Page 11 of The Nameless Ones

And Ross said, ‘I want to deliver a warning.’

Chapter XI

The Vuksans and their votaries finished their work shortly before 6 a.m. Radovan had fallen asleep in a chair, and was woken by his brother calling his name. He spotted a scarlet smear on Spiridon’s neck, and guessed that his sibling must have joined in with the persecution of the women at some point. Behind him, Zivco Ilic was carrying a pair of heavy-duty garbage sacks containing the towels and sponges they had brought with them to clean themselves. Radovan also smelled bleach, but under this was blood.

‘Was it worth it?’ Radovan asked.

‘I believe so,’ said Spiridon. ‘De Jaager lasted a long time; the young woman, too. The older one had a weak heart, I think.’

Radovan recalled the red rain from the ceiling. He had eventually moved the kitchen table to avoid the spatter, and the pool of blood on the floor was now startlingly large. It was a wonder any of those in the room above had survived as long as they did, but then the Vuksans’ torturers were skilled at their work.

Radovan got to his feet. He badly needed to pee, but he would not do it here. He hoped Spiridon and the rest had also resisted the impulse, because the forensic investigators, when they came, would examine the toilet bowls for DNA. Then again, even if they found evidence and used it successfully to identify any of the perpetrators, the Dutch would have to seek their extradition from Serbia. Since that country was not a member of the European Union, this would be a political as well as a legal issue, one that could be postponed almost indefinitely, aided by the Vuksans’ allies in the Serbian Ministry of Justice and the brothers’ position in the larger Serbian criminal hierarchy. Still, Radovan’s preference was that extradition should not even become a subject for debate, because who knew how circumstances might change in the future? Money could not buy loyalty indefinitely, and the word of a politician was written in smoke.

Radovan looked out the kitchen window. An unmarked van was pulling up in front of De Jaager’s safe house – and how ironic that nomenclature now seemed. Luca Bilbija was behind the wheel. The younger man had left the killing to the others, preferring to wait in the van. He had no more stomach than Radovan for watching women being killed.

‘You have blood on your head,’ said Spiridon. ‘Did you injure yourself?’

‘It dripped through the ceiling. I thought I’d washed it all off.’

‘It seems that it’s as close as you’ll ever come to being blooded,’ said Spiridon.

The old argument, even now.

‘I’ve played my part in making us wealthy,’ said Radovan.

‘As have I. You may think, but I act.’

‘Rashly, at times. You, too, have blood on you.’

He pointed at the stain. Spiridon spat on his fingers and used them to wipe away the mark.

‘And you’re too cautious,’ he said, ‘always.’

For a moment the two brothers faced off, before Spiridon smiled and kissed Radovan.

‘But let’s not argue,’ said Spiridon. ‘It is done, and we are finished here. No more loose ends, and no more killing. We will leave this land and return to our own. We will spend our last days together by Zaovine Lake, drinking rakija and speaking of old times.’

And we will do so alone, thought Radovan. We have no wives, no children: I by choice – in another life, I might have been a monk, for such appetites of the flesh have always been alien to me – and you, Spiridon, because you killed your wife Andjela for cheating on you with Andrej Buha. Monster though he was, his touch was still preferable to yours, or maybe her hatred for you eventually became inseparable from her hatred for herself. Perhaps this is why you were so intent upon avenging yourself on De Jaager, because he deprived you of the possibility of revenge, leaving you with only Andjela to hurt. You took your time with her. When she was dead, your desire for any woman vanished, and you became like me. So yes, we will end our days like the lonely men we are, speaking of old times and old blood, for they are one and the same to us.

‘I need to sleep,’ said Radovan.

‘It’s all the worrying you do.’

‘Yes,’ said Radovan, ‘that must be it.’

Behind his brother, Radovan watched Luca Bilbija and the last member of their group, Aleksej Markovic, mount the stairs, and soon after he heard movement from above his head.

‘I thought we were leaving,’ said Radovan.

Zivco Ilic returned to the kitchen. He held a nail gun in his hand.

‘We are,’ said Spiridon, ‘but there’s just one final task to accomplish.’

Chapter XII

The Skadarlija locality of Belgrade was once known as the Šican Mala, or the Gypsy Quarter. Founded in the middle of the nineteenth century, it gradually became the haunt of writers and artists, giving it a bohemian character that persists to this day. Like many such areas in great European cities, it has now become popular with tourists, attracted by the character of its cobblestoned streets and its traditional inns and restaurants.

One of the less well known of the latter is Tri Lovca, or ‘The Three Hunters’, which sits at the atrium end of Skadarlija. It is more expensive than its neighbors, yet also less prepossessing from the exterior. Its front door is kept locked and patrons must ring a bell to gain access. All guests require a reservation, which can only be made by calling an unadvertised number. Tourists who try the bell in the hope of securing a speculative table are informed that, regrettably, none is available – assuming they speak Serbian, which, being tourists, they probably don’t. The words will therefore be entirely beyond their understanding, although the substance of them will not. The waiters, of course, also speak English. Among them, the staff of Tri Lovca are fluent in ten tongues, although this fact is known only to a select few diners. The waiters, the maître d’, and the chefs may communicate only in Serbian, but they listen in a variety of languages.

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