His limbs still felt heavy, his reactions slow. He still felt sick from the blows to his stomach and his kidney. For now, at least, he was in no condition to fight. He needed to use his wits, not his fists. And the first stage was to get Karoly Bardossy talking. The more he talked, the more information he would reveal and the more openings he would provide for Balthazar to use as leverage.
Balthazar gestured at the water. ‘I’m thirsty.’
Karoly nodded. ‘Drink. That’s what it’s there for.’
‘I don’t trust that. Bring me a new bottle and have someone open it in front of me.’
Karoly laughed. ‘Whatever you say, Detective.’ He looked at the man standing against the wall. ‘Porter, you heard the man.’
Porter nodded, walked over to the bar and returned with two large bottles of spring water, one with a pink label, one with a blue. He turned to Balthazar in a parody of a waiter, his grey eyes boring into Balthazar, his distaste apparent. ‘Still or sparkling? Sir.’
‘Still.’ Balthazar looked at him. ‘Porter. You’re British, Mr Porter? You sound British. I’ve spent time in London. Is that a London accent? Sounds like it, Mr Porter. South London?’
Porter did not answer, his irritation visible as he showed Balthazar the top of the bottle. The seal was unbroken. Balthazar nodded. ‘Could you pour it for me, please? I’m still a bit unsteady. I don’t want to drop the bottle.’
Porter grunted something in reply. Balthazar moved the glass closer to where he was sitting so that Porter needed to lean nearer to him to pour the water. Balthazar glanced at the pistol on the side of his hip. Engraved along the grip of the gun he could see the edge of a logo and the letters BER…
As Porter moved closer, Balthazar whispered. ‘Twenty years.’
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.’
