As Hammond slowly relaxed, satisfied that Gazi was unlikely to notice him, even if he did rouse himself from his torpor, the significance of the testimony he was hearing gradually emerged. To recognize the bravery of specific acts was to admit knowledge and imply approval of other acts. The medals and the pensions were in that sense part of a programme of incitement for the perpetration of crimes against humanity.
The translator’s voice was expressionless. Hammond could only imagine what tonal subtleties might be escaping him. Nothing in the manner or posture of the woman sitting ahead of him in the public area telegraphed what she made of the witness’s answers. Her gaze – and her concentration – seemed fixed on Gazi, as if she was studying him, perhaps, for signs of guilt or remorse or anger: any reaction at all, in fact, to what was being said.
But there was no reaction. Gazi was not disposed to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him flinch or squirm. He had summoned all his lordly indifference and laid it before the court.
One thing that struck Hammond was how well Gazi looked. He was a horribly good advertisement for the long-term benefits of transplant surgery. Hammond should have felt some pride in the visible evidence of his own excellence. Instead, he reflected wistfully on the mistakes he could easily have made that would have led to his patient’s death and the peace of mind he would be enjoying now as a result.
The desire to walk into the courtroom, drag Gazi to his feet and remind him how grateful he should be was suddenly so sharp that he uttered some oath he was hardly aware of and stood up so abruptly that his chair slid back and clattered into the one behind it. The woman looked round with a start of surprise, as if she had previously been unaware of his presence. She frowned at him more in curiosity than censure and he raised a hand in apology, both to her and the guard who loomed into view. Then she looked away and he sat down again. The guard retreated.
No one in the court heard anything. Most of them had their backs to the public area anyway. Gazi continued to dwell in his private world. The examination painstakingly proceeded.
Hammond continued to watch Gazi through the glass; and nothing changed. His dilemma remained. And the certainty that he would glean no answers, however long he stayed there, seeped slowly into him. But what was he to do instead? How could he escape the trap Gazi had set for him?
While he was distracted by such thoughts, the examination of the witness came to an anticlimactic close and the court adjourned for an early lunch.
Gazi was led away through a door behind him. He cast one fleeting glance towards the public area as he went. But it was directed at the woman. Hammond was out of his line of sight. Then he was gone.
The woman rose and walked past Hammond. He followed her out and down the stairs. She moved ahead of him across the empty foyer and out into the open air. The guardhouse controlling the entrance gate was to their right, but she did not turn towards it. Instead, she paused on the steps of the court, took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and lit one.
‘Staying on for the resumption?’ he asked impulsively.
She looked at him warily. ‘Maybe. You?’ The intonation of her voice tended to confirm she was from some part of the former Yugoslavia.
He smiled. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Are you … a tourist?’
‘No. I’m … not a tourist.’
‘You have an interest in the case?’
‘Sort of.’
‘But you are British. How can it concern you?’
‘Your English is excellent,’ he said, in a stab at combining flattery with deflection.
‘I was an English teacher … before the war.’
‘Not since?’
‘No. Not since.’ She nodded, as if agreeing with herself on something. ‘There is a lot of “not since” in Serbia.’
‘Which is where you’re from?’
‘Yes. I am from Serbia.’
‘Did you come here … for this case?’
Her wariness was suddenly magnified. ‘If you’re not a tourist, what are you?’
‘I’m a doctor.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Well, there are no patients for you here, doctor.’ She took a last draw on her cigarette and stepped past him to crush the butt into an ash-box next to the door. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Before you go back in …’
‘Yes?’ She frowned at him. Her gaze, he observed, was somehow older than the rest of her, as if she had seen much in her life that she would prefer to forget, but could not.
‘Have you ever heard of Marco Piravani?’
She did not reply. She did not need to. It was immediately and surprisingly obvious to him that she had.
Her name was Zineta Perović. That was as much as she was initially willing to disclose. She was as suspicious as she was cautious. But it was clear they both wanted to learn how the other came to know Piravani. Hammond suggested they discuss their mutual interest in the Italian over lunch. Zineta agreed, on condition she chose the venue. ‘We’ll go into the city centre,’ she declared, adding, ‘We’ll talk there,’ in a tone that suggested she wanted to put some distance between them and ICTY before saying any more.
An attempt at small talk while they waited for the tram got Hammond nowhere. Zineta asked to see his passport and quizzed him about his occupation. He had the distinct impression she was frightened of being set up in some way and would have given him the brush-off but for his mention of Piravani.
‘What do you do for a living now?’ he asked when they had boarded the tram.
‘I clean offices. Six till midnight.’
‘How long have you done that?’
‘Since I came to The Hague.’
‘And when was that?’
‘December.’
‘When Gazi’s trial began.’
‘Yes. When his trial began.’
‘You know him?’
‘Oh yes.’ She nodded grimly. ‘I know him very well.’
She chose a busy little brasserie just off The Hague’s main shopping street, where a babble of lunchtime chatter ensured no one would overhear them. She ordered bread and soup and added a main course only when Hammond volunteered to pay.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I have very little money.’
‘There’s no need to apologize. Would you like some wine?’
‘No. No wine.’
‘Do you go to the court every day?’
‘Every day I can.’
‘What takes you there?’
‘What took you there? You’re a busy man, I’m sure. How can you spare the time, doctor?’
‘Call me Edward.’
‘No. That would be like saying we’re going to get to know each other. And I’m not sure we are.’
‘OK. Well, officially, I’m on holiday.’
‘But you’re not here as a tourist.’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘Why, then?’
‘Let’s talk about Piravani.’
‘OK. Tell me how you know Gazi. If I believe you, I’ll tell you how I know him.’
‘And if you don’t believe me?’
‘I’ll leave you to enjoy your lunch – alone.’
‘Are you always so … demanding?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, looking as if she meant it. ‘My life hasn’t been what I hoped – what I expected. Yours, on the other hand, I’d guess has been … smooth progress all the way. I have a cousin who is a doctor. Used to be a doctor. He is a taxi driver now. More money, you understand. Enough money, to keep his family. The war is over. But Serbia isn’t like it was before. It isn’t the country I grew up in. They called that Yugoslavia. And the inhabitants didn’t know they hated one another. No one had told them.’ Her gaze lost its focus for a wistful moment. Then she was back with him. ‘The truth, doctor. We will trade it. How do you know Gazi?’
Hammond sighed. Strangely, he did not doubt her ability to recognize a lie if he proffered one. They had to
trust each other. But that was easier said than done. ‘Thirteen years ago, he had a liver transplant. I was the surgeon.’
‘Ah, yes.’ She thought for a moment. ‘The transplant. I remember.’ She nodded. ‘You saved his life.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Many would. Including those who would like to kill him.’
‘Would you like to kill him, Zineta?’
‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘And how do you know him?’
She looked Hammond in the eye. There was no hint of evasiveness in her voice as she said, ‘I was his mistress.’
EIGHT
Zineta ate her meal with the relish of someone who normally lunched more frugally – if she lunched at all. She had admitted her connection with Gazi, but remained guarded and reticent where Piravani was concerned. Now they were debating with themselves what to say, how much to reveal, how big a risk they should take.
‘Why did you ask me about Marco, doctor?’ Zineta said, breaking a thoughtful silence.
The significance of her use of Piravani’s Christian name did not escape Hammond. The hint of a blush suggested it did not escape her either. They were both walking on eggshells. ‘I need to find him. Urgently.’
She looked across at him. ‘So do I.’
‘Why?’
‘You first.’
‘It’s … difficult to explain.’
‘I’m sure it is. But we may be able to help each other. We can only do that if …’
‘We’re honest.’
‘Yes.’
‘You could be an undercover journalist for all I know.’
‘If I was, would you have much to fear?’
Hammond grimaced. ‘Yes, I would.’
She nodded. ‘So would I. If you were.’
‘You’ve seen my passport. You know who I am. You can phone the hospital I work at if you want to. My PA thinks I’m ski-ing in Austria. Everything I’ve said will check out. Do you want to do that?’ He offered her his phone. ‘I don’t mind, Zineta. Truly I don’t. I’ve—’ He broke off.
‘What is it?’
‘I was about to say “I’ve nothing to hide”. But that isn’t exactly true.’
‘Put your phone away, doctor. I believe you.’
‘You really could call me Edward, you know.’
‘All right, Edward. I believe you are who you say you are.’
‘Good.’
She glanced at her watch. ‘The court will soon be resuming. Gazi will wonder where I am.’
‘He didn’t give much sign of noticing you.’
‘He doesn’t give much sign of anything.’
‘But he knows why you’re there?’
‘Of course.’
‘And the reason is?’
She smiled faintly. ‘Tell me why you’re looking for Marco, Edward. Please. I need to know.’
‘All right. But not here.’ He looked around. The people at nearby tables all seemed absorbed in their own conversations, yet he did not feel entirely secure. He needed time to think. ‘Let’s go somewhere we can be … alone.’
‘That’s not a problem in this city. I’ve never felt as alone as I do here.’
‘Have you travelled a lot?’
‘Not recently. It’s difficult when you haven’t much money, or the money you have is worth nothing in any other currency. I was in London for a year in the late eighties, learning English. And I spent eight months in Paris in the mid-nineties. I was looking after my mother. She had cancer and we had to go to France to get her proper chemotherapy. That’s when I stopped teaching, although the pay was so bad by then I wasn’t giving up much.’
‘What happened … to your mother?’
‘She died.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It’s a long time ago now. Twelve years.’
‘What did you do … after she died?’
‘I went home.’
‘To what?’
‘A different kind of life. I’d had enough of being poor. Enough of having principles, I suppose.’
Hammond imagined her twelve years younger, wearing designer clothes and more make-up. She would, he suddenly realized, have been quite startlingly attractive. He had some idea then of what she might have done back home after months spent nursing her dying mother. ‘Is that when you met Gazi?’ he ventured.
‘Yes.’ She looked away. ‘But first I met Marco.’
They said no more about Piravani, or Gazi, until they had left the brasserie and crossed the city centre to the Hofvijver. The wind had dropped and the turrets and gables of the Binnenhof were hazily reflected in the lake’s placid surface. But the air was cold enough to ensure no one was sitting on any of the benches flanking the lakeside path. They walked slowly along it beneath the leafless trees.
‘Are you going to tell me now why you’re looking for Marco?’
‘Yes,’ Hammond replied. ‘I am.’ And so he was. But he had decided he could not trust a former mistress of Gazi with the whole truth. There was too much at stake. The money Piravani controlled was the obvious reason why Zineta should want to find him. Maybe she reckoned Gazi owed her a decent pay-off. And maybe she was right. But Hammond had to ensure the money went elsewhere. ‘Gazi’s daughter, Ingrid, approached me a few days ago. Marco hasn’t responded to her messages, apparently. She needed someone to track him down and put him in touch with her. She couldn’t go after him herself because she’s being followed, so she claims, by Serbian government agents or … hoodlums of Gazi’s acquaintance … or both. She chose me because … I was the only reliable person she could think of who had no obvious current connection with her father.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I had to.’ He took out his wallet and showed her the photograph of Alice. ‘My daughter. She’s in her first year at university. Ingrid threatened to … harm her … if I didn’t cooperate. And her father’s record made me believe it wasn’t an idle threat.’
‘I am sorry, Edward.’ Zineta held the photograph for a moment, then passed it back to him with a sigh. ‘It seems Ingrid has inherited her father’s ruthlessness.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So, why have you come to The Hague?’
‘Ingrid told me to keep watch at an Italian restaurant in London where Marco was a regular customer. He turned up and when he left I followed him home.’
‘Marco’s living in London?’
‘He was. But after I told him what I wanted him to do, he said he needed time to think. He said he had … scruples … about helping Gazi’s family. When the time was up, I went to see him again. He’d gone. Vanished without a trace.’
‘He’s good at that.’
‘So it seems. I came here because … I thought there was an outside chance …’
Zineta shook her head. ‘This is the last place Marco would come.’
‘You’re probably right. But …’
‘How long did Ingrid give you?’
‘A week.’
‘Does Alice’s mother know what you’re doing?’
‘She died … some years ago.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry.’
A silence fell between them. They sat down on one of the benches. Zineta lit a cigarette. Hammond gazed out across the lake and waited for her to give up some of her secrets, wondering if they would be any more faithfully represented than his had been.
‘You know Marco was Gazi’s banker, don’t you, Edward?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ingrid wants her father’s money. And there’s a lot of it to want.’
‘So I gather.’
‘Maybe you think I’m after a cut too.’
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you were.’
‘No? Well, I’m not, though there was a time I would have been. It was impossible for a woman on her own to make any kind of a decent living in Belgrade in the late nineties. Milošević had corrupted everything. The law didn’t mean much any more. Things happened to me … I don’t want t
o remember. I realized I needed protection. The mobsters all had what were called “sponsor girls”. For the girls, it was … a way to survive. There were bars you could go to show yourself off … to put yourself on the market. It was shameful, but I did it. I was older than most of the girls, of course. Maybe that’s why I was still … available … when Marco picked me up. I was lucky. He has a gentle nature. But, like you’ve found out, he has scruples, though not about money – not then, anyway. He loved making it and he loved spending it. I was happy for him to spend some of it on me. Champagne, fine food, beautiful clothes, expensive perfume, chauffeured limousines: they were good to have. Oh yes, Marco was kind to me. Actually, he was in love with me. When I told him … I was pregnant … it never crossed his mind that he might not be the father. But it crossed mine. And Gazi’s.’
‘Gazi was the father?’
‘I couldn’t say no to him, Edward. It was about survival, like I said. He had the power of life and death. He only wanted me because Marco loved me. Forcing me to betray Marco would have been enough for him. Even the pregnancy wouldn’t have mattered if I’d had a daughter. But the baby was a boy. And Gazi’s only son had died in Argentina, in a motorbike crash when he was … crazily young. So, Gazi insisted on a DNA test. I knew it was going to prove the boy was his. It was … fate, I suppose. I carry my son’s picture like you carry your daughter’s. See?’
She opened her handbag and took out a small leather photograph holder. The picture it contained was of a very young, still babyish little boy, dressed in shorts and T-shirt, sitting barefooted on a sun-dappled lawn and beaming amiably at the camera.
‘That is Monir when he was just over a year old,’ Zineta explained. ‘He’s nearly eleven now.’
‘You don’t have a more recent picture?’
‘No. He was taken from me before he was two.’
‘Taken?’
‘I lived with him at Gazi’s villa after he was born. The first year … I was happy just to be raising my child in luxury. But when Gazi was indicted by ICTY and NATO bombed Belgrade, things changed. It got so I was a virtual prisoner. Gazi was afraid Milošević would have him killed. He saw threats everywhere. Maybe he was right to. He had Marco working on a plan for them to disappear. Marco hated Gazi for stealing me from him, but still he went on taking the money Gazi paid him. He didn’t have the courage to quit. And maybe he knew Gazi wouldn’t let him quit anyway. Besides, the plan he came up with punished me for betraying him. That must have given him some satisfaction. In March 2000, Gazi sent me off on holiday to Cyprus. He said I looked as if I needed some sun. I couldn’t understand it. Until then he’d always kept me close. I didn’t want to go, because he wouldn’t let me take Monir with me, but I didn’t have any choice really. What he said … I had to do. I phoned every day from the hotel, of course, but from the fourth day on no one picked up. I didn’t know what to think. I called Marco, but only got his answering machine. He didn’t respond to my messages. In the end, I contacted a woman I used to teach with and begged her to find out what was happening at the villa. She phoned back later and said the place was empty: shuttered, closed up. I took the next flight home. She was right. Gazi had gone, taking Monir with him. I tracked down some of the staff. They said they’d all been paid up to the end of the month and told not to come in. Gazi had driven away with Monir, a woman they’d never seen before and one of his bodyguards. No one knew where they’d gone. I went to Marco’s flat. He wasn’t there. A neighbour said he hadn’t seen him for days. I knew what that meant. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs outside the flat, weeping uncontrollably. After that I don’t remember much for quite a while. The despair was … physical. It just … emptied me out.’
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