Ilić went to Radovan’s bedroom and searched it before moving on to the private bathroom. He inspected the sink and discovered three nail clippings. He retrieved the fragments from around the drain and carried them back to the corpse. Ilić had a vague knowledge of the processes of autopsy from watching TV shows. He knew that Spiridon’s body would be thoroughly cleaned and examined, and the contents of its stomach emptied. Using the blade of his pocketknife, he cut the clippings into nine smaller pieces. Some he lodged in Spiridon’s throat, others deep in his ears and nose, aided by a cotton swab. The final one he pushed deep beneath Spiridon’s foreskin. Then he prayed that at least one would remain unfound and go to the grave with his master. In that way, Radovan would soon also join the dead.

Ilić became aware of a presence behind him, and thought for a moment that Radovan had returned. He reacted a fraction too late, because when he turned, the muzzle was already in his face.

‘I know who you are,’ said Ilić.

‘And I know who you are,’ said Louis, removing Ilić’s gun from its holster. ‘Who’s under the sheet?’

‘Spiridon.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘His brother did.’

‘Can’t trust anybody these days,’ said Louis. ‘Who else is here?’

‘No one, only me.’

Another man entered the room, this one smaller and older. He looked to Ilić like a mongrel, with no purity to his bloodline. This, Ilić guessed, was Angel, the hunter’s partner. Ilić was disgusted by his enforced proximity to these peškiri.

‘Check the other rooms,’ said Louis, and Angel moved past him. He returned shortly after to announce that they were clear.

‘Where is Radovan?’ said Louis.

‘Gone,’ said Ilić. He did not know how Radovan had avoided these men. As the old saying went: don’t measure the wolf’s tail until he is dead.

‘Gone where?’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ said Ilić, because one devil did not scratch out another devil’s eyes. He might have wanted to punish Radovan for what he had done to Spiridon, but he would not give this man the satisfaction of taking Radovan’s life.

‘And the girl?’

Ilić was not surprised that they knew of Zorya. Images of her, all partial or blurred, had made their way into media reports on the deaths of the Turk, Hasanović, and the Dutchman, Hendricksen.

‘Also gone.’ Ilić heard the sadness in his own voice. He didn’t blame Zorya for leaving, but still he felt abandoned by her.

‘I don’t suppose you know where she is either?’ said Louis.

‘No.’

‘Then what good are you to me?’

‘No good at all,’ said Ilić, ‘unless you want to hear how your Dutch friends died.’

‘Not really,’ said Louis, and he pulled the trigger.