ours.” Within hours, Janson’s cell phone began chirping with testimonials on the
Hungarian’s behalf; the man had obviously been calling in favors. Well, the
Canadian conceded, Kurzweil would be passing through the Miskolc area, near
Lakatos’s primary residence. It was possible he could be persuaded to meet. But
everyone had to understand: Kurzweil was a very untrusting man. If he declined,
no offense should be taken.
Despite the tactical pretense of reluctance, Janson’s eagerness for the meeting
bordered on desperation. For he knew that the one sure way to reach the ancient
and entrenched enemies of Peter Novak would be through the Hungarian merchant of
death.
Janson, seated at a tall leather chair in the hotel lobby, had observed
Lakatos’s arrival and deliberately waited ten minutes before joining him. As he
approached the Hungarian at the banquette, he maintained a pleasantly blase
expression. Lakatos surprised him by standing up and embracing him.
“We meet at last!” he said. “Such a pleasure.” He pressed his breasty upper body
to Janson’s and reached around, his plump sweaty hands vigorously patting his
back and then his waist. None too subtly, the effusive embrace served as a kind
of crude security check: any upper-body holster—shoulder, small of back,
bellyband—would have been detected easily.
As the two took their seats, Lakatos nakedly scrutinized his guest; avidity vied
with no little suspicion of his own. There were, the merchant had learned,
opportunities that were too good to be true. One had to distinguish between
low-hanging fruit and poisoned bait.
“The libamaj roston, the grilled goose liver, is excellent. And so is the
brassoi aprépecsenye—a sort of braised pork.” Lakatos’s voice was slightly
breathless and fluting.
“Personally, I prefer the bakanyi sertéshús,” Janson replied.
The Hungarian paused. “Then you know this place,” he said. “They told me you
were a worldly man, Mr. Kurzweil.”
“If they told you anything, they told you too much,” he said, a trace of steel
in his voice belying his half smile.
“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Kurzweil. Yet, as you know, ours is a business based on
trust. Handshakes and reputation substitute for contracts and paperwork. It is
the old way, I think. My father was a butter-and-egg man, and for decades you’d
find his little white trucks up and down the Zemplén range. He started in the
thirties, and when the Communists took over, they found it was easier to cede
these little shipments to somebody who understood the routes. You see, when he
was a teenager he was a truck driver himself. So when his employees would tell
him that this or that difficulty—a flat tire, a blown radiator—meant that their
route would be delayed by half a day, well, he knew better. He knew just how
long it took to fix these things, because he’d had to do so himself. His men
came to understand that. They could pull nothing over on him, but this did not
breed resentment, only respect. I think maybe I am the same way.”
“Do people often try to pull things over on you?”
Lakatos grinned, flashing a row of porcelain teeth, unnaturally white and
regular. “Few are so foolhardy,” he replied. “They recognize the dangers.” His
tone wavered between menace and self-regard.
“No one has ever prospered by underestimating the Hungarian people,” Janson said
soberly. “But then yours is a language, a culture, that few of us can pretend to
understand.”
“Magyar obscurity. It served the country well when others sought to dominate it.
At other times, it has served us less well. But I think those of us who operate
under conditions of, shall we say, circumspection have learned its value.”
A waiter appeared and filled their water glasses.
“A bottle of your ‘ninety-eight Margaux,” Lakatos said. He turned to Kurzweil.
“It’s a young wine, but quite refreshing. Unless you’d like to try the local
specialty—one of those ‘Bull’s Blood’ vintages. Some are quite memorable.”
“I believe I would, in fact.”
Lakatos wriggled his fat fingers at the waiter “Instead, a bottle of the Egri
Bikaver, ‘eighty-two.” He turned again to his companion. “Now tell me,” he said,
“how do you find Hungary?”
“An extraordinary land, which has given the world some extraordinary people. So
many Nobel Laureates, film directors, mathematicians, physicists, musicians,
conductors, novelists. Yet there is one laureled son of Hungary who—how shall I
say this politely?—has given disquiet to my clients.”
Lakatos looked at him, transfixed. “You intrigue me.”
“One man’s liberty is another’s tyranny, as they say. And the foundations of
liberty may be the foundations of tyranny.” He paused to make sure that his
import was taken.
“How fascinating,” Lakatos said, swallowing hard. He reached for his water
glass.
Janson stifled a yawn. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “The flight from Kuala Lumpur
is a long one, however comfortable one is made.” In fact, the seven-hour ride
from Milan to Eger in the bone-rattling confines of a truck trailer loaded with
cured meats had been both uncomfortable and nerve-racking. Even as he dined with
the arms merchant, Jessie Kincaid would be using a false passport and credit
card to rent another automobile for tomorrow’s trip and carefully working out
the itinerary in advance. He hoped she would be able to get some rest before
long. “But travel is my life,” Janson added grandly.
“I can imagine,” Lakatos said, his eyes bright.
The waiter, in black tie, appeared with the local red wine; it came in a
ribboned bottle without a paper label, the name of the vineyard etched directly
on the glass. The wine was dark, rich, seemingly opaque as it splashed into
their crystal goblets. Lakatos took a healthy swallow, sluiced it around his
mouth, and pronounced it superb.
“As a region for viticulture, Eger is nothing if not robust.” He held up his
wineglass. “You may not be able to see through it,” he added, “but, I assure
you, Mr. Kurzweil, you always get value for your money. You made an excellent
choice.”
“I am pleased to hear you say so,” Janson replied. “Another tribute to Magyar
opacity.”
Just then, a man in a sky blue suit but no tie came over to the table—obviously
an American tourist, and obviously drunk. Janson looked up at him, and alarm
bells began ringing in his head.
“It’s been a while,” the man said, slurring his words slightly. He placed a
hairy, beringed hand on the white linen tablecloth near the bread basket.
“Thought it was you. Paul Janson, big as life.” He snorted loudly before he
turned and walked away. “Told you it was him,” he was saying to a woman who sat
at his table across the room.
Dammit! What had happened was always a theoretical possibility in covert
operations, but so far Janson had been fortunate. There had been an occasion
once in Uzbekistan when he was meeting with a deputy to the nation’s oil
minister, posing as a go-between to a major petrochemical corporation. An
American happened to breeze through the office—a civilian, a Chevron oil buyer,
who knew him under another name, and in another context, one involving the
Apsheron gas and oil fields of Azerbaijan. Their gaze met, the man nodded, but
said nothing. For distinctly different reasons, he felt as chagrined at being
spotted by Janson as Janson had at being spotted by him. No words were
exchanged, and Janson knew he would make no inquiries. But what had happened
here was a worst-case scenario, the sort of cross-context intrusion that any
field agent hoped he would never encounter.
Now Janson focused on slowing his heartbeat, and he turned to Lakatos with an
impassive expression. “A friend of yours?” Janson asked. The man had not made it
clear to whom his remarks were addressed: “Adam Kurzweil” would not have assumed
he was their subject.
Lakatos looked bewildered. “I don’t know this man.”
“Don’t you,” Janson said softly, defusing suspicion by placing the arms dealer
on the defensive. “Well, no matter. We’ve all had such experiences. Between the
drink and the dim lighting, he might have taken you for Nikita Khrushchev
himself.”
“Hungary has always been a land densely populated with ghosts,” Lakatos
returned.
“Some of your own making.”
Lakatos set his glass down, ignoring the comment. “You’ll forgive me if I’m
curious. I have quite a few accounts, as you know. Yours isn’t a name I’d come
across.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Janson took a long, savoring sip of the local wine.
“Or do I only flatter myself about my discretion? I’ve spent most of my life in
southern Africa, where, I must say, your presence is not a noticeable one.”
Lakatos tucked his chin deeper into the pillow of fat that was his neck,
signaling assent. “A mature market,” he said. “I cannot say there has been any
great call for my offerings down there. Still, I have had occasional dealings
with South Africans, and I’ve always found you people exemplary trading
partners. You know what you want, and you don’t mind paying what it’s worth.”