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his associates are modern-day slave traders.’
    Donovan shook his head. ‘Oh, here we go.’
    ‘Will you listen to me, please? And perhaps you’ll learn why this case is right up your liberal street.’ Sharkey’s words were
     edged with anger. Donovan fell silent. ‘Thank you. Now cast your mind back to 1999. The Kosovan war. Miloševi. Ethnic cleansing
     and all that. Remember?’
    Donovan heard the seriousness in Sharkey’s tone.
    ‘Remember Arkan?’
    Donovan thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘Arkan. Ran an outfit called Arkan’s Tigers, gangster, assassin, thug, secret policeman,
     Miloševi’s right-hand man. Well-feared bloke. That right?’
    Sharkey raised an eyebrow, impressed.
    Donovan continued. ‘Ethnic cleansers r us. Responsible for supposedly hundreds of acts of genocide during the Kosovan war.
     Assassinated at the end of it by an Albanian, I think. How am I doing so far?’
    ‘Very well,’ said Peta.
    Donovan looked at her, smiled almost apologetically. ‘The paper I worked for covered the war extensively.’ Heshrugged. ‘Naturally, we opposed it. And the West’s attitude to it. And won awards for doing so.’
    ‘Naturally,’ said Sharkey. ‘Well, from what we can gather, Arkan had an associate. A second in charge, just as bad as he was.
     No one knew his real name. Only his codename. Zmija. The snake. But when Arkan was killed and Miloševiwas indicted for war
     crimes, he—’
    ‘Slithered away?’ offered Jamal.
    Donovan laughed. Sharkey smiled indulgently. ‘Very good. There were rumours he had gone under ground. Across Europe. Into
     racketeering, drugs, prostitution, protection rackets. Arms. But nothing substantiated. Then reports stopped appearing. And
     he was forgotten, presumed killed by a business associate. But then, Marco Kovacs, businessman, pops up in Newcastle.’
    ‘Do they look alike?’ asked Amar.
    ‘The Snake was never photographed; no one could give a description of him.’
    ‘So why do you think it’s this Marco Kovacs?’ asked Peta.
    Sharkey smiled, enjoying the drama. ‘Because we have a witness.’
    ‘Who?’ said Donovan.
    Sharkey nodded to Jamal, who hit another key. The image on the screen changed. A head-and-shoulder shot of a young man appeared.
     The photo was in colour and official-looking: an ID card or passport photo. Or a mug shot. The man was dark-haired and hollow-eyed.
     He looked tired, hungry.
    ‘This is Dario Tokic,’ said Sharkey. ‘A former slave of Mr Kovacs. He was brought over here. Promised a new life and put to
     work on an industrial-sized farm, somewhere in the north-west, we think. Owned, indirectly, by Kovacs. Mr Tokic managed to
     escape, came to Newcastle. He says he has evidence for us.’
    ‘What kind?’ asked Peta.
    Sharkey paused. Knew he was about to impart something of importance. ‘The farm received a visit from its owner one day.’
    ‘Kovacs?’
    Sharkey nodded. ‘Mr Tokic remembered him from the old country. With Arkan’s Tigers. Massacring a village. His village.’
    ‘And he’s identified Kovacs?’ asked Donovan.
    Sharkey nodded to Jamal. The slide changed. A grinning, dinner-jacketed Kovacs was flanked by a burly bald bodyguard.
    ‘Broke down in tears when he saw this,’ said Sharkey. ‘Seemed genuine enough. Couldn’t look at it any more, apparently.’
    Donovan looked suitably impressed. ‘And he’s going to testify?’
    ‘He is. But with certain strings attached.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘He entered this country illegally; he wants to stay here legally.’
    ‘Shouldn’t be a problem to you,’ said Donovan.
    ‘It isn’t. But there’s something else.’
    ‘What?’ asked Amar.
    Sharkey nodded at Jamal again. The image changed to that of a young woman. Pretty and smiling. Blonde and well dressed, she
     looked as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
    ‘This is his sister, Katya. The picture was taken a couple of years ago when she had just started at Priština university.
     European