Page 51 of The Nameless Ones

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

‘Of course you will,’ said Kiš. Stajic only blinked.

Frend walked through to the bar area, where he was relieved to find Miloje still waiting. Miloje led the way to the Audi, neither man looking back, yet both fearing to hear the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Hendricksen took fresh pictures of Frend and the driver, concealed by the smoked glass of a Mercedes. As the Audi pulled away, Dušan asked if Hendricksen wanted to follow the car, but he demurred. He was waiting to see who else might emerge from the tavern. Barely two minutes later, the door opened and the first of the bodyguards appeared, checking the street, to be followed by Matija Kiš and Simo Stajic.

‘Fuck,’ said Dušan. ‘Put the camera away.’

‘They can’t see us,’ said Hendricksen.

‘I don’t care. Put it away.’

Hendricksen did. He had the shots he needed.

‘Who are they?’ he said, as Kiš, Stajic, and the others climbed into a pair of BMW people carriers.

‘Devils,’ said Dušan.

‘There are no devils,’ said Hendricksen, ‘only men who act like them.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Dušan, as he started the engine, ‘but then, you don’t have to live here.’

In the back of the Audi, the severed head beside him, Frend was writing down the license number of the Mercedes. Miloje had spotted it shortly before they entered the city. Frend thought it might have been sent by Kiš or Stajic to keep an eye on them, but he had reconsidered when he saw it parked near the bar as they emerged, the driver still in place.

Miloje was writing in his notebook with his right hand while driving with his left. He showed the page to Frend. The message read Do Not Go To Hotel.

‘Where, then?’ said Frend, and Miloje raised a hand to let him know that the matter was being taken care of.

They drove for half an hour, making cutbacks and illegal turns until Miloje was sure they were not being followed, before stopping at a surburban hotel frequented by Eastern European tourists on strict budgets. Miloje went inside and came out a short time later with a key. He returned to the notebook and wrote Stay In Your Room.

‘What about tomorrow?’ said Frend. ‘I have to fly back to Vienna.’

Not From Belgrade. Timisoara.

Timisoara Airport was in Romania, about 160 kilometers away, by Frend’s reckoning.

‘How?’

We Drive.

‘When?’

5 a.m.

Frend thanked him. There was no one at reception as he passed, and he entered his room unnoticed. It contained a single bed, a television that did not work, and a bathroom that reeked of human waste.

Six million euros. The Vuksans did not have access to such funds. Even had they been able to lay their hands on that kind of money, it was a deliberately absurd price. Kiš and Stajic wanted the Vuksans dead. Had Frend gone to his original hotel, Stajic’s people would have been waiting in his room. He would have been drugged and removed without fuss. Then, in some quiet basement that smelled of vinegar and burning, Stajic would have gone to work on him.

Frend stayed awake until Miloje came to collect him the following morning. Only when they crossed the Romanian border did he begin to feel safe, and he did not truly relax until he was on the Tarom-Romanian Air flight to Bucharest with an onward connection to Vienna.

As for the velvet bag, Miloje delivered it to Nikola Musulin’s widow.

He did not stay to watch her open it.

But he did hear her screams.

Chapter XLIII

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