Even as he listened, Frend was recalibrating. What he had witnessed was probably at least partly the work of the Einsatzkommando Cobra, the Austrian police’s tactical unit, given the presence of an Austrian flag at the scene. The Austrian authorities did not give unrestricted access to foreign operatives on the streets of their capital, which meant they had either conducted the operation or cooperated with it. More than ever, Frend was convinced that his daughter was not in any real danger, but how could he square the involvement of Austrian law enforcement, however peripherally, with the targeting of the Vuksans’ people by the hunter named Louis? Whatever the answer, it was now more important than ever that the Vuksans were apprehended – or better still, killed. If they were caught, they might implicate Frend, but his cooperation would buy him some goodwill. If they died, they could say nothing, and Frend was convinced that, if he had to, he could bluff his way through any awkward questions that might follow.

But if he could not, there was Kauffmann. He had messaged her from his room the previous night to inform her that he had reconsidered his position, and a new start might be in order. He wanted a passport, to be supplied within twenty-four hours. She had messaged back €150K and he had agreed. Really, he had expected nothing less of her, not after he had informed her about the extra €250,000 that would be in the bag that she was to receive from Zivco Ilić. He supposed that she might have charged him more, given what the Vuksans were paying, but she was probably giving him the colleagues’ discount.

Here was how it would unfold. At the cemetery, Ilić would hand over the money to Kauffmann in return for the passports. Ilić would leave, leading Louis and his people to the Vuksans. Frend had no doubt Louis would kill them, and Ilić, too, securing his daughter’s release. Finally, Frend would soon be in possession of a new passport under a new name, and on his way to a new life in a new country. With a little luck, he might never have to speak to another Serb for as long as he lived. They could all go to hell: the Vuksans, Ilić, the freakish child Zorya, Kiš, Stajić.

And that bitch Ćirić. Yes, she could go to hell too.

Kauffmann was already at the Friedhof der Namenlosen when Frend arrived. As usual, she was smoking a cigarette. The woman really was incorrigible. It was a wonder she had lived so long, Frend thought. Her lungs must have been little more than sacks of tar.

Kauffmann frowned as he descended the steps from the chapel to the graveyard.

‘You’re traveling light for a man who is supposed to be holding a million euros in cash,’ she said.