Blood Count

by Robert Goddard

  Vidor had booked him a room in a hotel out at the airport. He was driven there in a police car at the conclusion of his interview. The morning flight to Lugano, via Geneva, was at seven. There was nothing for him to do until then but wait, eat and sleep – as best he could. He was tempted to phone Alice and tell her what had happened, but there was so much to explain it could only be done face to face. It was fairer to leave her in ignorance, at least for a little longer.

  He questioned the wisdom of another call he eventually went ahead and made: to Miljanović, to check on Piravani’s condition. But he really did need to know whether Marco was conscious yet, and responding to any of the many questions the Belgrade police would have for him.

  The answer was no. ‘Still comatose, Edward,’ Miljanović announced. He was home for the evening, with a Bach CD playing in the background, conjuring up for Hammond an enviable vision of domestic tranquillity. ‘But there are a few encouraging signs, I’m told.’

  ‘Have they identified him yet?’

  ‘The police haven’t. But the director of the clinic has received enquiries about him from people who seem to know who he is. I assume you could tell me who those people are.’

  ‘I could. But it’s better for you if I don’t, Svetozar. Besides, I doubt the director will hear from them again.’

  ‘Something has happened?’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be big news at your end tomorrow, I should think.’

  ‘Something good?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

  ‘But you don’t sound happy about it, my friend.’

  ‘It came at a price.’

  ‘Was the price worth paying?’

  ‘No,’ Hammond replied with searing certainty. ‘It wasn’t.’

  He lay awake, fretting and regretting, between interludes of unconsciousness, as the night passed. When he woke for the last time, roused by his alarm clock, he fleetingly forgot where he was or why. Then memory reasserted itself with unpitying force. He thought of Zineta and believed for a moment that his hands and arms were still covered in her blood. As he stood in the shower, he cried, uncontrollable sobs racking his chest, the pain from his ribs as nothing compared with the pain of recollection.

  Vidor was waiting for Hammond in reception. He handed him a pair of CDs and a player to listen to them on. ‘We transferred the tapes to disc,’ he explained. No other comments were exchanged. They found nothing to say to each other at all, in fact, until they had checked in for the flight and were sitting in the departure lounge, watching dawn break slowly over the runway.

  ‘I spoke to Goran Perović last night,’ Vidor reported, staring into the middle distance. ‘He’ll be arriving later today.’

  ‘How did he take the news?’

  ‘Like he’d been expecting it for a long time.’

  ‘Did you tell him he has a nephew here in Luxembourg?’

  ‘No. But he’ll find out. From the Bartols, if they have any sense. It’ll go better for them that way.’

  ‘What about the press? If they learn Patrick is Gazi’s son …’

  ‘Let’s hope they don’t.’

  ‘But they will, won’t they? They always do. Somehow.’

  ‘It’s not our problem, Edward.’

  ‘I wish I could believe that.’

  Vidor sighed. ‘So do I.’

  A colleague of Vidor’s was waiting for them at Lugano airport: a solemn, long-faced man who introduced himself to Hammond as Hans Furgler. His accent confirmed him as a German-speaker, quite possibly Swiss, though he did not say so, confining his remarks to the practical arrangements for their visit.

  ‘I have booked us rooms at the Hotel Principessa. We can wait there for confirmation of the transfer,’ he said as he drove them out of the airport. ‘But we can go straight to the bank now. It will just have opened.’

  ‘The transfer Hans is referring to is out of the Cayman Islands, not in, Edward,’ Vidor explained. ‘We’re monitoring an account in Liechtenstein which we believe is the route Ingrid will use to pay the gang who are planning her father’s escape. We want you to call her as soon as you’ve completed the transaction and tell her you’ve changed your mind and the money is on its way after all. Of course, the Caymans are six hours behind us, so it’ll be mid-afternoon before she can access the funds, but we expect her to move whatever the initial payment amounts to as quickly as possible. We’ll stay here, overnight if necessary, until it’s clear there’s been no glitch in the system. This has to be done right, you understand.’

  ‘I understand.’ It seemed, then, for reasons beyond Hammond’s control, that he would probably not be back in England before Bill’s deadline expired. It could not be helped. The tapes Vidor had supplied would exonerate him. ‘Tell me, Stevan. When will I be able to go home?’

  ‘Soon.’ Vidor gave him a sympathetic half-smile. ‘Then your life can revert to normal.’

  But it would not, of course. Not for a long, long time. If ever. Hammond knew that. And so, he sensed, did Vidor.

  Much of the snow that had greeted Hammond the week before was gone, though it still capped the peaks around Lugano. The sky was a clear blue, sunlight dancing and sparkling on the lake and corrugating the wooded slopes. It was easy to imagine, all too easy, that he would find Zineta waiting for him at the station if he went there. But she would not be, of course. She was not waiting for him anywhere in the real world.

  The Banca Borzaghini was a small, discreet establishment, expensively appointed with dark wood, pink-veined marble and immaculately dressed staff. Vidor could be of no help to him in the stating of his business to a succession of ever more eminent functionaries. He waited in the foyer. Eventually, Hammond was shown into an office furnished in the style of a nineteenth-century gentleman’s study, where he was received by a softly spoken and improbably handsome middle-aged man whose card identified him as Umberto Castelli.

  ‘Marco called me last Friday and said you might come to see us, Dr Hammond.’ Castelli’s use of Piravani’s first name was a surprise. The Borzaghini’s services were evidently highly personalized. ‘And he subsequently faxed authorization for you to act on his behalf. But I must be sure you are Dr Hammond, of course. Perhaps I may see your passport?’

  Hammond handed it over. Castelli examined it with conspicuous care, then smiled.

  ‘So, how may I help you?’

  ‘I want to transfer the funds you’re holding for him to … this account.’ Hammond proffered the piece of paper Ingrid had given him during their fateful encounter at Heathrow.

  ‘The Cayman Islands.’ Castelli nodded. ‘I see.’ There came a second nod. ‘All the funds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Castelli consulted his computer screen. ‘That is … in excess of twenty-three million francs. Around … fourteen million pounds.’

  ‘The whole lot, please.’

  ‘Very well, doctor. And when—’

  ‘Straight away.’

  ‘Straight away.’ Castelli tapped fluently at the computer keyboard. ‘Your signature on the appropriate transfer instruction’ – the document began to feed out of the adjacent printer as he spoke – ‘and it will be done.’

  Hammond checked the balance and the number of the Cayman Islands account, then signed the form. Castelli compared the signature with the one on his passport and returned it, along with a copy of the instruction.

  ‘You wish me to initialize the transfer, Dr Hammond?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘It will be instantaneous, but you appreciate it will not be possible for the Cayman Islands account holder to draw on the funds until the bank there opens and registers the deposit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And may I ask … if all is well with Marco? When I spoke to him, he sounded … stressed.’

  Castelli seemed to regard his client as a friend. Hammond had not expected that. It made withholding the truth of Piravani’s condition all the harder. ‘You needn’t worry about Marco.’

  �
�I’m glad to hear it. Have you known him long?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘He’s never previously—’

  ‘I’m a little pressed for time, Signor Castelli. Could we proceed with the transfer, please?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Castelli smiled tightly and looked at the computer screen. ‘Twenty-three million seven hundred and twenty-nine thousand two hundred and twenty-one francs, net of our charges.’ He tapped a button. ‘Transferred.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you have a number where I can contact you, doctor? There’ll be no problem but just in case … and for our records …’

  Hammond gave Castelli the number.

  ‘Grazie. And is there anything else I can do for you?’

  ‘No. You’ve been most helpful. Thanks again.’

  Hammond rose and Castelli ushered him to the door. ‘Are you staying in Lugano, doctor? I could recommend—’

  ‘We’re at the Principessa.’

  ‘Ah. Very nice. Very—’

  ‘Goodbye, signor.’ Hammond offered his hand in a conclusive gesture. And Castelli took it. Their business was at an end.

  The Principessa was, as Castelli had said, very nice, in a quiet, efficient, Swiss version of niceness. Its rooms commanded a good view of the lake, though it was one block back from the front. Business appeared to be slack, but the staff were not disposed to advertise the fact, the receptionist contriving to imply that the provision of three adjacent rooms was a miracle of organizational ingenuity.

  Checking in completed, Hammond made the call to Ingrid that he knew was as necessary as it would be humiliating. As before, the unknown woman in Madrid answered. But, this time, she gave him a separate number for Ingrid. It was a mobile that went straight to voicemail. Gritting his teeth, Hammond recorded a succinct and, for its recipient, a satisfying message.

  ‘This is Edward Hammond. I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to do what you want. In fact, I’ve done it. As of less than an hour ago, the transfer took place. Check if you don’t believe me. Twenty-three million plus loose change. It’s all yours. Congratulations. I—’

  ‘Ask her to phone back,’ Vidor whispered.

  ‘OK,’ Hammond mimed. Then: ‘I’d be grateful if you’d call me to confirm you’ve got this message, Ingrid. I need to know we’re done. ’Bye for now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Vidor as he rang off. ‘I think that’ll get her attention.’

  Strangely, however, it did not. First one hour, then another, then several more slowly passed without word from Ingrid. Hammond tried to put the time to good use by playing the CDs Vidor had given him. But listening to an impenetrable sequence of conversations in Serbian, awaiting the moment when his own name was mentioned, proved beyond him. Zineta had assured him the evidence he needed was there somewhere and he did not doubt it, but someone else would have to find it. He went for a walk along the lakefront as far as the park where he had met Piravani. He sat on a bench and gazed across the lake at the hummock of Monte San Salvatore. He wondered how he had reached this moment of self-reproachful misery in his life. And the worst of his wondering, the worst by far, was that he knew how. He knew exactly how.

  Then his phone rang. He answered quickly, without checking who the caller was. He wanted this over. He wanted this to be in the past, not part of the present, still less the future. ‘Ingrid?’

  But no. It was not Ingrid. ‘I’d have called you sooner if I hadn’t been so angry,’ said Bill. ‘What are you playing at, Edward? You spin me that cock-and-bull story about tapes. Then you do a runner. I’m giving you a last chance to explain yourself.’

  Hammond sighed. He was tempted to hang up. But Bill would only call back in an even fouler mood and he could not afford to turn the phone off. ‘Zineta’s dead,’ he said quietly. ‘Killed by one of Todorović’s heavies. I should have saved her. But I couldn’t. You think you’re angry with me? Well, so am I. As for what I’m playing at, I’m clear about that at least. Todorović is going to join Gazi in prison and I’m doing what I have to do to make sure they both stay there. The tapes exist. I have copies of the ones that prove I had nothing to do with Gazi’s decision to have Kate killed. You can believe me or not, as you please. I’ll be home within a few days and we can talk about it then. For God’s sake – for Kate’s sake – don’t speak to Alice before then. I don’t much care whether you speak to the police. It’s up to you.’ Then he rang off.

  And Bill did not call back.

  Nor, for that matter, did Ingrid.

  Vidor was evidently also growing anxious. Hammond found him pacing up and down on the promenade with a cigarette on the go some way short of the Principessa.

  ‘I was beginning to worry,’ he admitted. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I needed some air. And, to save you asking, there’s been no call.’

  They went to a small bar-café near by, where they sipped their coffees in distracted silence, while the proprietress gossiped loudly with the only other customer.

  ‘Shouldn’t you let Furgler know where we are?’ Hammond asked eventually. ‘He might be worried too.’

  ‘Hans worried? I doubt it. This is just another job to him.’

  ‘Isn’t that what it is to you?’

  Vidor frowned. ‘Of course not. I left Serbia eighteen years ago, but that doesn’t make me any less of a Serb. I hate what Gazi and Todorović and the rest of their kind did to my country – what they did to my family. We have to make sure it never happens again.’

  ‘What did they do to your family?’

  ‘Oh …’ Vidor looked away. ‘Nothing they didn’t do to lots of others. Like I told you, I got out, but my three brothers fought in Bosnia. One of them … didn’t make it through.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘He didn’t die in action. He killed himself, after the war was over.’

  Hammond winced. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘There were lots of suicides, during and after the war. I guess … people couldn’t see a future for themselves.’

  ‘Can they see one now?’

  ‘I hope so. I truly do.’

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Are they … all right?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you see much of them?’

  ‘No.’ Vidor shook his head. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Do they approve of the work you’re doing?’

  ‘They don’t know what I’m doing. They think I don’t care, you see. They think I’ve … forgotten.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you tell them you haven’t?’

  ‘Oh, I will. When the time’s right.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘As soon as this Gazi business is over.’ Vidor’s expression softened. ‘Yes. That’s when I’ll tell them.’

  ‘What do we do if Ingrid doesn’t call me?’ Hammond asked as they wandered back to the hotel.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter whether she calls you or not. She got your message. We’ll know that for certain when a chunk of the money moves from the Cayman Islands to Liechtenstein. That’s what we’re really waiting for. It could be today. But it might not be until tomorrow. I’m sorry, Edward. Until it happens, we have to stay put, just in case you need to go back to the bank.’

  ‘I hate this.’

  ‘So do I. But it won’t last long.’ Vidor sighed. ‘It’ll just feel like it.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Without asking Vidor whether he should or not, Hammond rang Ingrid several more times as the afternoon stretched uneventfully into the evening. She did not answer. Nor did she respond to the messages he left. And no news reached them of a large payment into the Liechtenstein account. All they could do was the last thing Hammond wanted to do: wait.

  A text message reached him at some point from Miljanović. But there was little new in it, at least about Piravani. ‘No major change. Prognosis hopeful.’ Then came: ‘Heard news re Todo!’ Hammond acknowledged the message, then texted Alice. ‘Will b home s
oon. Need to c u. Can u come down to London this w/end?’ He had decided in his own mind that he would be home by then whatever happened. And sooner or later he was going to have to face Alice with the truth, so it had better be sooner. But his daughter was oblivious to the urgency of his plea. ‘No go, dad. One after?’ He summoned a weak ‘OK’ in reply. The weekend after next felt to him at that moment like the middle of the next decade.

  A late supper with Vidor and Furgler in the largely empty hotel restaurant did nothing to lift his spirits. ‘Our best guess,’ Vidor reported, ‘is that they’ll move the money tomorrow morning.’ He sounded confident on the point. But his confidence was far from contagious.

  Later, after Furgler had taken himself off to bed, Hammond and Vidor gravitated to the bar.

  ‘I am so sorry about Zineta,’ Vidor said over their second whisky, after the first had been downed in silence. ‘You know that, don’t you, Edward?’

  ‘You’re sorry. I’m sorry. Everyone’s sorry.’ Hammond stared at his whisky. ‘That doesn’t bring her back to life, does it?’

  ‘Nothing can do that.’

  ‘Then what use is sorrow?’

  ‘I guess it depends what you do with it.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got plenty. So, if you think of something, let me know.’

  Vidor nodded solemnly, as if giving the problem his serious attention. ‘I will.’

  The whisky knocked Hammond out that night more effectively than he would have expected. He woke bemusingly late, roused by the ringing of his phone, and was still three-quarters asleep when he answered. But the voice at the other end was like a douche of cold water. He was instantly alert.