The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter XLIII

At thirty-one, Luca Bilbija was the youngest of the men who had assisted the Vuksans on the night De Jaager and the others were murdered. He had known only that a final job was to be done, one that would necessitate violence, after which he would receive a bonus and be free to seek employment elsewhere, if he chose; alternatively, he could return with the Vuksans to Serbia, where Radovan had promised him a position as his personal driver and bodyguard.

In common with Radovan, Bilbija was an avid reader, and they shared an affection for early twentieth-century Serbian poetry. Bilbija had a degree in Serbian Literature and Language from the University of Belgrade, and had intended continuing his studies at the postgraduate level until the family’s money ran out, forcing him to consider working for a living instead. Unfortunately, jobs were not in plentiful supply in Belgrade, and even less so in his home village in the east, close to the Danubian border with Romania. The village boasted three hundred houses but only two hundred inhabitants. Those with ambition, or of sufficient desperation, had departed to work in other countries – Austria, in the main – leaving the rest to survive as best they could. It was, like so many other Serbian communities, fit only for old men and women, and then barely. Bilbija had not wanted to go back there, but neither was he convinced that he wished to wait tables in Viennese restaurants or deliver parcels from a van in Berlin.

And then, through Zivco Ilić, who was a friend of Bilbija’s uncle, he was offered a door position at one of the Vuksans’ clubs in Amsterdam. After a couple of weeks of bouncing drunks, he was assigned the task of driving prostitutes to their clients; Bilbija might have possessed the heart of a poet, but it was housed in the body of a wrestler. He liked his new role, and took a proprietorial interest in the young women under his care, although this did not stop him from inflicting pain on them when they tried to hold money back,

Six months into his time in Amsterdam, he helped Zivco Ilić dispose of a body. The victim was a dealer who had begun to dip into his own supply and ended up owing the Vuksans more money than he could ever hope to pay. He was given one chance to make up for his lack of self-control by transporting a consignment of heroin from Amsterdam to Brussels. Unfortunately, his drug-induced paranoia led him to believe that he was being followed by the police – or possibly demons dressed as police, the precise details were unclear – which caused him to dump all five kilos in a pond near Brecht.

Ilić and Bilbija tracked him to an unfurnished room in Matonge, which Ilić proceeded to redecorate with the dealer’s blood while Bilbija waited outside in the car. When Ilić had finished, he summoned Bilbija to help cut up the victim and place the remains in black bags, which would then be dumped at various locations around Brussels. Unfortunately, just as they began cutting off his arms, it became apparent that the dealer was not as dead as Ilić had believed, but Bilbija finished him off before he could make too much of a racket. Bilbija had never killed anyone before. He found the experience messy but interesting, and later wrote a poem about it in the modernist style of Vasko Popa.

After that incident, Bilbija became an integral part of the Vuksan hierarchy, especially once the Vuksans assumed complete control of operations in Amsterdam. He took his orders from both brothers, but always ran Spiridon’s commands past Radovan before proceeding. In this way, a certain amount of unnecessary violence was avoided, if at the cost of complete trust between Spiridon and Bilbija. This trust had been further eroded by Bilbija’s refusal actively to engage in rape and femicide at the house in Amsterdam. He might have been prepared to hurt females, but he drew the line at killing them himself, and he was not a rapist. Among his tribe, Luca Bilbija was what passed for a man of principle.

Bilbija did not like what he had witnessed at De Jaager’s safe house. It had caused him to reconsider his future relationship with Radovan Vuksan. He was aware that the Dutch police would soon connect the Vuksans to the killings, and it was entirely possible that he would be connected to them in turn. This seemed terribly unfair. He had not harmed anyone at the safe house. He had tied the women to the beds, and later helped nail De Jaager to a wall, but by then the old man was already dead. Bilbija’s role in what had occurred was, therefore, largely limited to driving and cleaning up after, and in his view hardly merited a custodial sentence.

When the Vuksans’ situation grew more complicated following the death of Nikola Musulin, Bilbija decided that his period of employment with them had come to its natural end. He had privately informed Radovan Vuksan of his decision to leave the fold while they were hiding out at the farmhouse of Gavrilo Dražeta. Radovan had placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered:

‘Say nothing of this to Spiridon or the others. For now, you remain one of us.’

‘Why?’ said Bilbija.

‘Because circumstances have changed,’ said Radovan. ‘We are wanted men, and any desire to depart will be viewed by Spiridon as a prelude to treachery. He will have you killed the moment you turn your back on him. Zivco will do it in a heartbeat.’

‘But Zivco is my friend.’ Bilbija was surprised to hear his voice catch with emotion.

‘You have no friends, not even me.’

‘Then why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I’ve read your poetry,’ said Radovan. ‘You are a terrible poet, but better to be a terrible poet than no poet at all.’

So Bilbija had kept his mouth shut, and within hours events had swung in his favor. Radovan had prevailed upon Spiridon to split his forces to avoid attracting attention. Aleksej Marković was on his way to Paris anyway, and Bilbija was told to lie low but remain in contact. Radovan had given him the number of the lawyer Frend in Vienna, and an email address that would be checked four times daily. On Radovan’s instructions, Bilbija had headed east, to Prague, which was no great imposition. Bilbija had always loved the city, and thought that if he had to hide out somewhere, at least it might as well be in a place for which he had some affection.

Luca Bilbija’s particular vice was gambling, but he did not enjoy wagering in solitude and took no pleasure from staring at a screen. He relished the ambience of casinos, the excited anticipation of men and women waiting on the spin of a wheel or the turn of a card. He liked gaming tables, and the smell of a new deck. He did not consider gambling to be a character flaw because he was both lucky and careful, and so won more often than he lost. But as any gambler will tell you, luck always runs out eventually, and that is when a man becomes most reckless.

Prague had no shortage of casinos.

And people were watching and listening for Luca Bilbija.