the others and kept his eyes on Madai, which only increased the man’s panic. Then the yellow streetcar approached; above its front window perched a decorative red hammer-and-sickle.
They rode the bumping car westward to Blaha Lujza Square, then walked south along the busy shopping boulevard that looped around the city, split by sporadic electric trams. Brano’s gaze wandered in a Balkan manner, taking in the exceptional faces of the Magyar women bound in their long coats and hats-pale cheeks, bold eyes. When they reached Rakoczi Square Park, Madai stopped beside a tree. “I can’t take you any farther than this.”
There were two militiamen loitering on the opposite corner of the park, smoking in the cold. “How can I trust someone I haven’t met?” asked Brano.
“It’s impossible. You know that. You just have to believe me.”
The two militiamen noticed them and began to walk in their direction. “But what am I going to tell the Sorokas?”
“I don’t care what you tell them. I’m doing all of you a great favor, and I don’t have time for this.”
Brano set down his bags. “Don’t look, but two militia are coming over here.”
Madai paled. “Do you understand now? Go. Meet me back at Kerepesi in two hours and we’ll return together. Can you manage that?”
Brano smiled and held up his hand in farewell, as if they were old friends. “ Szia.”
“ Szia,” Madai replied, adding the other two bags to his load. They turned and walked in opposite directions. The militiamen, still far away, stopped again and rested against the fence of a small playground empty of children.
Despite a decade’s passage, there was still lingering evidence of the ’56 uprising in the bullet holes scratched in the Habsburg masonry he passed on his way down Rakoczi ut toward the Danube. Workers in blue coveralls passed on the street, preceded by clouds of breath; women tapped by on well-worn heels; children stumbled along, packed tight in winter wear-as best he could tell, he was alone. He stepped inside the gloomy splendor of the Parisian Arcade at number 5 Ferenciek Square.
The dark, domed ceiling was stained glass, and the walls carved, blackened wood. A few stores hid in here, but he was only interested in the one at the arcade’s elbow, where it turned to exit at Kigyo utca: the Parisi Udvar Konyvesbolt.
There were stacks of books in the window, where Brano paused, scanning titles, then shortened his focus to the glass-reflection of the archway where he’d entered-empty. He went inside.
The only customers were two women standing together before a display of picture books about the city. From their mutterings and their quality clothes, it was obvious they were Yugoslav tourists. He went to the counter, where an old man with glasses read the day’s Magyar Hirlap.
“ Jo napot.”
The man looked up. “ Jo napot kivanok. Tessek.”
Brano placed his fingertips on the counter, leaned a little closer, and said that he was interested in a book on First World War automobile electronics.
The man opened his mouth, paused, and said, “ Talan Debrecenben, a Dery Muzeumban megtalalja.” Perhaps you should try the Deri Museum in Debrecen.
“I don’t have time. Maybe you have something on the Russian Enlightenment?”
The old man stood up, nodding. “In the back… I think we have some titles for you.”
Brano followed him into a small room filled with boxes. The man pushed his glasses closer to his eyes and examined him. “This is a surprise. I haven’t heard from anyone in a while.”
“I need to talk to az Orvos.” The Doctor.
The man stroked his gray cheek. “Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll tell you what. In a half hour, be at the Grand Hotel Margitsziget. The bar. You know how to get there? Need some tram tickets?”
Brano nodded. “I don’t have a lot of time.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll be there.”
Vaci utca was just around the corner, and he walked the pedestrian avenue with tourists from other corners of the Empire who gazed into store windows. There were more tourists here than back in the Capital, and perhaps that added to Brano’s sense of dislocation-everything was still so strange. All this place did was remind him of the understocked shopping streets that branched off of Victory Square back home, and when he got to the Beograd Landing and looked across the broad Danube to the Royal Palace in Buda, it only reminded him of Mihai Boulevard, which ran alongside the Tisa and faced the less than grandiose Canal District.
He caught the number 2 tram, which carried him north along the Danube, looping around the Parliament, then to the end of the line where Balassi Balint ran into the Margit Bridge. He walked quickly across, coat tight against the Danube winds, and entered Margit Island at the bridge’s midpoint.
He was running late, so he did not loiter with the occasional chilled tourists who stood around the dry Habsburg fountain and wandered the parks. Hands deep in his pockets, he half-jogged through the thickening woods until he saw the empty outdoor tables behind the Grand Hotel.
Around the front, he paused again beneath the long awning. Behind him, through a wall of bare trees, the Danube flowed. He seemed to still be alone.
Inside, he walked past a long lobby filled with men reading newspapers in many languages. Diplomats, Western tourists and businessmen, and spies. Brano had known so many hotel lobbies in his lifetime and had often been one of those men pretending to care about the current events of the world.
He continued ahead, up a few steps to a wide, marble-lined lounge littered with faux-Habsburg furniture and a small bar along the right wall. The chairs were empty except one in the opposite corner, where a young English couple sat with a pile of suitcases, arguing tiredly.
Brano took a stool, nodding at the fat bartender. “ Egy tejeskavet kerek.”
The bartender started up his coffee machine, and over the gurgle asked, “Cigarette?”
Brano shook his head. “I’ve quit five times.”
“Six is the magic number.”
The bartender grinned, took out a pack, and offered one to Brano. “Who comes up with these passwords? I think they must be feeding him opiates.”
“I know someone convinced it’s a computer under Yalta.”
“A computer wouldn’t be creative enough. Would it?”
“I have no idea, Orvos.”
The Doctor placed a caffe latte in front of Brano, then a dish of crackers, taking one for himself.
“Better watch those,” said Brano. “You’re getting fat.”
“I’m getting settled, that’s what I’m getting. Married two years ago, and all she does is cook. I think she’s trying to ruin me for other women.”
“She’s a smart girl.”
The Doctor forced a laugh and wiped the counter. “So what the hell are you doing in Budapest, Brano?”
“I thought maybe you’d know.”
“I know a few things, but I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I’m trying to close down an operation. Didn’t think it would bring me this far. Do you have a pencil?”
The Doctor took one out of his breast pocket, and Brano wrote on a napkin. “ Roman”-Volga GAZ-21, UZ-546: path: Nienaszow, Toki, Nw.-
Zmigrod, Kity, Krempna
“ Jaroslaw”-deliveryman, safe house over Hungarian border
“ Adam Madai” (not alias)-maize farm east of Pest
Madai’s contact in 8th District, near Rakozi Park
The Doctor glanced at the list, then slipped it into his pocket. “I’ll hand this over.”
“We’ll be leaving for Austria soon. I don’t know the route, but it doesn’t matter. Send some men to Adam Madai’s this evening, and we can learn the rest from him.”
“No problem.”
“This is important,” said Brano. “I’m in a bind with Yalta, and to tell the truth I’m scared. I certainly don’t want to end up in Austria.”
The Doctor winked at him. “Nothing to worry about. We’ll wrap this up for you and send you back a hero. You
