“It represented an unnecessary risk.”
“Damn straight.”
“To you, I mean. There was no reason to put you at risk unnecessarily,”
“So instead you exposed yourself to that risk. That don’t seem exactly
professional. What I’m saying is, use me. Treat me like a partner.”
“A partner? Reality check. You’re twenty-nine. You’ve been in the field for how
many years, exactly? Don’t take this the wrong way, but—”
“I’m not saying we’re equals. All I’m saying is, teach me. I’ll be the best
student you ever had.”
“You want to be my protégée?”
“I love it when you speak French.”
“Let me tell you something. I’ve had a protégé or two in my time. They’ve got
something in common.”
“Lemme guess. They’re all men.”
Janson shook his head grimly. “They’re all dead.” In the distance,
nineteenth-century church spires were interspersed with Soviet-era tower blocks:
symbols of aspiration that had outlived the aspirations themselves.
“So your idea is, keep me at arm’s length and you’ll keep me alive.” She turned
in her seat and faced him. “Well, I don’t buy it.”
“They’re all dead, Jessie. That’s my contribution to their career advancement.
I’m talking about good people. Hell, extraordinary people. Gifted as you can
get. Theo Katsaris—he had the potential to be better than me. Only, the better
you are, the higher the stakes. I wasn’t just reckless with my own life. I’ve
been reckless with the lives of others.”
” ‘Every operation with potential benefits also has potential risks. The art of
planning centers on the coordination of these two zones of uncertainty.’ You
wrote that in a field report once.”
“I’m flattered by the way you boned up on me. But there are a few chapters you
seemed to have skipped: Paul Janson’s protégés have a nasty habit of getting
killed.”
The National Archives were housed in a block-long neo-Gothic building; its
narrow windows of intricately leaded glass were set in cathedral-like arches,
sharply limiting the amount of sunlight that reached the documents within.
Jessie Kincaid had taken to heart Janson’s idea of beginning at the beginning.
She had a list of missing information that might help them unravel the mystery
of the Hungarian philanthropist. Peter Novak’s father, Count Ferenczi-Novak, was
said to have been obsessively fearful for his child’s safety. Fielding had told
Janson that the count had made enemies who, he was convinced, would seek to
revenge themselves against his scion. Is that what had finally happened, half a
century later? The Cambridge don’s words had the keenness of a blade: The old
nobleman may have been paranoid, but as the old saw has it, even paranoids have
enemies. She wanted to retrace the count’s movements back in those fateful years
when the Hungarian government underwent such bloody tumult. Were there visa
records that might indicate private trips that Novak’s father had made, with or
without his son? But the most important information they could get would be
genealogical: Peter Novak was said to be concerned with protecting the surviving
members of his family—a typical sentiment among those who had seen such
destruction in their tenderest years. Yet who were these relations—were there
surviving cousins with whom he might have kept in touch? The family history of
Count Ferenczi-Novak might be mired in obscurity, but it would repose somewhere
in the vastness of Hungary’s National Archives. If they had the names of these
unknown relatives and could locate them, they might get an answer to the most
vexing question of all: was the real Peter Novak alive or dead?
Janson dropped her off in front of the National Archives building; he had some
dealings of his own to conduct. Years in the field had given him an instinct for
where to find the black-market vendors of false identity papers and other
instruments that could come in handy. He might or might not get lucky, he told
her, but decided he might as well give it a try.
Now Jessica Kincaid, dressed simply in jeans and a forest green polo shirt,
found herself inside an entrance hall, scanning a chart of the Archives’
holdings that hung beside a vast and intimidating list of sections.
Archives of the Hungarian Chancellery (1414-1848) I. “B.” Records of Government
Organs between 1867 and 1945 II. “L.” Government Organs of the Hungarian Soviet
Republic (1919) II.
“M.” Records of the Hungarian Working People’s Party (MDP) and the Hungarian
Socialist Workers’ Party (MSZMP) VII. “N.” Archivum Regnicolaris (1222-1988) I.
“O.” Judicial Archives (13th century-1869) I. “P.” Archives of Families,
Corporations and Institutions (1527-20th century).
And the list went on.
Jessie pushed through the next door, where a large room was filled with
catalogs, tables, and, along the walls, perhaps a dozen counters. At each
counter was an archival clerk, whose job was to deal with requests from members
of the public and certified researchers alike. Over one counter was a sign in
English, indicating that it was an information desk for English-speaking
visitors. There was a short line in front of the desk, and she watched a bored,
coarse-featured clerk deal with his supplicants. As best she could tell, the
“information” he dispensed consisted largely of explanations of why the
information sought could be not provided.
“You’re telling me that your great-grandfather was born in Székesfehérvár in
1870,” he was saying to a middle-aged Englishwoman in a checked woolen jacket.
“How nice for him. Unfortunately, at that time, Székesfehérvár had more than a
hundred and fifty parishes. This is not enough information to find the record.”
The Englishwoman moved on with a heavy sigh.
A short, round American man had his hopes dashed almost as summarily.
“Born in Tata in the 1880s or ’90s,” the clerk repeated, with a reptilian smile.
“You would like us to look through every register from 1880 to 1889?”
Sardonicism turned to umbrage. “That is simply impossible. That is not a
reasonable thing to expect. Do you understand how many kilometers of material we
house? We cannot do research without something far more specific to guide us.”
When Jessie reached the counter, she simply handed him a sheet of paper on which
she had neatly written precise names, locations, dates. “You’re not going to
tell me you’re going to have a hard time finding these records, are you?” Jessie
gave him a dazzling smile.
“The necessary information is here,” the clerk admitted, studying the paper.
“Let me just make a call to verify.”
He disappeared into an inventory annex that extended behind his counter, and
returned a few minutes later.
“So sorry,” he said. “Not available.”
“How do you mean, not available?” Jessie protested.
“Regrettably, there are certain … lacunae in the collections. There were serious
losses toward the end of the Second World War—fire damage. And then to protect
it, some of the collection was stored in the crypt of St. Steven’s Cathedral.
This was meant to be a safe place, and many files remained there for decades.
Unfortunately, the crypt was very damp, and much of what had been there was
destroyed by fungus. Fire and water—opposites, yet both formidable enemies.” The
clerk threw up his hands, pantomiming regret. “These records of Count
Ferenczi-Novak’s—they belonged to a section that was destroyed.”
Jessie was persistent. “Isn’t there some way you could double-check?” She wrote
a cell phone number on the paper and underlined it. “If anything turns up,
anywhere, I would be just so grateful … ” Another dazzling smile. “So grateful.”
The clerk bowed his head, his frosty manner beginning to melt; evidently he was
unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of a young woman’s charms.
“Certainly. But I am not hopeful, and neither should you be.”
Three hours later, the clerk called the number. His pessimism, he confessed to
Jessie, had perhaps been premature. He explained that he had sensed that this
was a matter of particular importance to her, and thus made a special effort to
ascertain that the records had indeed been lost. Given the vastness of the
National Archives, after all, a certain amount of misfiling was inevitable.
Jessie listened to the long-winded clerk with mounting excitement. “You mean to
say you’ve turned them up? We can get access to them?”
“Well, not exactly,” the clerk said. “A curious thing. For some reason, the
records were removed to a special section. The locked section. I’m afraid access
to these files is strictly regulated. It would simply be impossible for a member
of the public to be allowed to see this material. All sorts of high-level
ministerial certifications and documents of exception would be required.”
“But that’s plain silly,” Jessie said.
“I understand. Your interests are genealogical—it seems absurd that such records
are treated like state secrets. I myself believe it to be another instance of
misfiling—or miscategorization, anyway.”
“Because it would just break me up, having come all this way,” Jessie began.
“You know, I can’t tell you how grateful I’d be if you could see a way to help.”
She pronounced the word grateful with infinite promise.