“The police suspect it was you.”
“Tóth?”
“Yes, even Tóth. You have some unique talents.”
“The guy is going to be all right?”
“With one ball. He is on his way to Moscow.”
“Courtesy of Grigoriev?”
“Yes. Grigoriev. And I know he is more dangerous than the arrow killer, but that is no reason for you to tangle with one of his men in Budapest. As a matter of fact, that’s a good reason for you to avoid all contact.”
“I didn’t seek him out. I had no idea Grigoriev would have one of his thugs in Budapest watching a house owned by one of your government’s officials. For that matter, I am trying to figure out why someone working for a government official in Hungary would want to kill a lawyer in Strasbourg, and what that has to do with the man who may have sold a painting to the Vaszarys.”
“Now you have the French police looking for you because you are a material witness to a murder, and the Hungarian police looking for you because you almost killed a Russian visitor who just happens to work for a billionaire with excellent contacts in the Gothic castle.”
“What have you found out about Biro?” Helena inquired, ignoring Attila’s comment.
“His father was a young Arrow Cross Nazi during the war. He accumulated a lot of paintings when he was herding Jews out of their homes down to the river to be shot. His companions went for easier or more obvious stuff to steal, jewellery, cash, furs, but Biro the elder had haunted the National Gallery as a student, and he had some idea that art would be valuable again. After the war, he became a young Communist. A lot of the little devils changed sides once the Russians took over, and, as far as I have been able to establish, the new regime was happy with their defection. They were ruthless, enjoyed inflicting pain, and the Commies needed men who did not flinch when it came to a bit of bloodshed in the service of the ‘Cause.’”
“He built quite a collection,” Helena said. “My colleague at Christie’s says he sold many of them.”
“Yes, but he had to be careful how and where he sold them because a few of the Jews he had robbed hadn’t died. Some others may have known who the true owners of his collection had been, and someone could have come after him.”
“And after 1989?”
“He seems to have prospered after the Soviets’ party was over. He still had friends in high places. His son followed in his footsteps. Became friendly with the new regime. And took over his father’s art collection. This is the Biro we’ve been looking for.”
“Did you know that Kis sold some of the art for him?”
“I am told Kis talked a lot about the Biro collection and that some person or persons may have decided to kill Biro. No one was sad to see him vanish, but the government didn’t like the idea of an investigation into how the Biro family had managed the transition from Nazi to Communist to wealthy capitalist and who had provided the protection, so the murder of the son — if it was murder — was hushed up. Biro just disappeared. There was certainly no death notice and no record of his dying. Tibor said he died about six months ago, and Tibor is usually right. He has the best connections of anyone I know in Hungary.”
“That means that the real Biro junior could have sold the painting to the Vaszarys.”
“He could have.”
“And they reinvented him as the old guy you met? Why?”
“Tibor thinks — and never mention his name to anyone — that the people in high places wanted to continue to sell the paintings. It was good money and virtually untraceable. But why the hell would he sell the Gentileschi to them as a copy if it’s the genuine article?”
“I don’t know yet,” Helena said, “but I plan to find out. Which takes me back to Gyula Berkowitz. That, in case you are wondering, is the name of the man who killed the lawyer on the boat. He lives here, in Budapest, and he has some sort of job with the government — at least a couple of politicians with offices in the parliament buildings.”
“How did you . . . ?”
“I tracked his coat.”
“His coat?”
“The one he wore in Strasbourg. Could you feed his name into some system to see if anything comes up? And those politicians I asked you about?”
“Németh, Magyar, and Nagy?”
“Yes. I am looking for the connections. Any thoughts on who was the old guy in Biro’s apartment?”
“Not yet. Helena, I am responsible for your good health while you’re working for Gizella. I brought you into this mess, and I am determined to restore you to Paris in one piece. I don’t know why you won’t leave the detective work to real detectives. Lieutenant Hébert strikes me as a man who is good at his job. And you and I are tracking the same beast. You’re not safe.”
“I’m probably not safe anywhere till the Gentileschi debate is resolved. I don’t have time to wait until you or the Strasbourg police figure out what’s going on and why.”
She gave him her current cellphone number and hung up.
Helena filled out the forms at the Historical Archives of the Hungarian State Security at 7 Eötvös Street. She claimed to be Marianne Lewis, a historian working at New York State University, researching art lost during 1944–1945, after the Germans changed from Ally to Occupier and including the months that the Soviet Army was collecting booty in exchange for its victorious war against the Nazis. She was not surprised that there was no trace of Adam Biro. Some of the least savoury characters from both the Nazi and the Communist eras had successfully disappeared their own files. Attila had shared this bit of Hungarian history the last time she tried
