Around lunchtime I often meet in one of Zagreb cafés a man who works for the top Croatian authority dealing with organized crime. We first met almost exactly two years ago, when I reported what I knew about crooked golf in Motovun (“My Maternal Grandfather,” November 2, 2009). I went to talk to him a few more times afterwards, but we have been in touch by electronic mail ever since. At first sight, one would never guess what he does for a living. On the young and short side, he looks rather innocent. Whenever I spot him in the crowd, I wave at him with a smile, and he always responds in kind. Today he approached me with a big grin in one of my favorite cafés. We shook hands. “How are things?” I asked. “Well,” he shrugged his shoulders and looked at his shoes. “This is a big chance in life,” I continued, “but it must be hard at times.” He was embarrassed a bit by my concern. “You’ve seen my office,” he muttered, “and you’ve seen how many of us are there.” With so many top government officials in jail, and so many others at its door, I can imagine how much there is to do. “I wish you all the best,” I shook his hand for the second time. He thanked me and took his leave without much ado. And I felt kind of proud of him. My maternal grandfather came to me again. Heading the police office in Pazin nearly a century ago, he would have been puzzled by the world we live in. Organized crime that has blossomed in Croatia since independence would be quite beyond him, let alone crooked golf in his beloved Istria. It would break his heart, too.