“I already have a location in mind. And you have to come alone.”
He frowned.
“I must protest such conditions. The item I propose to bring is of such intrinsic value for collectors that I would not feel secure carrying it without my usual escort. Many people in Budapest are aware that I am a wealthy man, and as I have become old and frail I have made it my habit to always be accompanied.”
He didn’t look frail to me, and I wasn’t interested in meeting his thugs.
“Your choice,” I said. “If you’d rather not, I’m sure there will be other interested parties.”
He sighed, not pleased.
“Very well. Name your location.”
“The Panorama Cafe, at the top of the hill. One hour from now.” I didn’t want to give him too much time to plan. “Bring the item you mentioned, and be prepared to talk about what you remember.”
He didn’t look happy with my choice, but after a second or two he nodded.
“Who are you working for, Mr. Cage?”
“Myself.” A mistake. I realized it as soon as Szondi smiled warmly in response.
“Good. I prefer to deal with people one on one. I will arrive alone, as you ask, and will trust you to do the same. The Panorama. One hour.”
He smoothly shut the door. A moment later I heard voices, then subdued laughter, followed by the clank and whine of the elevator.
I wasn’t happy about the laughter.
31
The Panorama Cafe was directly uphill from Corvin Square, at the south end of a turreted stone fortress known as the Fisherman’s Bastion. It offered spectacular views across the Danube, back toward Pest. I walked directly there up a switchback of stone stairways through the trees, then settled in with an overpriced pot of tea delivered by a gloomy waiter. Three musicians dressed as nineteenth-century peasants were playing traditional music on a violin, string bass, and hammer dulcimer, the perfect soundtrack for what I hoped would be a sinuous tale with Ed Lemaster at its center.
Szondi arrived twelve minutes late. He came from the other direction, approaching across a small plaza with a statue of St. Stephen. He already looked impatient, then had to pause at the entrance to wait for some Italians to shoot a family photo. Two children bumped him as they ran squealing toward the statue. Szondi brushed away their essence from his right sleeve. A coat was slung over his left arm, and he appeared to be carrying something beneath it. I gestured toward the other chair. He glanced toward the musicians in apparent disdain.
“I hate this sort of kitschy screeching. A bigger cliche than a bowl of goulash. If I could, I would shove them from the parapet.”
“I kind of like it. What did you bring for me?”
“Do you have the papers?”
I flashed open my jacket, showing the folded documents in the lapel pocket. He nodded, then pulled the edge of an old book from underneath the folded coat. He let me see it just long enough for the title to register- The Great Impersonation, one of the better novels of Edward Phillips Oppenheim, a prolific British novelist from the early twentieth century. Dad had five of his books.
“My father has a similar copy,” I said. “I never thought it was all that rare.”
“Rarity is not the reason for its value. Why don’t I inspect the papers you brought? Then, if I am convinced they are of sufficient quality as forgeries, I will consider exchanging this book.”
“You still haven’t told me its significance.”
“This copy was meant to be exchanged by one of Ed Lemaster’s couriers as part of a Dewey transaction. Long ago it came to me wrapped in butcher paper, and I was prepared to follow the usual routine: The phone call, the drop-off, and so on. I am sure you know. But it was never delivered.”
If he was telling the truth, the book was indeed valuable.
“Why do you still have it?”
“I was never comfortable with the arrangement. I came to feel I was being taken advantage of.”
“Weren’t you being paid?”
“Not sufficiently. I made that known.”
“To Ed Lemaster?”
“To the usual contacts. I did not know their names, or even their nationalities. I only knew from an earlier visit, when the arrangement was first conceived, that Mr. Lemaster was part of it. My participation began as a favor to him, as a valued customer of mine. Later, I learned enough about the network to make me uneasy.”
“So you tried to jack up the price?”
“You mischaracterize it, of course. I asked for fair compensation.”
“And?”
“My request was refused. But by then a new parcel-this one-had just arrived through the usual channels.”
“So you opened it, hoping to find out what all the fuss was about.”
“Yes.”
“And found the Oppenheimer book inside.”
“This very copy.”
The ends of my fingers tingled. I’d reached the end of a vitally important thread. If I swapped the papers for the book, I might get out of here in time for the evening train to Vienna.
“So I take it Lemaster didn’t agree to your asking price.”
“Regrettably, no. So I decided to keep the book. As insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Against this very sort of day. Of course, in those times I always expected that any trouble would come from someone threatening to expose my dealings with the West.”
“You were convinced this network was for the West?”
“Of course. Why would I have thought otherwise? Say what you will about those forged documents, I was a good patriot for the resistance, and this proves it.”
“Or maybe you were just willing to take money from anyone, no matter whose side they were on.”
“You embassy people.” His words dripped with disgust. “You lived in such a bubble. Your secrets made you feel safe, but they also made you fall in love with the idea that you were virtuous. All secrets are dirty, Mr. Cage. No one who handles them remains clean.”
“How come Lemaster never demanded the book back?”
“He did. I told him I had destroyed it, that I had thrown it into the Danube.”
“He believed you?”
“What choice did he have?”
“What did you find inside the book?”
“If I answered that question, then the book would lose much of its value.”
“Then let’s trade. Yours for mine, right here.”
He smiled, which told me I’d proffered too quickly. Bela Szondi was an old hand at manipulating overly eager customers.
“It is not that simple. And I certainly would not make the exchange here. For all I know you’ve alerted the police, or the newspapers. That Italian shooting snaps of his family might be some hack for Magyar Hirlap, ready to put me on the front page: Respected Antiquities Dealer Caught Covering Up His Past. ”
“I doubt it would say ‘Respected.’ But I could probably arrange for a story like that if you don’t want to go through with this.”
“I am not opposed to doing business with you. But I must first be able to examine the documents, and I will only do that where there is more privacy.”
I was wary, figuring he meant to maneuver me into a car or a house.
