Page 22 of The Nameless Ones

Gavrilo Dražeta, a rapist and murderer, had never raised a hand to his wife in all their fifteen years of marriage, and rarely did they exchange harsh words. Even their disappointments, the absence of children being principal among them, had not soured their relationship in any appreciable way. But now, in their kitchen – her kitchen – Dražeta placed his right hand forcefully over his wife’s mouth and pushed her hard against the wall.

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You saw nothing. There is no one else out there. Do you understand?’

Willa nodded. She thought her husband looked not only angry but also frightened. She didn’t know every detail of his past, but she was aware that he had fought in the Balkan wars, and all wars were dirty. The strangers in her house belonged to this past, and were therefore also dirty. Whatever trouble they had brought with them might well linger after they left, which could be part of the reason why her husband was so scared. Yet it was, she thought, the mention of the child that had really set him off.

Dražeta took his hand away from his wife’s mouth and kissed her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It’s nothing,’ she lied, but she was disappointed in him – not because of his fear, but because of how he had dealt with it, and her. The fractures in strong men ran deep.

The strudel was served. When they were done, she removed the plates and went to bed, leaving her husband and his friends to talk alone.

The Vuksans’ associates had moved to the lounge to smoke and watch TV, leaving the brothers alone with their host and a bottle of brandy. They spoke of what had happened in Amsterdam and Belgrade, including the death of Nikola Musulin.

‘If I may speak freely,’ said Dražeta, ‘Nikola was not as forceful as he might have been. They laughed at him behind his back.’

The brothers had heard these stories, and counseled their nephew to take action. The fact that he had not done so might have contributed to his death, although it was unlikely that any response from Nikola would have prevented it. Spiridon’s intended return had damned him.

‘He was a figurehead,’ said Spiridon, ‘a straw man. But he was ours.’

‘Such a public killing,’ said Dražeta, ‘must have been sanctioned at a very high level.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Radovan, ‘I doubt they expected the entire restaurant to be brought down on him. Someone will have received a rap on the knuckles.’

‘With a blade,’ said Dražeta, and they smiled.

‘Have you been approached by Belgrade?’ said Spiridon, and he asked the question so mildly that there could be no mistaking his meaning.

‘Not recently,’ said Dražeta.

‘But in the past?’

‘Yes. I have always refused to become involved in contemporary ventures.’

‘You’re involved now,’ said Radovan.

‘I would never refuse you – or your brother,’ he added, in deference to Spiridon.

‘We’re grateful,’ said Radovan, and they toasted one another again.

‘So where will you go?’ said Dražeta.

‘I don’t know,’ said Radovan. ‘We have to open a dialogue, but without exposing ourselves. We want to be close to home, but not so close that they can strike at us. It’s difficult.’

‘They’ll be watching for you,’ Dražeta agreed. ‘But Romania is a possibility.’

At points, the Danube narrowed to as little as 150 meters between Romania and Serbia. It was easy to move people between the two countries.

‘No,’ said Radovan, ‘relations between Bucharest and Belgrade are too good right now. If we’re found on Romanian soil, we’ll be handed over without a second thought.’

‘Hungary?’

‘Fucking Orbán has Belgrade in his pocket.’

Dražeta did not even bother suggesting Bulgaria. The Serbs had long moved narcotics through Sofia, but conflict with the Bulgarians over the lucrative Balkan route was ongoing. If the Vuksans were not immediately targeted by their own kind, the Bulgarians would be happy to do the job for them.

Dražeta noticed that Spiridon Vuksan was not contributing.