Seated to Kiš’s left was Simo Stajić, whom Frend knew only from photographs. Frend did not believe Stajić had ever owned a suit. Even at funerals, Stajić dressed as though he operated a market stall selling stolen cell phones: jeans, a leather jacket, a shirt that could have been mistaken for designer wear only in poor light, and anonymous sneakers for a speedy getaway. Whatever Stajić spent his money on, it wasn’t fashion. He kept his head shaved and had the build of a long-distance runner. He blinked a lot, so that his eyes resembled the shutters of a camera perpetually recording everything they saw, and he smoked obsessively, even by Serbian standards. Already the ashtray before him held four butts, and Frend was only a few minutes late.

Both men stood to shake his hand – Kiš firmly, with a double grip, in the manner of a politician seeking reelection, and Stajić more desultorily, possibly because he had to switch the cigarette to his left hand to do so, thus depriving himself of valuable smoking time. Frend was relieved not to be subjected to the ritual of kisses, at least.

‘You had a good flight?’ said Kiš in English. Frend wondered if it was for Stajić’s benefit. Radovan was of the opinion that Stajić did not know German, but had learned English because it was the international language of criminality.

‘We were delayed,’ said Frend.

‘So I understand. May I offer you an aperitif? It’s very good.’

‘It’s very strong.’

‘That, too. But strong is good, right?’

‘I’ll stick with wine,’ said Frend. ‘Prokupac, please.’

Kiš passed the order to a waiter, and a bottle was produced. Almost as soon as the wine was poured, food began to appear: salads and flatbreads, followed by a variety of meats, including kidneys and pig trotters. Frend avoided the latter and ate only lightly of the meats. He preferred the new Serbian cooking to this more traditional fare. There was, he had long ago decided, only so much that even the best of chefs could accomplish with grilled flesh. He and Kiš kept up a polite conversation, touching on sport, culture, the weather – anything but the real reason for Frend’s presence in the city. Stajić didn’t contribute much beyond the occasional grunt, and kept a cigarette burning throughout the meal, but Frend saw that he was listening intently, his eyes moving back and forth between the interlocutors. It made Frend wonder which of the two, Kiš or Stajić, was the real power here.

Finally, when they had all eaten their fill, having barely made inroads into most of the food, the table was cleared, coffee was poured, and they got down to business.

‘So how is Spiridon?’ said Kiš. ‘And please don’t tell me he’s the same as ever or I shall be disappointed at his continued inability to evolve.’

‘He is concerned,’ said Frend, ‘as is Radovan.’