The Nameless Ones by John Connolly

Chapter LXXXVI

The two-bedroom apartment was part of a new residential development in Woodstock, the oldest suburb of Cape Town. It rented for about nine thousand rand a month, and was within walking distance of the stores, restaurants, and neighborhood market at the Old Biscuit Mill. This area of Cape Town had slipped through the cracks when the apartheid-era Group Areas Act was being implemented, and so was more racially diverse and multicultural than most of the city’s suburbs, although rising prices and gentrification now looked set to achieve what segregationists had failed to do.

A businessman – superficially friendly, but generally reclusive – lived in the apartment. His name was Oscar Frey, and he held a newly acquired South African passport, although those sensitive to accents thought he might have been of Eastern European origin. Frey had been resident in Woodstock for about three months, and operated a consultancy firm offering financial and logistical support and advice to small businesses wishing to expand their access to European markets, although he also claimed some knowledge of Latin America and the Caribbean. His was a one-man operation, working from the Woodstock apartment and a small office on Albert Road, and he was therefore restricted in the number of clients he could accept. Inquiries about engaging his services were often, if not always, met with an apology. He was already stretched to the limit of his resources, he would explain, and would not wish to provide a substandard service.

His client base was entirely Eastern European.

Some were Montenegrin.

Most were Serbian.

The Serbs had insinuated themselves into South African society during the early years of the new century, attracted by the low cost of living, the climate, the endemic corruption, the ease of shielding themselves from the attention of international law enforcement, and the difficulty of extraditing them should they ultimately fall under such scrutiny. Among this influx of Serbian immigrants were assorted war criminals, thieves, drug traffickers, and racketeers. They formed intricate support networks and set about founding legitimate and illegal businesses, including establishing Cape Town as a transit point for cocaine making its way from South America to Europe. Occasionally rivals took to killing one another in Cape Town and Gauteng, but for the most part the Serbians and Montenegrins behaved themselves. It was better for business that way.

Divided loyalties over the death of Nikola Musulin in Belgrade, and the subsequent ascent of Matija Kiš and Simo Stajić, had initially caused problems for the Serbs in South Africa. A couple of drive-by shootings had occurred, with one fatality in Johannesburg, but the country’s importance to the Serbian cocaine trade meant that a truce was quickly brokered. Nobody, least of all the Serbs enjoying a pleasant, profitable life in South Africa, wished to screw up a good thing.

Oscar Frey’s arrival in Cape Town had briefly threatened to reignite hostilities, until a message from the House of the National Assembly on Belgrade’s Nikola Pašić Square advised that Frey was to be allowed to live and work unimpeded, just as long as he remained in South Africa. To celebrate, Frey hosted a dinner on a wine farm in Constantia, where the guests ate and drank until the small hours, and shared tales of war and empire.

It was, all would later declare, a night to remember.

Oscar Frey entered his apartment and set down a box of wine and a bag of groceries from Woolworths on Adderley Street. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, and began unpacking the bag. He thought about opening one of the bottles of chenin blanc, but they were warm from the car. It would not kill him to wait a while, and he had business to which to attend in the meantime. He took off his shirt, leaving only a vest and shorts, and turned on the A/C.

It was then that a hand covered his mouth and his right arm was wrenched painfully behind him. Before he could even think about fighting back, he had been rendered harmless: had he attempted to struggle, his arm would have been dislocated from its socket. The hand on his face was gloved, but enough of the skin was revealed to enable Frey to determine that the intruder was black. Frey kept a revolver in the apartment, but carried it only if he was driving at night. He was familiar with the stories about how dangerous certain parts of Cape Town could be, but so far had endured nothing more unpleasant than one or two unusually persistent beggars. It had never occurred to him that he might become a victim of crime in his own home, and during daylight hours.

‘Down,’ said a male voice in his left ear.

The voice was unusually calm. Frey lowered himself to the floor, motivated by the pressure on his right arm. When his knees touched the carpet, his arm was released, and the hand was removed from his mouth. Frey considered crying out for help, but the same voice warned him not to, and it brooked no argument. Neither did it contain any hint of a South African accent. It sounded American.

His assailant shifted position to stand before him, drawing a gun from his belt as he moved. Frey took barely a moment to recognize the intruder. After all, he had watched this man enter a house in the suburbs of Vienna, a house in which lay a body not yet grown cold, and set it aflame.

‘Oscar Frey,’ said Louis. ‘You pick that name yourself?’

‘He was an old tutor of mine,’ said Radovan Vuksan. ‘He taught me German. Why are you here?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Spiridon is dead. So are all the others who killed your friends.’

‘But you’re still alive.’

‘I have killed only one person in my life, and that was my own brother. I saved you the bother of doing it. You have no quarrel with me.’

‘Don’t I?’ said Louis. ‘You were there when De Jaager and the others died. You permitted the girl to torture Hendricksen.’

‘I could not have stopped it.’

‘You could have tried.’

‘I advised against all of it.’

‘I’m not sure that counts for a lot.’

Radovan stared at the gun in Louis’s hand.

‘I have money,’ he said.

‘I don’t need money,’ said Louis, ‘but I do need information.’

Radovan’s eyes suddenly shone with hope.

‘What kind of information?’

‘I want to know about the girl.’

‘Her name is Zorya.’

‘That I’m already aware of. Where is she now?’

‘Back in Serbia.’

‘Where in Serbia? Does she have family, friends?’

‘She has none of those things. If she ever did, they’re long dead.’

‘The question stands: Where in Serbia?’

Radovan hesitated.

‘Are you an honorable man?’ he said.

‘More honorable than you.’

‘Even so, why would I tell you anything? How will it aid me?’

‘If you tell me where the girl can be found,’ said Louis, ‘I won’t shoot you. You have my word.’

‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Because if you don’t tell me, I will shoot you. Your scope for compromise is limited.’

Radovan nodded.

‘Ask after her in Bor or Negotin. Talk to the Vlachs. They’ll know where she’s hiding.’

‘Okay, then,’ said Louis. He put away the gun and produced a wire garrote with wooden handles. ‘Let’s get this done.’

‘No, you promised—’

‘You ought to listen better.’

Louis was fast, so very fast. A kick left Radovan flat on the floor, and then the garrote was being looped around his neck. Radovan managed to get the fingertips of his left hand under the wire, but it sliced them off before tightening on his throat. Louis’s knee was in his back, and the wire was cutting, severing. Radovan felt his skin give way, and the flesh succumbed.

Blood flowed, blood fountained.

Life ceased.

Angel was waiting for Louis at a table in the Test Kitchen, almost within sight of Oscar Frey’s now redundant office. The Test Kitchen figured in every list of the world’s best restaurants, and Angel and Louis had decided to try the place while they were in town. They’d booked the table weeks in advance, just as soon as Oscar Frey’s true identity had been confirmed. Louis was wearing a fresh jacket and shirt. His earlier attire couldn’t be saved, and was now burning in a barrel on waste ground. Louis didn’t mind. The jacket was three seasons old and had never fitted quite as well as it should have.

A bottle of Charles Fox Cipher Brut sat in an ice bucket beside the table. A waiter materialized to pour Louis a glass.

‘Well?’ said Angel.

Louis sipped the wine.

‘I reunited him with his brother.’

‘Good,’ said Angel. ‘Nothing’s more important than family.’