The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter LI
Gavrilo Dražeta’s head hurt, and he had vomited on himself. He was slumped in his favorite armchair, his hands secured behind his back. He had a vague memory of being dragged across the floor of his home and into the living room, but it was more a recollection of movement than actual images. His wife was sitting on the couch opposite, her hands also tied. Behind her stood a huge man with a heavily scarred forehead. In his right hand, he held a long knife. His left rested almost possessively on the head of Dražeta’s wife.
A second man entered from the kitchen. He was carrying a glass of water, which he now placed to Dražeta’s lips.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘drink. It will make you feel better.’
Dražeta drank, because he really did feel very bad. He thought he might be sick again, but he managed to keep the water down. He’d taken blows to the head in the past and hadn’t enjoyed the experience. He knew it would take him days to recover from this latest concussion, assuming he was allowed to live.
The glass was placed on a side table and the second man returned to view. He was smaller than his companion, with sallow skin and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a dark suit and a crisp white shirt without a tie. He moved an upright chair so that it faced Dražeta without obscuring his view of his wife, and sat down.
‘Gavrilo Dražeta,’ he said, ‘killer of Muslims, Croats, and Kosovar Albanians, among others. You’re a wanted man.’
Dražeta did not answer. There was no point in either confirming or denying it.
‘Does your wife know about the blood on your hands? Should I share with her the details? But then, who has that kind of time? There is, after all, so much blood, and we don’t have very long. She will, I think, have to take it on trust.’
‘Who are you?’ said Dražeta.
‘My name is Mr Rafi. I’m here to ask you some questions. I expect you to answer them honestly, because I’ll know if you’re lying. The first time you lie, my colleague will cut off one of your wife’s ears. The second time, he’ll cut off her other ear, then her nose, and finally, he’ll progress to her eyes. But frankly, I don’t imagine we’ll be forced to resort to that level of savagery, not unless you really hate your wife. Do you hate your wife, Gavrilo?’
‘No.’
‘Not even a little? Because most men do.’
‘No.’
‘Good,’ said Mr Rafi. ‘So, tell me: Where are the Vuksans?’
The scarred man washed the blade clean in the sink, overseen by Mr Rafi. Gavrilo Dražeta was dead, but his wife remained alive. She had watched her husband’s throat being cut before she passed out, and was now lying bound and gagged in the basement of the house. Someone would find her, eventually. Perhaps, Mr Rafi thought, it might have been wiser to kill her, but he was a devout man. Did the Holy Quran not state that ‘he who slays a soul, unless it be in punishment for murder or for spreading mischief on earth, shall be as if he had slain all mankind’? The killing of Gavrilo Dražeta was justified on both counts, but his wife was blameless – or her fault was not so grave as to merit death. Mr Rafi knew that others might have questioned his reasoning, but they were not present. He was scrupulous in his sadism, which he found enhanced the pleasure, and the Prophet’s true enemies were virtually numberless.
He checked his watch. It was time to leave. Two seats had already been booked on the evening flight from Frankfurt to Vienna, and he hoped to have the current unfortunate state of affairs resolved within days. It was he who had been entrusted with the responsibility of getting the two Syrians safely to Europe, and his failure to do so had left him in disfavor. The Vuksans would have to pay so that he would not.
He listened for a moment before departing the house. Dražeta’s wife was quiet, and the scarred man had locked the basement door. In time someone would free her to mourn her husband. For now, she could contemplate the nature of the defects and iniquities that had cost him his life.
The scarred man dried the knife and followed Mr Rafi across the yard to the car.
In the basement of the farmhouse, Willa lay still and silent. Her eyes were closed but her throat was open, and her blood soaked the dirt floor.
In her final moments, the scarred man had been almost gentle with her.