‘You don’t need to talk, you just need to listen. I know everything that has happened and everything that you have done. You know what, that’s not even the reason I am here. The reason I’m here now is down to what you did to a little boy once in 1992 back in Bosnia, when you were a murdering White Eagle. You deprived that twelve-year-old boy of his father, you brutalised his mother, and you forced that boy to lose his childhood and flee his homeland. You murdered my father, Branko—my father, Jacov Novak—because he wouldn’t join your White Eagles, and you raped my mother, Aishe. And that’s why I’m here today. To kill you for costing me my childhood and making me the man I am here today who has killed over and over again. I killed your sons and your friends, and do you know how I feel about that? I’ll tell you: I don’t care. I feel nothing, and you did that to me. You robbed me of the ability to feel. That’s why I’m here and that’s why you die today.’ Tom spoke evenly, quietly, almost a whisper, but the raw hatred for the man before him shone out despite his clothing and the slight muffling of the mask.

Branko didn’t say anything straight away. A heavy, thick silence enveloped the room, almost like a palpable gas, before Branko broke it with a light chuckle.

It began as a low snigger, his shoulders moving almost imperceptibly, and an unpleasant smile began to creep across his pock-marked face, his scar visible like a vivid white slash.

‘You think your father was a hero, Novak? The great Jacov Novak? Yugoslavia’s Olympic hero.’ The sarcasm was redolent in his voice. ‘My goodness, Tomo, you are naïve. Your father was a thief; he stole from me, diamonds that were to secure me forever. Your father was a killer, he worked for Tito’s secret police and he would eliminate his opponents for him,’ he continued, still chuckling.

Novak didn’t waver, instead remaining impassive. ‘My father was a government interpreter; you are a liar.’

Branko’s chuckle became louder, almost a guffaw.