Page 59 of The Nameless Ones

‘This is Zorya,’ said Ilic.

Here, then, was Spiridon Vuksan’s witch. Frend had paid little attention to Radovan’s references to her, dismissing her as one of Spiridon’s indulgences, another indication of his innate primitiveness. Now, exposed to her presence at last, Frend accepted that he had been wrong. Spiridon Vuksan might have been a superstitious peasant by birth, but for this credulity he deserved to be excused. Zorya was unheimlich. A century earlier, Freud himself would have come running from his rooms on Berggasse just to set eyes on her.

‘Were you careful?’ said Ilic.

‘I believe so,’ said Frend. ‘But then, I advised against this meeting to begin with. A drop could have been arranged.’

‘Spiridon wanted it this way. I just follow orders.’

Spiridon, not Radovan. Frend thought this was interesting, but also worrying.

‘Did he say why?’ asked Frend.

‘I didn’t ask. That’s why they call it an order.’

A waiter arrived, and Zorya hid her face once again. Frend asked for a tea that he didn’t want and placed a folded copy of Der Standard on the table. Inside was a picture of Hendricksen and an envelope of €100, €200, and €500 notes: €10,000 in total. By prior arrangement, Ilic would take the newspaper and photograph with him when he left.

Frend was conscious of Zorya appraising him, but he tried not to look at her. She smelled of a combination of dryness and dampness, like an ancient cavern through which water had once flowed.

The waiter returned with the tea. Ilic watched the sightseers go by in the courtyard, following the prettiest of the girls, molesting them with his eyes. Frend reflected that the hour of Ilic’s death could not come soon enough.

‘You say this Hendricksen is ex-military?’ said Ilic, his gaze still fixed on young flesh.

‘He served in the Balkans,’ said Frend. ‘His battalion was at Srebrenica.’

‘Is he trying to atone?’

‘Who knows?’

‘We’ll have to find out. Zorya will ask him.’

‘What about Spiridon?’ says Frend. ‘Has there been any change in his position regarding Belgrade?’

Ilic shrugged. ‘Radovan is trying to reason with him, but Spiridon does not believe in running away.’

Frend pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He was largely immune to headaches, except in extreme circumstances, but he could feel the pain of one coming on now.

‘And you,’ said Frend, for want of a better question, ‘what do you believe in?’

‘Money. Pussy. What else is there?’

‘God?’ Frend suggested. He was half-joking. Even after all this time, he struggled to balance these men’s devotion to Serbian Orthodoxy with their relish for sadism and murder. But Ilic appeared to be giving the question his serious consideration.

‘Zorya says there is an existence beyond this one,’ conceded Ilic, ‘and she does not lie. But even if she’s right, I won’t see God when I die, or not for long. You won’t either, so you shouldn’t concern yourself with the mechanics of His existence.’

Frend felt a pressure on his right hand: the nail of Zorya’s index finger was tracing a pattern over the veins, writing a word. Three letters: P-I-A.

Pia.

‘That’s your daughter’s name, isn’t it?’ said Zorya. Her voice was too deep, too cracked.

‘Yes,’ said Frend. ‘Did you learn that from Spiridon?’

‘Spiridon has never mentioned her, and neither has Radovan. Would you like me to share more with you about her?’

‘No.’

She ignored him.

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