There was silence, then: ‘Burggasse Twenty-Four. It’s a clothing store, but there is a café on the ground floor. It’s not the kind of place where we are likely to attract attention. I can be there in an hour.’

‘Thank you,’ said Radovan, before adding, ‘I’m trusting you.’

‘That you should mention it indicates doubt. Given your situation, though, I’m inclined to forgive it. But Radovan?’

‘Yes?’

‘If we are seen together, and questions are asked, I will have to act. You understand?’

‘I do.’

‘One hour. Don’t be late.’

In the event, Radovan arrived early at the meeting place. Burggasse 24 was a two-story vintage emporium in the 7th District, with a casual café at the back that extended across two rooms. The clientele was young and chic, and made Radovan feel like the interloper that he was. He took a seat in the main section, from which he could see the street and the open area to the left around Sankt-Ulrichs-Platz. Somewhere out there, he knew, Teodora Ćirić would be watching. He might have been early, but she would have been earlier still.

Radovan ordered a slice of tart with his coffee, and tried to keep his breathing calm as he stirred in the sugar. One call: that was all it would take for Ćirić to summon a pair of vehicles, probably a van and an escort car, and pull him from the street. An interrogation would follow, and, in all probability, a handover to the Austrian police prior to his extradition to the Netherlands, a sacrificial offering on the altar of prospective EU membership. Then again, his compatriots might decide to deal with him themselves. It depended on how much influence Matija Kiš had already accrued and how badly Simo Stajić wanted to make an example of the Vuksans. It was only six hours by road from Vienna to Belgrade, plenty of time for Stajić to prepare a basement and gather his tools. Radovan’s only consolation was that he had managed to enter Burggasse 24 unimpeded. It would have been easiest for Ćirić to seize him before he got to the meeting place.

And now here was the woman herself, a few more lines to her face, her hair entirely gray, although the color suggested that she had decided to finish for herself what nature had started. It would be typical of the Teodora he remembered, a woman disinclined to do things by half measures. Were she to have received a terminal diagnosis from a physician, she would have poured herself a glass of Prokupac before eating her gun.