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There's no such thing as easy money. As surgeon Edward Hammond is about to find out. Thirteen years ago he performed a life saving operation on a Serbian gangster, Dragan Gazi. Gazi is now standing trial for war crimes in the international court in The Hague. After his life was saved, his men went on to slaughter thousands in the Balkan civil wars.
Now Gazi's family want more from him: in exchange for keeping Hammond's dirty little secret, they want him to find for them the man who holds the key to all the money Gazi squirreled away before he was locked up. But Italian financier, Marco Piravani, doesn't want to be found, not by Hammond, not by anyone. No sooner has Hammond tracked him down, than Piravani has disappeared again.
His pursuit will take him first to the Hague, and then to Milan to find the Italian, and then finally back to the scene of his crime, Belgrade, where he must confront the decisions he once so easily took. Only then will he be able to lay the past to rest.
From the Trade Paperback edition.
this?’ ‘What was all this, you mean.’ Hammond toed one of the sacks. ‘This is what Marco wanted me to see: the accountant’s version of scorched earth.’ He moved to the filing cabinets and opened a drawer at random. The cradles inside were empty. He checked the other drawers and cabinets, as well as the cardboard boxes. There was nothing in any of them, except empty folders and stray paper clips. This was Piravani’s answer: destroy all records and documents, then vanish. He was gone. And Hammond
Marco. I’d like to. I’d like to be able to forget this whole bloody business. But I can’t. Until you transfer that money. So, what’s it to be?’ There was a heavy pause before Piravani replied. ‘I’ll do it.’ ‘You will?’ ‘Yes, doctor. You win. OK? Like you told Guido, if you can find him, so can others. I can’t risk Ingrid hiring someone to beat information out of him that he doesn’t actually possess. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.’ He sounded frustrated as well as angry. But those were
was said, neither having the taste or energy for idle conversation. They were allies of necessity and the weight of that necessity rested heavily between them. The going slowed as it grew light, commuter and commercial traffic rumbling in ever greater numbers on to the motorways of Belgium. Even so, they made good enough time for Vidor to propose a breakfast break at the last service area before Luxembourg City. As they sat hunched over their coffee, orange juice and croissants, Hammond’s phone
cigarette and gazed up at the slender spires of the nearby cathedral: if Gazi, for whatever reason, had given their son the comfort and security of an upbringing here, should she do anything to endanger it? They had walked to the square from the car park on Boulevard Royal, unaware that there was parking to be had in the square itself. It was into one of these spaces that a vintage Citroën saloon made a smart turn off Boulevard Roosevelt as midday approached, with Marcel Delmotte at the wheel.
‘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 –