No, better to steer clear of Skadarlija entirely, which was why an appropriately removed site had been rented for private use. The tavern was among the oldest in the city, with dark wood floors, low chairs and stools, and waitstaff in white shirts and black waistcoats. The separate dining area had blue check tablecloths, and served a traditional menu that changed according to the mood of the chef, while the walls were decorated with paintings of brooding Serbian landscapes and the ruins of ancient fortresses.

Miloje found a place to park before escorting Frend into the bar. Two men were seated at one of the tables to the left of the door, wearing the ubiquitous cheap leather jackets of the professionally thuggish. They were drinking coffee, and nodded at Miloje, who nodded back. Miloje held his hands out from his sides, inviting a search. One of the men rose and scanned Miloje with a handheld metal detector before patting him down, just in case he’d accessorized with a ceramic blade or rigged himself to explode as an act of revenge. They didn’t even bother checking Frend. Perhaps, Frend thought, he didn’t look like a threat, or they were betting that a lawyer wouldn’t be self-sacrificing enough to lay down his life for a client, in which case they would have been absolutely correct.

Miloje took a seat at the table to the right of the door, leaving Frend to proceed into the restaurant. Three more bodyguards were arranged inside, two by the window and the other by the far wall, and only one of the tables was set for dinner. Two men were already waiting at it, drinking Vinjak XO brandy as an aperitif.

Frend had met Matija Kiš on a number of occasions, finding him to be uninteresting company, although Radovan had advised against underestimating him and, it seemed, had been right. Kiš was tall and dark-haired, but most of the color came from a bottle. He was wearing a slim-cut black suit that looked a size too small, even though Kiš was not a particularly heavy man. Frend blamed the Daniel Craig incarnation of James Bond, whose Tom Ford suits were too tight and narrow-shouldered for someone of his build. A whole generation of would-be sophisticates had now grown up believing that a man’s suit jacket should be cut an inch too short and ripple outward from the center button.