In bed at last, in the warm lamplight, Kurt’s gentle sleep-breath the most peaceful sound in the world, László lay back on the pillows, arms behind his head, and tried again to remember the name of the English football captain. Billy? Could ‘Billy’ be a family name in England? Mr Billy? He had visited London four times, all theatre visits. He found the city somewhat troubling. Eerie and exhausting. This time he would ask his hosts to take him on a little visit to the country. He had looked at a map recently in Galignani’s and seen the most extraordinary place names. Leek! Sheepwash! He would pick out a name at random and insist on an excursion. Perhaps his young translator would drive him. They would go on what Edith Wharton used to call a ‘motor-flight’, and stop every hundred miles for tea and cakes.

The phone was on László’s side of the bed. When it rang he was so startled he knocked over the glass of water on the bedside table as he snatched at the receiver.

‘Monsieur Lázár?’

‘Yes?’

‘I am sorry to call you so late. I tried to call you earlier but without success.’

A voice with an accent. A voice faintly familiar.

‘Who is this?’

‘We have met before, monsieur. At the university. We discussed the situation in the Balkans. Perhaps you remember?’

‘Wait,’ said László, ‘I’ll take the call in my study.’ Kurt was awake. László smiled at him. ‘Its nothing,’ he said. ‘Sleep. Dream of fish.’

In the study, he crossed the unlit room, switched on the desk lamp and picked up the extension. He knew who it was now: Emil Bexheti, leader of an Albanian students’ group at the Sorbonne. A young man born for conspiracies.

‘I’m here,’ said László.

‘I am disturbing you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will be brief, monsieur. I wish for an opportunity to talk with you again. Somewhere in private. Not, I think, at your apartment. Or mine, of course.’

‘And this must be arranged at two o’clock in the morning?’

‘You received the new faxes, monsieur?’

‘No. Yes, perhaps. I haven’t looked at them. You want to talk about the Balkans again?’

‘I would be honoured if you would agree to meet with me.’

‘May I ask why me? Why in particular?’

‘We think you are a friend of justice.’

‘“We”?’

‘You know what it is to have an oppressor in your land. To be ruled by force. By fear. You know what it is to see...’

‘Enough of this!’

‘We respect you, monsieur.’

‘Not enough to stop you calling me in the middle of the night. Are there no Balkan professors you can wake up? What about Dr Kelmandi?’

In the background, László could hear another voice, a man, older, speaking with hushed, rapid authority. Not French. Presumably Albanian.