The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter XLVII
Louis had taken the train from Paris to Prague, the long journey made more tolerable by the comforts of first class and the knowledge that he could hold on to one of the Rohrbaugh pistols without fear of awkward security questions. Another Rohrbaugh, the one used to kill Aleksej Marković, was already at the bottom of the Seine, and his Japanese guests had presumably disposed of the remaining pair.
Louis made no calls from the train, and slept between Paris and Frankfurt. For the remainder of the journey, he alternated between newspapers and a copy of James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, which Angel had given to him. Louis had a vague memory of encountering the comic book adaptation when he was younger, which probably hadn’t been the best response to give when Angel had asked if he’d ever read the novel. Now here he was, on a train to Prague, trying to make amends for his ignorance.
Ever since Angel’s illness, Louis had been working his way through a list of the one hundred greatest works of world literature. He was doing well, he felt, just as long as he didn’t go looking at too many rival lists. Surely, he thought, the finest critical minds could have reached a consensus by this stage, permitting a man reasonably to set himself the target of filling the gaps in his literary knowledge without fear that a whole new set of gaps was lurking in the bushes, waiting to be revealed. At this rate, he might never be done with reading.
It was nightfall when the train finally arrived in Prague. Louis had booked himself a room in a small hotel in Malá Strana, on one of the back streets near Kampa Island. There he showered, changed, and touched base with Angel and Hendricksen. He ate alone at U Modré Kachničky on Nebovidksá, where years earlier he had dined with Parker and Angel. Back then, he wouldn’t have bet heavily on their prospects for survival, yet somehow all three of them had endured.
The world, he reflected, was full of surprises.
The following morning, Louis met the man named Most in the basement bar of the Hotel U Prince in Prague’s Old Town Square. Technically, the bar didn’t open until after 5 p.m., but exceptions tended to be made for Most. His nickname translated as ‘bridge’, since Most prided himself on making connections, often between individuals seeking something illegal and the illegal item in question. It also served to describe Most himself. As Angel had once observed, Most could have linked both banks of the Vltava by draping himself across the river. He was a massive figure: grayer now, and walking with the aid of a cane, but still imposing.
‘You appreciate the venue?’ he said to Louis, as he eased himself onto a leather banquette.
The bar was called Black Angel’s. Louis had last come to Prague during the search for a statue – or an entity, depending on one’s beliefs – called the Black Angel. Given the number of people who had ended up dead as a consequence, the choice of bar appealed more to Most’s sense of humor than Louis’s.
‘It’s certainly got atmosphere,’ said Louis.
‘Like a cave,’ said Most. ‘And it’s quiet. Later, there will be many tourists. Now, only us.’
‘Your English seems to have improved since last we met.’
‘I took lessons. We must change with the times, and the times require good English. You want a drink?’
‘It’s too early for me. Just coffee.’
Most looked disappointed. To make up for Louis’s abstemiousness, he ordered two cocktails for himself. They arrived quickly, along with Louis’s coffee, before the bartender left them in peace.
‘What happened to your leg?’ said Louis.
‘Arthritis. It runs in the family.’ Most tasted both of his cocktails, reducing them to one cocktail between two glasses. ‘I also got shot, a long time ago. That did not help.’
‘It wouldn’t.’
Louis added milk to his coffee, but set the sugar aside.
‘I hear you got shot, too,’ said Most, ‘but not so long ago.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Painful?’
‘Then, or now?’
‘Now, obviously. It’s always painful at the time.’
‘A little.’
‘When men like us say “a little”, we mean a lot. You ought to drink more alcohol.’
‘Is it working for you?’
‘Not yet, but that may mean I’m not drinking enough. I’m happy to keep trying until I find the perfect dosage. How is Angel?’
‘He hurts, too.’
‘A bullet?’
‘Cancer.’
Most winced. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘They cut most of it out, poisoned the rest. Angel, I’m happy to say, is very hard to kill.’
Most raised both glasses. ‘Then dobré zdraví,’ he said, ‘for what it’s worth.’
Louis lifted his cup.
‘Good health,’ he said. ‘Have you found Bilbija?’
‘He was not so hard to find,’ said Most, producing a photograph of Luca Bilbija from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. ‘He’s been spending money, which makes a man conspicuous, although this one has been spending it in the right way and in the right places, which makes him less conspicuous.’
Louis moved the photo closer. It was definitely Bilbija.
‘Where was it taken?’
‘At a casino in Zbraslav, south of the city. Very private. He has rented a house nearby, courtesy of the casino owners.’
‘Alone?’
‘Entirely. But there is a difficulty.’
‘Isn’t there always?’
Most added five more pictures to the first. They showed, from various angles, what looked like a fortified blockhouse: a single-story dwelling with narrow windows, surrounded by a high wall. The wall had a vehicle door built into its southern side, leading to a smaller entrance into the main house.
‘This is where he’s living?’ said Louis. He sounded incredulous.
‘It is not, I admit, the home of a man at ease with the world,’ said Most.
He tapped the topmost photo with a straw from one of his drinks.
‘See here? Cameras, on the outer and inner walls. It also has lights triggered by motion sensors, and an alarm connected directly to the casino’s private security system. The door into the house is reinforced steel, and the windows have security shutters of the same material. Even if the power is cut off, the house has a backup generator, and any failure automatically triggers an alert. The casino can also choose to involve the police, if required. There is, I’m informed, an understanding between them.’
Most handed Louis another photo, a trio of men in their fifties, one of whom was pointing a gun directly at the lens of the camera.
‘The Novákovi,’ said Most. ‘They own the casino, and Bilbija’s is one of five properties in the area that they keep for high rollers, the kind who prefer not to stay in hotels. They also rent them to those who may have certain security problems, including temporary difficulties with enemies or the law.’
‘What about that understanding with the police you mentioned?’
‘The police don’t ask questions of the Novákovi, as long as there’s no trouble,’ said Most. ‘Some of them even do security work on the side, officially and unofficially. You see here?’ He indicated the northern corner of Bilbija’s house. ‘That’s the guards’ residence. Two are present at all times. They’re relieved every forty-eight hours. The gate in the outer wall is opened, a car drives in, the occupants are checked by this camera on the inner wall, and only when the guards inside are satisfied that all is well do they open the door to the main house. The guards also take care of deliveries, so they bring in food, wine, women, whatever the guest requires.’
‘Weapons?’
‘Heckler and Koch UMPs, and Phantom pistols. But even if the guards were armed only with small stones, taking Bilbija at the house would not be an option. You might get to him, if you were lucky, but by the time you did, you would be surrounded. Fighting your way out, assuming you could, would involve killing police, and no one would be happy about that, including me.’
‘But Bilbija must leave on occasion,’ said Louis.
‘Only to go to the casino. He eats, he gambles, maybe he takes a woman upstairs to one of the private rooms, then he returns to the house.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Louis. ‘He doesn’t travel alone.’
‘He likes to drive himself – the Audi TT in the second picture is his rental – but an escort car from the casino arrives to bring him in, joined by a police vehicle. One car in front, one behind, and Bilbija in the middle.’
‘And the casino?’
‘No guns are permitted on the premises, or not for guests. There are metal detectors and hand scanners. The cars are parked securely underground, so it would be hard to get at Bilbija’s Audi. As with the house, killing him at the casino would be difficult, but not impossible. Getting away with it is the challenging part. I suppose it is a question of how badly you want him dead.’
‘Very badly.’
‘Ultimately, he will make a mistake. It’s just a matter of time and patience.’
‘I don’t have much of either.’
‘You could contract it out.’
Louis stared at Most.
‘Or maybe not,’ said Most.
‘Show me the route from the house to the casino,’ said Louis, and was pleased to see Most unfold a map of the area instead of using Google Earth on his phone. Most, like Louis, did not like leaving an electronic trail.
‘Here is the property,’ said Most, once again using the straw as a pointer, ‘and this is the casino. The distance between them is three point two kilometers, all of it on private roads through Novákovi land.’
‘So that’s where he’s most vulnerable.’
‘No,’ Most corrected Louis, ‘he is not vulnerable there. We would have to get onto the land unnoticed, which means evading cameras and sensors, then find an ambush point and an escape route after. We are also talking about four armed men, including at least two police, as well as Bilbija himself. Once again, I remind you that we are not in the business of engaging the police in gun battles.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of a firefight.’
‘Maybe an RPG? I can get you a grenade launcher, no problem. It will open the Audi like a tin can and blow Bilbija to pieces. But we’ll still be on foot, pursued by armed men, with more rushing to join them. We won’t get out alive.’
‘I wasn’t considering RPGs either,’ said Louis.
‘What, then?’ said Most. ‘You will ask God to help you obliterate Bilbija from above?’
Louis returned the photographs to Most for disposal.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’