The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XXX

The man sitting at the bar of the Conservatorium was staring at an iPad showing coverage of a news conference by a floundering senior US politician railing against his enemies, both real and imaginary. The man had a single earbud in his left ear, and a hearing aid behind his right. Louis guessed that he was in his sixties, with the patrician air of one who didn’t like any money that wasn’t old. Generations of good breeding had left him with all his hair, a body that was refusing to succumb to senescence, and – judging by his eyes as he glanced at Louis – a mind that was likewise raging against the dying of the light. He was wearing a gray suit and a black knit-silk tie, with a polka dot pocket square to offer a hint of levity.

‘As soon as paranoia sets in every politician begins sounding like Nixon on the final White House tapes,’ said the man, gesturing at the screen as Louis appeared beside him, ‘and that’s never a good image. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

Louis sat. ‘What are you having?’ he said.

‘A Dutch Negroni, made with oude genever. You know genever?’

‘I know it.’

‘Of course. You’ve been here before – and left your mark, by all accounts. So: a Negroni?’

‘Sure.’

The man raised a finger, and a bartender was pulled toward them.

‘A Negroni for my friend, and a fresh one for me.’

‘Are we friends?’ said Louis.

‘The alternative is less pleasant to contemplate, and harder to explain to bartenders.’

‘You could start with a name.’

‘You can call me Hermes.’

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ said Louis. ‘I’m not calling you Hermes.’

‘The patron of travelers and thieves. You could do worse.’

‘Not a whole lot worse.’

‘A pity,’ said the man. ‘Those cloak-and-dagger aliases always remind me of more innocent times. Then Harris will do, I suppose.’

The feed across the bottom of the iPad showed the politician inveighing against plotters and turncoats, and the anti-democratic maneuvers of the Deep State.

‘Look,’ said Louis, ‘he’s talking about you.’

‘People love conspiracies,’ said Harris. ‘They find them reassuring. It’s the consolation that someone, somewhere, might actually have a design in mind. The fearful embrace conspiracies for the same reason they believe in God.’

The Negronis arrived. Harris raised his glass.

‘To great designs,’ he said.

Louis made the slightest of gestures in return, and drank. The Negroni tasted smokier than he was used to, but he thought it might grow on him.

‘As it happens,’ said Harris, removing the earbud and putting the iPad to sleep, ‘my father served under Nixon. Well, he served under people who served under Nixon, which is pretty much the same thing. He told me that he’d never encountered a stranger bunch of men than those in the Nixon White House. He spent one evening watching Triumph of the Will in the basement with the rest of the staff at the insistence of Gordon Liddy, although there was popcorn. Liddy then announced that the Special Investigations Unit, the dirty tricks brigade, was to be code-named ODESSA, after the former SS veterans’ organization, and showed my father the nine-millimeter parabellum pistol he’d acquired from the CIA, just in case Bud Krogh asked him to assassinate anyone.’

Harris tasted his second Negroni, and seemed to find it just as satisfactory as the first.

‘You know,’ he concluded, ‘Nixon’s White House had its share of nuts and crooks, but back then Gordon Liddy wasn’t a nut or a crook. Gordon Liddy was completely batshit crazy.’

‘Is there a point to this story?’ said Louis.

‘The point is that we survived Nixon and his cadre, just as we survived all those who came before them and we’ll survive all those who come after, God willing. Politicians are like hemorrhoids: they’re a torment to be endured. Meanwhile, the greater game goes on.’

‘Not for De Jaager,’ said Louis, who was growing tired of listening to a stranger philosophize at a bar, ‘or those who died with him.’

‘No,’ said Harris, ‘not for them. I liked De Jaager. Ross and I met him together, back in the day.’

‘The Stasi business?’

‘Did Ross tell you about it?’

‘He did.’

‘So much for secrets. We farmed the wet work out to the Israelis, just like we’re farming the Vuksans out to you.’

‘So Ross indicated. Why did the Israelis take on the job, if you don’t mind me asking? That wasn’t entirely clear to me.’

‘Because they have long memories,’ said Harris. ‘The Stasi funded terror groups in West Germany – the Red Army Faction, the Baaders – when it suited them to have bombs going off and executives being kidnapped. The Reds, with Stasi money, helped Black September plan the attack on the Olympic Village in Munich in 1972 that left eleven Israelis dead. Buchner, the Stasi who murdered Annie Houseman, was believed to be one of the the bagmen for the RAF. Seventeen years or so later, when the opportunity for payback arose, the Israelis took it. If I remember right, they sent us a couple of cases of Judean wine as a token of appreciation. But then, those were more civilized times.’

‘And who do you work for,’ said Louis, ‘or is it impolite to ask?’

‘Officially, I’m retired.’

‘Unofficially?’

‘I help out, on occasion.’

‘So, start helping.’

Harris smiled.

‘The Vuksans and their people haven’t used any of their known passports – we’re on top of those, so I’m certain on that front – which means they’re either still in Europe or they’ve acquired new identities. If it’s the latter, they did so through Anton Frend. He’s not a passport broker, but he has access to individuals who specialize in that area. You know about Nikola Musulin?’

‘I heard he got blown up by a table,’ said Louis.

‘Apparently they’re still searching for his head,’ said Harris. ‘The family is reluctant to bury him without it.’

‘Funny how sentimental people can be.’

‘Isn’t it? Thanks to the elimination of Musulin, the Vuksans have been forced into hiding. But if they can stay alive for long enough, they may be able to cut a deal and return to Serbia.’

‘Cut a deal with whom, Musulin’s successor?’

‘Nominally with his successor, but actually with whichever branch of the Serbian political and judicial establishment signed off on Musulin’s assassination. In the meantime, the Vuksans will soon be hemorrhaging money, if they aren’t already, because you can be sure that someone in Belgrade is going after their assets in order to push them further into a corner. Frend almost certainly has access to a slush fund, but it’s unlikely to contain enough to support the Vuksans in a lifetime of exile.’

‘So Frend is the key,’ said Louis.

‘A very crooked key, and one that won’t easily be turned. If you try by force, you’ll alert the Vuksans. They’ll have set up a series of tripwires: calls at strictly scheduled times, code words, warning signs. The moment Frend fails to follow whatever routines they’ve established, they’ll know he’s been compromised.’

‘Which doesn’t help me.’

‘No, but some other information might,’ said Harris. ‘I know Ross gave you a dossier on Frend. Did you notice that he has a daughter?’

‘Pia. She’s in London, and also a lawyer. Must be a fault in the genes.’

‘Pia is estranged from her father, to the extent that she has reverted to her mother’s maiden name: Lackner. Our understanding is that she hates Anton while he, like most men who find themselves rejected by a woman, pines for her approval and remains hopeful of a reconciliation.’

‘Huh,’ said Louis.

‘Second – and I hope this will brighten your day – one of the Vuksans’ men, Aleksej Marković, has come up for air. He’s in Paris, staying at a hotel in the tenth arrondissement. Do you have email on your phone?’

Louis reached into a pocket and removed a primitive Nokia.

‘What the fuck is that?’ said Harris.

‘It’s a Nokia.’

Louis also possessed an iPad mini, but he was scrupulously careful about its use.

‘So I see,’ said Harris. ‘Does it have a winder?’

‘No, but it has something more useful: anonymity.’

Harris conceded the point. He checked to make sure they were not being watched before rousing the iPad from its sleep. A tap of his fingers produced an image of a man drinking coffee outside a café. Louis recognized Marković from the material supplied by Ross.

‘When was this picture taken?’ said Louis.

‘About twenty minutes ago.’

‘That’s fast work.’

‘He was careless – not very, but it doesn’t take a lot.’

‘Why isn’t he in hiding like the rest of them?’

‘Necessity,’ said Harris. ‘What do the Vuksans require?’

‘Money.’

‘Exactly. We think that Paris may be the last stage in one of their people-smuggling ratlines. From there, the cargo either vanishes into the banlieues or, for an additional charge, is moved to the United Kingdom or elsewhere. The only reason for Marković being in Paris is to ensure that a delivery will be concluded safely.’

‘Ross said that the Vuksans might be helping terrorists gain access to Europe.’

‘They are,’ said Harris. ‘Terrorists pay well, and the Vuksans don’t ask security questions.’

‘So why don’t you just lift Marković from the street and see how long he can breathe underwater?’

‘For the same reason that you can’t approach Frend directly. If we apprehend Marković now, whoever he’s waiting for will be alerted and the cargo will be lost. Also – and I’m not privy to every detail, so you’ll have to take this on trust – Marković operates through cutouts. He never meets the cargo directly, but monitors proceedings from a distance. And finally, the French don’t take well to foreign agencies operating on their territory without permission, but if we bring them in, you’ll never get to Marković. We could let the French interrogate him, and listen in as guests, but he won’t give up the Vuksans or the others, even if he knows exactly where they are – and my guess is that he doesn’t, just in case he’s picked up.’

Louis had not missed the flash of the blade: if we bring them in, you’ll never get to Marković.

‘You want me to take care of Marković?’ he said.

‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

The hearing aid was in Harris’s right ear, away from Louis, but he appeared to be having no trouble with his left. Louis guessed that Harris could probably hear perfectly well with his right, too. Transmitters and receivers came in all shapes and sizes.

‘You must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m a tourist.’

‘I’m not recording this conversation,’ said Harris.

‘You say.’

‘If I was recording, I’d be more circumspect. If it makes you any happier, yes, we would like you to take care of Marković. We want him wiped from the map. Consider it payment for our help.’

That was all Louis wanted to hear. Harris might not have been recording their conversation, but Louis was.

‘And his cargo?’

‘We’ll look after that. As for the Vuksans themselves, the lawyer is the wedge you need.’

‘And his weakness is his daughter,’ said Louis.

‘That’s right. You ever consider going into the kidnapping business?’

‘No,’ said Louis, ‘but there’s a first time for everything.’