It had been decided, therefore, that it would be better for all concerned if Armitage’s death were ascribed to suicide, thus obviating the necessity of a formal investigation. Two of the numbers on Armitage’s burner had proved untraceable, but others had since been identified, one of them as recently as the day before, when it had been used to send and receive text messages in the Netherlands. This was why Holt and Ross were currently meeting in the White Horse Tavern, away from any listening ears at Federal Plaza, because the Armitage situation was about as toxic as a situation could get without calling in FEMA.

‘A Serb?’ said Holt. ‘Why the fuck was Armitage calling a Serbian gangster?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ross.

‘Is there any chance at all that this was part of some unsanctioned operation?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘What do we know about this Zippo, Zeppo, whatever?’

‘Zivco Ilić,’ said Ross.

‘Yeah, him.’

‘He works for the Vuksan crime syndicate.’

‘And who are the Vuksans?’

‘Very bad people.’

‘How bad is “very bad”?’

‘On a scale of one to ten,’ said Ross, ‘about a twelve.’

De Jaager stood in the kitchen of the canal house. Before him was Zivco Ilić, who had uncorked the bottle of Dom Pérignon and was drinking it straight from the neck. Ilić was of average height, average build, and was averagely good looking. The only aspects of him that were not average were his native intelligence and his capacity for violence. The Vuksans did not employ dullards, and displayed a marked preference for sadists.

‘This tastes like shit,’ said Ilić, waving the bottle in the air.

‘That’s because you have no class,’ said De Jaager.

Ilić spat a stream of champagne directly at De Jaager. It struck him in the face.

‘May I reach for a handkerchief?’ De Jaager asked, but the question was directed not at Ilić but at a second, older man leaning against the doorframe.

‘Of course,’ came the reply. ‘We’re not animals, or not all of us.’

This was Radovan Vuksan, brother of Spiridon, the head of the Vuksan syndicate. Radovan was in his sixties, and balding in the manner of a tonsured monk. He weighed 140 pounds soaking wet, most of it in the form of a distended potbelly that resembled a tumor. His eyes were shiny but lifeless, as though constructed from flawed glass, and if he had ever smiled, he had done so only in the privacy of his own company. He was the ice to his brother’s fire, but each burned with equal ferocity.

De Jaager retrieved a handkerchief from his coat pocket and used it to wipe his face. When he was finished, Ilić spat another burst of champagne at him, this one heavier with saliva.

‘Zivco,’ warned Radovan Vuksan. ‘No more.’

Ilić offered the bottle to Radovan, who declined.

‘Such a waste,’ said De Jaager, staring at Ilić.

‘Of champagne?’ said Radovan.