The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XXXI

Louis and Harris spoke for a while longer, but Louis understood that Harris had provided all the intelligence that was likely to be forthcoming, at least for the present.

‘Should I ask about weapons?’ said Harris, as he reached for his hat and coat.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Louis.

‘I figured you’d have your own sources, but I thought it was only polite to offer.’

Harris recited a telephone number, which Louis didn’t write down, but memorized. It was a US number, with a 571 area code.

‘It’s message-only,’ said Harris, ‘but if you call, I’ll get back to you immediately.’

Louis thought that 571 might be Virginia, in which case he would have bet a crisp dollar bill that the number would ring somewhere in Langley, home of the CIA. He decided that he’d have to be in a whole lot of trouble before he called it.

Angel arrived to check on Louis.

‘Did I miss something,’ said Angel, ‘other than a round of drinks?’

‘This is Harris,’ said Louis, ‘or maybe Hermes, if you want to view him as a luxury lifestyle choice. Personally, I prefer Harris. Harris, this is Angel.’

The two men shook hands.

‘Ross warned me about you,’ said Harris to Angel. ‘Is it true that you’re tormenting Connie Holt about restroom keys?’

Ross’s superior was being driven slowly crazy by a series of anonymous missives claiming knowledge of a secret network of FBI restrooms situated in strategic locations around the United States. The latest communication received by Holt had included a packet of Dr Singha’s Mustard Bath (single size) from the National Mustard Museum in Middleton, Wisconsin; a desk calendar from the Museum of Bad Art in Somerville, Massachusetts; and a framed wreath made from human hair, stolen from Leila’s Hair Museum in Independence, Missouri, and repurposed by replacing the photo of a deceased nineteenth-century woman at its heart with a picture of Conrad Holt himself. This final artifact had particularly enraged the FBI man, who was sensitive about his hairline. Each item came with a key attached, and a typed note complaining that the key in question did not fit the lock to the restroom. As with a number of the most recent letters to Holt, the envelope used was stamped Greetings from the Great Lost Bear, Portland, Maine. Remember: Good Bears Eat Their Honey! Holt was now of the opinion that the bar in question should be raided and its owners taken into custody. If they were not actively involved in his persecution, they were facilitating it by permitting the use of one of their rubber stamps.

‘Holt,’ said Angel, his face assuming an expression of wounded innocence that would not have shamed the Archangel Gabriel himself. ‘I gotta say, the name doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘You boys sail close to the wind, I’ll give you that,’ said Harris. ‘It was good talking to you. I wish you good luck in your endeavors.’

They watched him leave.

‘Another legat?’ said Angel.

‘No, a spook,’ said Louis. ‘He says he’s retired, but that’s like claiming to be an ex-alcoholic.’

‘Did he help?’

‘Some,’ said Louis. ‘He gave us a lead, and a bead on our first target.’

‘Here?’

‘Paris.’

‘When do we leave?’

‘I leave for Paris in the morning. You don’t.’

‘So what am I doing?’

‘You’re going to London,’ said Louis. ‘You’re about to arrange a kidnapping.’

Louis, Angel, and Hendricksen ate that evening at Mama Makan, an Indonesian restaurant on the Spinozastraat recommended by Hendricksen. When they were done, Hendricksen took them to the house in which De Jaager and the others had died. There was no indication that anything untoward had occurred there, beyond a strip of red-and-white tape and a police notice in Dutch that Louis did not require a translation to comprehend.

‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ said Hendricksen. ‘There’s nothing to see, except blood.’

‘Then I’ll look at blood,’ said Louis. ‘What about an alarm?’

‘Deactivated since the killings.’

Angel took care of the new lock with his own pick set. Hendricksen stayed outside by the canal to keep watch, although little danger remained of the police or anyone else coming to investigate further. He simply had no desire to enter that building again. He watched Angel and Louis go inside, the door closing softly behind them, and felt a chill enter his bones.

The shutters were drawn, but both Angel and Louis carried small flashlights, the bezels wrapped with Scotch tape to narrow the beams, thereby reducing the risk of attracting attention. The bloodstains had turned to ocher, but Louis thought that he could still taste copper on his tongue and pick up the smell of a charnel house. The two men moved from room to room, first downstairs, then upstairs, concluding in the bedroom where the women had died. They exchanged no words, but instead bore silent witness. Theirs was an act of empathy, an attempt to grasp the depth of the suffering that had occurred here. The photographs might have been enough for some, but not for them. Sometimes you had to walk the ground. This they had learned from the private detective named Charlie Parker.

Finally they returned to the front door. Angel opened it slightly and waited for Hendricksen to confirm that it was safe to leave. He nodded once, and they joined him by the water.

‘So?’ said Hendricksen.

‘As you warned us: blood,’ said Louis.

‘I’d like to say that I’d never seen so much before,’ said Hendricksen, ‘but it would be a lie.’

‘I don’t understand it.’

‘Is there something to understand?’

‘All that pain,’ said Louis, ‘just to avenge a life as worthless as Timmerman’s.’

Hendricksen stared into the dark water of the canal. ‘Spiridon Vuksan may be insane. I hope so. It would be more frightening were he not.’

‘What about the men with him, and his brother?’

‘His men are rapists and butchers, and if Radovan ever had a conscience, it was extirpated a long time ago. So what now?’

‘I have some calls to make,’ said Louis, ‘and you need to book a flight.’

‘To where?’

‘Vienna.’

‘The lawyer?’

‘Yes,’ said Louis, ‘the lawyer.’