The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter LXXV

Bob Johnston had sent Angel another video of Pia Lackner. She was holding a copy of that morning’s Guardian in front of her, the date clearly visible. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Either Rosanna Bellingham was a gifted makeup artist or the strain was beginning to get to Lackner. Whatever the reason, it added to the authenticity of the footage. Angel had already ditched the SIM card used for the earlier contact with Frend and used a new SIM to forward the latest video to him, along with a message that read Five Minutes. Five minutes and five seconds later, Angel called Frend from the crowds by the Kunsthistorisches Museum, where his was just one more phone among many.

‘See,’ said Angel, his voice once again distorted, ‘your daughter is safe and well.’

‘She’s not safe, and she doesn’t look well,’ said Frend. ‘What have you been doing to her?’

‘Maybe we’ve been telling her stories about the company you keep. You’re a grave disappointment to her, but then, you probably already knew that.’

‘I’m doing my best to make up for it now,’ said Frend.

‘I’m sure that will be a source of solace to her – if she lives.’

Angel heard Frend draw a deep breath, but otherwise the lawyer’s voice displayed no signs of stress. Angel almost admired his equanimity, even as it caused him to suspect that Louis was probably right, and something deep inside Frend had been corrupted to the point of near-extinction.

‘The passports are ready,’ said Frend. ‘The handover takes place tomorrow morning.’

‘Where?’

‘The Cemetery of the Nameless, at Simmering.’

‘When?’

‘Six a.m.’

‘Will the Vuksans be present?’

‘No, only Zivco Ilić and me. Ilić is bringing the money.’

‘How much?’

‘One million euros.’

‘That’s a lot for, what, two or three passports?’

‘Three. There was a surcharge for rapid turnover, as well as the problematical legal status of the beneficiaries.’ Not to mention his cut, which Frend didn’t.

‘That’s a very polite way of describing a trio of murderers.’

‘And what words would a kidnapper prefer to use?’

‘That’s very clever,’ said Angel. ‘I’ll ask my friends to consult your daughter and see what she advises.’

‘I withdraw the question,’ said Frend.

‘I thought you might,’ said Angel. ‘How are you getting to the cemetery?’

‘By rental car from my hotel. Ilić will meet me there.’

‘Why are you staying at a hotel when you have a house and an apartment in the city?’ Angel asked.

‘Because your people were following me,’ said Frend.

Angel thought on his feet. ‘You wouldn’t have seen my people. Give me the name of the hotel, and tell me what these others looked like.’

Frend’s description wasn’t detailed, but it didn’t have to be. Angel immediately identified them as Mr Rafi and his protector, which wasn’t much of a surprise.

‘They worry me,’ said Frend.

‘They should, but we’ll take care of them. Consider it a goodwill gesture – or proof of our seriousness. Whichever makes you more comfortable.’

‘To be honest,’ said Frend, ‘neither does.’

‘To be honest,’ said Angel, ‘I don’t care.’

Angel and Louis met for dinner at China Kitchen No. 27 on Linke Wienzeile, in what passed for Vienna’s Chinatown. Both of them had eaten enough Austrian food for the time being, and Sichuan appealed. The spiciness was enough to make Angel sweat, which was always a good sign. They were one of only two Western couples in the restaurant, the other being a pair of young Scandinavian tourists who spent their time taking photos of their food and conversing in what sounded like Danish. The rest of the tables appeared to be occupied entirely by noisy Chinese family groups. It meant that Louis and Angel could converse without the Austrian police listening in, unless the force had a vast resource of elderly Chinese operatives or Instagram-obsessed Danes upon which to draw. Anyway, Angel thought that the police had largely lost interest in him for the present. Some of the detectives might have entertained doubts about aspects of his story, but not enough to justify trailing him around Vienna.

They ordered double-cooked pork belly and peppery Dan Dan noodles, and stuck to beer for the main courses, with green tea to follow. The pot of tea had just arrived at their table when Louis received a call with a Virginia area code. He stepped outside to take it.

‘We think that’s a throwaway phone Rafi is using,’ said Harris.

‘Duh,’ said Louis. ‘If that’s the kind of expertise my tax dollars are buying back home, I may have to relocate to North Korea.’

‘We also believe it’s been reserved solely for contact with you. It’s only been used once in the last five days, in Salzburg, and then for a call that wasn’t answered.’

‘A test.’

‘Most likely,’ said Harris.

Either Rafi was very confident of hearing from him, Louis thought, or that phone was just one of a bunch sitting on a table somewhere, plugged into a mass of power outlets, while bored men with beards took turns monitoring them for incoming calls. Some or all of those calls might not even be answered, but would be used solely to instigate a callback, in all likelihood from another location entirely.

‘So I use the number Rafi gave me, and you track the returned call?’ said Louis.

‘That’s how it works,’ said Harris. ‘These people try to be smart when it comes to communication, but they have a fatal flaw: they’re addicted to their cell phones. If they weren’t, half of them would still be breathing God’s air instead of sitting in hell wondering where all the virgins are at. But you’ll need to have a story prepared, something that doesn’t set off his alarm bells.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Louis. ‘If his name really is Rafi, I’m going to be frustrated by his lack of ingenuity.’

‘Majid Ali al-Shihri. He’s a Saudi, but hasn’t made it into our Big Book of Bad Boys until now. The male model he travels with is Mohsin al-Adahi. He’s Yemeni, but served time in prisons in Kuwait and Jordan. Him we know about, although just as a cog in the wheel. As for al-Shihri, he could be new to the game, but I’m leaning toward established and cagey. Whatever device he’s using, it’s not a smartphone, so there’s a limit to the information we can glean from its use.’

‘He’s not new,’ said Louis. ‘He’s killed, and he’s enjoyed it. He has a dead light in his eyes, like he’s lit up inside by swamp gas.’

‘Well, his illuminated head is above the parapet now. Even allowing for precautions, he’s taken a chance by contacting you directly. Our assumption would be that he had overall responsibility for ensuring those two operatives arrived safely in Paris. When they were killed at Gare de Lyon, the blame stopped at his door. If he doesn’t get compensation from the Vuksans – which, as you pointed out, would certainly involve blood as well as money – he’ll either end up with his throat cut or be strapped into an explosive vest and dropped off at the nearest mall.’

‘But you’d like him alive and in custody,’ said Louis.

‘Alive would be preferable,’ said Harris, ‘but dead will also do.’

‘You mess this up, and they may come after me.’

‘They may come after you anyway, but I think we can make it seem as though whatever happens to Rafi is just bad luck or the will of Allah. Still, it’ll be tight. We’ll have a location on him as soon as he calls you back, but if he’s covering his tracks, he’ll ditch the SIM immediately after the call has ended. You’ll have to find a way to draw him and his people out, so we can be sure where to find them.’

‘I can use Frend as bait,’ said Louis. ‘I know where he’s staying.’

‘They might take a run at him before we’re ready.’

‘I’ll give them something, but not enough. When do I make the call?’

‘Ready when you are. We’re all set up.’

‘Give me ten minutes,’ said Louis. ‘I want to have my green tea.’