‘Who are these people, Maître Delmotte?’ she asked. ‘I thought you’d be alone.’
‘I am sorry, madame. The situation is not quite … as I described it.’
‘Go inside, Patrick,’ she said to the boy, lapsing into French when he made no immediate move. ‘Vite, vite.’
Patrick, perhaps sensing his mother’s alarm, scurried off obediently. Mary Bartol took a few hesitant steps towards them, glancing first at Delmotte, then at Zineta. Already, Hammond suspected, she had guessed who this woman was.
‘What is going on, maître?’
‘There’s no danger to your son, Madame Bartol,’ said Hammond in an effort to ease the tension. ‘My name is—’
‘You’re English?’
‘Yes. My name is Edward Hammond. My friends here are Stevan Vidor and Zineta Perović.’
‘We are Serbian, madame,’ said Vidor.
‘Serbian?’ She turned on Delmotte. ‘Will you kindly explain, maître?’
‘Perhaps … we should go inside,’ he suggested lamely.
‘Not until I—’
‘I’m his mother,’ Zineta said suddenly and forcefully. ‘You must see it. He has my eyes.’
Mary Bartol stared at her in slowly mounting consternation. Yes. She had seen the resemblance. And yes. She knew what it meant. But bringing herself to admit it was quite another matter. ‘His natural mother is dead,’ she insisted. ‘Patrick is an orphan … from Kosovo.’
‘I regret, madame,’ said Delmotte, ‘that is not true. I … misinformed you.’
‘You misinformed us?’
‘I am his mother,’ said Zineta. ‘His father is also living. He is not an orphan. And he is not Kosovar.’
‘Nonsense. We have his birth certificate. He was born in Mitrovica.’
‘He was born in Belgrade.’
‘Why don’t we talk about this indoors?’ Hammond put in. ‘No one here has any intention of abducting Patrick, madame, whatever Maître Delmotte may have told you.’
‘What are your intentions?’
‘Zineta has spent nine years looking for her son. And now she’s found him. It’s as simple as that. We have no intentions.’ To his dismay, he realized that was literally true. What happened next was for no one to dictate.
‘Even if what you say is correct—’
‘It’s correct, I assure you.’
‘Even if it is,’ Mary Bartol persisted, ‘you have no right to come here like this.’
‘Call the police, then. You might be able to get us arrested. But at the end of that process you’d lose Patrick. The adoption was fraudulent and therefore illegal. They’d take him away from you. Don’t you see? We have to talk about it.’
She turned towards Delmotte. ‘Was it fraudulent?’
He nodded feebly. ‘Oui, madame.’
‘What?’ The crumbling of a confident, unquestioned assumption was written on her face. ‘How could—’
She broke off at the sound of another vehicle on the drive. Turning, Hammond saw a plain grey van speeding towards them. He and everyone else was too surprised at first to react. It clipped the edge of the lawn and skidded to a halt beside the Citroën. Two men jumped out, dressed in brown overalls. They were stern-faced and powerfully built. And they were both holding guns.
‘Oh my God,’ shrieked Mary Bartol. ‘What’s—’
‘No speak,’ shouted one of the men. His gaze and the aim of his gun swivelled between them.
A third man emerged more slowly from the van, also armed and overalled, though older than the other two, with short grey hair, sunken eyes and a long scar that distorted one side of his mouth. ‘Where’s the boy?’ he growled.
No one answered. Delmotte looked simply incapable of it. Zineta was trembling so violently Vidor had to grasp her arm to steady her. Mary Bartol was gaping at the intruders, open-mouthed with terror. For his part, Hammond felt eerily calm, as if his experiences in Belgrade had somehow inured him to such events.
The man with the scarred face barked something in Serbian at one of the other two, including his name, Obrad. He strode over to Mary Bartol, grabbed her by the wrist and half dragged, half led, her towards the front door of the house. ‘Call him to come to you,’ Hammond heard him say.
‘Where are the tapes?’ Scarface demanded.
When no immediate answer was forthcoming, he stepped across to Zineta and held the gun to her head. She closed her eyes and murmured a few words to herself. Hammond saw Vidor begin to raise his arm to protect her. Then he stopped. There was no protection in this situation.
‘They’re in the boot of the car,’ said Hammond.
‘Gepek,’ Vidor translated promptly, fearful of the slightest misunderstanding.
Scarface removed the gun from Zineta’s head and pointed it at Hammond. ‘Get them.’
Hammond moved slowly to the boot. The other gunman hovered at his shoulder. He was unshaven and greasy-haired, with a flattened and probably sometime broken nose that made his breathing threateningly audible, like a beast preparing to pounce.
Hammond opened the boot and raised the lid. He lifted out the holdall containing the box of tapes and showed it to Scarface.
‘Put it on the ground. Open it.’
Hammond knelt down, unzipped the bag and exposed the tapes.
‘Dobro. Torba, Miloš.’
Miloš, the man with the broken nose, waved Hammond aside, then picked up the bag. At that point there was a shout from the house.
Scarface shouted back, ‘OK.’ He took a few steps towards the van, covering their route to the front door. ‘Walk into the house,’ he barked. ‘Slowly.’
They started moving, with Delmotte in the lead and Vidor bringing up the rear. They had gone only a few yards when Vidor stumbled, then quickly recovered himself. For a fraction of a second, his head was low by Hammond’s shoulder, shielded from Scarface. And in that fraction of a second he whispered, ‘Trust me.’
Hammond did not dare react in any way. What Vidor meant he could not imagine. But it was a warning of some kind – a warning and a promise.
They rounded the corner of the house and approached the front door. It was wide open. Obrad was standing in the hallway behind Mary and Patrick Bartol, holding his gun at Mary’s head. Patrick was clutching his mother’s hand. He looked on the verge of tears. Obrad’s expression was blank, his narrow-set eyes heavy-lidded, as if this was all in a day’s work.
He pulled Mary and Patrick back as the others filed into the hall, kicked a door to his left fully open and gestured for them to go through.
They entered the dining room. ‘To wall,’ Obrad ordered. Hammond heard Miloš’s breathing again. He was close behind them. They followed Delmotte round the dining table to the wall facing them, where an oil painting of an idyllically tranquil pastoral scene hung, and lined up against it. ‘You also,’ Obrad said to Mary. She led Patrick meekly across to join them, casting a glance at Hammond that mixed fear and accusation. What horror had they brought to her door?
Scarface stepped into the room, where Miloš was already standing guard, leaving Obrad in the hall. He stood the bag on the table and looked at each of his captives in turn, unhurriedly and analytically, as if assessing their powers of resistance. ‘Hands on heads,’ he said. They obeyed. Then he pulled a phone out from his overalls and dialled a number.
The call was answered promptly. And the person who answered proceeded to do most of the talking. Scarface was reporting to his boss. And he was being told what to do.
The call ended. ‘We wait,’ he announced. ‘The chief will be here soon.’
‘Who is … the chief?’ Delmotte asked hesitantly.
‘Branko Todorović,’ said Vidor, in a fatalistic tone.
‘Da,’ said Scarface. ‘That is right.’ He barked an order at Miloš, who handed him his gun then walked over to where Hammond and the others were standing. He began frisking them one by one, starting with Delmotte.
‘I have had dealings with Monsieur Todorović,�
� the lawyer protested, some of his pomposity slowly reflating itself. ‘There is no need … for any of this.’
‘You are the lawyer Delmotte?’
‘Mais oui. I mean, yes. I am Delmotte.’
‘I have a message for you from the chief.’
‘What is it?’
‘Wait and I will tell you.’
Miloš moved on to Zineta, grinning at her as he took the chance to fondle her breasts and touch her between her legs. She did not react. She stared straight through him. She was no longer trembling, Hammond noticed. She was slowly regaining her self-control. Miloš bypassed Patrick and gave Mary more of the same. She whimpered and bit her lip, struggling to control her emotions for her son’s sake. Then it was Hammond’s turn. Miloš dropped the smirk and checked him over cursorily, so cursorily, in fact, that he failed to detect the tape Hammond had pocketed after playing it to Delmotte in the car. Miloš was looking for only one thing – a weapon. And he was evidently capable of looking for only one thing at a time. He gave Vidor the once-over, then went back to collect his gun. ‘Ništa,’ he reported.
‘The message for me?’ Delmotte prompted.
‘Da. The message.’ Scarface smiled, though thanks to his scar it was more like a scowl. ‘He said you could leave.’
‘Leave?’
‘Drive away. Go home. Bilo šta. You are free. Provided … you do not contact the police.’
It struck Hammond at once that this condition, if the offer of freedom was genuine, was unenforceable. Once he was out of their clutches, Delmotte could do anything he liked. There was something wrong. But not, apparently, in Delmotte’s opinion. ‘I will not tell anyone what has happened here.’
Mary looked round at him in disgust. ‘What in God’s name are you saying? Have you gone mad, maître?’
‘It sounds like he’s already done a deal,’ said Vidor matter-of-factly.
‘Shut up,’ bellowed Scarface. ‘All of you. You will speak only when I say you can. Do you understand?’ He nodded, evidently satisfied that he had got the point across. ‘Dobra. So …’ He looked at Delmotte. ‘You want to leave?’
‘Yes. I want to leave.’
Though his companions dared not speak, their disgust at his treachery must have been obvious to Delmotte. Hammond could only suppose Vidor was right. The lawyer had struck some kind of deal with Todorović following their visit to his office. That explained how Scarface and his crew had known where they were going when they left Luxembourg City.
‘Go, then,’ said Scarface. Delmotte lowered his hands from his head and started across the room. He did not look back, in apology or farewell. It was horribly clear he meant to tell no one of their plight. They were on their own.
Delmotte reached the doorway and Scarface gestured for Obrad to escort him to his car. The pair moved off down the hall. The note of their footfalls changed when they stepped out on to the flagstoned path that led to the courtyard. Hammond bitterly imagined the eagerness with which Delmotte was looking forward to driving away. He was probably congratulating himself on how adroitly he had extricated himself from a perilous situation.
‘Lawyers,’ Scarface sneered. ‘I hate them.’
At that moment there was a loud crack of a gunshot at the front of the house.
Scarface gave a dry little chuckle. ‘One less to hate now.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The shock of Delmotte’s execution and the knowledge that any one of them might be next filled the room with an atmosphere of disabling dread. They could neither move nor speak, but their brains were free to race and scramble over a near future governed by the nonchalant callousness of their captors.
Scarface sat straddling one of the dining chairs, chewing gum and exchanging occasional remarks with Miloš, who stood by the door. Hammond had no idea what they were talking about, although their tone was casual. But there was nothing casual about the firm hold they kept on their guns. Obrad did not return for five minutes or so. When he reappeared, there was no hint in his manner of what he had done, although Hammond had little doubt the dark specks on his overalls were sprayed droplets of Delmotte’s blood.
The ordeal was grim enough for the adults, but for Patrick it was close to unendurable. Mary did her best to hold him still and calm him, by smoothing his hair with slow, repeated strokes. But he was clearly aware of what had happened to Delmotte and no amount of maternal reassurance could dispel the fear that gripped him.
Scarface had allowed Hammond, Vidor and Zineta to take their hands off their heads, but they were required to keep their arms folded. Since they could not look directly at each other, Hammond had few clues to the others’ state of mind. Zineta made not a sound. And Vidor was simply an immobile presence, his plea to trust him as baffling as when he had uttered it.
In the event, they did not have long to wait before they heard the low, powerful note of a car engine. Todorović had arrived. A resolution of some kind could not be far off.
Hammond was surprised by how philosophically he contemplated the possibility of death. Why this did not frighten him more he could not have explained. He actually felt greater agitation when he recalled the missteps that had led him and his companions into their current plight. He should have known he could not outmanoeuvre Todorović. And he should not have taken Delmotte at his word in the smallest matter.
Such regrets were futile now, though. Obrad went to open the front door and a few moments later Branko Todorović strode into the room.
His physical bulk was magnified by the voluminous fur coat he was wearing and the booming baritone of his voice. Scarface was reduced to sudden servility during what Hammond assumed was his report of progress so far. He had hastily removed the gum he was chewing and stood almost to attention. Todorović listened to him impassively, as if the adequacy of his crew’s performance was in some doubt. Then, doubtless to Scarface’s considerable relief, he cracked a smile and clapped him approvingly on the shoulder, addressing him genially as Slavko. ‘Dobro rad, Slavko. Dobro rad.’
The smile was fleeting, however. He spent several minutes examining the tapes, then walked across to Zineta and loosed what sounded like a mixture of accusations and insults at her, to which she replied in cool, measured tones. Hammond admired her self-possession. She was not going to be intimidated.
‘Where is your husband, madame?’ Todorović demanded, switching to English as he turned his attention to Mary Bartol.
‘He is … travelling back from Brussels,’ she answered hesitantly.
‘When do you expect him?’
‘I’m … I’m not sure.’
‘If you cooperate with us, he will find you and your son alive and well.’ Todorović chuckled derisively. ‘Perhaps you can spend a quiet evening together, watching television.’
‘Just tell me … what you want.’
‘Maybe I already have it.’
He moved past her and stood in front of Hammond, staring into his eyes.
‘We have met before, haven’t we?’
‘I … don’t think so,’ said Hammond.
‘I never forget a face. What is your name?’
‘Edward Hammond.’
Todorović frowned, struggling to recall where he had heard the name before. Perhaps fortunately, the struggle appeared to be unavailing. But he was in little doubt of the role Hammond had recently played. ‘You were with Piravani in Belgrade. You are the Englishman who helped him steal the tapes, aren’t you?’
Denial would only have diverted suspicions elsewhere. ‘Yes,’ Hammond admitted.
‘And you?’ Todorović looked towards Vidor.
‘I’m Stevan Vidor. I work for the International Criminal Court in The Hague.’
‘Odakle ste?’
‘I am Serbian.’
Without the slightest warning Todorović struck him in the mouth with a swinging blow of his hand. Vidor gasped and staggered back against the wall. Hammond saw blood trickling from his lower lip. ‘Pacov,’ snarled Todorović. He turned sma
rtly away and leered down at Patrick Bartol. ‘Traitors are the worst kind of people, boy. And Serbian traitors are the worst of the worst. Remember that.’
‘Yes, sir,’ mumbled Patrick.
‘You’re a Serb too. Not a Luxembourger. You’re part of a proud nation. And you must never betray it. Otherwise you’re no better than him.’ He pointed at Vidor. ‘Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Make sure he does understand when he is older, madame,’ Todorović said to Mary. ‘You owe it to him.’
Without waiting for her response, he spun on his heel and stalked back to the other end of the table, where the tapes were still sitting in their box. He took them out, batch by batch, and stacked them next to the box. Hammond could clearly see that one of the batches was a tape short. He wondered if Todorović would notice. He did not have to wonder for long.
‘The last tape is missing.’ Todorović held up the offending batch. ‘Who has it?’
There was no sense in forcing him to order a search. Hammond raised his hand cautiously. ‘Me.’
Todorović said nothing, but beckoned for Hammond to surrender it. He took the cassette out of his pocket, stepped forward and placed it on the table. When Todorović went on beckoning, he slid it towards him. It glided smoothly over the polished wood and ran out of momentum only a foot or so short of its target. ‘Thank you,’ said Todorović, picking it up and slipping it neatly under the rubber band that held the others in the batch. He smiled. ‘Piravani is a fool. And you, Hammond, are a fool for helping him. Fools don’t get the better of Branko Todorović.’
Talking about himself in the third person was a symptom of megalomania Hammond did his level best to ignore. It was important to believe this was no more to Todorović than Zineta had claimed: a business transaction, now approaching its conclusion.
‘Those tapes … are what you came for?’ asked Mary Bartol.
‘Yes, madame.’ Todorović was still smiling.
‘Then, please, take them and go. I know nothing about them. Your dealings with these people’ – she nodded in Hammond’s direction – ‘are no concern of mine.’
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