Page 48 of The Nameless Ones

Frend noticed that his left hand was shaking. He used the armrest to steady it as the Audi reached the Gazela Bridge and crossed the Sava. The traffic began to ease. Miloje was texting as he drove. Frend tried to read the message, but it was in Serbian. Miloje glanced at him in the rearview mirror before returning his attention to the road. An earlier conversation with Radovan came back to Frend:

I would trust Miloje with my life.

You’re not trusting him with your life, but with mine.

‘I remain concerned for my safety,’ Frend now said to Radovan, as the connection briefly lapsed.

‘You should have told me that before you left Vienna,’ said Radovan.

‘I did.’

‘I mustn’t have been paying attention.’

‘Would it have made any difference if you had?’

‘None at all,’ said Radovan, before killing the call.

The Cathedral Church of St. Michael the Archangel was now coming into sight, which meant that they were near the location for the meeting. After some back-and-forth, it had been agreed that it should take place at a neutral venue, and one some distance from Skadarlija, where the unfortunate Nikola Musulin had met his end. This was not a question of sensitivity, since those willing to blow a man apart before stealing his severed head were unlikely to be troubled by the feelings of his bereaved intimates. Yet even allowing for a degree of collusion between the authorities and the killers, it would still have been unwise for those suspected of involvement in Musulin’s assassination to be seen wining and dining within shouting distance of the crime scene. The Serbian media might be largely cowed or corrupted, with the few remaining quality publications struggling to survive, but one could not underestimate the tenacity of a handful of principled journalists and newspaper proprietors, or the anonymity of the internet. It would be embarrassing, at the minimum, were pictures of a gathering of the alleged conspirators to have appeared in Danas or online, particularly if Frend were also to be identified.

No, better to steer clear of Skadarlija entirely, which was why an appropriately removed site had been rented for private use. The tavern was among the oldest in the city, with dark wood floors, low chairs and stools, and waitstaff in white shirts and black waistcoats. The separate dining area had blue check tablecloths, and served a traditional menu that changed according to the mood of the chef, while the walls were decorated with paintings of brooding Serbian landscapes and the ruins of ancient fortresses.

Miloje found a place to park before escorting Frend into the bar. Two men were seated at one of the tables to the left of the door, wearing the ubiquitous cheap leather jackets of the professionally thuggish. They were drinking coffee, and nodded at Miloje, who nodded back. Miloje held his hands out from his sides, inviting a search. One of the men rose and scanned Miloje with a handheld metal detector before patting him down, just in case he’d accessorized with a ceramic blade or rigged himself to explode as an act of revenge. They didn’t even bother checking Frend. Perhaps, Frend thought, he didn’t look like a threat, or they were betting that a lawyer wouldn’t be self-sacrificing enough to lay down his life for a client, in which case they would have been absolutely correct.

Miloje took a seat at the table to the right of the door, leaving Frend to proceed into the restaurant. Three more bodyguards were arranged inside, two by the window and the other by the far wall, and only one of the tables was set for dinner. Two men were already waiting at it, drinking Vinjak XO brandy as an aperitif.

Frend had met Matija Kiš on a number of occasions, finding him to be uninteresting company, although Radovan had advised against underestimating him and, it seemed, had been right. Kiš was tall and dark-haired, but most of the color came from a bottle. He was wearing a slim-cut black suit that looked a size too small, even though Kiš was not a particularly heavy man. Frend blamed the Daniel Craig incarnation of James Bond, whose Tom Ford suits were too tight and narrow-shouldered for someone of his build. A whole generation of would-be sophisticates had now grown up believing that a man’s suit jacket should be cut an inch too short and ripple outward from the center button.

Seated to Kiš’s left was Simo Stajic, whom Frend knew only from photographs. Frend did not believe Stajic had ever owned a suit. Even at funerals, Stajic dressed as though he operated a market stall selling stolen cell phones: jeans, a leather jacket, a shirt that could have been mistaken for designer wear only in poor light, and anonymous sneakers for a speedy getaway. Whatever Stajic spent his money on, it wasn’t fashion. He kept his head shaved and had the build of a long-distance runner. He blinked a lot, so that his eyes resembled the shutters of a camera perpetually recording everything they saw, and he smoked obsessively, even by Serbian standards. Already the ashtray before him held four butts, and Frend was only a few minutes late.

Both men stood to shake his hand – Kiš firmly, with a double grip, in the manner of a politician seeking reelection, and Stajic more desultorily, possibly because he had to switch the cigarette to his left hand to do so, thus depriving himself of valuable smoking time. Frend was relieved not to be subjected to the ritual of kisses, at least.

‘You had a good flight?’ said Kiš in English. Frend wondered if it was for Stajic’s benefit. Radovan was of the opinion that Stajic did not know German, but had learned English because it was the international language of criminality.

‘We were delayed,’ said Frend.

‘So I understand. May I offer you an aperitif? It’s very good.’

‘It’s very strong.’

‘That, too. But strong is good, right?’

‘I’ll stick with wine,’ said Frend. ‘Prokupac, please.’

Kiš passed the order to a waiter, and a bottle was produced. Almost as soon as the wine was poured, food began to appear: salads and flatbreads, followed by a variety of meats, including kidneys and pig trotters. Frend avoided the latter and ate only lightly of the meats. He preferred the new Serbian cooking to this more traditional fare. There was, he had long ago decided, only so much that even the best of chefs could accomplish with grilled flesh. He and Kiš kept up a polite conversation, touching on sport, culture, the weather – anything but the real reason for Frend’s presence in the city. Stajic didn’t contribute much beyond the occasional grunt, and kept a cigarette burning throughout the meal, but Frend saw that he was listening intently, his eyes moving back and forth between the interlocutors. It made Frend wonder which of the two, Kiš or Stajic, was the real power here.

Finally, when they had all eaten their fill, having barely made inroads into most of the food, the table was cleared, coffee was poured, and they got down to business.

‘So how is Spiridon?’ said Kiš. ‘And please don’t tell me he’s the same as ever or I shall be disappointed at his continued inability to evolve.’

‘He is concerned,’ said Frend, ‘as is Radovan.’

‘Oh, Radovan I can believe is concerned. Radovan is always concerned. Spiridon, I imagine, is more than that.’

‘Enraged, then. Is that more acceptable?’

‘Accurate, perhaps. Acceptable is another matter.’

‘May I speak frankly?’ said Frend.

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