Page 56 of The Nameless Ones

But if Kiš was right about friends of De Jaager seeking revenge for his death, then the killing of Aleksej Markovic in Paris took on an even more troubling aspect. Whoever was responsible for Markovic’s assassination would not stop there, which meant that the Vuksans and all those around them remained in danger. This was a problem that could not be solved by departing Europe, or paying compensation to anonymous men in tieless shirts. It would require more direct action.

Frend looked again at the photograph of Hendricksen. It was time, he thought, to establish who exactly was hunting the Vuksans.

Chapter XLVII

Louis had taken the train from Paris to Prague, the long journey made more tolerable by the comforts of first class and the knowledge that he could hold on to one of the Rohrbaugh pistols without fear of awkward security questions. Another Rohrbaugh, the one used to kill Aleksej Markovic, was already at the bottom of the Seine, and his Japanese guests had presumably disposed of the remaining pair.

Louis made no calls from the train, and slept between Paris and Frankfurt. For the remainder of the journey, he alternated between newspapers and a copy of James Fenimore Cooper’s The Last of the Mohicans, which Angel had given to him. Louis had a vague memory of encountering the comic book adaptation when he was younger, which probably hadn’t been the best response to give when Angel had asked if he’d ever read the novel. Now here he was, on a train to Prague, trying to make amends for his ignorance.

Ever since Angel’s illness, Louis had been working his way through a list of the one hundred greatest works of world literature. He was doing well, he felt, just as long as he didn’t go looking at too many rival lists. Surely, he thought, the finest critical minds could have reached a consensus by this stage, permitting a man reasonably to set himself the target of filling the gaps in his literary knowledge without fear that a whole new set of gaps was lurking in the bushes, waiting to be revealed. At this rate, he might never be done with reading.

It was nightfall when the train finally arrived in Prague. Louis had booked himself a room in a small hotel in Malá Strana, on one of the back streets near Kampa Island. There he showered, changed, and touched base with Angel and Hendricksen. He ate alone at U Modré Kachnicky on Nebovidksá, where years earlier he had dined with Parker and Angel. Back then, he wouldn’t have bet heavily on their prospects for survival, yet somehow all three of them had endured.

The world, he reflected, was full of surprises.

The following morning, Louis met the man named Most in the basement bar of the Hotel U Prince in Prague’s Old Town Square. Technically, the bar didn’t open until after 5 p.m., but exceptions tended to be made for Most. His nickname translated as ‘bridge’, since Most prided himself on making connections, often between individuals seeking something illegal and the illegal item in question. It also served to describe Most himself. As Angel had once observed, Most could have linked both banks of the Vltava by draping himself across the river. He was a massive figure: grayer now, and walking with the aid of a cane, but still imposing.

‘You appreciate the venue?’ he said to Louis, as he eased himself onto a leather banquette.

The bar was called Black Angel’s. Louis had last come to Prague during the search for a statue – or an entity, depending on one’s beliefs – called the Black Angel. Given the number of people who had ended up dead as a consequence, the choice of bar appealed more to Most’s sense of humor than Louis’s.

‘It’s certainly got atmosphere,’ said Louis.

‘Like a cave,’ said Most. ‘And it’s quiet. Later, there will be many tourists. Now, only us.’

‘Your English seems to have improved since last we met.’

‘I took lessons. We must change with the times, and the times require good English. You want a drink?’

‘It’s too early for me. Just coffee.’

Most looked disappointed. To make up for Louis’s abstemiousness, he ordered two cocktails for himself. They arrived quickly, along with Louis’s coffee, before the bartender left them in peace.

‘What happened to your leg?’ said Louis.

‘Arthritis. It runs in the family.’ Most tasted both of his cocktails, reducing them to one cocktail between two glasses. ‘I also got shot, a long time ago. That did not help.’

‘It wouldn’t.’

Louis added milk to his coffee, but set the sugar aside.

‘I hear you got shot, too,’ said Most, ‘but not so long ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Painful?’

‘Then, or now?’

‘Now, obviously. It’s always painful at the time.’

‘A little.’

‘When men like us say “a little”, we mean a lot. You ought to drink more alcohol.’

‘Is it working for you?’

‘Not yet, but that may mean I’m not drinking enough. I’m happy to keep trying until I find the perfect dosage. How is Angel?’

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