Porter did not acknowledge what Balthazar had said, but his hand trembled slightly as he poured the water.

Karoly picked up the current that flowed between the two men. ‘What did you say, Detective?’

Balthazar smiled, and took a long draught of the water. ‘I said thank you.’ He sat back. ‘Is that an original Picasso?’

‘Yes. From his Blue Period. The others are a Manet and a Monet. I still get them muddled up. So easy to do that.’

‘Very. How long have you owned them?’

Karoly smiled. ‘They have been in the Bardossy family for a long time. We helped out some friends during the war. They were very grateful.’

‘I’m sure they were. How did your family help them?’ asked Balthazar.

Something flickered in Bardossy’s eyes. He blinked, reached for the whisky glass.

Balthazar thought quickly. A Picasso, a Manet and a Monet. The document – Vivi’s decryption was right. The paintings were real. They were here, in front of him. So who, or what, was Ber…?

There were always moments, Balthazar had learned during his career as a detective when pieces suddenly fit together and a picture emerged from the confusion of jumbled names, dates and confused witness accounts. For a second he was back on Liberty Square, reading one of the brief biographies pinned to the thin rope in front of the mawkish statue. Tragically, they trusted the wrong person. The hair rose on the back of his neck. Miklos and Rahel Berger. Cigany boszorkanysag, Gypsy witchcraft. It had never let him down yet. Ber… was Berger – Miklos and Rahel.

Karoly looked back up now, a thin smile frozen on his face, aware that he had let something slip. ‘We helped them, that’s all that matters. This is not a history seminar, Detective.’

‘But it is, Mr Bardossy. Everything in Hungary is a history seminar. History is walking around everywhere. It’s asking what you did when they came for your neighbours and how you got those nice silver candlesticks.’ He paused. ‘Or those lovely paintings by the artists whose names sound almost the same. We Hungarians have a lot of unfinished business.’

Karoly laughed. ‘We Hungarians.’

The subtext was clear. Balthazar was a Gypsy, not a Hungarian. He yawned before he spoke, drank half a glass of water. ‘Really, Mr Bardossy, an intelligent man like you. Is that the best you can do? How about the Bergers, Miklos and Rahel? I am sure they thought they were Hungarians as well.’

Karoly stiffened for a moment. He emptied his whisky glass, his anger rising. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Detective. I told you, my family helped another family. I don’t remember their names.’

Balthazar pressed harder. ‘Miklos and Rahel also thought they were Hungarians, until the gendarmes came for them and put them on the train to Auschwitz. And the Bardossys got three nice new paintings to add to their collection. From people they thought they could trust. There was a lot of trusting in 1944, but much more betrayal. Do you ever think about that, when you look at your Picasso? Or the Monet, the Manet?’

‘The gendarmes did not come for them. It was the SS,’ said Karoly angrily. He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing that he had given too much away.

Balthazar smiled inside. His instinct was correct. ‘Ah, so now we are getting somewhere. If you have never heard of Miklos and Rahel Berger, how do you know who arrested them? What’s the real story here, Mr Bardossy? Elad Harrari asked a lot of questions about what happened in 1944 and now he is missing. I tried to find him and you had me abducted. What have you got to hide?’

Bardossy shrugged. ‘Nothing. What does it matter now? It was a long time ago. Who cares?’

‘You do. Otherwise why am I here?’

Karoly’s face flushed red. ‘You’re here because you ask too many fucking questions. Like that Israeli, asking for access to our company archives. Why would I let him poke around in our historical records?’

‘Because you have nothing to hide. Because you want the truth to come out, finally. Because you want to clear the historical record.’

Karoly laughed. ‘Spare me.’ He looked at Balthazar. ‘Your sister, Flora, she’s is in the art business isn’t she? I heard she sold some pictures to my dear niece for her new office in parliament. Flora has that lovely little gallery in District VIII. On Brody Sandor Street, number 23, I believe.’

Balthazar sat upright. ‘Is that a threat, Mr Bardossy?’

Karoly smiled, shook his head. ‘Not at all. Just an observation. I like to keep up with the news in the art world. I hear she’s going to start staying open till ten or eleven at night. Very good idea; there are so many tourists in Budapest now with money to spend. Still, Brody Sandor Street, not the best part of town for a young woman on her own at night, even in the fancy end, what do they call it now, the Palace Quarter?’ The smiled turned into a smirk. ‘Palaces. In District VIII, who knew?’

Balthazar breathed through his nose for several seconds, controlling his rising anger. The insults about District VIII, the slurs against its Gypsy inhabitants, were nothing new. But this was clearly a threat aimed at Flora, and could not go unanswered.

‘Shall I explain something to you, Mr Bardossy?’ Balthazar asked, his voice cold and measured. Porter moved away from the wall and started to walk towards Balthazar.

Karoly held up his hand. ‘It’s OK, Porter. Detective Kovacs wants to tell me something.’ He looked at Balthazar, his eyes amused, his face flushed with alcohol. ‘Go ahead, Detective. I’m listening.’

Balthazar spoke slowly and carefully, his eyes locked onto Karoly’s. ‘It’s another story from the Second World War, Mr Bardossy.’

Bardossy stifled a yawn. ‘Get on with it.’

‘You know for us Gypsies, family comes before everything. We may squabble and feud among ourselves, but against the outside world, we are always united. When the Nazis came for us, here in ’44, in the neighbouring countries much earlier, the families refused to be divided when they arrived at the camps. Mothers and fathers, they would not let the Germans separate them from their children. They fought, they screamed, they cursed, even on the ramp where Mengele did his selections. Sometimes the mothers attacked the Nazis by hand, scratching at their faces, gouging at their eyes. So the Nazis let them live together, in a special family camp. There was even a Gypsy uprising in Auschwitz. Who knew? Did you know?’

Karoly shook his head. ‘No, I did not hear about that.’

‘That was in May 1944. They attacked the SS with stones and sticks. For a while the Nazis left them alone. Then in August, they gassed everyone, almost three thousand people.’ He paused. ‘Including some of my relatives.’

Karoly said, ‘We all lost people in the war.’

‘Some families more than others, Mr Bardossy. But you are wondering why I am telling you all of this. This is why.’ Balthazar paused. ‘If something happens to Flora, or her gallery, the same will be visited on you and your home – but multiplied many times. This lovely house will go up in flames. You might be in it when it does. I’m the only cop in my family. The rest of my relatives don’t worry about laws. They run District VIII. They have an army to call on. Our family, and all the other families. There are hundreds of us. We have codes and we live by them. Family first, before everything. In the camp at Auschwitz in 1944, or on Brody Sandor Street now. And we believe in vengeance. We’re very good at it; we’ve been practising for centuries. You – and your business – won’t know what hit you. Oh, it might take a few weeks, or months. Even a year or two. But you will never be able to sleep soundly again, or step outside without looking over your shoulder. One day we will come for you and we will find you.’ Balthazar turned to look at Porter, ignoring the bolt of pain that shot up his back. ‘Even with a legion of Porters. He won’t be able to save you. Or himself.’

Balthazar paused. ‘Now tell me why I am here.’

Karoly sit very still for several seconds, swallowed, then asked, ‘Where is the Israeli?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Aren’t you looking for him?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t find him yet. Why do you care?’

Karoly blinked slowly, seemed to gather his strength. ‘This is how it’s going to work, Detective. You are going to call your friend Anastasia. She is going to send over the memory stick that you found with your neighbour, dear Eva neni.’ He paused. ‘Yes, that memory stick. The one you took to Falk Miksa Street where whatshername, Bibi, Vivi, whatever, decrypted it. Once I have that, you are free to leave.’

Balthazar rapidly processed what he had heard. Bardossy had someone on the inside at Falk Miksa. In fact it would be surprising if he did not. Nobody could run a business empire in Hungary the size of his without a powerful network of contacts across every sector of the establishment, including the security service. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ Balthazar said.

‘I think you do,’ said Karoly. ‘And in case you need a reminder, here it is.’ He picked up the A4 envelope, opened it and handed several photographs to Balthazar. He leafed through them. Each shot was of Eva neni, walking in and out of the apartment building on Dob Street, chatting with her friends in the park on Klauzal Square, shopping in the market hall nearby.

Karoly sneered, ‘Your Gypsy army will go to war for you or your sister, Flora. Or for Alex.’

Balthazar jerked upright at the mention of his son’s name. Karoly held his hands up. ‘Don’t worry. I don’t threaten kids. Especially such well-connected ones. I don’t want the Americans on my back. But I don’t think District VIII will rise up over an elderly Jewish lady, even if she is your neighbour. Look outside, it’s winter. It’s a nice clear night tonight, but we have weeks of snow and ice ahead. One slip, an accidental nudge from a passer-by in a hurry. What a shame to survive the Holocaust, then perish on a slippery pavement.’

This time Balthazar let the red mist descend. He knew he had one chance to take both men down. He needed Karoly out of reach and Porter well within reach. This was it and his fury drove him.

‘You fucker. You piece of shit,’ he snarled, as he slid towards Karoly. ‘Threatening an old lady.’

Karoly jumped out of his chair and stepped away, his alarm turning to fear.

At the same time, Porter leapt forward towards Balthazar, his fists raised. Sensing Porter behind him, Balthazar clenched his right fist, whirled around and aimed a side hammer punch at Porter’s groin.

His plan was that Porter would fall forward in pain. Balthazar would then rain more blows down on the back of his head and neck without having to waste time trying to stand up, slam his face into the table, then grab the whisky decanter and break it over his head. Once Porter had collapsed he could take his gun, knock Karoly out or shoot him in the leg and escape.