Yet so critical had Anton Frend become to the Vuksans’ operation, and they to his prosperity, that the activities of Frend Rechtsanwälte now revolved almost entirely around the brothers’ needs, apart from a handful of clients – some honest, a few less so – retained either to keep up appearances or because they would have taken their abandonment ill. As a consequence, the firm’s offices, which had once echoed with many voices, now held only two: those of Frend and his secretary of many years, Fraulein Pichler, whose moral sensibilities were at least as nebulous as her employer’s.

Anton Frend and Fraulein Pichler existed in a state of mutual dependence, which meant that when one finally elected, or was forced, to retire, the other would have no option but to do likewise. Frend would never be able to find or trust another secretary like Fraulein Pichler, and she, in turn, would never be able to train another employer as she had Anton Frend. Around them, like planets orbiting major and minor suns, revolved an assortment of bankers and accountants of similarly abiding association. It was a delicate construct, built on deceit and moral compromise. Had the light of honesty been shone on its workings, it would have crumbled to dust.

Regrettably, the Vuksans’ actions in Amsterdam, and the death of Nikola Musulin in Belgrade, now threatened to undo decades of good work. Frend had, in recent hours, been the recipient of panicked phone calls. He had been forced to rouse financiers from their beds, and conspire in the kind of rapid movement of funds that risked inviting the scrutiny of international law enforcement. He had called in favors, and promised greater favors in return. He was exposed, and his clients were in danger, all because of Spiridon Vuksan’s reckless need for revenge.

So Frend sat in his dimly lit office, the banker’s lamp on his desk the sole illumination, catching the gold of his antique tie pin as he worked. It was one of a collection of such pins that he maintained, each seemingly more ornate than the last. They were as close to an eccentricity as Frend was ever likely to come, and he had often considered adding some versions of one as a watermark on the firm’s stationery. He had removed his jacket, but not so much as loosened his tie, because certain standards had to be maintained, in private as in public. He had poured himself a glass of Rochelt schnapps, but so far it remained untouched. It would not help, not at this moment. He required a clear head.

Because someone would come, he was sure of this.

Someone would come, and it might be the end of them all.

Chapter XVIII