“Not yet,” Attila said. “Maybe when I get home and begin to wonder whether I will be hired again.”
They were sitting at one of Le Rafiot’s wooden tables on the riverside terrace across from Saint Joseph’s church. It was a warm autumn afternoon, the scent of damp leaves, the recent rain on the boardwalk, the drifting algae where the waves from passing boats hit the banks of the Ill. Though the Ill was much narrower and shallower than the Danube, the scent reminded Attila of late summer evenings in Leányfalu, where one of his aunts had a cottage and he used to take the girls for a lazy dip. Despite the beauty of the French Quarter’s multicoloured buildings leaning in to admire their own reflections, and despite his recent encounters with the great man wrapped in the mantle of his country’s current kleptocracy, he felt oddly homesick.
“I am not sure they would know enough to blame you for what happened after you left,” Hébert said. “I did not even have to produce the recording of Magyar’s conversation with you. I showed Magyar a typed version, and when he asked whether I had the right to invade the privacy of a foreign government’s office, I told him I had obtained the necessary paperwork. I think he imagined that we had bugged Vaszary’s rooms. We had certainly bugged the house. That young woman they brought along as a maid proved to be enormously helpful. Magyar knew that we had enough evidence to arrest him. Except for his diplomatic immunity. But, you know what, Attila, I will make sure the other members of the Conseil know that this man paid to have a French citizen killed.”
“Given how our government works, I doubt that he would suffer much,” Attila said. “Maybe he would not get another major appointment for a couple of years.”
“I made sure the papers will have the story.”
“That won’t make a difference in Hungary. The government controls almost all of the press, and whatever your papers say, they can label it fake news. I suppose the International Criminal Court is too busy to get around to small cases of individual murders when they have mass murderers still walking around free.”
“Not to mention all those Russians killed by friends of Putin or friends of friends of Putin.”
“Maybe he could go on one of those lists that would prevent his travel to civilized places.”
“That rarely happens to anyone in government.”
“And Magyar will be protected by his friends in our so-called parliament.”
“Do you think getting the painting out here was his idea, or was he working for someone else?”
Attila shook his head and ordered another drink. “That, mon cher, we’ll never know. But the way our system works, he would have had to split the millions from the sale of the painting with others — we have an expression in my language, Kéz kezet mos. ‘Hand washes hand’ in English.”
“Something like protecting each other?”
“There is an English expression that might fit: taking turns scratching each other’s backs.”
Hebert laughed. “We have a lot of that going on in France too. Do you know what they plan to do with the painting?”
“No.”
“I talked with Tóth about Berkowitz’s murder.”
“Since Berkowitz worked for Magyar, I assume that will be unsolved for at least a dozen years and by then everyone will have forgotten about him. There are no witnesses, and Vaszary will be too busy keeping his nose clean in Ulaanbaatar . . .”
“Is that where they are sending him?”
“It was that or Tashkent. The bastard will have lots of time to think about why he tried to rip off Magyar and his cohorts.”
“Why? For €21 million or more. Enough to buy him and his pretty wife one-way tickets to anywhere they fancied, change their names, live in clandestine luxury for the rest of their lives. It would be tempting for a pair tired of taking orders.”
“A pleasure to meet you in person, Madame Marsh,” Hébert said standing up when Helena came toward the table. “You may enjoy meeting my friend, here,” he added, pointing at Attila. “For the past two weeks, he insisted he didn’t know you.”
Helena kissed Attila on both cheeks and shook Hébert’s hand. “I have some good news, at least,” she said, taking a sip from Attila’s wineglass. “They will have to bury Biro now, and his confiscated collection will no longer benefit your elite little clique in Hungary. I reported the case to the Stern Foundation, and they will send in their own people. I assume the Washington Principles on Nazi-Confiscated Art will apply the rules. Maybe Zsuzsa Klein will receive an inheritance, after all. There was proof in the archives that her grandfather had bought a Caravaggio, and we may yet be able to identify the Vaszarys’ painting as the one stolen from him.” She called the waiter and pointed at Attila’s glass. “I like your taste in wine,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
A large bouquet of roses greeted Helena at her office on Rue Jacob in Paris. Louise had unwrapped it and found a vase almost big enough to accommodate its girth. The leftovers — all yellow flowers — were on Louise’s own desk in a much smaller vase. A thick yellow envelope sat leaning against Helena’s vase. The writing was a bit smudged but still legible: “Mademoiselle Helena Marsh, Personal.”
When she ripped it open, she found three micro voice recorders, a photograph of herself, and a letter on a stiff sheet of white paper.
My dear Helena,
I would have destroyed all these, but I didn’t want you to worry that they had fallen into the wrong hands. Or about who killed your archer. Accept this, too, as a gift from an admirer.
Yours, as ever, Vladimir
P.S. If your friend decides she wants to sell the Caravaggio, please let me know.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful for the encouragement Susan Renouf provided even before I began to write this book, her editorial comments after she first
