Sergej Vuksan had been a senior official in UDBA, the Yugoslav secret service, with special responsibility for monitoring the activities of dissidents abroad, particularly Croatians. Sergej’s own sympathies, carefully concealed, lay with the Serbian nationalists. Like many Serbs, he had no love for Tito, an ethnic Croat raised as a Catholic, even as he helped to secure the dictator’s rule. He had raised his sons in the expectation that, when the inevitable conflict commenced, they would do their duty to further the cause of Serbian independence. Each, in his way, had obliged, Spiridon by shedding the blood of Turks and Croats, and Radovan by ensuring that the resources were available for him to do so. Whether Sergej, had he lived, would have approved of his sons’ subsequent transition to mundane, self-interested criminality was another matter, but dementia and mortality had negated the necessity of such an awkward conversation.

Now Serbia was an independent nation once again, if still something of a pariah in Europe, but the Udbasi had not gone away. Instead they had integrated themselves into the structures of the new republics according to their political or national loyalties, principally in order to feather their own nests. Within Serbia, powerful elements had recognized the usefulness of employing UDBA tactics against their enemies, which now included the Vuksans. This, Radovan knew, was what Spiridon failed to recognize: The Vuksans were engaged in a battle not only with ambitious men like Matija Kiš and Simo Stajić but also with the entire apparatus of the Serbian state. It was a fight that the brothers were destined to lose.

So Radovan sat in his chair, watching the dawn come too slowly.

Shortly after 10 a.m., he made the call.

Radovan was taking a chance, of course, one of which his brother would not approve, but perhaps the Vuksans were still owed a favor or two, if only out of respect for their late father. The Serbian consulate in Vienna was situated on Ölzeltgasse. Radovan dialed the number and asked to be put through to the liaison officer for the head of mission to the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe. When he was informed that Ms Ćirić was not available, he asked that she be contacted as a matter of urgency, and left a number and the contact name Vrana. Five minutes later, the phone rang.

‘Tell me you’re not actually in Vienna,’ said Teodora Ćirić.

‘I have never lied to you,’ Radovan answered. ‘I don’t intend to start now.’

‘What do you want?’

‘To meet, to talk.’

‘You have a price on your head.’

‘I’m aware of that. I wish to find a way to avoid the shedding of more blood, including my own.’

‘You should have thought of that before you and your brother opened a butcher’s shop on the Herengracht.’

‘Teo, for old times’ sake—’