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café – which was also a delicatessen – were lined with shelves stacked with jars of preserves and tinned food, and behind the counter at the back of the café, an older, well-built man with thin grey hair and whiskers was talking to the waitress. He was wearing a short white serving apron, arms folded across his broad chest, and at the noise of the bell he looked up and nodded a silent welcome to Gabriel. Gabriel nodded back at Moritz, the owner, then walked towards a table just inside the front window. As he pulled a chair out from under the table, the waitress – an ample-bosomed blonde girl, with high-coloured cheeks – arrived by his side.
    â€˜A large coffee, please,’ Gabriel said, as he settled himself into the chair. He often breakfasted at Schiller’s before work, and the waitress – he knew her name was Gudrun – had always been particularly attentive towards him.
    â€˜Of course, Herr Doctor,’ she answered unhurriedly. Gabriel could feel her presence as she stood close by his table, her hand resting lightly on the back of his chair. ‘Is there anything else I can get you,’ she added with a smile.
    Gabriel thought he detected a languid, almost wistful tone in her voice. He shook his head, noting that she held his gaze a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the counter. He frowned: he had always found it difficult to read women, their intentions, their meanings. Then inwardly he shrugged; there were more important things in life – like keeping abreast of the latest clinical developments. And so he unfolded the journal and began to read an article on surgical ophthalmology.
    But after several minutes of staring at the page and finding it unusually difficult to concentrate, he lay the journal down on the table and tried to analyse why he felt so troubled. His musings were interrupted as Gudrun reappeared and placed the coffee in front of him.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said to her. But she didn’t immediately leave and for a moment he felt awkwardly self-conscious, as if he was expected to say something more. ‘You’ve not many patrons here this morning,’ he finally said.
    â€˜Because, Herr Doctor, they’re all waiting to see the Archduke go past. After that we will be busy.’ She paused. ‘But we’re closing after lunch…’ She hesitated. ‘…and so I have the rest of the day off.’ She looked at him expectantly.
    Gabriel blinked. ‘Good…good,’ he finally said, noting a strange half-smile play on her lips. ‘Well, enjoy your afternoon off, Gudrun.’
    She did not reply, but the smile faded slightly before she turned away and walked back towards the counter. Peculiar girl, thought Gabriel, as he lifted the cup and inhaled the reviving aroma of fresh coffee. He took a sip, relishing the rich flavour flowing over his tongue, and then, still holding his cup, sat back in his chair as his thoughts returned to General Oskar Potiorek.
    Because there was something deeply unsettling about the man, Gabriel reflected. He knew that Potiorek – who had been appointed governor of Bosnia only two years earlier – was an intelligent individual with a good reputation as a strategic planner: his attention to detail and hard work ethos were much admired. But many of Gabriel’s fellow officers worried that Potiorek was more of a theoretical soldier, a textbook strategist better placed to produce a detailed war plan than actually carry it out. Despite the array of ribbons and medals on Potiorek’s chest, he had little combat experience.
    And then there was the ghastly issue of the skull that sat on Potiorek’s desk: a barbaric and disgusting trophy. Was that how a civilised and intelligent man was supposed to behave? It had been a shock for Gabriel when he had first seen the skull in the Konak, the governor’s Sarajevo residence. He and the chief had been summoned to