All of these thoughts passed through Frend’s mind as his passport was examined for what felt like a very long time before the stamp was applied and he was admitted to the country. He went straight to the exit, carrying only his overnight bag, and was relieved to see the familiar face of Miloje, who had regularly driven him around Belgrade in better times. Miloje, Frend knew, was distantly related to the Vuksans. They trusted him, even after all that had occurred, which was why he had been given the task of picking up Frend from the airport. Miloje was a mute: Bosniak soldiers in Konjic had removed his tongue with hot pincers during the war. In his pocket he kept a notebook in which he wrote questions or comments. In addition to his native Serbian, Miloje also understood English, German, and a little French. In his notebook he now scribbled the question Hotel? and showed it to Frend.

‘No,’ said Frend, ‘let’s go straight to the restaurant.’

He had reserved a room at a boutique hotel in Vračar, but the delayed flight had cost him two precious hours, and he did not think it would be politic to arrive late for the meeting. Miloje showed Frend to a gray Audi, sheltering him from the rain with a black umbrella. They then crawled toward the city, Belgrade’s notorious traffic rendered even more chaotic by the bad weather. Serbian flags hung from every second lamppost along the motorway, a reminder, if any were needed, that Serb nationalism remained a potent force. The journey was soundtracked by a cacophony of blaring horns, and accompanied by a cortege of taxi drivers measuring out their lives in missed fares.

Frend’s cell phone rang. Only Radovan had the new number.

‘Where are you?’

‘Passing the Sava Centar,’ said Frend, naming the huge Tito-era conference facility close to the river. ‘The flight was late, but I’ll soon be at the meeting place.’

‘Good, because I just received a call.’

‘From?’

‘A North African client inquiring about a lost delivery.’

Frend knew the substance, if not the details, of the botched operation in Paris.

‘What did you say?’

‘That we were looking into the reasons for the failure.’

‘And?’

‘It did not diminish the client’s unhappiness,’ said Radovan. ‘He has requested a meeting. Naturally, I demurred.’

‘Naturally,’ said Frend. As if their situation wasn’t bad enough, the Vuksans now had homicidal religious lunatics trying to track them down. ‘Did you offer to return the portion of the fee already paid?’

‘Are you trying to be funny?’

Frend wasn’t, and told Radovan so. He watched a pair of police cars speed by, followed by an ambulance: an accident farther up the road, which might have explained some, but not all, of the delay. This was Belgrade, so there was always an accident somewhere.