Page 8 of The Nameless Ones

‘I’m almost done,’ said Spiridon. ‘De Jaager’s history lesson is nearing its end. When the Shiptars’ – Spiridon, like many of his generation, always used the derogatory Serbian term when talking of Albanians – ‘attacked the Serbian Orthodox monastery at Devic in 2004, Andrej requested permission to go back to the region to punish those responsible. I refused. Had he gone, I doubt he would ever have returned. He would have signed up to hunt the guerillas of the Kosovo Liberation Army. But I needed him: He was my gauntlet, my mace, so I allowed him instead to gorge himself on the Albanians who had settled here in the Netherlands. It was, in retrospect, a mistake. I believe he tipped over into madness, and proved increasingly difficult to control in the aftermath. The killing of your brother-in-law, Jos, was an unfortunate consequence. That, in turn, led to Andrej’s murder on your orders, which is why you and I have come to this pass. On one level, I bear responsibility for what occurred. I thought I could tame Andrej, but I was mistaken.’

Spiridon leaned forward.

‘I genuinely do not understand why you stopped at Andrej,’ he said. ‘It was foolish of you. He was only the instrument of another’s will. You might as well have taken out your anger on the hammer used to punch the nails through Jos’s wrists and ankles, or the nails themselves. Were the positions reversed, I would have come for you.’

‘But we are not alike,’ said De Jaager.

‘And perhaps you did not want a war, one that you could not hope to win?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Yet the end result is the same,’ said Spiridon. ‘Your destruction, and the annihilation of all you hold dear.’

Spiridon produced a gun from his belt. He flipped the safety catch, positioned the muzzle under De Jaager’s chin, and forced him to place a finger on the trigger.

‘Not everything they say about me is true,’ said Spiridon. ‘I am capable of mercy, and I have always respected you. I don’t want you to suffer, so I will settle for your life – as long as you are the one to take it. I want you to die a suicide. There is one bullet in the chamber. Apply the necessary pressure to the trigger, and this will all be over. If you don’t, I guarantee that your passing from this world will be more painful than you could ever have imagined.’

De Jaager heard a noise from above. It sounded like a woman whimpering. Now he knew where at least one of them was being held.

‘Who is up there?’ he asked.

It was Radovan who answered.

‘The old woman, Anouk, and a younger girl, Liesl.’

‘What will happen to them?’

‘Pull the trigger,’ said Spiridon.

De Jaager’s eyes moved frantically between the two brothers.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let them go. They have nothing to do with this.’

‘I give you my word,’ said Spiridon, ‘on this relic.’ He removed a very old Serbian cross from under his shirt, the links of its chain damp with his sweat. ‘If you kill yourself, I will let them go. I want to see you take your own life. I want to watch you dishonor yourself in this world and damn yourself in the next.’

De Jaager swallowed once, closed his eyes, and pulled the trigger.

The hammer fell. The gun clicked emptily.

For a moment there was silence, and then Spiridon Vuksan began to laugh. He was joined only by Zivco Ilic, for Radovan Vuksan had already left the room. The only people not laughing were Paulus, who was dead, and De Jaager, who soon would be.

‘That was a good joke, eh?’ said Spiridon.

He slapped De Jaager on the back and removed the gun from his hand. De Jaager did not resist. He did not even look up. His eyes were already fixed on the afterlife. There would be pain, but he was an old man and pain was not unfamiliar to him. He wished only that he could have spared others their agonies and, like Christ, added their sufferings to his own.

‘I am a man of my word,’ said Spiridon. ‘You failed to kill yourself, so I don’t have to let your women go. Come, come.’ He took one of De Jaager’s arms, and Ilic grabbed the other. Together they lifted the old man to his feet. ‘Let’s go upstairs. I have something I want you to see …’

Chapter VI

Angel and Louis ordered from Saiguette on Columbus Avenue. They got extra for Mrs Bondarchuk, although they did not invite her to join them and she did not ask. They ate grilled lemongrass pork shoulder banh mi and crispy shrimp, accompanied by half a bottle of German Riesling. When they were done, Louis washed up while Angel sat in his favorite armchair and read a book entitled I Await the Devil’s Coming. Parker had originally recommended it to Louis, but he set it aside after two pages on the grounds that he had no interest in the affairs of nineteen-year-old girls; never had, never would. The book dated from 1902 and had been written by Mary MacLane, the nineteen-year-old girl in question, a native of Butte, Montana. Angel hadn’t yet journeyed very far with MacLane, but he liked her already. She was a thief, but one with a coherent criminal philosophy.

‘It has been suggested to me that I am a kleptomaniac,’ she wrote. ‘But I am sure my mind is perfectly sane. I have no such excuse. I am a plain, downright thief. This is only one of my many peculations. I steal money, or anything that I want, whenever I can, nearly always. It amuses me – and one must be amused. I have only two stipulations: that the person to whom it belongs does not need it pressingly, and that there is not the smallest chance of being found out. (And of course, I could not think of stealing from my one friend.) It would be extremely inconvenient to be known as a thief, merely.’

Angel thought that, had he ever been fortunate enough to have a daughter, he would have wanted her to turn out like Mary MacLane.

Louis appeared from the kitchen.

‘You still reading that book?’

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