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might not allow them to kick his ass. On the other hand, if they were coming from Belgrade, they might not be inclined to ask the Croatian government if they could speak with him. After all, there wasn’t a lot of love or co-operation between the federal institutions and the Croatian government these days.
    Still, whoever they were, they’d found him. Not that it would have been hard. They could have followed him from the police headquarters. They could have had an informant. This was Yugoslavia, after all. There were always snitches.
    Strumbić weighed the probabilities. Criminal or operating on behalf of Belgrade? Maybe it was a setup. No. If it was a setup, they’d have pulled up next to him and bundled a rug over his head and thrown him into the boot. If they didn’t shoot him instead. Or they’d have taped a grenade to his car’s chassis, tying the pin to the wheel so that it went off when he drove away.
    Things were uncertain enough in those days that it was worth cultivating friends everywhere. And if these guys weren’t the friendliest, at least they were polite. Who knew what would happen in the coming months. Favours granted now could be called in during more difficult times.
    “If I was to go talk to this friend of yours, I’d be making life easier for you and less pleasant for myself. For instance, it would mean not finishing this very fine meal or this excellent beer.” Strumbić lay on a doleful expression, ignoring the piece of gristle in the middle of his plate.
    “I’m sure our friend will make it worth your while.”
    “I’d like to think so,” Strumbić said. Curiosity was getting the better of him. He figured he didn’t have much to lose other than the rest of the schnitzel. And it hadn’t been much of a schnitzel in the first place.
    They didn’t drive far in the big Mercedes limousine, a model so recent he’d never seen one before. They stopped in the old town, near the cathedral. What few good restaurants and bars Zagreb still had were concentrated there. Had he been less lazy, Strumbić would have gone to one of them for lunch. But the weather was grim; it couldn’t decide whether to rain or snow.
    They parked on a mostly pedestrianized street and went into one of the eighteenth-century village-style houses that remained in this corner of town. The driver, Besim, held the door open for him, but neither Bosnian followed him in.
    The Metusalem Restaurant was empty and gloomy in the late winter light. A dim yellow lamp cast shaded light in a corner of the room, which was furnished largely in dark-stained wood, and showed a small old man sitting alone with his back to the wall. A waiter appeared from nowhere and led Strumbić to the table, where he pulled a chair out for him.
    “Please, order yourself a drink,” said the old man. His voice was light and friendly. Strumbić asked for a Karlovačka beer.
    “Thank you for allowing yourself to be dragged away from your lunch,” said the old man. “I think you’ll agree that an informal conversation right now is so much more pleasant and rewarding than having to do this another way.”
    The waiter brought Strumbić’s beer in a glass and then left. The old man was drinking Coca-Cola. He looked oddly familiar, though Strumbić couldn’t tell why.
    “If you don’t mind, I won’t introduce myself. It doesn’t really matter who I am; I’m just an intermediary. In fact, I’m retired. You can say I’m doing a favour for some friends.”
    “Some friends in Belgrade?” Strumbić asked.
    “Friends whose interest is to ensure the stability of the Yugoslav state, the homeland for which we fought so bitterly during the war against the fascists and for which we have struggled in the decades since.”
    An old Communist, Strumbić thought. An old, well-connected Communist. He knew the face, just couldn’t place it.
    “God bless the proletariat,” said Strumbić, raising his glass. He took a long drink of beer while the man watched him