Page 30 of The Nameless Ones

But Markovic didn’t much care one way or the other. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to return to Serbia. Even had he gone back with the Vuksans, he doubted he would have stayed. Western Europe offered more possibilities, more ways for a ruthless man to earn money. Markovic was a follower, not a leader, and his recognition of this reality had probably contributed more to his survival than he might have realized. At home, he would have been obliged to ally himself with one of the local groupings and swear allegiance to small men. Eventually, he would have become caught up in the kind of internecine feuding that had cost Nikola Musulin his life, resulting in a transfer of loyalties to another small man under threat of injury or death. The problem was that every such move caused a diminution in one’s value and an increase in the amount of suspicion one attracted, until finally it was safer for someone to put a bullet in one’s head rather than have one roaming free, accumulating grievances. No, regardless of whatever deal the Vuksans finally managed to strike – assuming they could strike any deal at all, because that expression of doubt and worry on Radovan’s face had made an impression – Markovic would find gainful employment in Europe, Asia, or even North America. A man with his skill set would never want for work.

For now, though, Markovic was in Paris, staying in a hotel that reeked of standing water and bad food. He had taken an early-morning train from Cologne, dumping the car at the Tiefgarage Hauptbahnhof with the keys in the ignition and €500 in the glove compartment. On the way to the station, he had made a call to ensure that the car would be disposed of within the hour.

Despite the precariousness of their position, the Vuksans still had certain obligations that needed to be fulfilled, and it was to Markovic that they had entrusted this responsibility. The cargo soon to arrive at the Gare de Lyon had landed at Port-Vendres some days previously, following a circuitous journey from Syria via Egypt and Algeria. It would have been simpler to have routed them through Serbia using established channels, but these men had business to be concluded in Cairo and Algiers before they could depart for Europe, and had indicated their preference for the Port-Vendres back door. Given recent events in Belgrade, it was now fortunate that they had elected to bypass Serbia. The Vuksans would have been unable to guarantee them safe transit, and might even have been forced to return the portion of their fee already delivered. Port-Vendres, although riskier, had proven to be a blessing.

Back in the glory days of France’s imperial odyssey, Port-Vendres had benefited from being the southernmost French port to the colonies in Africa. While it was too far from the industrial cities to be a useful shipping center for goods, it had flourished as a terminal for passenger traffic to and from Algeria, because the crossing was smoother than over the Gulf of Lyon. Now the little commune was a tourist destination best known for its seafood restaurants, where fishing boats landed their catches at the quai du Fanal. Some security checks on incoming vessels were inevitable, but they were far fewer than might be anticipated at Toulon or Marseille. For this reason, and in order to preserve the integrity of the route, the Vuksans used their Port-Vendres contacts for only the most high-value cargo.

Markovic found a table outside a Turkish café and lit a cigarette. He might have loathed Muslims, but he could not fault their coffee. Also, one never knew what one might learn by sitting in their presence and pretending not to speak French. Markovic also had a smattering of Turkish, some Arabic, and adequate Spanish, as well as fluent English. He cultivated the aspect of an ignorant man, and his English deliberately remained heavily accented, but he was no dullard. The Vuksans did not employ dolts, or not for long.

And as Markovic smoked his cigarette, and flicked idly through his cell phone, his image was captured and dispatched three hundred miles north, where a phone in Amsterdam pinged in the lounge of the Conservatorium, notifying the recipient of the message’s arrival.

Chapter XXVIII

At the Conservatorium, Louis was discussing with Hendricksen the information contained in Ross’s dossier on the Vuksans, and particularly that which concerned the Viennese lawyer named Anton Frend.

‘The name isn’t familiar to me,’ said Hendricksen, ‘but I can ask around. I’ve had some dealings with Austrian lawyers.’

‘How were they?’ said Angel.

‘They were lawyers,’ said Hendricksen.

‘That bad, huh?’

Hendricksen nodded glumly.

‘Is the intel solid?’ he said.

‘I trust the intel,’ said Louis, ‘but not the source.’ He had shared with Hendricksen the generalities of his conversation with Ross, omitting his deeper concerns about Ross’s motives.

‘And you say Ross is putting you in touch with a contact in Amsterdam?’ said Hendricksen.

‘So he claimed. If you’re right about the repercussions of Musulin’s death, we now have a window of opportunity, but it may not remain open for long. Ross’s spook buddies will understand that just as well as we do.’

But even as he spoke, Louis had to quell his unease. In his old life he had prided himself on preparation, including intimate study of a target through multiple forms of surveillance, sometimes lasting weeks, or even months. Whenever possible he took on much of that responsibility himself, because he placed the appropriate value on his own skin. Only on rare occasions had he killed without taking precautions, and the premium charged had not been worth the peril: twice he had come close to being apprehended, and once he had almost died. Now he was hunting on unfamiliar territory, and dependent on the goodwill of strangers.

Which was when a waiter appeared with a note for him, and said, ‘Your guest is waiting for you at the bar.’

Chapter XXIX

Radovan and Spiridon Vuksan had rarely been apart during the past twenty years. They were, in their way, symbiotic beings, or two aspects of the same brain. Radovan was the cerebrum – thinking, learning, planning – while Spiridon was the cerebellum, governing the movement of the muscles. Radovan adjudged, and Spiridon acted accordingly. Separate, they were individually weaker. Together, they were greater than the sum of their parts.

On the other hand, for such a relationship to work, these two aspects of the brain had to be in perfect accord, and in recent years Radovan’s caution had increased in seemingly direct proportion to Spiridon’s recklessness. Spiridon no longer considered his brother’s counsel, and even when he did, it was dismissed as often as it was accepted. Had he not known better, Radovan might have said that Spiridon was intent upon their ruination.

For the first time, Radovan Vuksan was contemplating the excision of his brother from his life.

But for now they remained united, because Spiridon was giving the impression, if not of heeding his brother’s advice, then at least of weighing it. Initially, after the death of Nikola Musulin, Spiridon had spoken only of revenge: of returning to Serbia, gathering their forces, and punishing those responsible. But a night’s sleep at the farmhouse of Gavrilo Dražeta appeared to have mellowed him somewhat, if only temporarily, and on the long drive southeast, Spiridon had listened more than he had spoken.

If they went back to Serbia, Radovan explained, they’d be killed. No one in Belgrade – not in government, not in the police, not even among the gangs and syndicates – wished to see a descent into open criminal warfare. It would be bad for the country’s image, especially as it attempted to present its best face to the European Union. Shortly after their return, the Vuksans and anyone who stood alongside them would be quietly vanished, and nothing would ever be heard of them again.

There were also established cultural reasons for maintaining the status quo. Back in the good old days of the Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, under the firm hand of Marshal Josip Broz Tito, criminals were generally allowed to go about their business as long as they conducted it beyond the country’s borders and repatriated some of their profits to benefit Yugoslav society. Following Tito’s death in 1980, the country had become economically and politically unstable, leading to fractures along ethnic and nationalist lines, and, ultimately, war.

Now, more than two decades after the first eruption of the conflict, something resembling stability reigned, admittedly with certain qualifications. The Chinese were investing heavily in Serbia in preparation for the country’s eventual integration into the EU, and the Russians, as usual, were doing their best to sow discontent in the region, including working to prevent the former Yugoslav federal state of Macedonia – or North Macedonia as it was now known – from joining NATO. Meanwhile, a version of Tito’s law once again applied to the more ambitious forms of Serb criminality: it was strictly export-only. In Serbia, as in Russia, the real criminals now wore suits and roamed unchallenged through the National Assembly.

All of which meant that Nikola Musulin’s death must have been sanctioned at a high level – in theory, if not in actual practice, since even the most pragmatic of Serbian politicians would have balked at a bomb attack at the heart of one of the country’s tourist hot spots. It was Radovan’s opinion that the main reason for Musulin’s assassination had been to prevent Spiridon’s return to Serbia because he represented a potentially destabilizing influence – although, as with all such maneuverings, there were undoubtedly other forces at work, since Musulin’s death opened the way for a redistribution of wealth and influence. If their foes were prepared to sanction Musulin’s public immolation, they would not hesitate to do the same for the Vuksans.

But the brothers were also vulnerable if they remained in Europe, because the Serbian gangs had insinuated themselves throughout the continent. It was, therefore, unwise for the Vuksans to linger where they might be spotted by unfriendly faces. Unfortunately, Spiridon had so far proved resistant to the idea of relocation to another continent. Spiridon wanted to be acknowledged as a threat, and the closer his proximity to Belgrade, the more his enemies had reason to fear him and thus – according to his rationale – the more cause they would have to seek an accommodation with him.

Nikola Musulin’s death had not affected Spiridon on any personal level, beyond the inconvenience it was causing him. Blood ties aside, the two men had never been close, and if the bomb had not blown Musulin to pieces, someone else would have usurped him down the line because, as Gavrilo Dražeta had noted, he lacked foresight and ambition. When, or if, Serbia was finally accepted into the European Union, it would be open season for the criminal syndicates and their political allies, and a lot of people stood to become very wealthy. This was why the government was making superficial efforts to appear to be tackling corruption and economic crime, even if it stopped short of large-scale arrests and prosecutions, or the seizure of notable criminal assets.

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