The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XXVII

By common consent, the area around the Stalingrad Métro stop, at the border between the 10th and 19th arrondissements in northeastern Paris, was regarded as being among the less salubrious spots in the city in which to linger – and that was even before the building of a migrant camp near the avenue de Flandre. The camp had since been forcibly dismantled by French police, leading to running battles with residents, but its removal had not done much to raise the tone of the locale. By day it was mostly fine, but night brought out the predators.

Aleksej Marković was not unduly worried by the possibility of predation, mostly because he was more dangerous than any other predator on the streets. Marković had murdered his way across whole swathes of Bosnia in the company of Ratko Mladić, Spiridon Vuksan, and the VRS, the Bosnian Serb Army, during the wars in the former Yugoslavia. If there was a man in the vicinity of Stalingrad who had killed more men or raped more women than he, Marković might have enjoyed shaking his hand, although only after making sure that he was dead, because Aleksej Marković had grown circumspect in middle age.

He had never expected to survive his twenties, but as the years went by, and his collection of scars increased without putting an end to him, Marković had decided that the concept of living to old age was not without its appeal. He had watched other men fall by the wayside, rendered harmless by bullets, disease, prison, poverty, and even domesticity, while he flourished. Much of his felicity he ascribed to the proximity of the Vuksans. If ever Marković needed confirmation that God had been on their side in the war against the Turks, the Ustashe, and their Western allies, it lay in the potency of Spiridon and Radovan Vuksan. God would not have blessed them with wealth and long life otherwise. Their success was a tribute to the righteousness of the Serbian cause, and Aleksej Marković had benefited as a consequence, so he did not question their orders or doubt the wisdom of their decisions. This included the recent action against De Jaager and the others who had found themselves in the Amsterdam safe house – or, more accurately, the unsafe house – at the wrong time.

Marković recognized that some conflict had arisen between the brothers on the subject, with Radovan urging caution, or a less public display of vengeance: a quiet abduction for De Jaager, followed by the disposal of his remains in an anonymous grave. But Spiridon had wanted to make a statement, to offer a final farewell to the Dutch. In addition, Spiridon required De Jaager to understand that his very existence had poisoned the lives of all those around him, and their suffering was a consequence of his behavior. Although he was not asked for his opinion, Marković had sided with Spiridon, because he always did.

Also, truth be told, Marković liked killing, and had not lost his taste for rape.

All had not gone according to plan, but Marković had no regrets. Spiridon could not have anticipated a move against Nikola Musulin, a violent usurpation of the established order. Perhaps it was better that Musulin’s death should have occurred now, while they were out of the blast range, rather than later, when they were already back in Serbia. Musulin’s killers had made an error. Had they waited, they might have succeeded also in taking out the Vuksans. Now the Vuksans’ enemies were obliged either to come after them, which would be difficult and dangerous, or negotiate an agreed return – or so Spiridon had informed Marković and the others when the news of Musulin’s death came through, although Marković noticed that Radovan remained silent throughout and did not voice his support for Spiridon’s opinion of their circumstances.

But Marković didn’t much care one way or the other. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to return to Serbia. Even had he gone back with the Vuksans, he doubted he would have stayed. Western Europe offered more possibilities, more ways for a ruthless man to earn money. Marković was a follower, not a leader, and his recognition of this reality had probably contributed more to his survival than he might have realized. At home, he would have been obliged to ally himself with one of the local groupings and swear allegiance to small men. Eventually, he would have become caught up in the kind of internecine feuding that had cost Nikola Musulin his life, resulting in a transfer of loyalties to another small man under threat of injury or death. The problem was that every such move caused a diminution in one’s value and an increase in the amount of suspicion one attracted, until finally it was safer for someone to put a bullet in one’s head rather than have one roaming free, accumulating grievances. No, regardless of whatever deal the Vuksans finally managed to strike – assuming they could strike any deal at all, because that expression of doubt and worry on Radovan’s face had made an impression – Marković would find gainful employment in Europe, Asia, or even North America. A man with his skill set would never want for work.

For now, though, Marković was in Paris, staying in a hotel that reeked of standing water and bad food. He had taken an early-morning train from Cologne, dumping the car at the Tiefgarage Hauptbahnhof with the keys in the ignition and €500 in the glove compartment. On the way to the station, he had made a call to ensure that the car would be disposed of within the hour.

Despite the precariousness of their position, the Vuksans still had certain obligations that needed to be fulfilled, and it was to Marković that they had entrusted this responsibility. The cargo soon to arrive at the Gare de Lyon had landed at Port-Vendres some days previously, following a circuitous journey from Syria via Egypt and Algeria. It would have been simpler to have routed them through Serbia using established channels, but these men had business to be concluded in Cairo and Algiers before they could depart for Europe, and had indicated their preference for the Port-Vendres back door. Given recent events in Belgrade, it was now fortunate that they had elected to bypass Serbia. The Vuksans would have been unable to guarantee them safe transit, and might even have been forced to return the portion of their fee already delivered. Port-Vendres, although riskier, had proven to be a blessing.

Back in the glory days of France’s imperial odyssey, Port-Vendres had benefited from being the southernmost French port to the colonies in Africa. While it was too far from the industrial cities to be a useful shipping center for goods, it had flourished as a terminal for passenger traffic to and from Algeria, because the crossing was smoother than over the Gulf of Lyon. Now the little commune was a tourist destination best known for its seafood restaurants, where fishing boats landed their catches at the quai du Fanal. Some security checks on incoming vessels were inevitable, but they were far fewer than might be anticipated at Toulon or Marseille. For this reason, and in order to preserve the integrity of the route, the Vuksans used their Port-Vendres contacts for only the most high-value cargo.

Marković found a table outside a Turkish café and lit a cigarette. He might have loathed Muslims, but he could not fault their coffee. Also, one never knew what one might learn by sitting in their presence and pretending not to speak French. Marković also had a smattering of Turkish, some Arabic, and adequate Spanish, as well as fluent English. He cultivated the aspect of an ignorant man, and his English deliberately remained heavily accented, but he was no dullard. The Vuksans did not employ dolts, or not for long.

And as Marković smoked his cigarette, and flicked idly through his cell phone, his image was captured and dispatched three hundred miles north, where a phone in Amsterdam pinged in the lounge of the Conservatorium, notifying the recipient of the message’s arrival.