The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XLII

Frend arrived at Belgrade’s Nikola Tesla Airport feeling vulnerable and exposed. He was here representing men whom many might have preferred to see dead. It was possible that Frend was walking into a trap instead of a negotiation, and might soon find himself in a basement in Palilula with a blowtorch being applied to his genitals before vinegar was poured onto the wounds.

Frend knew all about the Serbs’ interrogation methods. Radovan Vuksan had sometimes spoken of them over postprandial drinks, although he had differentiated between torture for the purposes of eliciting information and torture for its own sake. Burning and vinegar were best for persuading someone to talk, but pure sadism offered more scope for experimentation – theoretically, at least. It had been a source of some regret to Radovan that his countrymen displayed a marked lack of imagination when it came to inflicting suffering on others. Bats, chains, axes, and blades were the preferred instruments of the Serbs, Radovan explained, the sessions fueled by tequila, vodka, narcotics, and violent pornography. Oh, and rape: the Serbs enjoyed using sexual assault as torment for both men and women. Now, in Belgrade, such abstractions were assuming disturbingly concrete forms for Anton Frend.

There was also the small matter of Nikola Musulin’s head. Despite a careful search of the ruins of Tri Lovca and the immediate vicinity, the head had still not been recovered, and Musulin had finally been laid to rest without it. The Vuksans believed that the head might have been taken away by those responsible for the explosion, an act designed to further antagonize and humiliate Musulin’s family and allies. Musulin’s widow very much wanted the head restored to her in order that it might be placed in the coffin with the remains of her husband – ‘remains’, in this case, being the operative word, since the C4 had contrived to separate Musulin into a great many pieces, and he weighed much less in death than in life. One of Frend’s tasks would be to establish if, in fact, the head was in the possession of Matija Kiš or Simo Stajić, both of whom would be at the meeting, and potentially secure its safe return.

All of these thoughts passed through Frend’s mind as his passport was examined for what felt like a very long time before the stamp was applied and he was admitted to the country. He went straight to the exit, carrying only his overnight bag, and was relieved to see the familiar face of Miloje, who had regularly driven him around Belgrade in better times. Miloje, Frend knew, was distantly related to the Vuksans. They trusted him, even after all that had occurred, which was why he had been given the task of picking up Frend from the airport. Miloje was a mute: Bosniak soldiers in Konjic had removed his tongue with hot pincers during the war. In his pocket he kept a notebook in which he wrote questions or comments. In addition to his native Serbian, Miloje also understood English, German, and a little French. In his notebook he now scribbled the question Hotel? and showed it to Frend.

‘No,’ said Frend, ‘let’s go straight to the restaurant.’

He had reserved a room at a boutique hotel in Vračar, but the delayed flight had cost him two precious hours, and he did not think it would be politic to arrive late for the meeting. Miloje showed Frend to a gray Audi, sheltering him from the rain with a black umbrella. They then crawled toward the city, Belgrade’s notorious traffic rendered even more chaotic by the bad weather. Serbian flags hung from every second lamppost along the motorway, a reminder, if any were needed, that Serb nationalism remained a potent force. The journey was soundtracked by a cacophony of blaring horns, and accompanied by a cortege of taxi drivers measuring out their lives in missed fares.

Frend’s cell phone rang. Only Radovan had the new number.

‘Where are you?’

‘Passing the Sava Centar,’ said Frend, naming the huge Tito-era conference facility close to the river. ‘The flight was late, but I’ll soon be at the meeting place.’

‘Good, because I just received a call.’

‘From?’

‘A North African client inquiring about a lost delivery.’

Frend knew the substance, if not the details, of the botched operation in Paris.

‘What did you say?’

‘That we were looking into the reasons for the failure.’

‘And?’

‘It did not diminish the client’s unhappiness,’ said Radovan. ‘He has requested a meeting. Naturally, I demurred.’

‘Naturally,’ said Frend. As if their situation wasn’t bad enough, the Vuksans now had homicidal religious lunatics trying to track them down. ‘Did you offer to return the portion of the fee already paid?’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

Frend wasn’t, and told Radovan so. He watched a pair of police cars speed by, followed by an ambulance: an accident farther up the road, which might have explained some, but not all, of the delay. This was Belgrade, so there was always an accident somewhere.

‘I now believe,’ said Radovan wearily, ‘that the reputational damage suffered would not be undone by a refund, even were we willing or able to offer it. We need that money. I’m informing you of the complaint only because it makes reaching a settlement with Belgrade even more urgent than before.’

‘I understand. Do you think Belgrade knows about your involvement with the cargo?’

‘I hope not, but you’ll find out soon enough.’

Frend noticed that his left hand was shaking. He used the armrest to steady it as the Audi reached the Gazela Bridge and crossed the Sava. The traffic began to ease. Miloje was texting as he drove. Frend tried to read the message, but it was in Serbian. Miloje glanced at him in the rearview mirror before returning his attention to the road. An earlier conversation with Radovan came back to Frend:

I would trust Miloje with my life.

You’re not trusting him with your life, but with mine.

‘I remain concerned for my safety,’ Frend now said to Radovan, as the connection briefly lapsed.

‘You should have told me that before you left Vienna,’ said Radovan.

‘I did.’

‘I mustn’t have been paying attention.’

‘Would it have made any difference if you had?’

‘None at all,’ said Radovan, before killing the call.

The Cathedral Church of St. Michael the Archangel was now coming into sight, which meant that they were near the location for the meeting. After some back-and-forth, it had been agreed that it should take place at a neutral venue, and one some distance from Skadarlija, where the unfortunate Nikola Musulin had met his end. This was not a question of sensitivity, since those willing to blow a man apart before stealing his severed head were unlikely to be troubled by the feelings of his bereaved intimates. Yet even allowing for a degree of collusion between the authorities and the killers, it would still have been unwise for those suspected of involvement in Musulin’s assassination to be seen wining and dining within shouting distance of the crime scene. The Serbian media might be largely cowed or corrupted, with the few remaining quality publications struggling to survive, but one could not underestimate the tenacity of a handful of principled journalists and newspaper proprietors, or the anonymity of the internet. It would be embarrassing, at the minimum, were pictures of a gathering of the alleged conspirators to have appeared in Danas or online, particularly if Frend were also to be identified.

No, better to steer clear of Skadarlija entirely, which was why an appropriately removed site had been rented for private use. The tavern was among the oldest in the city, with dark wood floors, low chairs and stools, and waitstaff in white shirts and black waistcoats. The separate dining area had blue check tablecloths, and served a traditional menu that changed according to the mood of the chef, while the walls were decorated with paintings of brooding Serbian landscapes and the ruins of ancient fortresses.

Miloje found a place to park before escorting Frend into the bar. Two men were seated at one of the tables to the left of the door, wearing the ubiquitous cheap leather jackets of the professionally thuggish. They were drinking coffee, and nodded at Miloje, who nodded back. Miloje held his hands out from his sides, inviting a search. One of the men rose and scanned Miloje with a handheld metal detector before patting him down, just in case he’d accessorized with a ceramic blade or rigged himself to explode as an act of revenge. They didn’t even bother checking Frend. Perhaps, Frend thought, he didn’t look like a threat, or they were betting that a lawyer wouldn’t be self-sacrificing enough to lay down his life for a client, in which case they would have been absolutely correct.

Miloje took a seat at the table to the right of the door, leaving Frend to proceed into the restaurant. Three more bodyguards were arranged inside, two by the window and the other by the far wall, and only one of the tables was set for dinner. Two men were already waiting at it, drinking Vinjak XO brandy as an aperitif.

Frend had met Matija Kiš on a number of occasions, finding him to be uninteresting company, although Radovan had advised against underestimating him and, it seemed, had been right. Kiš was tall and dark-haired, but most of the color came from a bottle. He was wearing a slim-cut black suit that looked a size too small, even though Kiš was not a particularly heavy man. Frend blamed the Daniel Craig incarnation of James Bond, whose Tom Ford suits were too tight and narrow-shouldered for someone of his build. A whole generation of would-be sophisticates had now grown up believing that a man’s suit jacket should be cut an inch too short and ripple outward from the center button.

Seated to Kiš’s left was Simo Stajić, whom Frend knew only from photographs. Frend did not believe Stajić had ever owned a suit. Even at funerals, Stajić dressed as though he operated a market stall selling stolen cell phones: jeans, a leather jacket, a shirt that could have been mistaken for designer wear only in poor light, and anonymous sneakers for a speedy getaway. Whatever Stajić spent his money on, it wasn’t fashion. He kept his head shaved and had the build of a long-distance runner. He blinked a lot, so that his eyes resembled the shutters of a camera perpetually recording everything they saw, and he smoked obsessively, even by Serbian standards. Already the ashtray before him held four butts, and Frend was only a few minutes late.

Both men stood to shake his hand – Kiš firmly, with a double grip, in the manner of a politician seeking reelection, and Stajić more desultorily, possibly because he had to switch the cigarette to his left hand to do so, thus depriving himself of valuable smoking time. Frend was relieved not to be subjected to the ritual of kisses, at least.

‘You had a good flight?’ said Kiš in English. Frend wondered if it was for Stajić’s benefit. Radovan was of the opinion that Stajić did not know German, but had learned English because it was the international language of criminality.

‘We were delayed,’ said Frend.

‘So I understand. May I offer you an aperitif? It’s very good.’

‘It’s very strong.’

‘That, too. But strong is good, right?’

‘I’ll stick with wine,’ said Frend. ‘Prokupac, please.’

Kiš passed the order to a waiter, and a bottle was produced. Almost as soon as the wine was poured, food began to appear: salads and flatbreads, followed by a variety of meats, including kidneys and pig trotters. Frend avoided the latter and ate only lightly of the meats. He preferred the new Serbian cooking to this more traditional fare. There was, he had long ago decided, only so much that even the best of chefs could accomplish with grilled flesh. He and Kiš kept up a polite conversation, touching on sport, culture, the weather – anything but the real reason for Frend’s presence in the city. Stajić didn’t contribute much beyond the occasional grunt, and kept a cigarette burning throughout the meal, but Frend saw that he was listening intently, his eyes moving back and forth between the interlocutors. It made Frend wonder which of the two, Kiš or Stajić, was the real power here.

Finally, when they had all eaten their fill, having barely made inroads into most of the food, the table was cleared, coffee was poured, and they got down to business.

‘So how is Spiridon?’ said Kiš. ‘And please don’t tell me he’s the same as ever or I shall be disappointed at his continued inability to evolve.’

‘He is concerned,’ said Frend, ‘as is Radovan.’

‘Oh, Radovan I can believe is concerned. Radovan is always concerned. Spiridon, I imagine, is more than that.’

‘Enraged, then. Is that more acceptable?’

‘Accurate, perhaps. Acceptable is another matter.’

‘May I speak frankly?’ said Frend.

‘There is little point in your being here if you do not.’

‘Spiridon thinks you may have some knowledge of who killed Nikola Musulin.’

Which was a diplomatic way of putting it. Frend did not even glance at Stajić, the man who was probably responsible for planting the explosives that ended Musulin’s life, because the lawyer remained hopeful of making it back to Vienna alive.

Kiš’s expression of benevolent interest did not alter.

‘And if I did?’ he said. ‘Would Spiridon want revenge?’

‘Spiridon wants only to come home. He wishes to spend his remaining years by a lake in the mountains.’

‘In peace, with no thoughts of vengeance?’

‘In peace. As for his thoughts, they cannot be policed, but his intentions are clear.’

‘Really?’ said Kiš. ‘If so, it would be the first time.’

Now Stajić spoke. His voice was raspy, and his breath smelled of a thousand ashtrays.

‘Where are they?’ he said. ‘Where are the Vuksans?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘But you know?’

‘Actually, I don’t. I felt it was wiser to dwell in ignorance.’

‘Safer, too,’ Kiš suggested.

‘Indeed.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Stajić.

‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Frend.

‘Yes,’ said Stajić, ‘it is.’

Kiš made a calming gesture to his colleague. Stajić lit another cigarette, puffed on it until the tip glowed red, then held it upright just outside Frend’s field of vision. Frend could almost feel the heat of it close to his ear.

‘If they are in hiding,’ said Kiš, ‘which they are, of course, from whom are they hiding? Us?’

‘Among others,’ said Frend.

‘They have no need to hide from us,’ said Kiš. ‘No one wants more deaths. It would draw too much attention.’

‘But one can always disappear, which is less awkward,’ said Frend. ‘And a death can be postponed.’

‘Your clients have bigger problems elsewhere. Soon an Interpol Red Notice will be issued in their names, or so we have been informed. That’s what you get for crucifying an old man these days, unless you’re an ISIS Turk.’

A Red Notice was a request to locate and arrest a suspect, pending extradition. It was the modern equivalent of the Wanted posters that had once been put up outside sheriffs’ offices in the American West. Frend had been aware that a Red Notice for the Vuksans might be on the horizon, but so far his sources had suggested it was not imminent. Kiš might have access to more recent intelligence but Frend doubted it. Still, the man’s confidence worried him.

‘There are places they can go,’ said Frend, ‘countries in which Red Notices are difficult to enforce.’

‘Yes, North Korea,’ said Kiš. ‘Or perhaps the Vatican. They can convert to communism or Catholicism!’

He laughed, noticed he was the only one doing so, and stopped.

‘If Interpol doesn’t get the Vuksans, ISIS will,’ he said.

Which meant, Frend realized, that Kiš knew about the events in Paris. That was regrettable, and weakened the Vuksans’ bargaining position.

‘And if ISIS doesn’t,’ Kiš continued, ‘someone else might. Maybe that someone has already started.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you think Aleksej Marković was really killed by the French? I hear that Marković was already dead when the police found him.’

Frend might have been a lawyer, and therefore gifted – or cursed – with a lawyer’s countenance, but he could not entirely hide the fact that this was news to him.

‘The Vuksans didn’t tell you?’ said Kiš. ‘Of course, why would they? You’d only have begun to worry. You might even have considered abandoning them to their fate. The Dutchman, De Jaager, had friends, the kind it doesn’t pay to antagonize. Your clients have made those friends very angry.’

‘How do you know this?’ said Frend.

Kiš tapped a forefinger to the side of his head. ‘Common sense. Also, questions are being asked, inquiries that come with the promise of rewards attached. Money is being put on the streets in an effort to trace the Vuksans. Soon, they’ll make a mistake. They’ll turn the wrong corner, board the wrong train, look out the wrong window. Then a call will be made, and – poof!’

Kiš made a gesture with his hands, as of something vanishing – or exploding.

‘So where does that leave us?’ said Frend.

‘It leaves you as buyers in a seller’s market,’ said Kiš. ‘The Vuksans wish to purchase a comfortable old age in their homeland, where any attempt at extradition will move at the pace of a dead man. Here they can live out their lives, perhaps under new names, safe in the knowledge that Serbia will not join the EU until 2025 at the earliest, by which time their sins will have been forgotten, if not forgiven. They’ll have their own people around them, which will make them harder to target, either by the Turks or the friends of the Dutchman. It seems to me that the guarantee of such an untroubled existence must come at a price, not to mention a secondary sum to be set aside as a guarantee of good behavior, just in case Spiridon begins to confuse thought with action.’

‘How much?’ said Frend.

‘Four million euros,’ said Kiš, ‘with a further two million to be placed in escrow, half to be returned to the Vuksans’ beneficiaries following the death of each man, minus a twenty percent holding fee. Should the Vuksans breach the terms of the agreement, which broadly means displaying any signs of aggression, the money becomes forfeit and they will be killed.’

This time, Frend managed not to give away his thoughts.

‘I’ll have to discuss it with my clients,’ he said.

‘Take all the time you want,’ said Kiš. ‘We’re in no hurry.’

Stajić placed a hand on Frend’s right arm.

‘Or you could just tell us where they are,’ he said, his eyelids fluttering.

‘Yes,’ Kiš concurred, ‘you could just tell us that.’

‘I repeat,’ said Frend, ‘I don’t know where they are. They were relocated through a third party so I could work without being vulnerable to coercion.’

Stajić’s grip grew tighter. He kept his nails very sharp, and Frend could feel them pricking at his skin.

‘Yet you are still vulnerable here and in Vienna,’ said Stajić, ‘regardless of what you do or do not know.’

Frend waited them out. He had no choice. Eventually, Stajić’s grip eased. Kiš, meanwhile, was smiling again.

‘Go back to Vienna, Herr Frend,’ he said. ‘Talk to your clients. We look forward to hearing their response to our proposal.’

Frend did not move from his chair.

‘There is one more thing,’ he said. ‘It relates to Nikola Musulin.’

‘You know,’ said Kiš, ‘I was just about to talk to you about Nikola. I think we may have found something that belonged to him.’

Kiš waved his right hand and one of the bodyguards came forward with a velvet bag. Its contents were roughly circular, and rolled slightly as the bag was placed on the table before Frend.

‘Feel free to open it,’ said Kiš. ‘But if I were you, I’d just accept our word that it’s his.’

Frend picked up the bag. He had never held a severed head before, so he could not say that it was lighter or heavier than anticipated. It was just a head.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

‘Of course you will,’ said Kiš. Stajić only blinked.

Frend walked through to the bar area, where he was relieved to find Miloje still waiting. Miloje led the way to the Audi, neither man looking back, yet both fearing to hear the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Hendricksen took fresh pictures of Frend and the driver, concealed by the smoked glass of a Mercedes. As the Audi pulled away, Dušan asked if Hendricksen wanted to follow the car, but he demurred. He was waiting to see who else might emerge from the tavern. Barely two minutes later, the door opened and the first of the bodyguards appeared, checking the street, to be followed by Matija Kiš and Simo Stajić.

‘Fuck,’ said Dušan. ‘Put the camera away.’

‘They can’t see us,’ said Hendricksen.

‘I don’t care. Put it away.’

Hendricksen did. He had the shots he needed.

‘Who are they?’ he said, as Kiš, Stajić, and the others climbed into a pair of BMW people carriers.

‘Devils,’ said Dušan.

‘There are no devils,’ said Hendricksen, ‘only men who act like them.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Dušan, as he started the engine, ‘but then, you don’t have to live here.’

In the back of the Audi, the severed head beside him, Frend was writing down the license number of the Mercedes. Miloje had spotted it shortly before they entered the city. Frend thought it might have been sent by Kiš or Stajić to keep an eye on them, but he had reconsidered when he saw it parked near the bar as they emerged, the driver still in place.

Miloje was writing in his notebook with his right hand while driving with his left. He showed the page to Frend. The message read Do Not Go To Hotel.

‘Where, then?’ said Frend, and Miloje raised a hand to let him know that the matter was being taken care of.

They drove for half an hour, making cutbacks and illegal turns until Miloje was sure they were not being followed, before stopping at a surburban hotel frequented by Eastern European tourists on strict budgets. Miloje went inside and came out a short time later with a key. He returned to the notebook and wrote Stay In Your Room.

‘What about tomorrow?’ said Frend. ‘I have to fly back to Vienna.’

Not From Belgrade. Timisoara.

Timisoara Airport was in Romania, about 160 kilometers away, by Frend’s reckoning.

‘How?’

We Drive.

‘When?’

5 a.m.

Frend thanked him. There was no one at reception as he passed, and he entered his room unnoticed. It contained a single bed, a television that did not work, and a bathroom that reeked of human waste.

Six million euros. The Vuksans did not have access to such funds. Even had they been able to lay their hands on that kind of money, it was a deliberately absurd price. Kiš and Stajić wanted the Vuksans dead. Had Frend gone to his original hotel, Stajić’s people would have been waiting in his room. He would have been drugged and removed without fuss. Then, in some quiet basement that smelled of vinegar and burning, Stajić would have gone to work on him.

Frend stayed awake until Miloje came to collect him the following morning. Only when they crossed the Romanian border did he begin to feel safe, and he did not truly relax until he was on the Tarom-Romanian Air flight to Bucharest with an onward connection to Vienna.

As for the velvet bag, Miloje delivered it to Nikola Musulin’s widow.

He did not stay to watch her open it.

But he did hear her screams.