‘What made you think that?’
‘Being let down too many times.’
‘Well, I have an address for Guido. And I reckon our best chance of getting what we want is to speak to him face to face. I’ll book us on the first flight from Schiphol to Milan tomorrow morning if you say you’re willing to leave at crack of dawn – or before.’
‘I’m willing.’
‘Will entering Italy be a problem for you, as a Serbian citizen?’
‘No. I have a Schengen visa. Since the start of last year, we Serbs have been allowed to leave our box, at least for ninety days. Italy is fine.’
‘OK. I’ll call you back when I know the time of the flight.’
‘Thank you, Edward. This is … so good of you. I’m not used … to people being kind to me. I am very grateful.’
‘Don’t mention it.’
He would, in fact, have vastly preferred her not to mention it. He was only too well aware that somewhere down the road he might have to join the swollen ranks of those who had let her down.
After a call to KLM and another to Zineta, Hammond ordered a room-service meal, then stepped out on to his balcony and contemplated the night-blanked horizon in the still, bone-chilling air. There was a raggedness to his nerves and a jangled weariness to his thoughts he could not deny to himself. He had told too many lies for comfort and was taking ever greater risks in pursuit of an unworthy goal. Gazi’s money, in the hands of his grasping and undeserving family, would buy restoration of Hammond’s peace of mind. So went the theory, at any rate. But would it? Would it really? Last Friday afternoon, the first crack had appeared in the previously solid wall between his world and that of the likes of Zineta Perović. More cracks had appeared since. It was crumbling, piece by piece, faster and faster. And perhaps it could never be rebuilt.
It was still firmly in place the day in March 1996 when agreement was reached that Dragan Gazi’s further recuperation could be managed by the Voćnjak Clinic’s own staff, freeing Edward Hammond’s team to leave Belgrade. Svetozar Miljanović proposed a farewell party, a popular idea considering the hard work and long hours they had put in. It was a staid little gathering at first, but livened up after transferring to a traditional Serbian restaurant and stepped up another gear when Miljanović led them off to a disco housed in the catacombs under Kalemegdan Fortress. Hammond put in no more than a token gyration on the dance floor before taking his leave, reckoning the younger element would feel more relaxed without him. Miljanović followed his example and they parted over a nightcap in the bar back at Hammond’s hotel.
‘Živeli,’ said Miljanović, clinking his brandy glass against Hammond’s. ‘It has been an honour and an education to work with you, Edward.’
‘A successful outcome, Svetozar, that’s the main thing. We’ve been lucky there were so few complications.’
‘It’s true. And the main one actually pleased our man.’ Miljanović was referring to the dramatic swelling of Gazi’s testicles a few days after the operation. ‘He told me it made him feel like a young bull.’
‘Well, as long as he doesn’t behave like one too soon, hey?’
Miljanović laughed. ‘Da. He should leave that to his doctors.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘The night is full of chances in Belgrade, my friend.’
‘Not for me. After this, I’m off to bed.’
The knowingness of Miljanović’s smile recurred to Hammond less than an hour later, after he had seen the Serb off in a taxi and gone up to his room. The only other passenger in the lift was a dark-haired young woman in high heels and a figure-hugging black dress. The dress featured a thigh-high split, providing a glimpse of stocking-top, which Hammond gave an appreciative glance but little thought, until he reached his door and suddenly realized she was close behind him.
‘Dr Hammond?’ she asked in a thick Slavic accent.
‘Yes.’
‘General Gazi sent me. I am your … poklon.’
‘My what?’
‘I am for you.’ She undid one of the buttons fastening the front of her dress, revealing the lacy fringe of something black and skimpy beneath. ‘For anything you want.’ Her skin was pale, almost transparent, her eyes large and spikily lashed, her parted lips glossy. The pleasure she was offering was headily apparent. For several seconds they looked at each other. Then he shook his head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’m not interested.’
As he left the balcony and returned to the warmth of his room in The Hague, Hammond remembered the girl and the weary little shrug of indifference with which she had received his rejection. He had not seen her then as someone with a life and a past and a future of her own. Nor had he wondered how long or hard she might have struggled to avoid becoming a prettily wrapped gift for a man like Gazi to send to a man like him. But that had changed now. He was beginning to see himself as she must have seen him that night. And he did not like what he saw.
TEN
Zineta asked Hammond several times during the journey to Milan how he meant to persuade Felltrini to tell them where Piravani was. His replies were vague, not because he had failed to think the matter through, but because he suspected she would be happier not knowing. He had hardened himself to do whatever he needed to do and had no wish to spell it out. She would realize what it amounted to soon enough.
Zineta’s other recurring theme was gratitude. She seemed overwhelmed by his generosity, especially when she discovered that to secure their flight at such short notice he had had to buy business-class tickets. Her delight at being offered champagne by the stewardess was almost childlike and touched Hammond more than he was prepared for.
‘This is how you live, Edward?’ she gasped.
It was not, of course. But it was how he could live if he chose to. For Zineta, such luxuries had only ever been available as part of a deal in which she herself was a commodity. The difference yawned between then. And he wondered if it would ever be possible to bridge it. She was smiling, slightly drunk from champagne on an empty stomach. But the sadness in her eyes remained, deep and unassuagable.
It took Zineta far longer to pass through immigration at Malpensa than Hammond, but eventually she rejoined him and they headed straight for the shuttle train into the city. They were both travelling light and from the station took a taxi directly to the address Ingrid had supplied.
It was a chill, damp Wednesday in Milan, the city a noisy, congested contrast to the placidity of The Hague. Hammond had paused just long enough at the airport to buy a copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport, complete in this case with the classified ads, a quick scan of which had failed to yield the name Piravani amid the predictable sales pitches (as far as Hammond could interpret them) for used cars, flat shares, massage services and lonely hearts.
‘Did you think the advertisement would still be running?’ Zineta asked as the taxi lurched and surged through the tailgating traffic.
‘It was a remote possibility. But actually this is more use as a prop. I want Felltrini to understand we’re on to him.’
Making Felltrini understand anything depended first on tracking him down. Via Ragno 17 was an unremarkable mid-rise sixties office block north-east of the city centre. The businesses based there were listed at the entrance. And they did not include a G. Felltrini. The second floor was occupied by an architectural practice. They went up anyway to try their luck.
And their luck was in. Felltrini had moved on years before, according to the anglophone member of staff fielded to speak to them. But the practice used his firm as their accountants, so a current address was no problem.
It was back the way they had come, closer to the historic centre: the top floor of a handsome neoclassical building on the fringes of the fashion district. The air of gleaming affluence imparted by the jewellery store at street level was not quite matched by the decor of Felltrini’s offices, but they were elegantly furnished and staffed with smartly dressed juniors, s
uggesting he had prospered despite Piravani’s withdrawal from the business, as did a prominently displayed photograph of a slick-haired, sleek-featured, bespoke-suited businessman, shaking hands with Silvio Berlusconi at some gathering of the great and good.
‘Signor Felltrini?’ Hammond enquired of the carmine-lipsticked receptionist.
This she managed to confirm, but Felltrini’s PA, an older woman with more restrained taste in make-up and greater fluency in English, had to be summoned when Hammond pressed their case for meeting the man.
‘It’s an urgent and personal matter,’ he explained. ‘Concerning Signor Felltrini’s former partner, Marco Piravani.’
The PA was unmoved by this. Signor Felltrini had left for a luncheon engagement and was fully booked for the afternoon. A meeting was quite impossible. Hammond persisted, asserting her boss would most certainly wish to speak to them. Eventually, she offered to phone him. Hammond settled for this on condition she mention in the call that they had come to see him partly because of a recent advert in La Gazzetta dello Sport. She agreed, while clearly implying she considered it all to be a waste of her valuable time.
‘I guess now we find out if he really sent Marco that paper,’ Zineta whispered to him as they waited.
‘I guess we do.’
And they soon did. When the PA returned, she looked ever so slightly chastened. ‘Signor Felltrini will see you at two thirty,’ she announced, adding, as if to recover some lost ground, ‘He is a very busy man. You should not be late.’
There was, though Hammond did not say so, absolutely no danger of that.
They did not stray far, lunching in a nearby café as the time ticked slowly down to their appointment. They were both anxious about the encounter, knowing how much was riding on it, but Zineta suffered from the additional uncertainty of not knowing how Hammond proposed to talk Felltrini into giving them what they wanted.
‘Trust me, it can be done,’ he assured her.
‘How?’
‘By betting that Felltrini’s loyalty to his friend is outweighed by his concern for his own reputation.’
‘What if it isn’t?’
‘Then we’ll move on to the small matter of his personal safety. And that of his family, if he has one.’
‘We will threaten him?’
‘No. Gazi will do that for us.’
The bustling atmosphere that had greeted them at Felltrini’s offices earlier was entirely lacking when they returned. It occurred to Hammond that he had chosen a time when he could be sure most of his staff would be absent, enjoying the traditional long Italian lunch. There was a receptionist on duty, though not the one they had been greeted by earlier. She had been told to send them straight through to Felltrini’s personal office.
There was no sign of the PA, whose unattended desk they passed on their way. Felltrini was standing by the window of a spacious room furnished in varnished wood, brushed steel and blood-red leather, smoking a cigarette and gazing out across the cloud-capped rooftops of the city. He did not look quite as smooth as his photographic likeness. There was an apprehensive, slightly bowed look to him. Hammond wondered if he had been expecting something like this to happen. Perhaps he had always understood that friendship with Marco Piravani was not without its hazards, though Hammond doubted if he appreciated just how hazardous it might turn out to be.
‘Buon giorno, signore,’ said Felltrini, looking round at them warily as they entered. ‘You are English, I’m told.’
‘I’m English,’ said Hammond.
‘Your name?’
‘Dr Edward Hammond.’
‘A medical man?’
‘Yes. But I’m not here on a medical matter.’
‘No. Of course not. Your charming friend?’ He nodded to Zineta.
‘Zineta Perović,’ she replied.
He gave a slight but perceptible start of surprise and drew on his cigarette to win himself a fragment of thinking time. It was quite apparent that he recognized the name. ‘Where are you from, signora?’
‘Serbia.’
‘Veramente? And what can I do for the English doctor and the Serbian …?’ He extended his hand in a gesture that suggested contempt as well as uncertainty.
Sensing an attempt to gain the upper hand in their exchanges, Hammond stepped forward and slapped his copy of La Gazzetta dello Sport down on the wide and empty desk that dominated the room. ‘What was the ad for, Guido?’
‘The ad?’ Felltrini gave a synthetic frown of incomprehension.
‘You sent it to Marco. To warn him, maybe? I don’t know. What I do know is that it proves you’re in touch with him.’
‘My partnership with Marco Piravani ended seventeen years ago, Dr Hammond. I agreed to see you in order only to—’
‘Find out how much we have on you. That’s why you agreed to see us. And the answer is: enough. What kind of a season are AC Milan having, by the way? They’re the team you follow, aren’t they?’
‘Marco used to phone you after watching their matches,’ said Zineta.
‘You have come here to discuss football with me?’ Felltrini responded, with just a little too much incredulity.
‘No,’ said Hammond. ‘We’ve come to discuss what we want Marco to do for us.’
‘But I am not Marco. And, as I explained, our—’
‘You know where he is. You’re old friends as well as former partners. We want you to send him a message.’
‘I cannot help you.’
‘You can. And you will. Unless you want it to become common knowledge that you’re a close associate of the man who helped Dragan Gazi salt away his ill-gotten wealth.’
‘Gazi? Should I … know this person?’
‘Most of your clients will have heard of him and will think twice about continuing to use your services if their attention is drawn to your connection with him. A Serbian war criminal and his stolen money isn’t a good story for a reputable accountant to be tied into.’
‘But I am not … tied into it.’
‘I’m afraid you are. And it’s not just a question of the effect on your business. There’s your family to consider.’
‘Prego?’
‘We’re the nice guys, you see, the polite may-we-have-a-quiet-word type. There are quite a few other very-far-from-nice guys trying to lay their hands on the money Marco controls. If we can track you down, so can they. Especially if we tell them who you are and where you are. They’ll do whatever it takes to get you to lead them to Marco. I wouldn’t want to be you, or a member of your family, in those circumstances.’
‘Marco must have told you,’ said Zineta. ‘These people are not just killers. They are butchers.’
The last word, perhaps because it came from a Serb, had a greater effect on Felltrini than anything Hammond had said. He visibly crumpled. ‘I have built this firm,’ he spluttered, ‘from … from two rooms and one secretar … into …’ Then the irrelevance of his commercial record impinged upon him. He took a last, shaky draw on his cigarette and crushed it out in an ashtray standing on the windowsill. ‘I should not be put in such a …’ He raised his fisted hands in protest. ‘Merda! I should have ignored the advertisement when I saw it.’
‘What did it say?’ asked Hammond, softening his tone sympathetically.
‘It offered a reward – up to ten thousand euros – for information on Marco. There was no way to tell who placed it. Just a cellphone number. I thought … Marco ought to know.’
‘That was kind of you,’ said Zineta.
‘But not clever. No, not clever at all.’ Felltrini sighed heavily.
‘Where is Marco now?’ Hammond tried to make the question sound neutral, as if telling them was the next logical step.
‘I do not know. He has left London. But … where he is now …’ Felltrini gave a vast and helpless shrug. ‘For him too … there is just a cellphone number.’
‘Write it down.’
Felltrini moved at a forlorn shuffle to the desk, opened a drawer and pulled out
a sheet of headed notepaper. He took an ornate fountain pen from his pocket and wrote out the number. ‘He will not answer if he does not recognize the caller,’ he said, sliding the sheet towards Hammond. ‘And perhaps not even then.’
‘But he’ll answer if you ring.’
‘Of course.’
‘That’s what I thought. And that’s why you’ll be ringing him. On our behalf.’
‘I will?’
‘I want you to explain to him the difficulty of your position: the danger – the extreme danger – he’s put you in. I want you to appeal to him, as your friend, to do what he needs to do to secure your safety.’
‘And what is that?’
Hammond took a piece of paper from his pocket, on which he had earlier recorded the details of the Cayman Islands bank account along with his own mobile number, and swapped it for the sheet of paper bearing Piravani’s number. ‘Marco is to transfer all of Gazi’s funds to this account by close of business tomorrow.’
‘It may take longer than that.’
‘Marco himself said it could be done within twenty-four hours.’
Felltrini gave a resigned nod. ‘In that case … I will tell him.’
‘We also want to know the current whereabouts of Monir Gazi. By which I mean a precise address.’
‘Who is … Monir Gazi?’
‘Marco knows who he is,’ said Zineta.
Felltrini looked round at her. ‘Which are you more interested in, Signora Perović? The money … or Monir?’
‘It’s a package deal, Guido,’ said Hammond. ‘Just make sure you clinch it. I’ll expect to hear from you by the end of the day. Or from Marco. Whichever suits.’
‘What does the deal give Marco and me, Dr Hammond?’
‘A peaceful life. Once the money reaches that account, it’ll be in the possession of Gazi’s family and there’ll be no point anyone else harassing or threatening you. It’ll be … out of your hands.’
Felltrini spread his palms. ‘It was never in them.’
‘Nor in mine. We’re only after what I’ve just offered you, Guido.’
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