Page 47 of The Nameless Ones
The dead girl spoke, her voice transformed by the journey from her world to this one.
found you, she said. found you at last
And then they reached the island, and she was gone. There were only commuters and tourists, and soon the train was slowing for its entry into the Donauinsel station. Zorya had exited in a daze, and now here she was, watching the women and children on the beach, terrified of returning to Leopoldstadt because to do so would require crossing the river again, where the dead girl might be waiting.
But the contact between them was not all one way, because Zorya knew the girl’s name.
Jennifer. Jennifer Parker.
And that could be used against her.
Chapter XLII
Frend arrived at Belgrade’s Nikola Tesla Airport feeling vulnerable and exposed. He was here representing men whom many might have preferred to see dead. It was possible that Frend was walking into a trap instead of a negotiation, and might soon find himself in a basement in Palilula with a blowtorch being applied to his genitals before vinegar was poured onto the wounds.
Frend knew all about the Serbs’ interrogation methods. Radovan Vuksan had sometimes spoken of them over postprandial drinks, although he had differentiated between torture for the purposes of eliciting information and torture for its own sake. Burning and vinegar were best for persuading someone to talk, but pure sadism offered more scope for experimentation – theoretically, at least. It had been a source of some regret to Radovan that his countrymen displayed a marked lack of imagination when it came to inflicting suffering on others. Bats, chains, axes, and blades were the preferred instruments of the Serbs, Radovan explained, the sessions fueled by tequila, vodka, narcotics, and violent pornography. Oh, and rape: the Serbs enjoyed using sexual assault as torment for both men and women. Now, in Belgrade, such abstractions were assuming disturbingly concrete forms for Anton Frend.
There was also the small matter of Nikola Musulin’s head. Despite a careful search of the ruins of Tri Lovca and the immediate vicinity, the head had still not been recovered, and Musulin had finally been laid to rest without it. The Vuksans believed that the head might have been taken away by those responsible for the explosion, an act designed to further antagonize and humiliate Musulin’s family and allies. Musulin’s widow very much wanted the head restored to her in order that it might be placed in the coffin with the remains of her husband – ‘remains’, in this case, being the operative word, since the C4 had contrived to separate Musulin into a great many pieces, and he weighed much less in death than in life. One of Frend’s tasks would be to establish if, in fact, the head was in the possession of Matija Kiš or Simo Stajic, both of whom would be at the meeting, and potentially secure its safe return.
All of these thoughts passed through Frend’s mind as his passport was examined for what felt like a very long time before the stamp was applied and he was admitted to the country. He went straight to the exit, carrying only his overnight bag, and was relieved to see the familiar face of Miloje, who had regularly driven him around Belgrade in better times. Miloje, Frend knew, was distantly related to the Vuksans. They trusted him, even after all that had occurred, which was why he had been given the task of picking up Frend from the airport. Miloje was a mute: Bosniak soldiers in Konjic had removed his tongue with hot pincers during the war. In his pocket he kept a notebook in which he wrote questions or comments. In addition to his native Serbian, Miloje also understood English, German, and a little French. In his notebook he now scribbled the question Hotel? and showed it to Frend.
‘No,’ said Frend, ‘let’s go straight to the restaurant.’
He had reserved a room at a boutique hotel in Vracar, but the delayed flight had cost him two precious hours, and he did not think it would be politic to arrive late for the meeting. Miloje showed Frend to a gray Audi, sheltering him from the rain with a black umbrella. They then crawled toward the city, Belgrade’s notorious traffic rendered even more chaotic by the bad weather. Serbian flags hung from every second lamppost along the motorway, a reminder, if any were needed, that Serb nationalism remained a potent force. The journey was soundtracked by a cacophony of blaring horns, and accompanied by a cortege of taxi drivers measuring out their lives in missed fares.
Frend’s cell phone rang. Only Radovan had the new number.
‘Where are you?’
‘Passing the Sava Centar,’ said Frend, naming the huge Tito-era conference facility close to the river. ‘The flight was late, but I’ll soon be at the meeting place.’
‘Good, because I just received a call.’
‘From?’
‘A North African client inquiring about a lost delivery.’
Frend knew the substance, if not the details, of the botched operation in Paris.
‘What did you say?’
‘That we were looking into the reasons for the failure.’
‘And?’
‘It did not diminish the client’s unhappiness,’ said Radovan. ‘He has requested a meeting. Naturally, I demurred.’
‘Naturally,’ said Frend. As if their situation wasn’t bad enough, the Vuksans now had homicidal religious lunatics trying to track them down. ‘Did you offer to return the portion of the fee already paid?’
‘Are you trying to be funny?’
Frend wasn’t, and told Radovan so. He watched a pair of police cars speed by, followed by an ambulance: an accident farther up the road, which might have explained some, but not all, of the delay. This was Belgrade, so there was always an accident somewhere.
‘I now believe,’ said Radovan wearily, ‘that the reputational damage suffered would not be undone by a refund, even were we willing or able to offer it. We need that money. I’m informing you of the complaint only because it makes reaching a settlement with Belgrade even more urgent than before.’
‘I understand. Do you think Belgrade knows about your involvement with the cargo?’
‘I hope not, but you’ll find out soon enough.’