him it was urgent. That I’d had to … take Patrick out of school. That I’d … wait for his call. If I don’t answer …’
Understanding dawned slowly on Slavko. If Émile Bartol was worried about his wife and son, he might contact the local police, or a neighbour. It was a problem Slavko did not need. But avoiding it required swift action. ‘Come, come. Quick.’ He waved Mary forward. ‘Speak to him. Tell him everything is all right. Tell him you and the boy are fine.’
Slavko grabbed Mary’s arm and piloted her out into the hall. Zineta clasped Patrick by the shoulders to stop him following. Miloš stepped into the doorway. Behind him, Hammond saw Slavko barge his way into the study on the opposite side of the hall. He dragged Mary with him. The answering machine had already cut in when he snatched up the phone on the desk and pressed it to her ear. She took it from him, pushed a button to override the machine and started speaking – in French.
‘Émile? … Hi, chéri … Non, non, pas de problème. Je vais très bien, Patrick aussi. Je me suis fait une erreur. Je …’
The angry, baffled expression on Slavko’s face warned Hammond of the danger a fraction of a second before the Serb shouted, ‘English. Speak English.’ Then he froze. So did Mary. So did they all. The silence in the house was so complete they could hear Émile Bartol’s voice at the other end of the line, though not what he was actually saying. Mary stared helplessly at the receiver, clutched in her hand. Then Slavko grabbed it from her and slammed it down.
He pulled her towards him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I didn’t think. But I never …’ Her words tailed off. What she had said or not said to her husband was immaterial. Slavko knew no French. And that too was immaterial now. Émile Bartol had realized something was wrong – very wrong.
Slavko raised his gun and pointed it at Mary’s forehead. She shrank away, but his grasp on her arm was too strong. He had made a decision. He was going to kill her. He was going to kill all of them. Miloš was watching him, waiting for the shot that would start the bloodshed.
Then Patrick moved, breaking free of Zineta, darting across the room and dodging past Miloš before he could react. He raced into the study and launched himself at Slavko, sinking his teeth into his right hand, which was holding the gun. Zineta started after him as Slavko cried out in pain and surprise. Miloš made a hopelessly late swipe at Patrick that took him blundering into Zineta’s path.
Hammond moved too, flinging himself round the other side of the table out of Miloš’s line of sight. He heard Slavko’s gun go off: a loud crack, followed by a splintering of plaster. Mary screamed. There was another shot, another splintering of plaster.
Acting on instinct rather than any kind of judgement, Hammond caught Miloš’s throat in the crook of his arm and yanked him back. He saw Zineta duck into the hall, heading for the study. Throwing every ounce of strength he had into the struggle, Hammond pulled Miloš further back, his spine creaking from the strain. The Serb choked and spluttered and tried to regain his balance, but the momentum was against him. They crashed to the floor close to the table, Miloš’s weight knocking most of the breath out of Hammond’s lungs and jarring his ribs so badly it felt like he had been stabbed. He heard several more shots fired, in quick succession, in the study. But this time there was no splintering of plaster, only the high-pitched note of Mary screaming.
Miloš was inert, a dead weight pressing down on him. Hammond pushed against it and managed to slide clear. He scrambled to his feet. It looked as if Miloš had struck his head on the edge of the table as he fell. He lay unconscious, slack-mouthed and sightlessly staring, his fingers loose around the handle of his gun. Hammond grabbed the weapon and plunged through the doorway.
Mary was no longer screaming. She had slumped to the floor of the study, with her back against the door, jamming it wide open. Patrick was standing next to her, still and silent as a figurine, staring at Slavko, who lay propped up against one of the tubular legs of the desk. The front of his overalls was dark with blood, the patch spreading fast and liquidly. Blood was flowing from his mouth and nostrils as well. He coughed thickly and squinted at Hammond, as if everything he saw was through a blurring, thickening curtain. He raised his right hand feebly, then looked down at it, frowning in evident perplexity at the absence of his gun.
The gun was in Zineta’s hand. She was kneeling back on her heels beside him, shaking like a leaf in a breeze and gaping open-mouthed at the damage those last few shots had inflicted. That it was fatal damage was in the next instant confirmed when Slavko’s breathing cut off in gurgling mid-inhalation and his head fell forward.
Hammond stepped slowly into the room. Only Patrick appeared to notice his arrival. ‘Miss Perović shot him,’ he said, in the precise manner he might have used when answering a teacher’s question in class. ‘But only after I stopped him shooting Maman.’
Zineta turned and looked up at him. ‘Are you … all right, Edward?’ she asked bemusedly. ‘Where’s … the other man?’
‘He knocked himself out. Don’t worry about him.’ He crouched down beside her. ‘How did you get the gun off this one?’
‘I didn’t. He was still holding it when it went off. But I’d twisted his wrist trying to stop him firing … at Madame Bartol and … I don’t know whether it was him or me … or both of us … who pulled the trigger.’ She laid the gun carefully on the floor. ‘He is dead, isn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. He’s dead.’
‘We ought to call the police,’ said Patrick, sounding bizarrely chirpy.
‘Yes,’ said Hammond. ‘We ought.’ He stood up and seized the telephone, then hesitated.
‘One one three,’ said Patrick.
Hammond dialled the number. ‘I’ll speak to them,’ said Mary Bartol, clambering unsteadily to her feet. ‘I know … what to say.’
‘OK.’ Hammond passed her the phone. Her hand was shaking violently as she took it.
‘Please … take Patrick into another room. Away from—’ She broke off as the call was answered and began talking rapidly and urgently in French.
Hammond turned and helped Zineta up, then shepherded her and Patrick out into the hall. He tried to force himself to think logically and practically. When w
ould the Luxembourg police reach them? What could they best do to help Vidor in the meantime? And how long would it be before Miloš regained consciousness? ‘Does your father have any rope, Patrick?’ he asked, calculating that they should tie the man’s wrists and ankles together to prevent him moving just in case he came to before the police arrived.
‘There’s some in the garage,’ Patrick replied brightly. ‘The quickest way is through the kitchen.’
The boy’s buoyant mood was his brain’s defence mechanism to ward off the reality of what had occurred, Hammond reckoned. It would not last indefinitely. But while it did he seemed unaffected by the death he had just witnessed and the danger they had all been in. ‘OK, Patrick. Lead the way. I’ll just—’ A glance into the dining room silenced him. Miloš was no longer lying by the table.
Hammond had to step into the doorway of the room to convince himself Miloš had really gone. He had. But where? Out to the van was his first and most optimistic guess, since the man was welcome to flee the scene if he wanted to. They were safer without him.
Then Zineta screamed. Hammond turned and saw Patrick pull up halfway along the hall towards the kitchen. A figure staggered across the patch of light reflected from the kitchen’s tiled floor. It was Miloš. He cannoned against a worktop, then righted himself and lurched out through the doorway. A bright metallic gleam was the first warning Hammond had that he was holding a knife – some sort of large chopping knife with a wide blade.
Miloš’s head swayed as he focused on Patrick, then he started lumbering towards him, raising the knife to attack. The boy had time enough to turn and run away, but he did not move. Instead he stared, almost curiously, at the spectacle before him.
‘Get out of the way,’ Hammond shouted. But Patrick did not react. And Hammond did not trust himself to use the gun he was still holding other than at the closest of ranges. He started along the hall.
But Zineta had started sooner. She reached Patrick when Miloš was nearly on him and scooped him up, lifting him off the ground as she turned into Miloš’s path, shielding the boy from his attacker.
Blood Count Page 24
