‘Take all the time you want,’ said Kiš. ‘We’re in no hurry.’

Stajić placed a hand on Frend’s right arm.

‘Or you could just tell us where they are,’ he said, his eyelids fluttering.

‘Yes,’ Kiš concurred, ‘you could just tell us that.’

‘I repeat,’ said Frend, ‘I don’t know where they are. They were relocated through a third party so I could work without being vulnerable to coercion.’

Stajić’s grip grew tighter. He kept his nails very sharp, and Frend could feel them pricking at his skin.

‘Yet you are still vulnerable here and in Vienna,’ said Stajić, ‘regardless of what you do or do not know.’

Frend waited them out. He had no choice. Eventually, Stajić’s grip eased. Kiš, meanwhile, was smiling again.

‘Go back to Vienna, Herr Frend,’ he said. ‘Talk to your clients. We look forward to hearing their response to our proposal.’

Frend did not move from his chair.

‘There is one more thing,’ he said. ‘It relates to Nikola Musulin.’

‘You know,’ said Kiš, ‘I was just about to talk to you about Nikola. I think we may have found something that belonged to him.’

Kiš waved his right hand and one of the bodyguards came forward with a velvet bag. Its contents were roughly circular, and rolled slightly as the bag was placed on the table before Frend.

‘Feel free to open it,’ said Kiš. ‘But if I were you, I’d just accept our word that it’s his.’

Frend picked up the bag. He had never held a severed head before, so he could not say that it was lighter or heavier than anticipated. It was just a head.

‘We’ll be in touch,’ he said.

‘Of course you will,’ said Kiš. Stajić only blinked.

Frend walked through to the bar area, where he was relieved to find Miloje still waiting. Miloje led the way to the Audi, neither man looking back, yet both fearing to hear the sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

Hendricksen took fresh pictures of Frend and the driver, concealed by the smoked glass of a Mercedes. As the Audi pulled away, Dušan asked if Hendricksen wanted to follow the car, but he demurred. He was waiting to see who else might emerge from the tavern. Barely two minutes later, the door opened and the first of the bodyguards appeared, checking the street, to be followed by Matija Kiš and Simo Stajić.

‘Fuck,’ said Dušan. ‘Put the camera away.’

‘They can’t see us,’ said Hendricksen.

‘I don’t care. Put it away.’

Hendricksen did. He had the shots he needed.

‘Who are they?’ he said, as Kiš, Stajić, and the others climbed into a pair of BMW people carriers.

‘Devils,’ said Dušan.

‘There are no devils,’ said Hendricksen, ‘only men who act like them.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Dušan, as he started the engine, ‘but then, you don’t have to live here.’