‘Hi,’ said the dark one, appraising him. The two of them looked at each other; the fair one said something in what Fraser assumed was Romanian, then turned back to him. ‘You,’ he pointed, ‘in – here?’ Fraser nodded. ‘Yes.’ The fair one pointed to himself. ‘Ilie Groza,’ he said, and held out his hand. Fraser took it – it was rough and hard with a fierce grip. ‘Fraser Callan,’ he said. ‘Fra-ser?’ He nodded. The other one said, ‘Petru Branesco,’ as they repeated the handshaking ritual, then hauled a plastic pouch from his jeans, sat on the bed and rolled a cigarette. He offered the pouch to Fraser, who shook his head. ‘No, thanks.’ Petru shrugged and handed the pouch to Ilie. He waited for him to roll, then lit up for them both. The air filled with acrid smoke and Fraser hoped the air conditioning worked. Ilie looked at Fraser again, then picked up a dictionary from the table and thumbed through it.
