At the Golden Tiger (U Zlateho Tigra) in the back streets of old Prague on a Sunday in midsummer there are no tourists. The schoolroom benches along the back wall resound to the din of Czech voices, leaving no space for the casual visitor to squeeze in.
Overworked waiters scurry from beer-counter to customer with neither time nor inclination to explain the goings-on in English. The local Bohemians, swallowing their Pilsner Urquell, pumped ice-cold from the cellar, muse on the operations of the anti-terrorist police who just down the road on the previous Friday – in a Czech version of High Noon – burst into the headquarters of Investicni a Postovni Banka to impose a forced administration.
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