The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter XII
The Skadarlija locality of Belgrade was once known as the Šićan Mala, or the Gypsy Quarter. Founded in the middle of the nineteenth century, it gradually became the haunt of writers and artists, giving it a bohemian character that persists to this day. Like many such areas in great European cities, it has now become popular with tourists, attracted by the character of its cobblestoned streets and its traditional inns and restaurants.
One of the less well known of the latter is Tri Lovca, or ‘The Three Hunters’, which sits at the atrium end of Skadarlija. It is more expensive than its neighbors, yet also less prepossessing from the exterior. Its front door is kept locked and patrons must ring a bell to gain access. All guests require a reservation, which can only be made by calling an unadvertised number. Tourists who try the bell in the hope of securing a speculative table are informed that, regrettably, none is available – assuming they speak Serbian, which, being tourists, they probably don’t. The words will therefore be entirely beyond their understanding, although the substance of them will not. The waiters, of course, also speak English. Among them, the staff of Tri Lovca are fluent in ten tongues, although this fact is known only to a select few diners. The waiters, the maître d’, and the chefs may communicate only in Serbian, but they listen in a variety of languages.
Tri Lovca is ostensibly owned by a diminutive old man named Ivan Jelić, who greets each diner and will, if requested, entertain them with a selection of folk songs at the end of the evening. For years, patrons have been colluding in this fraud, because Ivan is an amiable soul. In reality, Tri Lovca is owned by Nikola Musulin, head of Belgrade’s Musulin crime family, and nephew of Spiridon and Radovan Vuksan through their late sister, Jana. Nikola Musulin frequently dines in his own restaurant – the food is very good – either alone or as part of a group, because it is useful for entertaining and impressing important visitors. Its exclusivity also makes it a magnet for a certain type of visitor – wealthy, well connected, occasionally criminal – who may not be aware of its owner’s base nature, or has chosen to ignore it. Plied with alcohol and fine food, such diners sometimes become careless in their speech, and the waiters and waitresses are always nearby. Even should a quiet conversation escape their ears, it will not elude the microphones located under and around every table, with the exception of a single sheltered booth at the back reserved exclusively for the real owner’s use. Thus has Nikola Musulin’s investment in Tri Lovca paid for itself many times over in the form of information gleaned from diners, as well as in credit card details skimmed and bank accounts emptied. Musulin is not fussy about how he earns his money, and men of his character are never more than a step removed from the street.
Because the food at Tri Lovca really is rather exceptional, its preparation must begin early in the day. By midmorning, staff will already be at work in the kitchen. Nikola Musulin has even been known to join them, rolling up his sleeves to chop vegetables or debone fish. He has a fine palate, but also wishes to ensure that standards are maintained in his restaurant. It would be easy to allow them to slide, and his presence is a reminder to all concerned that such a deterioration in quality would be not only unwelcome but also inadvisable. After all, accidents have been known to happen, particularly if one’s hand is being held down on a chopping board while a blade is applied to the tips of one’s fingers.
But often Nikola Musulin will be driven to Tri Lovca early in the morning solely to read a selection of the day’s newspapers – the tabloid Informer, the leftist Blic, the more right-wing Politika, as well as the Sportski Žurnal for its football coverage – over burek and coffee. Radio Nostalgija will be played at a low volume, and the chefs will mind their language because Musulin is a devout member of the Serbian Orthodox Church and disapproves of swearing. He is also, except in very rare circumstances, disinclined to resort to killing in the resolution of difficulties: violence, yes, even mutilation, but he generally eschews murder. It causes problems, draws unwelcome attention, and is frequently counter-productive. As the Serbian proverb has it, ‘A dead man pays no debts.’
Nikola Musulin is tall and handsome, but walks slowly due to severe, and worsening, rheumatoid arthritis. The condition curses him with near constant pain and causes him to suffer from constipation. He has also recently noticed a decline in his respiratory capacity, and now avoids stairs whenever possible. His sexual appetite has decreased, a fact on which both his wife and mistress have commented. As a consequence, he has fallen back on Cialis to treat his impotence.
Nikola Musulin is only forty-four, and regards his health problems as deeply unfair, but also perhaps as a punishment from God for his criminal vocation. What man, Musulin reasons, can engage in narcotics, prostitution, people smuggling, larceny, and – if infrequently – murder, and not expect some form of retribution from the Divine?
Nikola Musulin, forty-four, will not live to see forty-five.
The present tense is about to become the past.
The door of Tri Lovca opens before Musulin rings the bell because old Ivan Jelić has been keeping watch for him. Sometimes Musulin arrives unexpectedly, but usually the restaurant receives a call in advance, just so that the burek and coffee can be waiting for him, freshly made, when he takes his seat in his booth. The newspapers he will already have, as they are delivered to the gates of his home each morning. A bodyguard in a hut accepts the package, checks it – one can’t be too careful – and either sends the papers up to the house or, on those mornings when Tri Lovca is to be the destination, places them on the back seat of a silver Mercedes-AMG G63. Originally designed for military use, Musulin’s G63 is, by any stretch of the imagination, an ugly vehicle, but it can go from zero to sixty in under seven seconds. The standard model can do it in fewer than five, but Musulin’s vehicle is armored, and therefore heavier.
Nikola Musulin is a careful man – power attracts envy, rivals for the throne – and has inculcated a similar caution in his wife, his two children, and his mistress, but even the most circumspect of individuals will inevitably fall victim to routines. While Musulin varies the days and times of his sojourns at Tri Lovca, his fondness for the restaurant has, nevertheless, been noted.
There is also the matter of the impending return to Serbia of Musulin’s uncles. Musulin has made clear the Vuksans’ desire to retire to lakeside lodges, there to pass in tranquility whatever years may remain to them. Whatever might be said about Radovan, few of those at the highest levels of Belgrade’s political, legal, and criminal communities believe that Spiridon Vuksan is conditioned for peace. What is more likely to occur, they feel, is that his voice will begin to whisper in his nephew’s ear. It will speak to Nikola of wealth and ambition. It will warn him of enemies, actual and potential.
It will talk to him of war.
If Nikola Musulin is familiar with these concerns, he has given no indication of it. He is aware of the pretenders, and the strength of his enemies, but he does not see these men – and they are all men – as a significant threat. Musulin has friends in the police, the military, and the government. Some of these allies are loyal to him because of his uncles, and their experiences with them in the wars of the 1990s, although Musulin also ensures that their wallets are kept well filled. Others are indebted to him for their success in life, because Nikola has arranged promotions and transfers, and funded election campaigns. The rest cooperate with him out of fear or greed. In other words, Nikola Musulin has bought all his friends, and therefore has no friends at all.
On this particular morning, Ivan Jelić walks with him to his table and makes jokes about Partizan, Nikola’s soccer team of choice, Jelić being a supporter of their bitter rivals Red Star. It is the mark of civilized men that they can disagree without being disagreeable, but Musulin’s fondness for Jelić runs deep, and he both tolerates and encourages opinions from him that others would fear to voice. This may be a consequence of the absence of a paternal figure in Musulin’s daily life, his father being long dead and his uncles distant – although that, as we have seen, is about to change. Ivan Jelić, long-lived and long-married, has provided good advice to Nikola Musulin about family and relationships. He has listened sympathetically over the years, and has asked for nothing in return beyond the purpose and income afforded him by Tri Lovca – although just because a man does not ask doesn’t mean he does not want.
Musulin remarks that Jelić looks fatigued, and Jelić admits that he has not been sleeping well of late. His wife is ill, although the doctors are not sure what is wrong with her. She has lost weight and struggles to keep down solid food. She weeps in the night, and her body odor has changed. He believes his wife may be dying, and it appears there is nothing the doctors can do but watch. Ivan Jelić thinks his wife needs better doctors, but such medical expertise is expensive.
Musulin notes the strong smell of rakija in the air. Jelić confesses that he knocked over a bottle the night before and some of it may have soaked into one of the rugs. Musulin tells him not to worry: as the day goes on, and more and more dishes are prepared, the smell will fade. Anyway, says Musulin, a restaurant smelling of good rakija is no bad thing.
Jelić has timed the delivery of the owner’s coffee and burek perfectly, because it arrives just as Nikola Musulin takes his seat. The older man leaves the younger to his breakfast, and puts on his coat in order to step outside and smoke a cigarette, smoking not being permitted in Tri Lovca, another of its owner’s quirks in a city that runs on nicotine. Musulin barely looks up as Jelić leaves. He is already absorbed in his newspapers.
Ivan Jelić closes the front door of the restaurant behind him and buttons his coat. He does not light a cigarette, but instead walks away quickly, passing through the early-morning pedestrians on Skadarlija. An acquaintance greets him, but Jelić does not hear, or pays no attention if he does. Jelić is troubled by his conscience. He likes the men and women with whom he works. They are kind and industrious. There are currently six staff members in Tri Lovca, along with two of Nikola Musulin’s bodyguards. A third bodyguard sits outside in the Mercedes, staring at the screen of his phone.
After Tri Lovca had closed the previous night, Ivan Jelić had remained behind, ostensibly to go over the books with a glass of quince rakija. Shortly before 1 a.m., he answered a knock at the back door and admitted five men, two of whom were expert carpenters. Over the course of the next four hours the carpenters had carefully removed the top of Nikola Musulin’s exclusive table, hollowed out the interior, and packed it with C4 explosive. The top of the table was then replaced, the sawdust and woodchips gathered and disposed of, and the rakija spilled to disguise any lingering scents of wood and glue.
Ivan Jelić is already some distance from Tri Lovca when the C4 explodes, but the force of the blast still rocks him, and he seeks support from a wall. He looks back to see a cloud of dust and smoke rising from the direction of the restaurant and hears screams and shouts. None of these is likely to be coming from Tri Lovca itself. The blast has not only torn Nikola Musulin apart, and killed everyone on the ground floor of the restaurant, but has also brought the old building down in its entirety, an unanticipated effect which contributes to the minor injuries caused to passersby, although miraculously there are no fatalities beyond the occupants. This is good news. Skadarlija is a tourist street, and it has been made clear that collateral damage must be kept to a minimum.
So, Tri Lovca is no more. Nikola Musulin is no more. They are now of the past.
All is was, all is were.