ON THE evening of October 23, 1956, in Budapest, following weeks of agitation and a day of massive demonstrations, the AVH secret police, which most people still called the AVO or Avosh, opened fire on the crowd with Mosin-Nagant carbines and PPSh-41 submachine guns chambered for 7.62 mm Tokarev. At daybreak on October 24 Gerö named Imre Nagy prime minister. At 7:45 a.m. martial law was declared.
In Samuel Farakhan’s residence in Normandy, Lajos Obersoxszki, handsome and clean and smelling of soap and egg shampoo, made tea in the vast kitchen, then settled down in the dining room with a tray on which were laid the teapot, two cups, milk, sugar, bread and butter, two napkins, two teaspoons, and two small knives. He turned the radio on and stopped buttering his bread when he heard the news from Hungary. After a moment he went back to preparing his tartine, but to eat it he went and sat next to the large Radiola receiver, impatiently listening to the broadcast news and continually switching back and forth between Radio Luxembourg and Europe 1. Samuel Farakhan came down the staircase in corduroy trousers, a white shirt and a lightweight V-necked black pullover. He went over to Lajos and greeted him happily and tenderly.
“Damn it!” said Lajos.
Farakhan listened but now the radio was talking about events in Algeria. In vain Lajos tried another station, then turned the volume way down and told Farakhan what was going on in Budapest.
“Hmm,” sighed Farakhan, shaking his head and then looking over at Lajos. “Well, it’s better to be here than there, isn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
Farakhan stared at Lajos, who after a moment gave him a tight smile. Farakhan squeezed his shoulder, then sat down and they ate. Shortly after eight thirty they learnt that according to Hungarian radio the government, in accordance with the Warsaw Pact, had called upon the Soviet military units stationed in Hungary to help restore order by intervening against armed fascist and counterrevolutionary groups.
“Things are going to hell,” said Farakhan to Lajos, who made no reply.
A short while later, since the postman on his Vélosolex began his round of the commune here, it was time to go and see if there was any mail in the large box by the front gate. Lajos went to see. He came back with a small package and a large envelope, both addressed to Farakhan. The Englishman first opened the package, posted from Paris. It was a German book, Der Katorgan, by Bernhard Roeder, published in Cologne. In an accompanying note, the editor in chief of Telos wrote that this was a testimonial concerning the Russian prison camps and asked Farakhan to review it for their journal. Then Farakhan examined the large envelope. Speaking aloud, he observed that it came from Ivy and had taken three weeks to arrive from Cuba. Then he opened it and found twenty black-and-white photographs printed on paper measuring roughly 25 × 35 mm, along with a rather brief handwritten letter. First Farakhan read the letter, then he scrutinized the photos, which consisted of ten different shots, each of them in duplicate, some of Victor, some of Negra, and some of both. Farakhan slid one photograph of the young girl and one of the man onto the table. Lajos looked at them and looked up.
“My letter triggered associations of ideas,” said Farakhan. “Ivy tells me that, even if it seems completely crazy, she wonders whether this might not be Alba Black and the seaman Victor Maurer who disappeared at the same time as her. She remembered the name. She asks me to check.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask for advice. Which I may or may not follow.”
Out of habit, Farakhan went to telephone in his basement office rather than from the living room. He came back after about five minutes.
“I must go to Paris immediately.”
“Very well,” said Lajos, getting to his feet. “Be careful on the road.”
In the hallway Farakhan slipped into his navy-blue woolen overcoat, for it was very cold out. He put on a light-gray scarf. A very narrow striped tie was knotted at his throat. He placed one of the two runs of photographs in his black leather briefcase. He kissed Lajos on the cheek.
“You be careful too.”
“I’m going to listen to some jazz,” said Lajos.
Farakhan smiled, left the house, got his Aronde and drove to Paris, arriving at quarter past one. On the walls of Commissioner Montag’s office the same framed photographs of prototypes of French military aircraft were still on display: Mistral, Vautour, Dassault Ouragan, Mystère IV among others. This time the policeman was there to greet Farakhan. There was no handshake.
“Would you like to get some lunch?” asked Montag.
“No thank you. Not with you,” answered Farakhan.
Montag’s mouth tensed slightly. He waved to a chair, where Farakhan sat down, unbuttoning his overcoat. Montag did not have his empty pipe today. He nibbled unconsciously at his lips.
“First of all,” he said, “I feel duty bound to inform you that I am going to leave Territorial Surveillance. I’ll be here until this particular business is over. After that, my request for reassignment has been granted. I’ll be going to the Office of the Inspector General of the National Police. Would you like to know why I am quitting the DST?”
“Not particularly.”
“I have a certain conception, Monsieur Farakhan,” the Commissioner nevertheless continued, “of the honor, dignity and rights of people. I went through the Resistance. At the time, it was our adversaries who practiced torture. Do you understand me?”
“I think so.”
“Do I surprise you?”
“You astonish me somewhat, yes.”
“The director told me personally that our agency does not torture, that the claim is propaganda put about by Algerians and a few deluded journalists who support them. I cannot believe that the director would lie to me.”
“But you think that he himself is being lied to. How touching, Mister Commissioner.”
“Stop insulting me. I am tired and anxious,” said Montag. “Let’s get to it now.”
Farakhan took the ten photographs from his black leather briefcase, which he had placed on the floor by his armchair. He laid the enlargements on the desk. Montag leant forward and pulled them towards him. He had not had a very clean shave that morning. He went through the pictures slowly and methodically, then pushed them back to the center of the desk.
“Shit!” he said. “This is too soon. She’s going too fast.”
“It was you who wanted me to write her and stress Black’s expected arrival in Havana at the beginning of December. She is smart and intuitive. She has very little to go on. Negra equals Black. Victor has the scar from a serious bullet wound. She remembered that the seaman who disappeared was called Victor Maurer. And what better hiding place than Cuba if you are hiding from Aaron Black? Cuba is his fiefdom, the last place he would think to look for them, especially after six years.”
“Do you have her letter?”
“No, but I know the gist of it. She says that the idea she had is completely crazy, but she wants me to check just the same in the case of Maurer. Obviously it’s impossible to check for the kid: at that age you change too quickly.”
With his elbows on the desk and his index fingers against the sides of his nose, Montag gave a worried and indecisive sigh.
“Maurer and the kid will begin to give her more clues in November,” he said in a dead tone of voice. “Your Ivory Pearl is going to be more and more sure of her hypothesis. Things are moving too fast.”
“A little bit, yes. But right now she is waiting for my reply. A letter takes three weeks to reach her in the back of beyond. I propose that I write her in a week or so confirming the identity of Victor Maurer. She will get this news after November 20. She knows that Aaron Black will be in Havana on December 1. She will take the kid and head there.”
“Or else to the cops. Or to Guantánamo.”
“We’ve already discussed all that. Ivory Pearl is a world champion reporter.” Farakhan’s tone put quote marks around the term. “ ‘Famous Photographer Returns Niece, Kidnapped and Believed Dead, to Famous American Millionaire!’ With exclusive photos of their reunion! Do you think she would miss that?” Farakhan was excited, passionate as a gambler at the table. But he suddenly became calm, seemed to settle down. His blue eyes dulled and his voice tautened. “What worries me, though, is the aftermath.”
“Aaron Black will be obliged to express joy,” said Montag. “There will be no problem in the short term. Young Alba Black will get back her place in the bosom of the family, and your Ivory Pearl will leave for new adventures. Later, of course, Aaron Black will try once more to liquidate the girl. He will dream up some devious scheme. Or even a straightforward one. The fake kidnapping that he set up in 1950 was a bit too devious. I think he’ll play his cards more simply next time. And we’ll intervene and trap him. In any case that’s no longer your problem. Your Ivory Pearl will no longer be in the vicinity.”
“Always assuming it was really Aaron Black who organized the kidnapping in 1950.”
“There is no ‘always assuming,’” Montag cut in. “Our informant is categorical about it.”
“All right then. But a man who has done that could have the girl and Ivy killed the moment they show up. Or in the next few days afterwards.”
“That would be a bit crude,” said Montag. “I admit it’s not entirely impossible, given the right circumstances. But the person we have in Black’s entourage is very alert to the situation. He will keep a weather eye out.”
Farakhan sighed and cast a circular glance around the room but found nothing hopeful or reassuring there.
“I just hope your agent is good.”
“He’s not our agent. We do not operate outside French territory. Let’s just call him a friend of ours. But he is not an employee.”
“Well, I must say,” replied Farakhan, “I rather prefer that.”
Once out of the Interior Ministry buildings, Farakhan stopped at a newspaper stand at the corner of Rue des Saussaies and Rue La Boétie and bought Libération (the progressive daily founded by Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie) for Lajos, along with Le Figaro, L’Aurore, Paris-Presse, France-Soir, and Le Monde. He put the papers in his black leather briefcase, got into his Aronde and drove west. He was back home by five forty-five. The lights were on in the living room, but no music could be heard and there was no one there. Farakhan shouted for Lajos. He dropped his briefcase at random and went through the whole house calling out, turning lights on and off, opening and shutting doors. At last, overcoat unbuttoned, ashen-faced, he returned to the living room and saw the letter Lajos had left lying on the low table, designed by the school of Josef Hoffmann, which was in front of a Vienna Secession sofa upon which Farakhan now sat down.