Page 7 of The Nameless Ones

Yet the mention of a memorandum worried him. After 9/11, promising careers had been torpedoed by evidence of unwillingness to act on intelligence leads. His head would roll as easily as any other.

‘I don’t want to know about it,’ said Holt at last. ‘Officially, I’ve warned you against disseminating this information either within the Bureau or beyond it. Understood?’

‘Perfectly,’ said Ross, without resentment. He knew how the game was played, and had long ago resigned himself to the fact that the cards were almost irredeemably stacked against him. Under such circumstances, a man had three choices. He could fold; he could continue to play the hand that was dealt, relying on bluff and the hope of an improbable reversal of fortune; or he could cheat, and in Ross’s dictionary, cheating was just another word for pragmatism. Holt knew this, too, hence his use of the word ‘officially’, which implied that, unofficially, Ross had latitude.

‘But if what you believe is true,’ said Holt, ‘and Armitage sold Louis out to the Vuksans, wouldn’t they have made their move by now?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Ross, ‘but some men prefer to wait.’

‘For what?’ said Holt.

‘For the perfect moment.’

Chapter V

It had been whispered of Spiridon Vuksan that he was in poor health, although he showed no signs of this as he entered the kitchen of the safe house, and the rumor could more correctly have been ascribed to wishful thinking. He was shorter than his brother, stocky and muscular where Radovan was thin and birdlike, paunch apart. Spiridon had also retained all of his hair, which was short and mostly gray, although patches of dark remained like the speckling on an egg. Just as Radovan had never been seen to smile, Spiridon had never been heard to raise his voice in anger: his speech rarely exceeded a murmur, as of one offering prayers in humility to his god. His aspect was entirely gentle, and every act of violence he had committed, every rape, mutilation, and murder, had been accompanied by an air of regret, as though some force outside and above Spiridon – whether an unknown deity, an unnamed superior, or even the victims themselves – had forced him to act against his better nature.

Spiridon had kindness in his eyes, but – as with his brother – it was painted on glass, and whatever reality lay behind them was revealed in the work of his hands. Had it been possible to excise the orbs, leaving only the ocular hollows, one might have discerned a cloudy blackness resembling ink in water, a mass that occasionally assumed the form of something ancient and predatory, an entity that would feed even when untroubled by hunger, for the pleasure of tearing another living creature apart. Spiridon Vuksan operated in a realm beyond reason, and his madness was all the more terrifying for its equanimity.

Spiridon removed his coat and handed it to his brother. He pulled up a chair and sat before De Jaager, so close that their knees almost touched. He intertwined his fingers and gazed upon the man before him, those clement eyes carefully taking in each of De Jaager’s features in the manner of a physiognomist tasked with establishing the evidence of grave moral degeneracy in another. Finally, he spoke.

‘I am sorry it has come to this,’ he said.

De Jaager did not reply. This man was unworthy of it, and no words would make any difference to what was to come.

‘You understand why you and I are sitting here, don’t you?’ said Spiridon. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re about to die in ignorance.’

‘Timmerman,’ said De Jaager.

‘Bravo,’ said Spiridon, and gave a slow, sad clap. ‘Although Andrej never cared for that appellation, and I didn’t either. I had always wondered if you might have been responsible for his death, but then there were so many others who had cause to hate him. I was surprised that we didn’t have a queue of candidates claiming credit for his execution, but perhaps caution caused them to remain silent. That was wise, given what is about to happen to you.’

He stared at his hands and De Jaager tensed, for it seemed to him that this might be the moment of his death, one in which Spiridon would descend upon him with nails like talons and tear him apart. But the Serb, having waited for so long, was now disinclined to hurry.

‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I once asked Andrej if he’d kept count of how many men he’d killed. I was genuinely curious, and he took the question to heart. He came to me some days later and told me he believed it was between two hundred and fifty and three hundred individuals. He regretted that he could not be more precise, but memory always betrays us. Still, it was impressive that he could recall so many, although I was told that he entered names in a notebook for many years until it became unwise to retain it. He said the wars against the Turks and Croats were the crowning glories of his life, and his only regret was that they had ever ended. He once killed thirty people in a single day, mostly men. They were brought to him from the camp at Omarska. They were forced to kneel before the stump of a tree, and then Andrej shattered their skulls with a mallet made of lignum vitae. He stopped when his arms grew heavy and he could no longer dispatch his victims with a single blow. The women, though, he raped first. Spoils of war.’

Behind his brother, Radovan Vuksan exhaled loudly through his nose. He objected as a matter of principle to the manner of Andrej Buha’s death and the long failure to punish those responsible. He did not, however, regard the world as a poorer place for Buha’s absence; the man’s savagery had only increased as the years went by, and humanity could afford to lose a sadist or two without ever being in danger of running short. But then Radovan was no killer, although he had profited from the deaths of others. Spiridon liked to taunt him about this when Radovan counseled against acts of violence unless absolutely necessary. Radovan, in turn, would invariably counter that, while Spiridon’s actions might have contributed to the fear in which the Vuksans were held, it was he, Radovan, who was responsible for their wealth. Fear brought power, but money secured it.

Spiridon turned to scowl at his brother.

‘Is this too strong for your stomach?’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ said Radovan. ‘Indulge yourself.’

Spiridon returned his attention to De Jaager.

‘Then,’ Spiridon continued, ‘after we took Srebrenica, Andrej became curious about the mechanics of crucifixion and its potency as an instrument of terror. He discovered that a man crucified with his arms fixed above his head will survive for half an hour at most, but often for as little as ten minutes. I think his interest in crucifixion was partly a consequence of his spiritual convictions. Andrej was intensely religious, with a particular devotion to Saint Joankije of Devic. I don’t suppose you knew that. You probably think of us all as beasts.’

‘I’ve tried,’ said De Jaager, ‘not to think of you at all. But I was unaware of a patron saint of rapists. I can only suppose that my spirituality is of a different aspect to your own.’

Spiridon tapped De Jaager on the knee.

‘That’s very clever,’ he said. ‘Of course, everyone acquainted with you says that you’re a clever man. I’ve been hearing that for years. But if they could see you now, what would they say?’

‘We will never know.’

‘You won’t, but I’ll be sure to listen in your absence.’

There came a clicking from nearby. Radovan was tapping his watch.

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