Page 16 of The Nameless Ones

Frend’s distancing also served a practical purpose: the less he knew, the less he would have to hide from the authorities in the event of any unfortunate investigation into his links with the Vuksans; and the less he had to hide, the less reason the Vuksans would have to kill him in order to ensure his silence. By his knowledge and competence, he had made them all wealthier than they might otherwise have been, but no one was indispensable, and the prospect of dying behind bars made pragmatists of even the most cultured of men.

Yet so critical had Anton Frend become to the Vuksans’ operation, and they to his prosperity, that the activities of Frend Rechtsanwälte now revolved almost entirely around the brothers’ needs, apart from a handful of clients – some honest, a few less so – retained either to keep up appearances or because they would have taken their abandonment ill. As a consequence, the firm’s offices, which had once echoed with many voices, now held only two: those of Frend and his secretary of many years, Fraulein Pichler, whose moral sensibilities were at least as nebulous as her employer’s.

Anton Frend and Fraulein Pichler existed in a state of mutual dependence, which meant that when one finally elected, or was forced, to retire, the other would have no option but to do likewise. Frend would never be able to find or trust another secretary like Fraulein Pichler, and she, in turn, would never be able to train another employer as she had Anton Frend. Around them, like planets orbiting major and minor suns, revolved an assortment of bankers and accountants of similarly abiding association. It was a delicate construct, built on deceit and moral compromise. Had the light of honesty been shone on its workings, it would have crumbled to dust.

Regrettably, the Vuksans’ actions in Amsterdam, and the death of Nikola Musulin in Belgrade, now threatened to undo decades of good work. Frend had, in recent hours, been the recipient of panicked phone calls. He had been forced to rouse financiers from their beds, and conspire in the kind of rapid movement of funds that risked inviting the scrutiny of international law enforcement. He had called in favors, and promised greater favors in return. He was exposed, and his clients were in danger, all because of Spiridon Vuksan’s reckless need for revenge.

So Frend sat in his dimly lit office, the banker’s lamp on his desk the sole illumination, catching the gold of his antique tie pin as he worked. It was one of a collection of such pins that he maintained, each seemingly more ornate than the last. They were as close to an eccentricity as Frend was ever likely to come, and he had often considered adding some versions of one as a watermark on the firm’s stationery. He had removed his jacket, but not so much as loosened his tie, because certain standards had to be maintained, in private as in public. He had poured himself a glass of Rochelt schnapps, but so far it remained untouched. It would not help, not at this moment. He required a clear head.

Because someone would come, he was sure of this.

Someone would come, and it might be the end of them all.

Chapter XVIII

Hendricksen pulled the door of the safe house mostly closed behind him, returned to his car, and stored the wrench and gun in the well beneath the spare tire. He then called Bram De Jong, his closest contact in the Korps. He informed De Jong of what he had discovered in the safe house, neglecting to mention only that he had been required to disable the lock in order to gain access. Admitting to the crime would serve no purpose. The police might have their suspicions, but proving them would be difficult, even if they were keen to pursue the matter, which seemed unlikely.

Hendricksen walked back to the safe house and waited outside for the police to arrive. He was tempted to call Louis, but decided to postpone any contact until later. It would be better if he were not discovered speaking on his cell phone when the investigators came, although he took the trouble to delete the record of the calls to and from New York when he heard the first of the sirens in the distance.

His mouth tasted sour, and his hands were shaking.

He closed his eyes and saw blood.

Later, after Hendricksen had given the police a sanitized version of events – a worried call from a mutual acquaintance, whom he declined to identify, sharing concerns about De Jaager; Hendricksen’s unsuccessful efforts to contact De Jaager and his circle; and finally, the visit to the safe house, about which Hendricksen had heard rumors, and the discovery of the unlocked door and what lay behind it – he phoned Louis in New York.

‘They’re dead,’ he said. ‘All of them.’

Chapter XIX

This is what Hendricksen saw when he opened the door to the kitchen of the safe house.

The floor was awash with blood, and a red stain had spread across the white ceiling. At first Hendricksen attributed it to arterial spray until he realized that the pattern was inconsistent with the opening of an artery, and the blood had instead soaked through from above. Two women lay against the far wall, their nakedness barely hidden by the sheets that adhered to their bodies, the cotton now more red than white. The women – one old, one young – had been positioned with the younger holding the older in her arms, the pinnacled weight of their bodies keeping them upright. The younger woman’s face was visible to Hendricksen, but he did not recognize her. Even though her facial muscles had relaxed in death, her expression was fixed in her final suffering, and her mouth hung open in a silent howl of agony.

The woman to the right had long gray hair and faced the wall, but Hendricksen did not need to look upon her features to know that this was Anouk. Had he required any further confirmation, he would have found it in the two wedding rings that hung from a chain around her neck, caught between her remains and those of the woman with her.

Beside Anouk lay her son, Paulus. Someone had draped a patterned tablecloth over him in an approximation of a shroud or robe. There was less blood on him, and the gunshot wound to his head suggested he had not suffered as much as the others. His right cheek rested against his mother’s bare back and his left hand hung over her shoulder.

The wall behind them was mostly ancient brickwork, broken by a series of vertical wooden pillars that were as much decorative as practical. De Jaager’s body had been nailed to two of these posts, his arms outstretched, his feet resting on a stool to take his weight. The nails had been fired through his wrists, the palms of his hands, the elbow joints, and his shoulders, and were buried deep in the flesh. In addition, a rope had been slung around his neck and fixed to one of the ceiling beams: additional security to ensure that the tableau was not ruined by the old man’s body yielding to the nails.

Hendricksen held the flashlight on the crucifixion, as though to fix it in his mind, although he knew that he would never forget what he had seen here. On his deathbed, the memory of it would accompany him from this world to the next. De Jaager’s eyes were half-open, and for the briefest of moments Hendricksen thought that the old man might somehow yet be alive. Hendricksen advanced a single step before stopping, his left foot inches from the first of the blood, before he realized the foolishness of this.

De Jaager’s face was unmarked, his eyelids intact. He had not turned away.

And at his death, he had prayed that others would not turn away either.

Chapter XX

Louis was packing for the Netherlands when his cell phone rang. Angel answered, and the expression on his face showed no warmth as he held up the device.

‘You need to change this number,’ said Angel, ‘unless you’re planning on smuggling in the phone when they eventually lock you up.’

Louis tried scowling at him for effect, but Angel had been rendered immune by decades of exposure.

‘Who are you,’ said Louis, ‘my mother?’

‘If I was your mother, I wouldn’t admit it.’

‘Just give me the fucking phone.’