The latter was currently in police custody: there was footage all over the internet of his apprehension by armed police. Of Fouad, there was as yet no trace. The fact that the French had seized Baba did not mean anything. If he was the informant, it would have been natural for the police to spirit him away as quickly as possible; if he was not, the same principle applied. But if Fouad was innocent, why had he not made contact? Yes, Marković was dead, and Fouad had no direct line of communication to the Vuksans, but he had not even been in touch with some of his own people. Fouad, it seemed, had vanished. Perhaps the French had also picked him up and were keeping silent about it, but that was unlikely. Thus Radovan was leaning toward Fouad as the traitor.

But this suspicion, even if it were to be confirmed, would not avail them if, or when, it came time to explain to a bunch of aggrieved Arabs why Saad and Mahdi – accomplished ISIS strategists and moneymen, and therefore beloved of the Prophet – had come to a violent end while ostensibly under the Vuksans’ protection. Spiridon and Radovan would be held accountable. Financial compensation would be demanded, which the Vuksans were not in a position to pay. And if money was not forthcoming, the men in black would seek a more painful and permanent form of restitution.

Meanwhile, Marković was dead, killed in what was being described as an undercover police operation linked to the events at Gare de Lyon. If Fouad had betrayed the operation to the French, it was probable that he had sold out Marković as well. Yet according to the Vuksans’ source on the hotel staff, the police had arrived only after Marković was shot – and, the source opined, they had appeared as puzzled as anyone else by his murder.

All of which made it more urgent than ever that Frend reach an accommodation with Belgrade, one that would permit the Vuksans to retreat to the safety of their rural fastnesses in Serbia. Radovan was working on other options, just in case, but he did not wish to spend the rest of his life running from his enemies, waiting for the inevitable moment when they found him. Like Spiridon, he wanted to be buried in Serbian soil, but unlike Spiridon, he was intent on postponing that interment for as long as possible.

Chapter XLI

Zorya stood amid a grove of trees on Danube Island, observing the young mothers pushing strollers or walking hand in hand with their toddlers on the gravel beach. She had no memory of her own parents. There was only darkness, then light; she had been birthed from the cave as though from a stone womb. She knew only that she was both very young and very, very old, and was filled with hate for those who were not like herself, which meant all of humanity.