Page 31 of The Nameless Ones

Serbia was what is known as a captured political system: It was corrupt from the top down, and picking off the bottom-feeders did little to affect the big fish. Those big fish had decided that Musulin was surplus to requirements. It would be interesting, thought Radovan, to see who would take his place. It would not be Spiridon, though, whatever unspoken hopes he might entertain; his time had passed. The question of succession mattered only in terms of the ease or difficulty of brokering a deal with the new occupant of Musulin’s throne, and the extent to which the political forces that had facilitated Musulin’s murder were prepared to bend on the issue and form of the Vuksans’ survival.

It was dark as the Vuksans drove into Vienna, a city Radovan had always loved. Here, he believed, they would be safe for a while. He trusted Anton Frend, even if the two men would be unable to meet while the Vuksans bided their time. Too many individuals were aware of Radovan’s professional relationship with Frend, even if they did not – or so Radovan hoped – realize the depth of the personal connection. It was too risky for Radovan and Frend to be seen together in public, so most of their communication would have to be conducted via dropboxes, temporary email addresses, and burner phones. If necessary, Zivco Ilic would act as a personal intermediary, because he was very good at seeing without being seen. Ilic would have some help in this, as he and the Other were close.

And the Other had gifts beyond all understanding.

Chapter XXX

The man sitting at the bar of the Conservatorium was staring at an iPad showing coverage of a news conference by a floundering senior US politician railing against his enemies, both real and imaginary. The man had a single earbud in his left ear, and a hearing aid behind his right. Louis guessed that he was in his sixties, with the patrician air of one who didn’t like any money that wasn’t old. Generations of good breeding had left him with all his hair, a body that was refusing to succumb to senescence, and – judging by his eyes as he glanced at Louis – a mind that was likewise raging against the dying of the light. He was wearing a gray suit and a black knit-silk tie, with a polka dot pocket square to offer a hint of levity.

‘As soon as paranoia sets in every politician begins sounding like Nixon on the final White House tapes,’ said the man, gesturing at the screen as Louis appeared beside him, ‘and that’s never a good image. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

Louis sat. ‘What are you having?’ he said.

‘A Dutch Negroni, made with oude genever. You know genever?’

‘I know it.’

‘Of course. You’ve been here before – and left your mark, by all accounts. So: a Negroni?’

‘Sure.’

The man raised a finger, and a bartender was pulled toward them.

‘A Negroni for my friend, and a fresh one for me.’

‘Are we friends?’ said Louis.

‘The alternative is less pleasant to contemplate, and harder to explain to bartenders.’

‘You could start with a name.’

‘You can call me Hermes.’

‘Get the fuck out of here,’ said Louis. ‘I’m not calling you Hermes.’

‘The patron of travelers and thieves. You could do worse.’

‘Not a whole lot worse.’

‘A pity,’ said the man. ‘Those cloak-and-dagger aliases always remind me of more innocent times. Then Harris will do, I suppose.’

The feed across the bottom of the iPad showed the politician inveighing against plotters and turncoats, and the anti-democratic maneuvers of the Deep State.

‘Look,’ said Louis, ‘he’s talking about you.’

‘People love conspiracies,’ said Harris. ‘They find them reassuring. It’s the consolation that someone, somewhere, might actually have a design in mind. The fearful embrace conspiracies for the same reason they believe in God.’

The Negronis arrived. Harris raised his glass.

‘To great designs,’ he said.

Louis made the slightest of gestures in return, and drank. The Negroni tasted smokier than he was used to, but he thought it might grow on him.

‘As it happens,’ said Harris, removing the earbud and putting the iPad to sleep, ‘my father served under Nixon. Well, he served under people who served under Nixon, which is pretty much the same thing. He told me that he’d never encountered a stranger bunch of men than those in the Nixon White House. He spent one evening watching Triumph of the Will in the basement with the rest of the staff at the insistence of Gordon Liddy, although there was popcorn. Liddy then announced that the Special Investigations Unit, the dirty tricks brigade, was to be code-named ODESSA, after the former SS veterans’ organization, and showed my father the nine-millimeter parabellum pistol he’d acquired from the CIA, just in case Bud Krogh asked him to assassinate anyone.’

Harris tasted his second Negroni, and seemed to find it just as satisfactory as the first.

‘You know,’ he concluded, ‘Nixon’s White House had its share of nuts and crooks, but back then Gordon Liddy wasn’t a nut or a crook. Gordon Liddy was completely batshit crazy.’

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