The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter LXXIX

Under more favorable conditions – in a more familiar city, and without his own head being on the block – Mr Rafi might have been less vulnerable to surveillance, but he needed the lawyer and, as Louis had already surmised, was banking on fear outweighing any temptation to engage in a double-cross. In this, of course, Mr Rafi was guilty of a profound error of judgment.

The American team had flown into Vienna on a Gulfstream jet from a regional airport in eastern Poland, where the CIA had maintained a base for rendition purposes since the start of the War on Terror. It was not, therefore, the unit’s first day at the office. They were already watching when, at 3 a.m., two cars took up positions within sight of the main and rear doors of the hotel, the first of the vehicles having initially circled the block three times. They counted four men, two in each car, although none was Mr Rafi.

The operatives in the hotel had taken turns to rest, but only a trio of drunks returning to their rooms in the early hours had disturbed the calm of the hallway, triggering the motion sensor. When Frend emerged from his room at 4:50 a.m., he shared the elevator with the female half of the team, who smiled at him but did not receive a smile in return, and was watched by the male half of the team, who was prowling the lobby with a coffee as Frend walked to the separate garage elevator.

A third man, unknown to Harris’s people, and wearing the livery of a limousine driver, was looking at his phone in an easy chair, just as he had been since arriving at the hotel shortly before 4 a.m. He looked up when Frend appeared, put his phone in his pocket, and got to his feet. As he prepared to follow the lawyer, the man with the coffee moved in, narrowly avoiding spilling his hot drink on the driver. The man apologized in German, by which point the woman was directly behind the driver, who felt a gun in his back at the same moment that the operative in front of him produced another pistol.

Meanwhile, the oblivious Frend descended to the basement parking lot. It took him just under five minutes to get to his rental, arrange his bag and coat, and exit the facility. By then the four men waiting outside had already been disabled, one of them fatally, having made the mistake of instinctively reaching for the gun by his side as the vehicle was being surrounded. He was killed with a bullet from a suppressed Beretta carrying a seventeen-round sand-resistant magazine, a throwback to its owner’s military service in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq.

This unfortunate incident took place at the front of the hotel, while Frend left from the rear, so he remained unaware of the details of what had occurred. On the other hand, he did see two figures on the ground beside a nondescript Nissan parked near the garage door as he drove off, six armed and masked men surrounding them, and two cars blocking one lane of the street. He thought he spotted the Austrian flag on the sleeve of a nearby figure dressed in full operational gear, with a combat shotgun held at port arms. Frend briefly slowed down, taken by surprise, before resuming his progress and doing his best to ignore whatever was happening. It might have been something to do with him, but then again, it might not. These were, after all, troubled times. Yet he was not entirely surprised when his phone rang moments later, and the by now familiar distorted voice said, ‘You see? I told you we’d take care of you.’

Frend checked his rearview mirror. There were cars behind him, but he could not tell if they had followed him from his lodgings. He heard sirens in the distance.

‘Who were they?’ said Frend.

‘The men on the ground? We’ll have to wait and see, but I’m guessing they could point you toward Mecca without a compass.’

Even as he listened, Frend was recalibrating. What he had witnessed was probably at least partly the work of the Einsatzkommando Cobra, the Austrian police’s tactical unit, given the presence of an Austrian flag at the scene. The Austrian authorities did not give unrestricted access to foreign operatives on the streets of their capital, which meant they had either conducted the operation or cooperated with it. More than ever, Frend was convinced that his daughter was not in any real danger, but how could he square the involvement of Austrian law enforcement, however peripherally, with the targeting of the Vuksans’ people by the hunter named Louis? Whatever the answer, it was now more important than ever that the Vuksans were apprehended – or better still, killed. If they were caught, they might implicate Frend, but his cooperation would buy him some goodwill. If they died, they could say nothing, and Frend was convinced that, if he had to, he could bluff his way through any awkward questions that might follow.

But if he could not, there was Kauffmann. He had messaged her from his room the previous night to inform her that he had reconsidered his position, and a new start might be in order. He wanted a passport, to be supplied within twenty-four hours. She had messaged back €150K and he had agreed. Really, he had expected nothing less of her, not after he had informed her about the extra €250,000 that would be in the bag that she was to receive from Zivco Ilić. He supposed that she might have charged him more, given what the Vuksans were paying, but she was probably giving him the colleagues’ discount.

Here was how it would unfold. At the cemetery, Ilić would hand over the money to Kauffmann in return for the passports. Ilić would leave, leading Louis and his people to the Vuksans. Frend had no doubt Louis would kill them, and Ilić, too, securing his daughter’s release. Finally, Frend would soon be in possession of a new passport under a new name, and on his way to a new life in a new country. With a little luck, he might never have to speak to another Serb for as long as he lived. They could all go to hell: the Vuksans, Ilić, the freakish child Zorya, Kiš, Stajić.

And that bitch Ćirić. Yes, she could go to hell too.

Kauffmann was already at the Friedhof der Namenlosen when Frend arrived. As usual, she was smoking a cigarette. The woman really was incorrigible. It was a wonder she had lived so long, Frend thought. Her lungs must have been little more than sacks of tar.

Kauffmann frowned as he descended the steps from the chapel to the graveyard.

‘You’re traveling light for a man who is supposed to be holding a million euros in cash,’ she said.

‘A subordinate is bringing it,’ said Frend. ‘My clients felt that a lawyer shouldn’t be carrying so much hard currency. They were fretful that someone might try to steal it.’

‘You, probably. I wouldn’t trust you with my small change.’

‘Likewise.’

‘But then, I am not attempting to swindle my clients.’

‘My clients are murderers,’ said Frend. ‘Forgive me if relieving them of excess funds does not inspire deep feelings of regret.’

‘Perhaps you ought to be more cautious,’ said Kauffmann, ‘particularly around murderers.’

‘The time for caution has already passed, don’t you think? And lest we forget, you also are now complicit. What about my passport?’

‘It’s just waiting for the details to be filled in. That will be done as soon as the money has been handed over.’

Kauffmann puffed at the cigarette and checked her watch.

‘Where is this lackey of yours?’ she said.

‘It’s just ten to,’ said Frend. ‘He’ll be here. The Vuksans want the passports. May I?’

Kauffmann produced a small brown envelope from the inside pocket of her coat and handed it to Frend. He examined the documents inside. They looked good to him. He was no expert, but he had faith in Kauffmann in this regard. She might have been mired in duplicity, but money kept her honest.

He returned the envelope to her.

‘Did you notice that the chapel gate appears to be open?’ he said.

She looked past him and saw that the metal gate was indeed unlocked.

‘That’s odd,’ she said. ‘Is there anyone inside?’

‘Not that I could see in passing.’

‘Kids, perhaps,’ she said. ‘I’ll report it after we leave, just in case.’

‘Good. It would be a shame were it to be desecrated.’

‘I didn’t take you for a religious man,’ said Kauffmann.

‘I’m not,’ he replied. ‘I just like old places.’

‘Even this one?’

‘I would not care to rest here when I die, but that does not mean I wish to see it defiled.’

Kauffmann regarded him with puzzlement.

‘You are a strange individual, Anton. Occasionally an admirable quality rises to the surface, only to submerge itself again when it glimpses the world you inhabit.’

‘And you?’ said Frend. ‘What is left inside you?’

‘An appreciation of music,’ said Kauffmann. ‘It’s what passes for my soul.’

They heard footsteps behind them, and turned in unison. Zivco Ilić stood at the top of the steps, the chapel behind him. In his right hand he carried a large black canvas bag. He put the bag on the ground and stretched his shoulders.

‘If I carry it down the stairs,’ said Ilić, ‘someone will just have to carry it all the way back up again, and it won’t be me.’

‘This is the associate I mentioned,’ Frend told Kauffmann.

‘Yes, I recognize his face from the new passport,’ she replied quietly, as they ascended to meet Ilić. ‘His picture flatters him.’

Despite the circumstances, Frend managed a smile.

‘You have the documents?’ said Ilić as they reached him.

‘Yes,’ said Kauffmann.

‘What name have I been given?’

‘Thomas Rusin.’

Ilić repeated the name aloud. ‘I like it,’ he concluded.

‘That’s of no consequence,’ said Kauffmann, ‘not unless you intend to spend a lot of money changing it again.’

‘Show them to me.’

Kauffmann withdrew the envelope for the second time, tipped out the passports, and displayed for Ilić the relevant page on each, but did not hand them over. When she had finished, Ilić stepped back from the bag and invited her to examine its contents. Kauffmann knelt and unzipped it, revealing only a bundle of used copies of Der Standard. She looked up.

‘What is this?’ she said.

And Zivco Ilić shot her in the face.