thought of Shailer. From the youthful idiot Iâd once known, I saw the seeds of something truly frightening, a self-Âbelief able to shift and change and volte-Âface just as its audience required, to switch sides in a moment and not so much as blink at any contradiction.
So I said yes.
I told him Iâd do anything he asked, meanwhile resolving to do nothing of the kind and, whatâs more, having paid lip serÂvice, to stay as far away from Adam Shailer as I could and pray I never had the misery of falling any further under his unpleasant sway.
That should have ended it. But Shailer wouldnât leave. Near dawn, he got very, very friendly, talked a lot about himself, and how his parents never loved him, and how his family never cared, and how heâd had to prove himself, and work for every step heâd ever gained . . .
And if I hadnât been so tired, I think that I could cheerfully have murdered him.
Â
CHAPTER 12
GANZ
T he Budapest police have an attractive modern building for their central offices, a glass tower both at odds with, and peculiarly complementary to, the beauty of the old city. Itâs known as âPolice Palace,â and, according to rumor, the lifestyle of the higher-Âranking officers within is truly royal.
But that wasnât where I went.
Iâd been given an address up on the fourth floor of a big apartment block, one of those old buildings as solid and as sturdy as a basalt outcrop. The stairwell on its own was wider than my London flat. It was also dark. I thumped the light switch a few times without success, then felt my way up through a deep brown fug, like wading through an antique oil painting.
The brass plaque by the door had lettering that matched the letters on my card. So I knocked, then turned the large brass knob and went inside. A cupboard-Âsized reception room held two chairs and a wall hatch closed with a wooden shutter. An old-Âfashioned brass bell stood on the countertop before it, so I dinged on this a few times, caught a faint buzz of activity from the other side, then nothing for a fair while longer.
I checked my calling card; I was supposed to see a Detective A. Ganz, a person with whom Shailer claimed some sort of contact. In Hungary, A is almost always short for Attila, accent on the first syllable; one manâs barbarian being anotherâs national hero, after all. He was their Boudicca, their William Wallace. One day I would have to read up on the history.
With a ripping sound, the shutter suddenly slid back. A young woman regarded me through black-Ârimmed glasses. There was a large mole on her upper lip. Behind, I glimpsed an office of old filing cabinets, monumental wooden desks, and two middle-Âaged men earnestly discussing something over coffee and cigarettes. A younger man went by, carrying a stack of files. I said the name on the card. The girl took the card, repeated the name, and somehow made its one syllable sound altogether different from the way Iâd said it. There was discussion with the two guys at the back, and the shutter slid closed. A door opened. I was invited in. The middle-Âaged guys, either one of whom I had expected to be Ganz, gave no more than a glance at me. The girl took me across the room, down a corridor, pointed to one of the doors, then motioned me to knock. I hesitated. Again she made a fist, mimed tapping. Then she went away.
I knocked. Heard something, though it might have been a cough. And I went in.
The walls were stacked with shelves. The shelves were stacked with files and papers. A woman in a skirt-Âsuit perched upon a small stool, arms weighed down with documents, struggling to place them in their rightful spots. I muttered a hello, said, in English, âIâm looking for Detective Ganz . . . ?â and then, seeing her trouble, stepped forward and held my hands up for the bundle of loose papers she was carrying. She stared at me a moment,
So I said yes.
I told him Iâd do anything he asked, meanwhile resolving to do nothing of the kind and, whatâs more, having paid lip serÂvice, to stay as far away from Adam Shailer as I could and pray I never had the misery of falling any further under his unpleasant sway.
That should have ended it. But Shailer wouldnât leave. Near dawn, he got very, very friendly, talked a lot about himself, and how his parents never loved him, and how his family never cared, and how heâd had to prove himself, and work for every step heâd ever gained . . .
And if I hadnât been so tired, I think that I could cheerfully have murdered him.
Â
CHAPTER 12
GANZ
T he Budapest police have an attractive modern building for their central offices, a glass tower both at odds with, and peculiarly complementary to, the beauty of the old city. Itâs known as âPolice Palace,â and, according to rumor, the lifestyle of the higher-Âranking officers within is truly royal.
But that wasnât where I went.
Iâd been given an address up on the fourth floor of a big apartment block, one of those old buildings as solid and as sturdy as a basalt outcrop. The stairwell on its own was wider than my London flat. It was also dark. I thumped the light switch a few times without success, then felt my way up through a deep brown fug, like wading through an antique oil painting.
The brass plaque by the door had lettering that matched the letters on my card. So I knocked, then turned the large brass knob and went inside. A cupboard-Âsized reception room held two chairs and a wall hatch closed with a wooden shutter. An old-Âfashioned brass bell stood on the countertop before it, so I dinged on this a few times, caught a faint buzz of activity from the other side, then nothing for a fair while longer.
I checked my calling card; I was supposed to see a Detective A. Ganz, a person with whom Shailer claimed some sort of contact. In Hungary, A is almost always short for Attila, accent on the first syllable; one manâs barbarian being anotherâs national hero, after all. He was their Boudicca, their William Wallace. One day I would have to read up on the history.
With a ripping sound, the shutter suddenly slid back. A young woman regarded me through black-Ârimmed glasses. There was a large mole on her upper lip. Behind, I glimpsed an office of old filing cabinets, monumental wooden desks, and two middle-Âaged men earnestly discussing something over coffee and cigarettes. A younger man went by, carrying a stack of files. I said the name on the card. The girl took the card, repeated the name, and somehow made its one syllable sound altogether different from the way Iâd said it. There was discussion with the two guys at the back, and the shutter slid closed. A door opened. I was invited in. The middle-Âaged guys, either one of whom I had expected to be Ganz, gave no more than a glance at me. The girl took me across the room, down a corridor, pointed to one of the doors, then motioned me to knock. I hesitated. Again she made a fist, mimed tapping. Then she went away.
I knocked. Heard something, though it might have been a cough. And I went in.
The walls were stacked with shelves. The shelves were stacked with files and papers. A woman in a skirt-Âsuit perched upon a small stool, arms weighed down with documents, struggling to place them in their rightful spots. I muttered a hello, said, in English, âIâm looking for Detective Ganz . . . ?â and then, seeing her trouble, stepped forward and held my hands up for the bundle of loose papers she was carrying. She stared at me a moment,
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