24 DECEMBER 2005
IT WAS DARK when they landed at Ljubljana Airport. This being the night before Christmas, there were so few travellers that the terminal was near empty. When Pierre went to get the keys for the hire car, Rachel realised it was already morning in Sydney. She slumped into a wave-shaped plastic chair and sent a text to Leah.
Happy Christmas x
Rachel imagined Leah, pious once more, in her parents’ house. Rachel had only ever seen it from the outside. The house climbed up a steep hill to a veranda staring out over the harbour and the humpbacked bridge; a house within the eruv, marked out by walls, poles and wires; a house with no Christmas tree; a house in which no one talked about Rachel but everyone thought about her.
They drove through light snow beside the Ljubljanica. The city’s black river was lined with Viennese-style buildings, many with green copper spires, and it was spanned at intervals by art nouveau bridges. One bridge was protected at either end by pairs of floodlit dragons—snarling, splay-winged, snake-tongued and ready, Rachel thought, to leap into the car and devour them both. She wondered if the few night walkers, wrapped in their long coats, would even be surprised to see people eaten alive by mythical reptiles in this town from a Grimm’s fairytale.
The headlights picked up drifting snowflakes and she watched Pierre concentrate on staying in the black tracks through the slush made by the cars ahead of them. She was grateful that he’d insisted on coming with her, but it was strange to think of the journeys he’d shared with her mother in years gone by. Some thought she herself looked a lot like the young Anna and she wondered if it was equally strange for him. Pierre seemed to anticipate her thoughts.
‘Anna hates being stuck in the passenger seat,’ he said.
‘Mum likes to be in control,’ said Rachel, adding as an afterthought: ‘In a nice way.’
Pierre laughed. ‘Not always nice,’ he said.
They found the hotel, a homely old place Pierre knew of, on an unfashionable stretch of the river. He parked the car under shelter, front out and ready for an early start, snow or no snow. The hotel had a little restaurant with an open fire and chequered tablecloths, and there were coloured lights around the frosted windows, whose handmade glass panes distorted the world outside. Pierre said he was hungry and ordered schnitzel and beer; Rachel made do with a chocolate palacinke.
‘How do we get this priest to talk to us?’ asked Rachel, picking listlessly at her pancake. ‘What do we say to him?’
Pierre put down his knife and fork and took a sip of his beer, considering the question. ‘What did you do in the war, Father?’ he said at last with a smile, which Rachel returned only fleetingly.
‘Seriously, Pierre, I’m not a journalist. We can’t just pull him aside and say we think your life is in danger.’
‘No,’ said Pierre. ‘We can’t do that. We could say that an old friend of his asked us to come.’
‘An old friend you used to know as Illija Lovric?’
‘Yep,’ said Pierre, resuming his meal. ‘Or Cvrčak.’
‘I need a drink,’ said Rachel, signalling to the waiter. Pierre suggested they both try Slovenian sadjevec, a grape brandy with herbs.
Rachel threw hers back and, as she felt its warmth spread through her body, she ordered another one.
‘This nightmare has really fucked up my life, Pierre,’ she said. ‘My girlfriend left me when I told her what was going on.’
Pierre removed his spectacles, and without the intervention of their thick lenses his eyes seemed sad.
‘My first chance to act like a real godfather and I’ve got nothing,’ he said. ‘Look Rachel, I’m the last person in the world to give relationship advice. Except for this: if she was ever worth your love, she will understand that none of this has anything to do with you or who you are, and she’ll come back.’
‘She’s a practising Orthodox Jew. She’s gone back to her family.’
‘Well,’ said Pierre. ‘She can’t have been practising very hard if she was living with you. Have you thought of hiring one of those teams that extract people from cults?’
Rachel laughed in spite of herself. ‘That’s your godfatherly advice?’
‘I warned you not to expect too much,’ said Pierre. ‘I’m sure I could get you a number.’
Pierre asked the waiter for another drink and told him to leave the bottle on the table. They sat for a while in silence, sipping at the brandy and enjoying the soporific warmth from the fire, until Rachel asked a question that had been on her mind: ‘Why have you and Anna never got together?’
Pierre looked at her and she knew at that moment that she had found the source of his sadness—and that she must truly remind him of Anna.
‘It’s all about the iron-clad rules of attraction,’ he said. ‘If it all flows in one direction, you can never break them, no matter how much you might want to.’
Pierre downed his brandy and immediately topped up his glass.
‘There’s really nothing more to say,’ he muttered.
Rachel saw that he meant it. She had touched on something deep and insoluble and Pierre clearly didn’t want to elaborate.
They went up to their rooms soon afterwards, arranging to meet in the foyer at 5.30 am. Pierre said that, if the weather wasn’t too bad, the drive to Motovun should take less than two hours.
•
The next morning the snow was no longer falling and, when Rachel stepped outside into the cold, she saw the sky was full of stars and the whimsical city wore a fine coat of virginal white. Leah had not replied overnight to her text message and the words Happy Christmas sat on the glowing screen of Rachel’s phone like a rebuke.
Pierre was a few minutes late, but soon he came down the stairs tunelessly humming ‘White Christmas’. His battered overnight bag was in one hand and in the other a wrapped present, which he held out to Rachel.
‘Who says that old Trotskyite godfathers don’t know how to celebrate Christmas?’ he said.
Rachel took his gift and held it for a moment. ‘Oh, Pierre,’ she cried. ‘I don’t have anything for you.’
‘You didn’t have time,’ he said. ‘Go on, let’s see what’s inside.’
She unwrapped it and found a plain green, cloth-covered book: Black Lamb & Grey Falcon, Vol. 1, Rebecca West.
‘When I lived in Zagreb I used to take this with me everywhere I travelled,’ he said. ‘Open it up!’
On an inside page she found Rebecca West’s dedication:
To
MY FRIENDS IN YUGOSLAVIA
WHO ARE NOW ALL DEAD OR ENSLAVED
Beneath those words was a quote in Cyrillic and its translation: Grant them the Fatherland of their desire and make them again citizens of Paradise.
Pierre took the book from her hand, pulled out a fountain pen, wrote his own inscription and handed it back to her.
Rachel read: To my Goddaughter, who I should have loved as if she were my own. Pierre Villiers, Christmas Day, 2005.
Rachel tried and failed to blink away her tears, and hugged him instead. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered into his ear.
‘We have to go,’ he said.
•
Slovenia’s wide southern motorway was clear of snow and virtually empty of traffic. It was still dark when they reached the border, where bleary looking guards waved them straight through into Croatia.
‘That’s a real bonus,’ said Pierre. ‘They’ve probably been drinking since midnight.’
They ran due south for an hour, shifting from freeway to highway to country road. As the sun began to rise, they saw ahead of them a pimple of a hill pushing up from a forested river valley. It was a cold day and the rising sun lit a triangular bank of clouds, which enveloped the hilltop like a multicoloured crown—yellow, red and purple. The stone fortifications reflected these colours and the terracotta-tiled roofs of the town glowed orange.
‘It’s like Tuscany,’ said Rachel. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘There’s a reason for that,’ said Pierre. ‘The Venetians built most of it.’
‘I thought they’d have stuck to the coast,’ said Rachel.
‘No, this is almost the dead centre of Istria. And this was a colonial stronghold protecting Venetian trade routes from the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries.’
‘Driver and tour guide.’
‘I’ve been here a few times,’ he said. ‘The forest is full of truffles. They grow Teran and Malvazija grapes on the hillsides. It’s been protected for as long as anyone can remember, but now—and this tells you something about modern Croatia—some fuckwitted billionaire developer is trying to build a massive resort and two golf courses right in the middle of it.’
They arrived at a mostly empty parking area at the base of the hill.
‘Can’t drive any further,’ said Pierre. ‘There’s usually a bus to the top, but it won’t be running today. We’ll have to hike up.’
Rachel climbed from the car and slung her shoulder bag over her back, looking up at the steep climb. Part way up, she stripped off her coat and carried it over an arm.
‘Thank God I kept up the yoga,’ she said.
‘Yoga, is it?’ said Pierre, pausing to take a breath. ‘Whatever happened to dropping acid and dancing all night, like a normal youngster? That’s how we kept fit.’
Rachel picked up her pace, watching him struggle to stay beside her. ‘I can smell an old fart from here,’ she said. ‘It’s ecstasy these days, Pierre, and no one’s called me a youngster for ten years.’
‘It’s all …’ Pierre stopped again, clutching his side. ‘Bit of a stitch, is all.’
‘You okay?’
‘… I was saying, age … it’s all relative.’ Pierre straightened up. ‘One last push to the top.’
The church bells were ringing for the morning mass as they climbed a cobblestone laneway, passing the closed doors of stone houses and shops until they arrived at a level area with a chest-high stone wall, part of the outer fortifications. They paused to look down over the valley and the roofs of the lower buildings.
Only then did Rachel realise how far they’d climbed. The weak winter sun was still low and the light breeze chilled her again. As she pulled her jacket back on, the church bells stopped.
‘The mass is starting,’ said Pierre. ‘It’s up through here.’
They climbed a steeply canted cobblestone path up through a high arched tunnel built into the fortified walls of the keep. Inside was a wide, flat courtyard. To the right was the Hotel Kastel, its tables set out under eight old chestnut trees; to the left was the bright yellow Palladian structure of St Stephen’s Church huddled next to a clock tower built from pale stone.
They went through the church’s tall wooden doors. No more than two dozen parishioners were seated in the central rows of pews. Rachel peered into the stark white interior of the basilica and saw they were all old women dressed head to toe in black; they reminded her of a flock of crows. The church was of simple design with white columned arches on either side separating the nave from smaller altars to the left and right. Ahead of them, up four steps, was the main altar under a high dome. The priest was there, his back to the patient crows, producing puffs of smoke as he waved a brass incense burner over the altar, on which four tall candles were burning.
Only when he moved around to the back of the altar, waving the thurible all the while, did Rachel see him clearly. Father Ante Lovren’s bare head was bald and shining under the low-hanging chandelier and his steel-rimmed glasses picked up reflections from the lights and candles. She read nothing in his impassive expression. He wore immaculate white vestments, with a crimson strip running from below his chin to where she assumed his knees would be; a large gold cross was embroidered at the top of the strip, and below it was a succession of golden emblems she did not recognise.
As he spoke to the crows, Pierre whispered a rough translation into her ear: ‘Let us all confess our sins to the Almighty and admit to our brothers and sisters that we have gravely sinned in our thoughts and in our deeds. The blessed Mary ever-virgin and all the angels will pray for us. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy …
‘The old woman are repeating that and on and on. Blah blah … The reading is from Isaiah. It’s about living in the land of darkness but the people who walk in deep darkness have seen a great light … You can guess the rest …
‘… Okay, his sermon is about baby Jesus in the manger, the shepherds are afraid because of the star that’s moved above their heads, like some kind of UFO. No, he didn’t say that … An angel comes down and tells them not to be afraid … This baby has been sent to bring us out of the darkness into the light … What could be less fearful, more lovable than a baby … I’m sure you know this story …
‘Okay, he’s blessing the wine and the wafers,’ Pierre continued. ‘This is the big moment, he’s just transubstantiated them … Now he’s cannibalising himself … drinking the blood, eating the flesh of Christ … Now, everyone else can go up and eat Jesus’ flesh. Are you tempted? We haven’t had breakfast. Well, you can thank the Almighty for one thing, it’s almost over.’
When the last of the crows had left, Pierre approached Lovren. ‘Oprosti otac,’ he said. ‘Goverite li engleski?’
‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘I speak English.’
Pierre turned and introduced Rachel. ‘Father, this is Rachel. She is the daughter of an old friend of yours.’
‘Oh,’ said the priest, slightly alarmed. ‘Who is that?’
‘You knew him as Illija Lovric,’ said Pierre. ‘And by his nom de guerre, Cvrčak.’
Now Father Lovren looked genuinely alarmed. He glanced around to see if anyone was in earshot. ‘Come with me,’ he said.
Lovren took them behind the altar to the sacristy, where he shrugged out of his vestments and hung them carefully in an ornately carved cupboard. Stripped down to a plain shirt and trousers, he pulled a thick woollen jumper over his head and turned to Rachel.
‘Well, Rachel,’ he said, ‘I have heard nothing from your father for more than ten years. I know from the news reports that his real name is Marin Katich, that was a surprise to me, and that he is in The Hague and they want to put him on trial. Again, this was a surprise—more than a surprise. Now I read that he has been attacked. How is he?’
‘He’s alive,’ said Rachel. ‘He survived. He says the attack was ordered by a man that both of you know. Jure Rebic.’
Ante Lovren drew a deep breath, looked at his watch and seemed to come to a decision.
‘I have three hours before the next mass,’ he said. ‘My home is not far from here. I could offer you both some coffee and a modest breakfast. Would you join me?’
They followed Lovren to the end of the square and down a flight of stairs to the lower level of the ramparts. The priory was a short distance down a nearby narrow, cobbled lane.
Lovren produced a large key, unlocked an ancient-looking wooden door and ushered them into a comfortable, heated living room lined on two sides with books. He led them though the room to a small, warm kitchen and suggested they sit on wooden chairs at the table under an arched window. He busied himself making coffee.
‘If Illija … I’m sorry, I should call him by his real name, Marin. If Marin has sent you to find me, he must be in need of help. He was not a man to expose his friends or to reveal their secrets.’
‘Father, he sent me here because he thinks you might be in danger,’ said Rachel. ‘He sent me not to expose you, but to warn you.’
‘I see,’ said Lovren. ‘That is something different.’
Rachel nodded. ‘But I’ve also come for my own reasons,’ she said. ‘I’ve only just learned that Marin Katich is my father and I am trying to find out who he really is. I’m hoping you can help me understand that.’
Lovren screwed the lid onto the coffee maker, placed it on the stove and lit the burner beneath it.
‘Perhaps I can help you understand him,’ he said. ‘As a personal matter. I don’t want to be forced to give evidence at a trial. That would be like signing my own death warrant.’
‘Just for me, then.’
‘I will have to ask your friend to go and sit in the living room.’
Pierre agreed and left them alone.
‘What is it you want to know?’ asked Lovren.
‘Is my father a war criminal?’ said Rachel.
‘No,’ said Lovren. ‘You father was, when I knew him, a hard man. You would not like him for an enemy. But he was a highly principled man, a moral man.’
‘He told me you were with him when he executed a man who had raped and killed a young girl.’
‘That is true,’ said Lovren. ‘The man he killed was a psychopath. He had raped many women and murdered many men. On that day, he ordered his men to massacre everyone in that village, and they did it. Your father was going to put all those men on trial. They are the war criminals, as are the men who gave them their orders. The worst of the worst was the man in command of them, Jure Rebic …’
At that moment the kitchen door crashed open. Two men pushed into the small kitchen; they carried handguns with silencers attached.
‘Oh dear,’ said the tallest of them, speaking in English. He was a silver-haired man with fearful, bulging eyes. ‘Oh dear, oh dear. Father Lovren. You terrible sinner.’
The man called in Croatian to someone outside the door and a third man dragged Pierre into the kitchen, holding a gun to his head as he forced him to sit in the chair next to Rachel.
‘So, let me introduce myself,’ said the man with the protruding eyes. ‘Father Lovren here knows very well who I am. That is why he’s pissing his pants.’
Rachel looked at Lovren, standing quite still with a gun trained on his chest. The expression on his face did not suggest fear, but rather resignation. His eyes were closed, he had rosary beads in his hands and he appeared to be praying. Pierre straightened his glasses and Rachel saw that his hands were shaking as he did so.
‘I think this man also knows who I am,’ said the man with the protruding eyes, waving the silenced barrel of his weapon at Pierre. ‘He was with the woman journalist, the Australian, who came to Ljubuski looking for General Cvrčak, as she called him. But I think we know now that she knew his real name was Katich. I was just myself, humble Jure Rebic, as I have always been. So.’ He turned to Rachel. ‘I heard you claim to be Marin Katich’s daughter—is that really true? He told me many times that he had no children.’
Rachel said nothing.
‘Well?’ said Rebic. ‘I’m waiting.’
When Rachel remained silent Rebic, in one fast movement, raised his arm and fired his weapon. A black hole appeared in the priest’s forehead. The white wall behind him was spattered with blood and gore. Lovren slumped back against it and a trail of blood, like a haphazard swipe of paint, followed him down to the floor.
‘Talk,’ said Rebic. ‘Or your friend will be next.’
Rachel’s whole body seemed to have seized up. She tried to speak and nothing came out. She was aware of a terrible screaming sound and she thought it might be coming unbidden from her until she realised it was the coffee pot venting steam. Rebic turned the burner off and the wailing subsided. He poured a glass of water and gave it to Rachel.
‘Drink,’ he said. ‘Then talk.’
Rachel gulped down some water.
‘I am Marin Katich’s daughter,’ she said in a quavering voice. ‘I was born in 1973. My mother kept it secret. Until yesterday, he didn’t know of my existence. I only found out he was my father a few days ago.’
‘I can see now that you have his eyes,’ said Rebic. ‘Truly, it would have been better for you if he had died the first time I killed him, or even the second. This Katich has many lives, but the people around him have only one. Now, listen to me, Rachel: I have learned that your mother is trying to find evidence to set him free. She is speaking to people she should not be. She has to stop that, Rachel. I’m going to take you with me to make sure that she does.’ He reached a hand out to her. ‘Give me your phone.’
Rachel fished the device from her pocket and Rebic threw it to one of his men with rapid-fire instructions she didn’t understand. She saw the man scoop up her shoulder bag, put the phone in it and sling it over his shoulder.
Rachel reached across and took Pierre’s hand. She was shivering as if someone had thrown open a door and an icy wind had come rushing in. Her whole body was shaking and, when her teeth began chattering, Pierre squeezed her hand firmly. That contact seemed to be the only source of warmth in the room; he was keeping her from tumbling into the abyss. She looked at him and he smiled gently.
‘I’m here,’ he said. ‘You’ll be okay.’
Rachel looked up at Rebic. ‘What are you going to do with us?’ she asked.
‘Not us, Rachel,’ said Rebic. ‘Just you.’
She turned her stricken face back to Pierre, but there was no time. She heard the terrible muffled shot and the right lens of his spectacles was obliterated in a moment of shattering glass and blood. His hand gripped hers reflexively.
Rachel reached out to hold him, and fell with his body to the bloody floor. She clung onto him, screaming now, and resisted all attempts to drag her off him, until someone smashed the back of her head and she fell into the deep darkness.
•
It was dark and silent in Pierre’s apartment when Anna let herself in late on Boxing Day. She found a note from Pierre on the refrigerator, telling her he expected to be back sometime that day. So where was he? She poured herself a glass of wine and went into the living room. Pierre had prepared kindling in the fireplace, and she lit it and sat down.
She opened her phone and scrolled through her messages. There was nothing from Rachel. She tried ringing; it went to message, where she heard her daughter’s voice, coolly professional. She sent a text to Pierre: I’m back at your place, where are you?
She found some leftovers in the fridge, and brought a plate of food and the wine bottle into the living room. She pulled out her laptop and transferred onto it the interview she had recorded with the Bosnian, Amir Ramic. She had already made copies of her notes, and the documents and photographs that Ramic had given her; all these she had left in the care of Adin Genjac.
She would call van Brug in the morning and ask the lawyer to set up an urgent meeting with the Registrar. She had begun compiling a file of evidence on her journey back to The Hague and she was convinced Singarasa would have no choice but to free Marin Katich.
She was reviewing her next steps when the phone rang. The screen said Rachel and she snatched up the Blackberry, pressed the green phone icon and began speaking immediately.
‘Rachel, at last, thank God, I’ve been worried sick …’
‘And all the best for the holiday season to you, Anna …’
A man’s voice! Heavily accented, American-inflected English.
‘Who is this?’ she shouted. ‘What are you doing with my daughter’s phone?’
‘She is here with me,’ said the man. ‘I’ll put her on …’
‘Mum! Don’t …’
‘Rachel! Where are you?’
‘She is safe.’ It was the man again. ‘Now listen carefully, Anna …’
‘Who are you?’
‘I think you know that already, Anna,’ he said. ‘We met when you came to Ljubuski. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it?’
She knew, of course, and was filled with dread, awful in its intensity. A shiver ran through her body. She clamped her jaw shut to stop her teeth chattering.
‘Did you hear me?’
She forced her mouth to work. ‘Rebic?’
‘You do remember.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know what this means. If you want to see Rachel again, you must stop everything you’ve been doing. You will do nothing to help defend Marin Katich or Rachel will die. Marin Katich will say nothing. He can go to trial, plead guilty and accept his punishment. Or he can simply take his own life. That would be the best option to save his daughter. You will tell him this from me. He will understand that I mean it. If you contact the police, Rachel will die. Think about it. Gather together whatever evidence you have, the names of all witness you have spoken to, and wait. I call back soon.’
Rebic hung up. Anna called back immediately and Rachel’s phone went to message. She sprang to her feet and began pacing the room. It was incomprehensible, crazy, but there was no doubting it was Rachel’s phone. It had been her voice. Where was she? How had this happened? And where was Pierre? There were too many questions and no answers.
She tried Rachel’s landline in Sydney, hoping Leah would be there. Again it went to the answering machine. She left a message asking Leah to contact her. She didn’t have a mobile number for her daughter’s girlfriend. What the hell was her surname? If she knew that she might be able to track down her family. Why the hell hadn’t she paid more attention to Rachel’s life?
She wracked her brains, going back over the strained conversation at the disastrous dinner party. She remembered Leah talking about her work at an art gallery in Paddington—that’s right!
Anna ran upstairs and opened Pierre’s computer. His account was locked, so she entered as a visitor with the password he had set up. She ran through the list of galleries in Paddington and found one that rang a bell: Becker Contemporary Art.
It was morning in Sydney, business hours, when she rang the number.
‘Becker Gallery,’ said a male voice.
‘I’m trying to contact Leah.’
‘Can I say who’s calling?’
‘Tell her it’s about Rachel.’
A pause and then Leah’s voice was on the line. ‘Hello, who is it?’
‘It’s Anna Rosen, Leah,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to call you at work, but it’s urgent. Do you know where Rachel is?’
There was another long pause. Then: ‘I thought she was with you.’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Anna, I’m sorry, I don’t want to talk about this.’
‘Leah, it’s very important. Something may have happened to Rachel. I’m trying to find her. Why would you think she was with me?’
‘She told me about her father, Anna.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Everything,’ said Leah. ‘About his past. Who he is … I couldn’t take it in, Anna. I needed a break. I left to stay with my parents. I went back to the apartment two days ago to pick up some things and she was gone. She had packed her bag, taken her passport. I thought she must have gone to see you.’
‘Have you heard anything from her at all?’
‘A Christmas message,’ said Leah. ‘Nothing else.’
‘Leah, can you get into Rachel’s computer? Do you know her password?’
‘Yes.’
‘Will you go to the apartment and check her computer for any emails, or anything that might tell us where she went?’
‘I have clients here now,’ she said. ‘I can go at lunchtime.’
‘Leah, I’m trying not to upset you, but Rachel has stumbled into something very bad. She’s in terrible danger. I need your help.’
‘What danger?’ Leah demanded. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘If you have any love for Rachel, you will go now, straightaway. You have to trust me. We need some clue as to where she went.’
‘I’ll go now,’ said Leah. ‘But I want to know what’s going on.’
Anna asked for Leah’s mobile number and insisted that she write hers down, before hanging up. She thought carefully about her next step and decided that there was only one person capable of helping her—but could they be trusted? She decided she had no choice and, despite the late hour, she called Jasna Perak. They spoke for a long time.
•
At 2 am, Anna’s phone rang. It was Leah.
‘I got into Rachel’s computer,’ she said. ‘There was an email booking flights to The Hague.’
Anna got Leah to read out the itinerary and was shocked to find Rachel had arrived in Amsterdam at 6 am on 24 December, over forty-eight hours ago.
‘There’s another email,’ said Leah. ‘To someone called Pierre Villiers saying that she’s coming and when.’
‘Oh!’ cried Anna. Pierre! It felt like a physical blow.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Leah.
‘Yes. Please go on, Leah, what else?’
‘Rachel tells him that she has learned the truth about her father and says, “I assume you must have known.” Then he replies that he has only recently discovered the news. He says that Rachel should come and stay in his apartment with you. Is that where she is? Where are you?’
‘Is there anything else?’ Anna asked urgently.
‘Yes, this Pierre says: “You need to talk this through with your mother” and Rachel replies that she doesn’t want to do that yet and begs him not to tell you that she’s coming. He replies that he agrees reluctantly to do that and that he will meet her at the railway station in The Hague. That’s all there is.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Now, what’s going on?’
‘I have to go,’ said Anna. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know.’
Anna hung up and sat there, numb. She rang Pierre’s number, and again it went to voicemail.