Page 76 of The Nameless Ones

‘I was being careful.’

‘I’d offer you a ride,’ she said, ‘but—’

‘But you’re being careful, too,’ he finished for her.

‘Exactly.’

Frend watched her walk away. Her silver coupe was parked by one of the silos. He did not recognize the make, but then he had never been very interested in cars. He took one last look at the cemetery as Kauffmann drove off. He hoped never to return there, and God forbid that he should ever be laid to rest in such a desolate place. He used the steps to knock the dirt from his shoes before heading back the way he had come, leaving the dead to sleep on in peace.

Chapter LXIII

Louis sipped a coffee at Kaffee Alt Wien on Bäckerstrasse while he waited for Angel to join him. The café was less grand than some of the city’s more famous nineteenth-century coffeehouses such as the Café Central or the Café Schwarzenberg, but Louis liked that about it. The walls were decorated with posters for bands of which Louis had never heard and recitals that he had no intention of attending, but the coffee was very good and the ambience was better still. Using his iPad, he accessed the Vienna Times, the online English-language newspaper, and read the report on the discovery of Hendricksen’s body. A police spokesman claimed that a number of definite lines of inquiry were being followed, which was probably true, and some progress had already been made, which was almost certainly untrue.

Angel had endured another awkward conversation with detectives that morning, but so far, his story appeared to be holding up. He’d also been asked to look at security footage of two people from the hotel’s cameras, but it was apparent to Angel from first glance that the male party was wearing a cheap but effective disguise. As for the girl with him, she kept her sweatshirt hood raised throughout, like a recalcitrant teenager. For the purposes of identifying culprits, the footage was worth exactly nothing.

Still, Louis did not like the idea of the Bundespolizei nosing around his partner’s affairs, because what affected Angel also affected him. If the Austrians persisted, Louis might have to call in a favor from Ross. The FBI man wouldn’t be happy about it, but since Ross never seemed happy about anything, the request wouldn’t significantly impact his quality of life.

Louis was in a state of combined anticipation and frustration, the two being intimately connected. Unless the Vuksans made an error that revealed their whereabouts, he was now reliant on Frend succumbing to pressure via his daughter. It was only Harris’s opinion that Frend cared enough about Pia Lackner possibly to betray the Vuksans, but the Judas kiss was just one of the options available to the lawyer. He could always turn to the police or private operatives, or even to the Vuksans themselves should he decide his fortunes were irrevocably tied up with theirs. Those actions would be unhelpful to Louis.

He also blamed himself for Hendricksen’s death. The Dutchman shouldn’t have been left to work alone in Vienna and Belgrade, but Louis’s contacts in those cities were nil. Still, they should have had better eyes and ears on Frend, both electronic and human. Harris and his fellow Langley spooks could have stepped up to the plate, but Harris had gone dark since the events at Gare de Lyon. Louis wasn’t too surprised, given that Harris had now obtained most, if not all, of what he wanted. The operation might not have gone entirely according to plan, the French, thanks to their mole, having intercepted and killed the two Syrians before Harris and his people could lay hands on them, but a clear message had been sent out nonetheless. In the aftermath, carefully placed and anonymously sourced reports had appeared in a number of the better newspapers in Europe detailing the involvement of Serbian criminals in people smuggling, including the kind of individuals who masterminded attacks on Western civilians. Belgrade had been embarrassed into acting, closing down the access routes through Serbia from the Middle East, however temporarily.

But by involving Louis in their affairs, both Harris and Ross had offered hostages to fortune. They might not have cared to admit it, but Louis had a hold over them, just as they had over him. Ignoring his calls wouldn’t negate it.

‘A terrible business,’ said the man who was seating himself at the next table. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt. A black overcoat was folded neatly on the red banquette opposite. His skin was sallow, and his beard neatly trimmed. He had the kind of face that smiled easily, which caused Louis to form an instant dislike for him. Sometimes Louis worried that he had more in common with SAC Edgar Ross than he was prepared to admit.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Louis.

‘I couldn’t help noticing the story on your device. Very unfortunate for the gentleman involved, not to mention the hotel.’

The stranger positioned with his back against the wall, so that Louis had to pivot slightly to watch him. A second man, burlier and less well dressed than the first, but also bearded and Middle Eastern, had taken a table near the door, and was scrupulously failing to pay them any attention.

A waiter arrived. The stranger ordered an espresso.

‘What about your friend,’ said Louis, ‘doesn’t he want something, too?’

That too-easy smile spread wider in response.

‘He also will have an espresso,’ he told the waiter, before folding his hands in his lap and regarding Louis with a semblance of amicability. Louis’s jacket remained buttoned, and he could feel the presence of the gun concealed beneath it – not that he anticipated having to use it in Kaffee Alt Wien, or not because of this man and his associate. Only a dialogue would be conducted here. Whatever might follow would unfold elsewhere.

Louis continued to watch without speaking. Louis was very good at remaining silent. The concept of awkwardness was alien to him. From the corner of his left eye he saw the second man take delivery of his espresso, his attention all the while fixed on the entrance to the café and the street beyond. Here, thought Louis, were individuals with enemies.

‘My name is Mr Rafi,’ said the stranger finally, after his own coffee had been brought to the table. He pronounced every syllable slowly and with care, like a man reading unfamiliar words from a card.

‘If you say so.’

Had the smile widened any further, Mr Rafi’s lips would have split at the corners.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘It’s not that,’ said Louis. ‘I just don’t care.’

The smile didn’t falter, but any residual warmth left Rafi’s eyes. He was someone, Louis recognized, who valued the trappings of politeness, if only for their usefulness in disguising whatever reality they, like his smile, were trying to conceal. Mr Rafi, whoever he might be, would be polite even as he was cutting out your tongue or puncturing your eyeballs. He would beam benignly as gasoline was sprayed over a purpose-built steel cage before you were set alight. He might even apologize before slitting your throat while a camera filmed your passing for the internet. Mr Rafi was a sociopath, and one who had found a black flag of convenience under which to operate. This, of course, was not to say that Louis considered every Arab to be a potential killer, only that he knew a killer when he saw one.

‘You should care,’ said Mr Rafi.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I found you so easily. A man in your line of work ought to be more prudent.’

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