Alexander was smoking his second Sobranie and enjoying a glass of whisky and crushed ice when Attila arrived at the Diablo. The Russian waiter was hovering over the table, talking in a low voice. Being Russian, he managed to keep his face almost expressionless, but his hands were moving as if he were weighing something. Attila hoped it was nothing that concerned him. Perhaps sins against the ruling czar.
When he saw Attila, Alexander leaned back in his seat, blew a smoke ring, and said, “Hello faszfej,” then lifted his finger over his glass and pointed at Attila to indicate to the waiter that Attila wanted the same drink. Attila ignored being greeted as a dickhead and wedged himself into the seat across the table. Alexander wasted no time in asking Attila why he had thought it important to take a run at Grigoriev, and, since he had decided to ignore Alexander’s very clear instructions, exactly what he thought he had accomplished.
“Not much except to make them think that they are not immune here, that having billions does not justify killing someone or refusing to co-operate with the police when the dead man was one of your employees.”
Alexander finished his drink. “You knew he hadn’t killed the guy.”
“Personally? Of course not. But that so-called secretary of his could have done it.”
The waiter arrived with Attila’s drink, and Alexander ordered two more.
“I tried to tell you where to look for the killer.”
“Italians? There are none here, as far as we can tell.”
“Tihanyi?”
“Don’t be silly. And he is not Italian.”
“Never overlook an Italian connection when there’s money involved. But what about the woman?”
“I met her today.” More than once, he thought. He decided not to mention Nagy. He had already called Tóth and asked him to send a plainclothes guy to watch the building.
“And?”
“And nothing. I don’t believe she did it.”
“Of course not,” Alexander said with an exaggerated seriousness that may have passed for sarcasm in Russia. “And it wasn’t her who did in Krestin either, right?”
Attila was surprised. The police hadn’t released any information on how Krestin died. Given his age, he could have died of a heart attack in his bed. The only local newspaper that could still publish uncensored news had merely mentioned that he had died, and it ran a glowing obituary: owner of the Lipótváros football team (no mention of the missing funds), philanthropist, opera buff, art collector, and so on.
“You know already?” he said after the waiter brought their drinks.
Alexander laughed. “I knew before you, I expect. Piotr Denisovich was concerned that a man who tried to sell him a fake Titian should have been killed. And, despite your idiotic meddling, he called me.”
“To say?”
“To ask that I look into the matter. He doesn’t want any mud sticking to his name.”
“Other than the mud we already know about.”
Alexander finished his whisky in one gulp and lit another Sobranie. “Attila, you know too little and, at the same time, too much. You have attracted Piotr Denisovich’s attention by showing up, asking dumbass questions, and pretending to be a policeman. I can try to save your hide, but it’s a waste of effort if you continue to mix in his business. He is a dangerous man, but one who is careful how he acts. For example, if he were to have you drowned in the Danube, there would be no one, other than me, who’d want to know who did it and why. Tóth may even be relieved to have you off his back.”
Attila thought of the girls and concluded they were too young to launch an investigation into his sudden death. Tibor had always been a let-sleeping-dogs-lie kind of guy. Tibor’s mother wouldn’t miss Attila. Despite her tempting invitations to drink J&B and try her delicious homemade desserts, he rarely visited her. That was also the case with Attila’s own mother, and besides, she had begun a late-life affair with a spry octogenarian who disapproved of Attila’s current profession. There was his cousin in Temesvár (now, for some complicated reasons, Timisoara) who was too busy trying to foment the separatist Hungarian movement in Transylvania to take time over Attila. Magda was pissed off with him and with reason. The ex would miss the monthly payments but not him.
“Furthermore, you should know that Piotr Denisovich did not have Krestin killed. He is not a stupid man. When this whole thing about the fake Titian hits the international press, he does not want to be in the limelight. For one thing, he wouldn’t want it known that he can’t tell a real Titian from a fake or that he hadn’t hired his own expert. It would make him look cheap or unprofessional. But he does know some stuff about Krestin, as do I, that may help bring this sorry mess to a happy end.”
“More than there is in the National Archive?”
“Your Archive is shit on the old ÁVO men. Your minister, Barross, let them take whatever they wanted before he decided to have the leftover files stored. The Stasi kept much better records. In Germany, there are some useful files. Here, not so much.”
Attila grudgingly told him what he had found in the file. He was still annoyed with Alexander, but a good way to pull him back onside was to share information. He needed to find out what Alexander knew.
“I hear you checked on the Ukrainian,” Alexander said. “Good move. Those guys were in the thick of things under the Nazis, and you would want to find out how Azarov knew about the painting.”
“Did you have me followed?”
Alexander shook his head. “Not I, old friend, not I, but you have made sure there are others interested in your movements.”
“As far as I can tell,” Attila said, “everybody knew about the painting. Kis, or Krestin, or both of them, broadcast the sale to collectors and would-be collectors wherever they live.”
“This particular Ukrainian had a father interned in the same mining camp where Márton and Krestin were.”
“Krestin?”
“They were all there.”
“What mine?”
“Number 442 Gulag. One of our great socialist re-education schemes. After we won the war that you guys lost. We picked up some of your losers — not many, considering — and transferred them to the Gulag.”
“Re-education!”
“Maljekij robot. Slave labour. Call it what you will, it really doesn’t matter. Vladimir Azarov’s father was in the same mine as Krestin. Vorkuta.”
“Why?”
“Why Azarov? One of his neighbours ratted him out as a Nazi sympathizer. There were a lot of those in Ukraine, didn’t you know that?”
“And was he?”
“It turned out he wasn’t, but what with a war to win and Comrade Stalin issuing orders from the Kremlin, who had time to check?”
“He was a prisoner?”
“Not exactly. He managed to get himself promoted to guard.”
“And Krestin?”
“He was a good Communist, and our fathers and grandfathers were smart to have placed a few of them among the prisoners so they would know what they talked about. There were also some unfortunate whispers about his activities in ’44 that he escaped by disappearing into the camps.”
“What kind of whispers?”
“The kind that could have had him hanged after the war.”
“And was there talk about a big Titian painting?”
Alexander lit another cigarette, although his last one was still smouldering in the ashtray. “Perhaps,” he said.
“Was it Márton’s?”
“That’s what I heard, and if you stop bothering my Russian, I’ll tell you more about your Hungarians and that Uke. Is that a deal?”
Attila nodded.
“Word of honour?”
“Becs szo, but don’t use that expression, please. You’re dating yourself.”
Alexander laughed. “Touché. The longer I spend in the service of the state, the more dated I feel.” He was slowly reverting to the usual Alexander: cheerful, friendly, a smartass but with an edge that denoted his FSB connection. “There was talk in the camp of a Titian that Géza Márton had back home. He offered to sell it.”
“Sell it? To whom?”
“To anyone who had food to trade.”