Page 61 of The Nameless Ones

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Gavrilo Dražeta arrived back at his farmhouse with bread, fruit, fresh sausage, and a bottle of Sekt for him and his wife to share, as their wedding anniversary would fall over the coming days. Some of their neighbors might even join them in a toast – István und Willa, Zum Wohl! – although István technically did not exist, and his marriage, however happy, was therefore a lie. But the fiction had now become the reality, for he thought of himself more as István Adami than Gavrilo Dražeta, and the latter’s crimes – if crimes they ever really were, which he disputed – now sometimes seemed like the actions of another man, or the dreams of an alternative reality. Had István Adami been rigged up to a lie detector and confronted with a litany of his alter ego’s offenses, he might well have evinced a confusion that was compelling even to himself, and passed the test without difficulty.

Anyway, few in Kassel wished to speak of conflicts, whether recent or more distant. Allied bombers had destroyed most of the city by 1943; whatever was spared was renovated in the aftermath, while the rest was later reconstructed from the rubble. As a consequence, the people of Kassel had an ambivalent attitude toward the trials of war. And who deserved to be judged for their failings only in the eyes of others? If that were the entire measure of the law, no one would be declared innocent. A man was more than the sum of his imperfections. This is what Gavrilo Dražeta might have told the UN investigators had they succeeded in dragging him before one of their tribunals, but Gavrilo Dražeta was no more. Now there was only István Adami, a man who loved his wife, cared for his cattle, extended a helping hand to his neighbors, and volunteered with local groups that supported the elderly and the poor. István Adami lived a blameless life, even if he cast the shadow of another man.

But since the visit of the Vuksans, this specter of Gavrilo Dražeta had assumed renewed substance. He could not have turned his back on his old comrades in their time of need, but he dearly wished they had not darkened his door. Every contact left a trail, and a trail could be followed. Following the Vuksans’ departure, he had begun carrying his little Walther pistol in his pocket, because one never knew who might come calling.

Now he entered the house through the kitchen, his arms heavy with shopping, and called his wife’s name. He placed the bags on the table and stretched his shoulders. He had already been up for many hours, and his day was only half-done, but he had a mind to take a nap before he tended to the cows again.

The first blow to the back of his head sent him to his knees.

The second sent him to oblivion.

Chapter L

Hendricksen had received an email from Angel notifying him of his imminent arrival in Vienna and confirming that Pia Lackner’s removal from London had gone as planned. In return, Hendricksen had shared with Angel and Louis the pictures taken in Belgrade, along with the identification of the principals made by Hendricksen’s driver. Even without access to what had been said in the restaurant, they surmised that Frend had been attempting to negotiate the terms of the Vuksans’ return to Serbia. From their access to his credit card transactions, they were also aware that Frend had elected to re-enter Austria from Romania, despite having a return ticket on the Belgrade-Vienna route. Either Frend had encountered sudden pressing business in Timisoara, which seemed unlikely, or the negotiations with Kiš and Stajic had not gone well, which meant the Vuksans still had no safe haven in Serbia, and so remained exposed.

Now Hendricksen watched from the Architekturzentrum as Frend emerged from the Corbaci café and began walking toward the U-Bahn station. Frend had taken two taxis to Corbaci, ditching one halfway to walk for a time, probably in a vague effort to shake off any surveillance, but Hendricksen was too experienced to lose a quarry to such a simple ruse.

Frend had brought with him a briefcase and an overnight bag. Hendricksen was concerned that the lawyer might be about to take another flight, but his credit cards showed no reservation. Despite Corbaci’s large windows, Hendricksen had not been able to get a good look at Frend’s dining companions because of where they were sitting, and had not wanted to risk being seen inside by the lawyer. He knew only that Frend had been at a table with two people, one of whom appeared to be a young girl. As far as Hendricksen was aware, the Vuksans were not in the habit of keeping company with teenagers – or if they were, it was not for any moral purpose. Hendricksen had managed to take a couple of pictures with his phone, but the distance was too great and the faces remained unclear.

Had Angel or Louis been present, they could have split surveillance duties with Hendricksen. As things stood, he could either stay with Frend or follow the man and the girl. So far, only Frend had come out, and Hendricksen was at risk of losing him if he waited much longer. He chanced a quick glance into Corbaci, but could see no sign of Frend’s companions. He decided to stay with the lawyer.

Later, as he was dying, he would conclude that this had been an error of judgment.

Zorya and Ilic emerged together from the restroom. They attracted one or two curious looks, but no one said anything, this being Vienna.

‘It’s safe now,’ said Zorya. ‘The feeling is gone.’

‘Do you have any idea what caused it?’

‘Danger, but perhaps we should leave Hendricksen for a little while.’

Which had been enough to make Zivco Ilic concur. Unlike Radovan, he was no skeptic when it came to Zorya. His people were from Negotin in eastern Serbia, and he’d grown up with the Vlachs. His family had turned to them in times of need: when a job had to be secured, a proposal of marriage accepted, a run of bad luck ended. He remembered his mother’s funeral, and the old women forming a watchful phalanx around the open coffin, because it was not unknown for the unscrupulous to place beneath the corpse a small possession belonging to an enemy – a key, a button – in order to hex them. The item would be buried with the dead, and shortly afterwards the target of the curse would die in turn.

Many would have laughed at these superstitions, but Ilic knew better. Zorya might have discouraged any investigation of her origins, but her nature had something in common with that of the Vlach witches, which was enough for Zivco Ilic. He looked after the girl, and hoped the girl might look after him in turn. So far, the arrangement appeared to be working.

‘Well?’ said Ilic.

‘The lawyer is hiding something.’