The magazine Prominent! reported on the wedding of the Serbian tennis player and a Swedish model as the event of the week. A ceremony with the wedding party all in white, barefoot on a beach. Milena scanned the captions, skipped over an advertisement for a French car and reached the confession of an Italian high financier who recounted the story of how he had been cured of his addiction to sex. She sighed, and was about to close the magazine and put it aside when she happened upon the narrow diary column.
The top story in it concerned the secretary of state: ‘In a few days’ time, Dr Slobodan Božović will be celebrating his fiftieth birthday with a party’. Celebrities from Belgrade society would be mingling with political leaders and captains of industry. Most of the names mentioned didn’t mean anything to Milena. Božović, the host, was asking his guests for generous donations to the Serbian aid programme for Kosovo, claiming, ‘This would be the very best present I could ever have.’ Prominent! sent congratulations in advance, and swooned, ‘Great guy, amazing gesture,’ while wishing the minister a ‘fabulous party’.
Milena scrutinised the small photograph next to the story. The secretary of state was smiling so broadly that his little eyes almost disappeared between his cheeks and his bushy eyebrows. The man had something gluttonous about him, and at the same time looked pretty content – which certainly could not be said of the woman at his side. Milena took out her glasses and opened them.
The woman had clearly had a complete makeover: large eyes, high cheekbones, perfectly arched eyebrows – Milena would have bet any money that the politician’s wife was a product of Tanja’s artistry.
‘Is that so engrossing?’ A shadow fell across the magazine page. Milena looked up.
‘Please excuse my lateness,’ said Alexander Kronburg.
Milena pointed to the little photograph. ‘I need to make contact with this man.’
The German ambassador bent over the page, and a lock of his otherwise perfectly groomed hair fell across his brow. Milena saw him scan the text, with his pupils quickly leaping from line to line.
‘You know him,’ she said. ‘Slobodan Božović; you were in conference with him only the other week. Do you think you could swing it for me to meet him?’
Kronburg turned the magazine in his hands and frowned. ‘How urgent is it?’
‘It’s to do with the Serbian returnees’ property, the house in Talinovac to be precise. Whenever I call the State Chancellery I never get past the press office.’
‘Talinovac?’ Kronburg sat down and straightened out his tie. ‘Do you mean the house of that Serbian couple, that gruesome story?’
‘May I take your order?’ The waitress got out her pad.
Kronburg glanced absent-mindedly at the cake display. Milena advised him, ‘You’ve got to try the Diplomat Cake.’
‘The Diplomat Cake?’ he repeated in surprise. ‘Isn’t that as dry as dust?’
‘With iced raspberries,’ the waitress noted down. ‘And for you?’
‘Coffee, black,’ replied Milena, passing her the menu. ‘Times two.’
The waitress disappeared and Kronburg asked, ‘What about that property in Talinovac?’
‘The house is a ruin.’
‘Does that mean you’ve been there?’ Alexander Kronburg shook his head in disbelief. ‘Two Serbian refugees were just murdered there. Was that your friend’s bright idea, the lawyer? Has he been instructed to act in this case, then?’
‘We can fairly assume that of the millions earmarked for this returnee programme not one cent has ever reached Talinovac.’
‘The funds are rather limited, but that’s all set to change in the not-too-distant future. The programme’s about to be expanded.’
‘Perhaps,’ Milena interrupted, ‘the programme shouldn’t be expanded but reassessed.’
‘Everything will be done to ensure there’s no repeat of that horrible business.’
‘Do you really believe that?’
Kronburg leant back. ‘What are you accusing me of ?’
‘I get the impression that the politicians don’t really want to know what’s going on down there. For instance, I’m dying to know what the other houses that have been assigned to the other returnees look like, and what the secretary of state responsible for that matter, Dr Slobodan Božović, has to say about the whole affair. Don’t you want to know as well?’
‘Diplomat Cake?’ the waitress asked.
Kronburg nodded, folded his arms and stared at the smooth, dark chocolate icing. ‘Božović isn’t a bad guy,’ he said. ‘He’s down to earth, always looking for solutions, and above all he has a firm grasp of the facts and knows what he’s talking about.’ He made two attempts to cut through the thick chocolate coating with his fork. ‘But if you’re right, and the house in Talinovac was assigned without any regard for ✴ 193 ✴ the regulations of the EU programme, then that would constitute reasonable grounds for an inquiry.’ He reached inside his jacket and looked at the screen of his mobile. ‘Please excuse me – my office.’
While he was taking the call, speaking in hushed tones, Milena leant across and speared a piece of chocolate from his cake. Why was this man always so… awkward? So pedantic?
He hung up. ‘My assistant,’ he said. ‘I’m flying to Berlin at six this evening.’
Milena looked at her watch. ‘That’s in an hour. Where’s your luggage?’
‘On its way.’
‘Didn’t you want to discuss something with me?’
He put money on the table. ‘Would you come to the airport with me? My driver can take you back into town afterwards. It’s very important.’
Milena stood up. ‘Regarding Božović – it might be good if we could meet him together. What do you think? Maybe for lunch. As soon as possible.’
Alexander Kronburg helped her into her jacket and gently brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. ‘By the way,’ he asked, ‘do you think there’s a connection between that ruin and the death of the pensioners?’
Milena took her bag and stuffed the magazine into it. ‘I really don’t know. But I’m going to find out.’