Oscar Frey’s arrival in Cape Town had briefly threatened to reignite hostilities, until a message from the House of the National Assembly on Belgrade’s Nikola Pašić Square advised that Frey was to be allowed to live and work unimpeded, just as long as he remained in South Africa. To celebrate, Frey hosted a dinner on a wine farm in Constantia, where the guests ate and drank until the small hours, and shared tales of war and empire.

It was, all would later declare, a night to remember.

Oscar Frey entered his apartment and set down a box of wine and a bag of groceries from Woolworths on Adderley Street. He went to the bathroom, washed his hands, and began unpacking the bag. He thought about opening one of the bottles of chenin blanc, but they were warm from the car. It would not kill him to wait a while, and he had business to which to attend in the meantime. He took off his shirt, leaving only a vest and shorts, and turned on the A/C.

It was then that a hand covered his mouth and his right arm was wrenched painfully behind him. Before he could even think about fighting back, he had been rendered harmless: had he attempted to struggle, his arm would have been dislocated from its socket. The hand on his face was gloved, but enough of the skin was revealed to enable Frey to determine that the intruder was black. Frey kept a revolver in the apartment, but carried it only if he was driving at night. He was familiar with the stories about how dangerous certain parts of Cape Town could be, but so far had endured nothing more unpleasant than one or two unusually persistent beggars. It had never occurred to him that he might become a victim of crime in his own home, and during daylight hours.

‘Down,’ said a male voice in his left ear.

The voice was unusually calm. Frey lowered himself to the floor, motivated by the pressure on his right arm. When his knees touched the carpet, his arm was released, and the hand was removed from his mouth. Frey considered crying out for help, but the same voice warned him not to, and it brooked no argument. Neither did it contain any hint of a South African accent. It sounded American.

His assailant shifted position to stand before him, drawing a gun from his belt as he moved. Frey took barely a moment to recognize the intruder. After all, he had watched this man enter a house in the suburbs of Vienna, a house in which lay a body not yet grown cold, and set it aflame.

‘Oscar Frey,’ said Louis. ‘You pick that name yourself?’

‘He was an old tutor of mine,’ said Radovan Vuksan. ‘He taught me German. Why are you here?’

‘Why do you think?’

‘Spiridon is dead. So are all the others who killed your friends.’