Forty-year-old Christa Notta is a member of a dangerous religious sect. Guided by their leader, Fisnish, ‘The Nameless Ones’ carry out violent attacks against the Catholic Church. Christa has been nominated to take the lead role and act as a suicide bomber to assassinate the Pope. But she backs out of her mission and deserts the sect. Now in hiding and certain in the knowledge that Fisnish will find her, Christa starts to tell her story. Die Namenlosen is a fast-paced thriller with a complex and compelling narrative. The following passage, translated by Anthea Bell, is an abbreviated excerpt from the beginning of the book, as Fisnish prepares the sect for its campaign.

We women are laughing. He has forbidden the men to laugh; their faces remain unmoved. I know they are having to control themselves. They are standing in front of the wall with the window, containing the broken pane Fisnish smashed with his fist after we arrived last night. He is crouching in front of the fire, eyes closed. He smiles; his torso is naked. A moment ago he was still humming. Now he is silent, like the rest of us.

I can hear Lea’s heavy breathing; she’s had a cold for days. Snot runs from her nostrils; she’s given up blowing her nose. I’m freezing, but I smile all the same. We haven’t slept or eaten for two days. I feel light, I feel well, although I am unsteady on my legs. When we were looking for firewood I fell, yet the ground around this dilapidated shed is flat. We spent the night in the open. Only the rain falling early in the morning drove us into shelter.

Fisnish coughs. The circles under his eyes are ashen. It is very quiet for a while. Even the crackling of the fire seems to have died down, and Lea’s nasal passages are clear at last. I know that the moment I close my eyes I start swaying slightly, back and forth. We women are still laughing. When we were praying the last dobla at dawn, sixteen consecutive Our Fathers, I had a pleasant sense of floating. Every breath I drew raised me further into the air, and finally I was looking down from a great height on all of us gathered around Fisnish. It was a wonderful sight, and it gave me strength and confidence. Then I must have nodded off. I don’t dream; I have self-control. I smile, although my facial muscles are aching. Now Fisnish rises. This is the moment when we fall on our knees. He is whispering, but I can still make out every word he says.

‘I have passed through the tempest, and it had no power over me. Neither thunder nor lightning could strike me. Nor will it have any power over you.’

His face looks like the end product of life-long asceticism. It reminds me of the sense of isolation I feel in mountains or deserts. I can’t always stand up to his cold gaze. Then I cast my eyes down, and feel I’ve been caught in the act – though what act I don’t know.

‘We are silent prophets. We replace the Word with violence. Violence tells our enemies what we have to say. Violence tells the world what we want and who we are.’

Even when he whispers his voice is full and melodious. His utterances make me think of bones bleached in the sun. They are beautiful, and at the same time they inspire me with dread. Fisnish lets his words hover in the air around us until we feel uncertain, at a loss. As if we were listening to something we don’t properly understand. Both his wrists bear scars. Sloping white lines; I keep thinking about them. He makes not the slightest attempt to hide them, and indeed he positions his arms as if to display those scars. A delta of veins pulses on his forehead. Even at our first encounter I knew he was looking for followers and admirers, not friends.

Fisnish coughs. The leather strap he wears around his neck leads my eyes to the hollow between his collarbones. His skin is taut and sun-tanned, almost burnt. He has forbidden us to wear any jewellery, of course including the cross.

My stomach is rumbling and I feel dizzy. If I lean slightly to the right I touch Roberto, kneeling beside me. I know he finds fasting very difficult, and suffers pangs of hunger. Two days ago I saw him stuffing a handful of wild garlic into his mouth. He swallowed it without chewing once. Roberto is small and stout. ‘There are some among us who strive to find God, who are chosen to recognize and annihilate his enemies. The storm may tear the clothes from your body, the crowd may call you unbelievers, but the child of the Lord never stumbles in his course. Have no pity on those who are infected by evil. For the devil speaks in many tongues, and appears in many guises.’

His eyes rest on each of us as he looks at us one by one. His voice is still gentle, but clearer and louder than before. He does not smile. There is a light in his face that frightens me instead of calming me.

‘The Spartan boy complained to his mother that his sword was too short, and she replied,
“Then move closer”.’

Stoner starts to giggle. He shaves his head every other day. The shaving cuts look like runes which you could decode if you gave it enough time. We watch him laughing and then calming himself. He shrugs his shoulders several times in succession, up and down, looking as if he were beating wings that someone had cropped. Sunlight falls into the shed, dividing the place into two halves. Stoner has a bump on the bridge of his nose.

‘Would you be prepared to do it, Stoner?’ ‘Do what?’
‘Move closer.’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘For vengeance is not the Lord’s,’ says Fisnish. ‘But ours: we will repay,’ Stoner completes
the response.
‘Correct. We will cultivate the land in peace, but we must plough our furrows with the sword. We shall repay fire with fire.’
‘And ashes with ashes,’ we chant in chorus.
‘Those who remember the past are condemned to repeat it,’ he says.

His laughter sounds like a command for us to be amused at his expense.