“Evan Tanner,” he said. “Who made the revolution in Tetovo.”

“Yes.”

“Todor Prolov will rejoice in your arrival.”

“Todor died in the revolution. When the Serb troops crushed the revolutionary spirit of the people of Tetovo, Todor was killed.”

“But his sister Mischa lives-”

“His sister is Annalya.”

“Ah. As I have never seen you before, a test was in order. You bear me no resentment?”

“I am not the sort to resent caution.”

He took a wedge of cheese from a sack in the back of his cart and cut sections for each of us. We washed down the cheese with resinous wine. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and asked in a whisper if I planned to start another rebellion.

“It is not time,” I said.

“I agree. We must gather our forces. One may be impatient for open revolution, but in the meantime we put thorns in the side of the Belgrade dictatorship. An act of sabotage, an assassination – it is better to provoke, to sting like a hornet, for the time being. You agree?”

“I do.”

“And you go where? To Tetovo?”

“Yes.”

“For a special purpose?”

“To see my son,” I said. I dug out the sketch and unfolded it. “My son,” I said.

He studied it, nodded. “A good likeness.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Who has not? It is said that one day he will lead Macedonia.” He looked at the sketch, then at me. “A strong resemblance. But Annalya and the boy no longer live in Tetovo. The authorities… it would be unsafe. They are in a village not far from Kavadar. You know where that is?”

“More or less.”