It was early evening when Maria Steinbrunner checked into the Gresham. Helena had made a reservation using Maria’s Visa and, although she had requested an atrium room with a view of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge and the castle, she settled for a room with a view of Pest. King-sized bed, of course. She didn’t have time to wait for the late-departing guests to vacate the room she had paid for in advance.
She was surprised to note that the plastic key she had taken from the dead man at the Gellért was similar to her own new Four Seasons’ key card. Given the man’s looks and clothes, she would not have classified him as a typical Four Seasons guest. More likely, his room had been paid for by someone staying at this hotel. His had been the kind of side assignment considered easy, but why would the person who had hired him want her dead? And why was he not warned that Helena was expert at self-defence? The poor sap had even smiled when he saw her approach.
She had been running through variations of the scene at the Gellért. Could she have disarmed but not have killed him? Her split-second decisions were not usually so lethal, but as she got older, she found herself less able to make the right choice when she was threatened. She was afraid of becoming like Simon: quick, efficient, and self-absorbed. He had not been interested in other people unless they furthered his own aims. He had been proud of his own exploits and delighted in easy money. An adventurer who lacked empathy.
Her rented Fiat could be returned by one of the doormen in exchange for a handsome tip. The concièrge had already booked her a taxi to the opera house and provided a map showing the nearby restaurants and cafés, although he had pointed out that the hotel’s Kollázs restaurant was one of the best in the city and that its café offered one of the best selections of freshly made cakes.
She washed her hair, frizzed it with her fingers and a bit of gel, then pulled on the black pants, the black top, the linen jacket, the silk scarf, and lastly high heels over her bare feet. No need for a wig tonight.
She took the taxi to the opera house.
Vladimir Azarov was waiting at the long curved bar. He was wearing a tuxedo, which was too much even for the Hungarian National Opera, but it did make him look distinguished. He didn’t turn when she reached him, he just handed her a fluted glass of Champagne. “I hope you like La Bohème,” he said. “If not, we could try Nabucco tomorrow night.”
“Puccini is fine,” she said.
“I wondered whether it might be too light for you, but it should make a pleasant change from your difficult day.” He grinned over the rim of his glass.
He was built like a wrestler: tall with broad shoulders and long, muscular thighs and arms. The material of his elegant outfit stretched over his chest and shoulders. He had wide-spaced black eyes, wide cheekbones, thick greying hair, a healthy tan, and a soft Slavic accent under his breathy English.
“I doubt we’ll still be here tomorrow night,” she said.
He preceded her to the baroque auditorium. “It’s impolite, but I know how much you hate anyone at your back,” he said over his shoulder.
Even by central European standards, the opera house was excessive with its vast, sweeping staircase, red plush seats and carpets, golden balcony rails, and its massive bronze chandelier hanging from the centre of a huge ceiling fresco of languorous Greek gods. It was the perfect setting for the son of a miner who had made a fortune under the gaze of the recent czar of Ukraine. And a woman who would kill if the situation demanded it.
“We have seats in the third row,” Vladimir said, “so you can see the orchestra. Farther forward and you’d have to crane your neck. The conductor tonight is Pinchas Steinberg. I think you’ll like him.”
She followed him to their seats. “Have you bought any more Renoirs?” she asked when they were seated.
“None were offered, except an early sketch.”
As the overture began, she asked him whether he would be willing to let the Krestin painting go if she offered him another Titian.
“I like this one,” he said.
“This one may not be genuine. Besides, there is a prior claim.”
“I don’t think so. I first learned of this painting when I was a little boy. My father heard about it in the mines.”
“Vorkuta,” she said. “He was one of the guards.”
“Is that a question?”
“No. But he must have been at that mine to hear about the painting. Of course, he could have been one of the prisoners, but you are educated, so he must have had a Party position during the ’60s and ’70s. Not many Ukrainian Gulag prisoners had Party pins, and their sons didn’t study at the London School of Economics.”
“You always do your homework,” he said, chuckling.
“Do you know what the painting is?”
“Yes, it’s of Christ entering Jerusalem.”
The people in the seats behind theirs shushed them.
During the intermission, Vladimir bought more Champagne and asked what the other painting was.
“The Last Judgement. It’s in Romania, in Cluj-Napoca,” she said. “It was probably commissioned by Mary of Hungary in the early 1540s. Mary had a more educated taste in art than Philip or her brother, the emperor. She was less demanding, less bent on dictating how Titian should paint. Sadly, a lot of his works for her were lost in the great fire. Less of The Last Judgement is painted by his assistants than is the case for several works in the Accademia. Much less than Krestin’s painting.” She made an effort to look thoughtful. “Frankly, I am not sure Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem is a genuine Titian,” she said. “I suspect it was done by one of his followers. Not even his studio.”
“Is that the expert speaking, or the competition?” Vladimir asked.
“Could it be both? I have studied the painting, and you know I am an expert.”
“Does the one in Cluj have provenance?”
“Since when is that an issue for you? So many of the Augsburg documents were destroyed in the war. But it’s clearer than Krestin’s painting. It was taken from a Jewish timber trader in ’41 by his assistant, who was not Jewish. He killed the trader.”
“Is there a family?”
“All killed. Most by the Nazis during the ’40s. A son who escaped was executed during one of the Soviet purges.”
“Whose son? The thief’s or the trader’s?”
“Both families were killed. There are no descendants.”
“So how did the new owner get his hands on it?”
“I’ll tell you in Cluj.”
They returned to their seats for the second act.
“There is a Russian who also wants in.”
“Isn’t there always?” Vladimir said. “Which painting?”
“He doesn’t know about The Last Judgement.”
There were a limited number of Russians who were interested in acquiring fifteenth- and sixteenth-century art; even fewer who could afford it. Helena had checked with her contact at Ferihegy Airport, and only two private jets had landed this week: one from Kiev, the other from Sochi. Budapest was no longer a magnet for the mega-rich. The Russian airplane belonged to a man she already knew: Piotr Denisovich Grigoriev.
“I would like to see it,” Vladimir said. “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll look at it and then decide which one I want.”
“There’s nothing to decide,” Helena said. “You cannot have Christ’s Entry, simple as that.”
He laughed. “I suppose you are going to stop me.”
“That’s right, but I will show you the other painting, the one you can have, the day after tomorrow, if you are available.”
“Where? And what time?”
“Around nine in the evening. You know the big church, St. Michael’s?”
He nodded. “There is a statue of a Hungarian king on horseback in front of it. One of my companies was involved in Mayor Funar’s effort to destroy the statue by excavating for an underground shopping mall.”
“That’s the one,” she said.
After the performance, he handed her into a taxi and said he would see her in Cluj.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “take care of yourself.”
“Strange,” Helena said. “That’s precisely what Miroslav suggested. And by the way, did you send a thug to make sure I stayed out of your way?”
“Would I do something like that? Really? Would I?” He did not sound offended by the question.
“Of course you would, but I don’t think you did, not this time.”
Back at the hotel, the receptionist was apologetic but Mr. Grigoriev was not to be disturbed tonight. He had taken the fifth floor, and the Gresham would not allow anyone to enter that floor without Mr. Grigoriev’s express permission. The elevator had been reprogrammed to go from the fourth to the sixth floor without stopping.
When Helena tried the stairs, she was met by a decisive man with a sparse command of English and a bulge under his arm. She apologized profusely.
It was late at night, she was tired, and she was not ready to take on the Russians.