Balthazar shook his head. ‘No. It’s perfect. It looks great. You got it right. You always do.’

Goran smiled. ‘Thank you.’

The two men clinked glasses, both saying ziveli, Serbian for cheers. Goran knocked his shot back in one; Balthazar took a sip.

Goran’s slivovitz was brewed by his grandfather in Subotica, just across the border, and smuggled across. It tasted fresh and clean with a long fruit finish, warming him inside as it slid down.

‘Do you know this guy, Geza Kovacs?’ asked Balthazar.

‘Not in person. But I know his name,’ said Goran.

‘How?’

‘He was asking around, after Reka Bardossy dissolved the gendarmes. Looking for work.’

Balthazar poured himself a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘He found some. He was sitting in the park in Klauzal Square with a walkie-talkie just before the gunman on the motorbike shot up the car.’

Goran shook his head. ‘Bad for business. Nobody likes this gunplay.’

Balthazar’s mobile rang. He looked at the number, then at Goran. ‘I need to take this.’

Goran nodded. ‘Should I go?’

Balthazar shook his head. ‘No, it’s a short call.’ He pressed the accept button, listened for a few seconds, said thanks and hung up. ‘It was my contact in forensics. They found the bullets in the wall. They were small, 0.25s.’

‘Probably Beretta. Maybe the 950. Is very small pistol, short barrel, very easy to conceal.’

The two men spoke English together. Like many Slavs, Goran struggled with using definite and indefinite articles, which did not exist in most Slavic languages. Tall and well built, somewhere in his late forties, Goran had black hair tinged with grey, blue eyes and bushy eyebrows that met in the middle. Over the years he had built an extensive – and expensive – network of contacts across the police, border guards and customs agents.

Goran smuggled more than illicit alcohol. His family had been outwitting every kind of authority for centuries, from the Ottomans to the Austro-Hungarians, the Nazis during the war and the communists afterwards. Goran had never met Sandor Takacs, Balthazar’s boss – the two men saw no benefit in being seen together – but his and Goran’s families knew each other and had occasionally cooperated.

Goran was now a people smuggler, although not of girls lured to jobs as barmaids only to be forced into prostitution. Instead he ran a kind of travel agency. The JAT posters showed the destinations on offer. An enquiry would elicit the current price. Anyone turned back would receive a full refund or unlimited attempts until they made it through. Balthazar had heard that during the war Goran had served as a sniper with the Yugoslav army, but when he had once asked about those times Goran had changed the topic immediately.

‘The question is,’ said Balthazar, ‘who was Geza working for?’

‘Leave it with me. I will ask around.’

‘What about the two Serbs who were shooting at me?’

‘How do you know they were Serbs?’ asked Goran. ‘Maybe they were Russians, or Bulgarians. Or Croats.’

Balthazar smiled, looked up for a moment as he tried to remember the oaths sounding down the staircase and his visits to Belgrade. ‘Let’s see, we had Jebacu ti mater, jebi ga, lots more about mothers and all sort of suggestions about my future. And I thought Hungarians could swear.’ His voice turned serious for a moment. ‘Goran, I would like to know more about who these guys are.’

Goran nodded and stood up. ‘Let me call someone. I have special phone in the office. I will be back.’

Balthazar watched Goran walk to his office, a small room behind the bar. His network reached across the Balkans but was especially strong in his home country of Serbia. If anyone could find out about the two toughs, Goran could.

A wave of tiredness suddenly washed over him. He closed his eyes for a moment but all he could see was Geza Kovacs. At the time his adrenalin was pumping so hard that the gruesome death, the blood and gore and splatter did not really register, then there had been the action on the staircase, and after that the encounter with Attila and Pisti.

But now the danger had passed and the adrenalin dump had faded. Balthazar shivered for a moment, took several deep breaths. Over the years he had seen plenty of corpses but it was a long time since he had witnessed the effects of several bullets at such close quarters.

He took another slug of the slivovitz. But even the slivovitz could not numb the question that increasingly had been nagging at him – where was his life going? Sometimes it seemed that he had intentionally exchanged the paper stories and accounts of murder in the Poraymus for real, actual dead bodies and that had been a mistake.

Goran returned, interrupting his reveries. ‘I have some information. Bad guys are part of clan based in Novi Sad.’ Novi Sad was the largest city in northern Serbia, an hour’s drive from Belgrade.

‘Did they kill Geza Kovacs?’

Goran shook his head. ‘No, definitely not. Nobody knows anything about that. Sounds like professional job. These two do rough stuff, but they are not hitmen.’

‘They had guns. Glock 34s. Expensive guns.’

Goran shrugged. ‘Of course they have guns. They are Serb criminals. But the bullets in the flat were small calibre, you told me. Maybe Beretta, but not Glocks.’

‘Maybe they had Berettas as well.’

Goran laughed, shook his head. ‘Ladies’ weapon. In any case, these are not hitmen. They are second division.’

Goran looked at Balthazar and raised his glass, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘Lucky for you.’ He peered closer at Balthazar. ‘Are you OK? You look pale.’

Balthazar sat back and took a long drink of water, glad to see his hands were not shaking. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long day. Who were they working for?’

‘This is strange part of story, which I don’t understand. I heard one Hungarian businessman, very important guy, wants to stop your investigation.’

‘Karoly Bardossy?’

‘Yes, that is name I heard. You are making powerful enemies.’

‘Seems like it.’

‘But my guys in Novi Sad say also maybe Israelis are involved.’

‘They are. Tell me more, what exactly did you hear?’

Goran shrugged. ‘Just that. One Hungarian businessman and one Israeli ready to pay a lot of money for two guys to find out what you know and give you a message to stop. Why are Israelis hiring Serbs to scare Hungarian cops?’

Before Balthazar could answer Goran, Biljana, the vivacious Serb bar manager, gestured to her boss from behind the bar. Goran stood up, telling Balthazar that he would be back in a few minutes.

Balthazar nodded, glad of some time on his own to think things through. Why were the Israelis trying to scare him off? He was their best hope of finding Elad Harrari. There was a news blackout on the Israeli historian’s disappearance – rumours were flowing around but editors had been told that delicate negotiations were underway for his freedom, which news coverage would endanger. It was a lie, but the editors, for now at least, believed it.

MR CELEBRITY DETECTIVE GET OUT NOW!

But if Israelis were trying to abduct him, why had Ilona warned him to leave? And what to do tomorrow? Pisti’s warning had been very direct. If he went to the police station he would likely be arrested and charged with murder. If he did not go to the police, a warrant would be issued for his arrest. He blinked and rubbed his eyes for a moment. How did he end up here?

He yawned deeply. The day’s events were now hitting him and the food and alcohol was making him sleepy.

Goran returned and sat back down. ‘Our other waitress is leaving, getting married, Biljana says. We need a new one. Do you know anyone?’

Balthazar looked over at Biljana. She was in her early thirties, he guessed, with jet-black hair, high Slavic cheekbones and a deep throaty laugh. She waved at him, smiling widely. She was an attractive woman and good company the few times she had sat with Goran and Balthazar. He smiled and waved back.