The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter LXXVI

Anton Frend’s wife called him as he was drinking a glass of whisky in his hotel room. She hadn’t heard from their daughter in two days and was starting to worry. She and Pia usually spoke once a day, sometimes even more. When Frend’s wife was annoyed with him – an increasingly frequent occurrence as their marriage endured its slow death – she had conducted the early parts of these conversations within earshot, just in case he needed to be reminded that she still had a relationship with their child while he did not. Now Frend enjoyed a frisson of pleasure at being privy to knowledge about their daughter that was denied his wife, even as he realized that he couldn’t have her going to the police with her concerns. He managed to talk her down, assuring her that he would use his contacts in England to make inquiries if she had still not heard from Pia by close of business the next day. By then, Frend felt certain, Zivco Ilić would have led those responsible straight to the Vuksans, and his daughter would be released.

He was convinced of this for a number of reasons. The first was that he believed he now knew the identity of at least one of those involved in his daughter’s abduction: it was the man named Louis, the hunter believed by the Vuksans to be seeking revenge for the killings in Amsterdam. If Frend was right – and it was, he admitted, a calculated gamble – Louis was an individual with something approaching a conscience, and would therefore be unwilling to add the death of an innocent young woman. Actually, Frend’s fears for his daughter’s safety had also been alleviated slightly by the newspaper in the video. The Guardian might have represented many of the liberal values that Frend disdained, but he did not think it would be the first choice of journal for someone intent on torturing and killing a kidnap victim, even if it were only to be used as a prop. Had Pia been pictured holding one of the more salacious British tabloids, Frend might have felt less confident in his reasoning.

He heard a couple arguing in the next room and turned up the TV to drown out the noise. He also emptied another bottle from the minibar. He knew he was drinking more than he should, but sometimes life left a man with little option. Frend was experiencing a sense of regret at what would soon befall Radovan Vuksan, although not enough to warn Radovan that Louis was near. Frend had always enjoyed Radovan’s company, and had benefited in many ways from their relationship, both personally and financially. But Radovan’s complicity in the Amsterdam killings had rendered him toxic, and he had contaminated his legal advisor by association. Radovan’s death, however much it might pain Frend, was the necessary equivalent of amputating a necrotized limb lest the body entire should succumb to fatal infection. If only Radovan had been ruthless enough to take the same steps with his brother. Had the positions been reversed, Frend believed Spiridon would not have allowed fraternal loyalty to stand in the way of his own continuance.

Frend raised a glass to his reflection.

‘Zum Überleben,’ he said.

To survival.