The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter III

In New York, SAC Edgar Ross of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was seated before his immediate superior, Conrad Holt, in the bar of the White Horse Tavern on Bridge Street. They were at an isolated table, not a booth, because that way they could be sure they would not be overheard. Holt was drinking a beer, Ross a coffee. The two men often met in private conclave at the White Horse, because it was unwise to discuss subjects of importance or delicacy in a building full of snoops. Ross never even read a newspaper at 26 Federal Plaza, for fear someone might take note of a headline and decide to pass judgment accordingly.

Ross and Holt were going over the recent death of the federal legat, Armitage, in the Netherlands. Officially, her death was being described as a suicide. In the days before her body was discovered, Armitage had been absent from her desk at the US Embassy in The Hague due to some unspecified illness, and her colleagues had become concerned for her health, psychological as well as physical. Her remains were subsequently discovered in the shower of her apartment, her arms slit from elbow to wrist. These were incontestable facts.

More problematical, in terms of this narrative, were the absence of a blade and the presence in the shower of an Arabic word, written in red on the tiles – or more precisely, hacked into the ceramic, the implement used first having been dipped in Armitage’s vital essence in the manner of a nib being plunged into an inkwell. Clearly, therefore, Armitage had not met her end by her own hand but by that of another: an Islamic terrorist, quite possibly, given the origin of the word on the tiles: or djinni.

Yet no group had come forward to claim credit for the killing, which was unusual. In addition, the CIA had struggled to find any terrorist operating under the nom de guerre of Djinni or Genie, or any reason, beyond her nationality, for Islamists to have targeted Armitage in particular. Another complicating factor was that Ross now believed Armitage had been involved in a criminal conspiracy, thanks to evidence gleaned from a burner phone discovered in her apartment after her death. It appeared that the legat had been dirty in ways her superiors did not yet understand, which was the worst kind of dirt because it was so hard to expunge.

It had been decided, therefore, that it would be better for all concerned if Armitage’s death were ascribed to suicide, thus obviating the necessity of a formal investigation. Two of the numbers on Armitage’s burner had proved untraceable, but others had since been identified, one of them as recently as the day before, when it had been used to send and receive text messages in the Netherlands. This was why Holt and Ross were currently meeting in the White Horse Tavern, away from any listening ears at Federal Plaza, because the Armitage situation was about as toxic as a situation could get without calling in FEMA.

‘A Serb?’ said Holt. ‘Why the fuck was Armitage calling a Serbian gangster?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ross.

‘Is there any chance at all that this was part of some unsanctioned operation?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘What do we know about this Zippo, Zeppo, whatever?’

‘Zivco Ilić,’ said Ross.

‘Yeah, him.’

‘He works for the Vuksan crime syndicate.’

‘And who are the Vuksans?’

‘Very bad people.’

‘How bad is “very bad”?’

‘On a scale of one to ten,’ said Ross, ‘about a twelve.’

De Jaager stood in the kitchen of the canal house. Before him was Zivco Ilić, who had uncorked the bottle of Dom Pérignon and was drinking it straight from the neck. Ilić was of average height, average build, and was averagely good looking. The only aspects of him that were not average were his native intelligence and his capacity for violence. The Vuksans did not employ dullards, and displayed a marked preference for sadists.

‘This tastes like shit,’ said Ilić, waving the bottle in the air.

‘That’s because you have no class,’ said De Jaager.

Ilić spat a stream of champagne directly at De Jaager. It struck him in the face.

‘May I reach for a handkerchief?’ De Jaager asked, but the question was directed not at Ilić but at a second, older man leaning against the doorframe.

‘Of course,’ came the reply. ‘We’re not animals, or not all of us.’

This was Radovan Vuksan, brother of Spiridon, the head of the Vuksan syndicate. Radovan was in his sixties, and balding in the manner of a tonsured monk. He weighed 140 pounds soaking wet, most of it in the form of a distended potbelly that resembled a tumor. His eyes were shiny but lifeless, as though constructed from flawed glass, and if he had ever smiled, he had done so only in the privacy of his own company. He was the ice to his brother’s fire, but each burned with equal ferocity.

De Jaager retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and used it to wipe his face. When he was finished, Ilić spat another burst of champagne at him, this one heavier with saliva.

‘Zivco,’ warned Radovan Vuksan. ‘No more.’

Ilić offered the bottle to Radovan, who declined.

‘Such a waste,’ said De Jaager, staring at Ilić.

‘Of champagne?’ said Radovan.

‘Of oxygen. You should review your recruitment policy. I perceive flaws in your criteria.’

Radovan didn’t rush to disagree, a fact that Ilić could not fail to notice. As far as Radovan was concerned, Ilić was his brother’s acolyte, so it was for Spiridon to defend him, should he be bothered to do so. If nothing else, Radovan thought, De Jaager was a good judge of character.

‘Are you worried about your women?’ said Radovan.

De Jaager had not asked after them, just in case Anouk and Liesl had been absent when the Vuksans arrived at the safe house. Now, with his worst fears confirmed, his eyes briefly fluttered closed.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘They’re being looked after,’ said Radovan.

‘Don’t hurt them,’ said De Jaager.

Radovan Vuksan shrugged. ‘That’s out of my hands. Spiridon will decide what’s to be done with them once he gets here.’

‘I have money.’

‘I know,’ said Radovan. ‘So do we. So do lots of people.’

‘One can always have more,’ said De Jaager.

‘This isn’t about money. This is about blood.’

‘Really?’ said De Jaager. ‘I thought you’d be sick of it by now.’

‘I am,’ said Radovan. ‘Others, not so much.’

Flies buzzed around the body of Paulus. Ilić emptied the remainder of the champagne over Paulus’s head, dispersing some of the insects, even drowning one or two before the rest returned with a vengeance. From the street outside came the sound of a woman’s laughter. A van pulled up. A door opened and closed. De Jaager heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and a figure passed behind Radovan to admit the new arrival.

‘Now,’ said Radovan, ‘we can begin.’