The moon over the Danube was the colour of old ivory, pale and cold and watching everything with the indifferent eye of something that had seen civilizations rise and fall and seen them all with exactly the same expression.
Viktor von Amsel stood on the deck of the private yacht, watching the island emerge from the river mist like a thought emerging from the subconscious—slowly, reluctantly, and with an air of having been deliberately suppressed for too long. He had received the letter three days ago, written on cream-coloured stationery in a hand that was either elegant or affected. It had arrived slipped beneath...
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