Blood Count

by Robert Goddard

  He clambered out of the van and looked back the way he had come. There was no sign of pursuit. But there would be soon enough. He flashed the torch ahead of him: a shrub-pocked waste of snow led towards the streetlamps of a distant road. The river – and New Belgrade – were somewhere in that direction. He unloaded the tools into the van to lighten the rucksack, then started walking.

  TWENTY

  Hammond was dead on his feet by the time he reached the apartment. His mind was almost as drained as his body, which was in its way a blessing, sparing him too vivid a contemplation of what might have happened to Piravani. It was just gone four o’clock and he knew that if he lay down he would instantly fall asleep. But sleep was out of the question. Piravani’s plan had him heading fast for the Romanian border, if not already over it. Instead, he was still in Belgrade, with no means of leaving the city in the near future.

  He changed out of the boilersuit and immersed his face in a basinful of cold water, seeking to shock his brain into thinking clearly. He owed it to Piravani – he owed it to himself – to do whatever was most likely to get the tapes to The Hague. But how would the Italian act in these circumstances? What choices would he make?

  He needed help. He needed it badly and he needed it now. Who was there he could turn to? Shoving a wad of dinars from Piravani’s money belt into his wallet, he noticed the piece of paper on which Zineta had written her brother’s address and phone number. ‘If you run into any trouble, he might be able to help you.’ Well, he had run into trouble all right. There was no doubt about that.

  He rang the number without pausing to consider all the possible ramifications. He had had a bellyful of ramifications.

  The likeliest outcome, he reflected as the ring tone repeated itself over and over again, was that Goran would simply not answer. It was, after all, the middle of the night.

  But then the phone was picked up and a gruff, sleepy voice said, ‘Da?’

  ‘Goran Perović?’

  ‘Ko je to?’

  ‘Am I speaking to Goran Perović?’

  ‘Da. Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry to call you like this, but Zineta—’

  ‘You are Zineta’s English friend?’

  ‘Yes. I’m—’

  ‘Don’t say your name. Listen good. The police are watching me since Friday. This line could be bugged.’

  ‘I need your help, Goran.’

  ‘Zvinite. Sorry. I can’t help you. Too much danger. For you and me. Sorry.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sorry.’

  The line was dead.

  Panic began to set in. If Goran’s phone really was being tapped, it might be possible to trace the call Hammond had just made. He had to leave the apartment without delay. The rest of his thinking could be done on the hoof. He abandoned his travelling bag, stowing his clothes and toiletries in the rucksack along with the tapes and the pocket recorder, grabbed some cheese to sustain himself and headed out. He had Piravani’s passport with him as well as his own. He also had the money belt, which contained enough pounds, euros and Swiss francs to pay his way across Europe several times over.

  A plan of sorts formed in his mind as he trudged east from the apartment block towards the city centre. Piravani had presumably warned him off trains and planes because the railway station and the airport were easy to stake out and there would be no services until morning anyway. But there was no way of knowing how many police officers had been in league with Uželać. Those who had been covering his back at the Villa Ruža were probably busy right now trying to explain to their superiors what had happened there. Only Uželać had examined Hammond’s passport. None of his personal details were known to anyone else. He should be able to walk straight through the border crossing. Once in Romania, he would surely be in the clear.

  He was a long way from the border of course. And he had no transport of any kind. What he did have, though, was plenty of money. At the Hyatt Regency or the Inter-Continental he should be able to find a taxi driver willing to take him where he needed to go.

  He tried the Inter-Continental first. Unsurprisingly, at such an hour, there were no taxis waiting, but one pulled up after five minutes or so to disgorge a drunken quartet of dinner-suited men and party-frocked women who had evidently enjoyed a much more carefree Saturday night than he had.

  The taxi driver, a foxy-faced freelancer with a vehicle well short of limousine standard, greeted Hammond’s cautious approach with a mixture of opportunism and indifference.

  ‘I need a ride out of the city.’

  ‘Where you want to go?’

  ‘Romania.’

  ‘Rumunija? The country?’

  ‘Yes. The country.’

  ‘Is a long way.’

  ‘I know. Just get me to the border.’

  ‘Still a long way. So it cost.’

  ‘How much?’

  Looking Hammond up and down seemed as crucial to the calculation as the distance. The verdict was accompanied by a take-it-or-leave-it shrug. ‘One thousand dinare.’

  Hammond took it.

  *

  The taxi driver followed a route straight through the city centre to the bridge over the Danube. There was hardly any traffic. The streets were largely empty. It was too late by now even for the latest of revellers and too early for everyone else. They passed the statue of Prince Mihailo Obrenović in Trg Republike on their way. Hammond found it hard to believe that it was less than forty-eight hours since he had waited beside the statue for Piravani to pick him up. He had still been intent then on complying with Ingrid’s demands. Now, he was intent on something altogether worthier, though its consequences for him were as yet unclear. But he had promised Piravani he would see it through to the end. And he was driven on by his determination to do just that.

  The taxi driver mellowed sufficiently in the course of the journey to do Hammond a favour at the border. They stopped behind a queue of lorries waiting to cross and he cadged a lift on Hammond’s behalf, securing one for him as far as Timişoara.

  ‘Timişoara has airport,’ he announced. ‘You maybe fly to Bukurest.’

  Hammond had named Bucharest as his ultimate destination for the simple reason that he could not name any other Romanian city. ‘Excellent. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Worth tip, I think.’

  And Hammond was inclined to agree.

  The Serbian border police paid him little attention. His passport received a cursory glance and a blurred exit stamp. It was clear no manhunt was in progress for him. Whatever the Belgrade police had found at the Villa Ruža – however it had ended for Piravani – he was not implicated.

  But that would not remain the case for long. As soon as Todorović learnt of the break-in, he would guess what had been removed. And he would come looking for it. There was no doubt about that.

  It was strange, therefore, how certain Hammond was that he was acting for the best. Abandoning the attempt to buy off Gazi had lifted a load from his conscience. He was doing the right thing – for the right reason. He felt a perverse sense of liberation as he sat in the cab of the lorry, the rucksack at his feet, heading north through the pre-dawn darkness. He had not hitchhiked since his student days and oddly the hazards and stresses he had recently endured had left him feeling more like the young man he had been then – status and possessions stripped away, pretensions gone, reputation disregarded, but principles in some measure restored.

  He was back in the more familiar surroundings of a club lounge at Bucharest airport later that day, with several hours at his disposal before KLM’s next flight to Amsterdam. He had bought a new phone and felt safe at last to make the calls he had been rehearsing in his mind since leaving Belgrade: the calls that would take him past the point of no return on the course he had set himself.

  Miljanović had jotted his home number on the back of a Voćnjak Clinic card. Hammond reckoned he was unlikely to be working on a Sunday. And so it proved.

  ‘I did not expect to hear from you so soon, Edw
ard. Have you decided to accept my offer?’

  Only then did Hammond remember Miljanović’s semi-serious suggestion that he go to work in Belgrade. ‘Look, Svetozar, I’m sorry, but this is very important. I need to ask you an enormous favour.’

  ‘Are you in trouble, Edward?’ Miljanović’s tone had altered instantly to one of genuine concern.

  ‘No. At least, not now. But … I was mixed up in things in Belgrade I couldn’t tell you about. Still can’t, actually. It’s safer for you not to know the details.’

  ‘Does this have something to do with Gazi?’

  ‘Yes. And not just Gazi either. Some of those … war criminals who are still in Serbia. But if all goes well I’ll soon be able to explain what I mean.’

  ‘This is very—’

  ‘I know, Svetozar, I know. But listen. Do you think you could possibly find out whether a man suffering from a gunshot wound was admitted to a Belgrade hospital last night?’

  ‘A gunshot wound? What are you involved in, my friend?’

  ‘I really can’t explain. Not yet. Will you do it?’

  ‘Of course. It is … not a problem. But—’

  ‘Middle-aged Italian. His name may not be known. Between you and me, though, it’s Marco Piravani.’

  ‘Piravani? He was Gazi’s—’

  ‘Exactly. But he’s one of the good guys now. I want him to get the best possible treatment. I’ll pay.’

  ‘I do not understand. How are you and—’

  ‘I know you don’t understand, Svetozar. But you will. And when you do I think you’ll be … well … pleased to have helped.’

  Miljanović thought about that in silence for a second, then said, ‘You can count on me, Edward. You must know you can.’

  ‘Thanks. I really appreciate it. And, er, you’d better … check the mortuaries as well.’

  ‘You think Piravani could be dead?’

  ‘More likely than alive, to tell the truth.’

  ‘I will make the calls.’

  ‘Let me know what you find out, will you?’

  ‘Of course. You will be on this number?’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘And you will explain everything – when you can?’

  ‘That’s a promise.’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Bill. It’s Edward.’

  ‘Good God. I thought I’d never hear from you again.’

  ‘Sorry. Life’s been … complicated.’

  ‘So I gather. How is Zürich?’

  ‘Zürich?’

  ‘That’s where you are, isn’t it? So Alice seems to think, anyway.’

  ‘No. I … Look, Bill, I’ve had to do a bit of … covering up lately. When I say life’s been complicated, I mean it.’

  ‘But you can’t tell me why, right?’

  ‘On the contrary. That’s exactly what I want to do. Fill you in on everything that’s been happening.’

  ‘Fire away, then.’

  ‘I can’t discuss it on the phone, Bill. It’s … sensitive stuff.’

  ‘Was Kendall right, Edward? Have you found out something about Kate’s murder?’

  ‘Yes. I have.’

  ‘For God’s sake. Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I couldn’t. But I can now. Or rather I will, if you’ll meet me tomorrow. In The Hague.’

  ‘The Hague? Have you been there all this time?’

  ‘No. But I’ll be there tomorrow. I’m going to book a room at the Kurhaus Hotel, on the seafront at Scheveningen. You want me to make that two rooms?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll pay.’

  ‘So you damn well should, in the circumstances. Why do I have to travel to—’

  ‘Just be there, Bill, OK?’

  ‘OK. But—’

  ‘No buts. I’ll see you tomorrow. ’Bye.’

  Contacting Ingrid involved the by now familiar rigmarole of speaking to a barely bilingual intermediary who arranged for him to be called back. As a result he did not know where Ingrid actually was. Though, of course, she did not know where he was either. Which was just as well, given what he had to say to her.

  ‘Another change of phone, doctor? You are becoming very cautious.’

  ‘Even though there’s nothing for me to be cautious about any more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your father’s money isn’t going to be transferred to the Cayman Islands, Ingrid. That’s what I mean.’

  She was shocked into silence for a moment. Then she said, ‘Have you lost your mind? I have warned you what will happen if you do not arrange the transfer.’

  ‘Tell your father he can make all the accusations against me he wants. I’ll take my chances. I’m not helping you get hold of his money. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘But … you said you needed until Monday.’ It was undeniably satisfying to hear the consternation in her voice.

  ‘So, it’s good of me not to make you wait until then to hear the bad news, isn’t it?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘That’s no longer any of your business.’

  ‘And where is the Accountant?’

  ‘Goodbye, Ingrid.’

  On the plane, he felt almost light-hearted. He drank too much complimentary champagne and gazed out blithely at the rolling clouds above Europe. It was not until he woke from a short, deep sleep that the reality of what he had done impinged on him. He had burnt his bridges. There was no way back.

  And Piravani? What had he suffered to win Hammond the freedom to do the right thing at last? Miljanović had phoned during the flight. Hammond called him back as soon as he cleared customs at Schiphol.

  ‘Piravani is alive, Edward.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Somehow, against the odds, Piravani had got out of the Villa Ruža alive – just.

  ‘He’s in intensive care, at the Central Clinic, heavily sedated. I am told … he has a police guard.’

  ‘He would have.’

  ‘He was involved in some kind of shoot-out last night at the Villa Ruža, the house in Dedinje where Gazi used to live. You know what ICEFA is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you would. Were you … there with him, Edward?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Then just tell me what his chances are.’

  ‘No better than fifty-fifty.’

  ‘Do they know who he is yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’d like it to stay that way as long as possible.’

  ‘I shall say nothing, Edward. Not a word.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. But remember: if Piravani does pull through, he will have to answer a lot of questions.’

  ‘So will I, Svetozar. And, when the time comes, I’ll be glad to.’

  It was Sunday evening and Hammond had no way of contacting Zineta until the office-cleaning agency she worked for opened on Monday morning. There was nothing to be gained by going on to The Hague that night, so he booked into the Schiphol Hilton. Only then, holed up in one of its hundreds of identical rooms, did he dare listen to any of the tapes.

  He understood virtually nothing that he heard in his random sample, of course. Gravelly male voices, one of which he recognized as Gazi’s, conversed and debated and discussed. Milošević; Kosovo; NATO: those were individual words he thought he caught. For the rest, he did not have a clue. But to Zineta – or any other Serb – it would all make sense. He willed himself to believe the tapes would do everything Piravani had hoped – everything and more.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Hammond checked out of the Hilton promptly the following morning after an early breakfast and headed for The Hague. He called the office-cleaning agency from the train. As agreed, Zineta had asked them to supply him with her number.

  Her first reaction, when she heard his voice, was relief that he was alive and well. ‘Where are you, Edward? I’ve been so worried about you these past four days. Goran
called me yesterday from a payphone and said he was under police surveillance, so he hadn’t been able to help when you contacted him. But you wouldn’t have contacted him at all if you hadn’t been in trouble. Are you really all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll be in The Hague in about half an hour. I’m on the train from Schiphol.’

  ‘Is Marco with you?’

  ‘No. There’s a lot I have to tell you, Zineta.’

  ‘Is it good news?’

  ‘Some of it is.’

  ‘The apartment’s only a few minutes from Hollands-Spoor station. Come straight round.’

  ‘Give me the address and I’ll be there.’

  Zineta’s apartment was over a cheap convenience store, whose lugubrious Asian proprietor watched with beady inquisitiveness as Hammond pressed the bell by Zineta’s name-card.

  He heard her running footsteps on the stairs. Then the door opened. ‘Edward.’ She looked weary and somehow gaunter than he remembered. But her smile was warm and genuine. She hugged him. And Hammond was aware that this too the shopkeeper would observe and note for future reference. ‘Thank God you’re all right.’

  She led the way up three flights of stairs to the attic flat: bedsitting-room, kitchenette and bathroom that were tiny in floor area and seemed tinier still thanks to the slope of the roof. Thin grey light slanted in through the dormer windows, falling mockingly on Zineta’s attempts to brighten her home from home: a rubber plant standing next to the sofa, a striped rug in front of the hissing gas fire, a colourfully embroidered cloth on the table. In this, the place where she lived, her exile from her native land was somehow magnified.

  ‘Where’s Marco?’ she asked at once.

  ‘In hospital. In Belgrade.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was … shot.’

  ‘Shot? My God, Edward, what …’ She put her hands to her head. ‘How is he?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It could be touch and go.’