The Nameless Ones by John Connolly
Chapter LXXXII
Radovan killed the call.
‘Zivco has the passports,’ he told his brother.
Spiridon was in his usual seat by the window, looking out over trees and green grass. If he concentrated only on the vegetation, he believed he could convince himself that he was gazing at the Pannonian Plain of his youth.
‘Then you can go,’ said Spiridon, ‘and take Zivco with you.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’ll accept the passport, because it might prove useful, but I won’t use it to flee. I told you, I’m going back.’
Radovan rubbed his eyes and marveled at the depths of his brother’s obstinacy. He had promised Ćirić that he would talk Spiridon around in return for the release of funds to pay for the passports, but she had reneged on the deal. Perhaps it had not been her decision. He thought, even hoped, that this might be so. Ćirić answered to Belgrade, and Belgrade was determined to trap the Vuksans in a kill box.
But they had defied Belgrade’s will, because Zivco had the passports.
‘You’ll die if you return,’ said Radovan.
‘Not before I make them sorry they ever heard my name.’
‘Why? It’s over. If we leave, they’ll forget about us. Soon Kiš and Stajić will become a more pressing problem for Belgrade, and the fact of our continued existence will be forgotten. We won’t be worth the trouble of killing.’
Spiridon’s face reddened. He pushed himself up from his chair and stood face-to-face with his brother.
‘I want to be worth the trouble of killing!’ he shouted, and Radovan thought how strange it was to hear his brother’s voice raised in this way. He knew then that Spiridon was beyond reason. ‘I want them to remember me! Why did I fight for all those years, if not for that? I waged wars to bring my country back from the dead. I fought the Croats and the Turks, and when the fighting was over, I sent money from Amsterdam to rebuild houses, churches, schools. I will not be forgotten. I will not end my days hiding from my enemies while pičke like Kiš and Stajić dismiss me as a coward. I will show them how a real man faces the world, how a real man dies. You can run. You were never a fighter. Go! Go with my blessing, but I will not leave.’
‘Spiridon,’ said Radovan, ‘if you do this, all those who knew us, all those who called us “cousin”, “friend”, “comrade”, will be at risk. I will be at risk. They will avenge themselves on everyone.’
Spiridon placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders.
‘I have no choice,’ said Spiridon, all anger gone now. ‘I cannot be other than how God made me.’
‘God did not make you like this,’ said Radovan. ‘You are all your own work.’
‘I give the devil some credit, too.’
‘Then you have made him very proud.’ Radovan stepped away. ‘Where is Zorya?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Spiridon. ‘I have spoken with her of this, and she has confirmed that she also wishes to go home. With her by my side, maybe I will prove even harder to kill.’
Radovan went to the desk in which he stored his papers and unlocked a drawer.
‘I have kept some cash in reserve,’ he said. ‘Euros, dollars, dinars. Not much, but what little there is might help.’
‘I’ll take the dinars,’ said Spiridon. ‘You can keep the rest.’
‘Actually,’ said Radovan, ‘I’m going to keep it all.’
The first shot, muffled by the suppressor but still loud, took Spiridon in the chest. He stayed on his feet, supporting himself with one hand on the back of his chair, so Radovan shot him again, and this time Spiridon went down, taking the chair with him. He was still breathing, although exhaling blood. Radovan knelt and took Spiridon’s right hand in his. He squeezed it hard, and felt Spiridon’s grip tighten in response. They stayed that way, unspeaking, until Spiridon’s hold on his brother, and this world, came at last to an end.