by Allan Topol
When she identified herself to the receptionist inside the front door and said she wanted to see Jonathan, the woman replied, “I’ll call Dr. Cardin.” That made Elizabeth apprehensive. A minute later Cardin appeared.
“Is Jonathan okay?” Elizabeth asked.
“He’s fine now. In the middle of the night, around 2:00 a.m., he woke up frightened and ran out in the corridor. Our nurses gave him a mild sedative and he went back to sleep. This morning as soon as I got in, I asked him about it and gave him a pad and pencil to reply. He wrote that he had a bad dream. He dreamt that his grandfather was still alive and came to take him away from the clinic. They were running in the woods outside the clinic when he became separated from his grandfather. That prompted him to wake up and begin running down the corridor.
“This morning he seemed all right. It’s good you’re here because he asked me when he would see you again. I was planning to call you later this morning after I had a chance to observe him a little more.”
“What about his speech?”
“Yesterday I had Dr. Morey, our chief therapist, analyze and work with Nick. She’s very optimistic, but she said we’ll have to be patient. Cases like this induced by trauma often take time.”
“Can I talk to Jonathan?”
“Of course, and I think it’d be best if you do that alone. Do you remember where his room is?”
“Sure.”
Walking along the corridor, she hoped that Nick wouldn’t want her to take him out of the clinic. He really needed the expert care to regain his speech.
When she entered Nick’s room, she saw him sitting at the desk engrossed in reading. As soon as he saw her, he put down the book. Elizabeth noticed it was Eye of the Needle, one of her books. It might not be the best choice, with that terrifying climax on the island, she thought, but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Nick rushed over and hugged her.
She felt so sorry for the kid that she wanted to cry. It tore at her heart. His parents had only died a year ago. Now his grandparents were gone, too. The trauma from the fire and then Emma Miller. Losing his speech. It was a wonder he could even get out of bed in the morning.
She said, “I heard from Dr. Cardin you had a bad dream last night.”
Looking chagrined, he went over to his desk, picked up a pad and wrote something, which he handed to her. She read, “I’m okay now. Dr. Cardin is very nice. And Dr. Morey thinks she will be able to help me speak.”
Elizabeth felt relieved. At least he wasn’t completely miserable at the clinic.
“Listen, Nick,” she said. “I have to leave Paris for a few days for work.”
He looked sad.
“It’s only for one or two days,” she added. She had to do something to cheer him up. Suddenly, she had an idea. “Listen Nick, today is Friday. For sure I’ll be back by Saturday evening. Then Sunday morning I have a baseball game in the Bois de Boulogne, a big Paris park, with some of my American friends.”
He looked at her wide-eyed with anticipation.
She continued, “Our regular second baseman had to fly home to the States, and I was hoping you could play.” That wasn’t true, but what the hell. Carl was a friend; he’d be willing to pass up the game this time.
Excited, Nick pounded his right hand into his left palm as if it were a glove. Now he was smiling broadly.
“Wait here for a minute,” she said. “I have to go out to my car and get something.”
Once in the parking lot, she scrounged around in the messy trunk until she found what she was looking for: a baseball glove and a ball. She carried them back into the clinic and placed them on Nick’s desk. “You can use the glove Sunday.”
He slipped it onto his hand. It fit perfectly. While she watched, he pounded the ball into the glove several times. With the glove still on, he walked across the room and gave her a hug. She held him tightly.
“I won’t let any more bad things happen to you,” she vowed.
Feeling much better, Elizabeth left the clinic and drove to Charles de Gaulle Airport. Once she was on the plane she called Pierre. “I’m safely on board. Craig said you and your colleagues don’t have to worry about me or the apartment, but it would be good if you could keep surveillance at the clinic.”
“Absolutely,” he replied.
When she arrived in Budapest, Elizabeth took a cab to Gyorgy’s office in the building that housed what was left of Peter Toth Industries. It was a drab and dingy looking six-story structure that occupied half a block abutting the square in front of the magnificent Hungarian Parliament Building, the largest structure in Hungary. It was located along the Danube, which separated flat, commercial Pest from the more residential and hilly Buda. Before going inside to meet Gyorgy, Elizabeth paused to admire the parliament building, its neo-Gothic, Romanesque Revival architecture inspired by London’s rebuilt palace of Westminster. It was surfaced with limestone and had numerous spires shooting into the air.
Turning back to Peter’s building, she noticed that some of the windows on the top floor had been broken. Looking from the outside, she had the impression that very few of the offices were occupied. The three concrete steps in front were cracked.
Above the front entrance was a sign that read, “Peter Toth Industries.” It had been defaced with splattered black paint.
Entering the building, she saw a heavyset, middle-aged receptionist behind a wooden desk. “Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m here to see Gyorgy Kovacs. I’m Jane Wilson from Washington. He’s expecting me.”
The woman pointed Elizabeth to a bank of elevators on the right side of the lobby. “Take the elevator to six. He’ll be waiting for you.”
Once Elizabeth exited the elevator, a dapper looking man in a suit and tie with thick gray hair greeted her.
“Jane, I’m Gyorgy Kovacs.” He looked at her with a peculiar expression as he reached out to shake her hand.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet with me.”
“My pleasure. I thought we’d go to a café a couple blocks away to talk.”
“Whatever you’d like.”
As soon as they were out on the street and walking, he said, “I recognize you from TV. You’re Elizabeth Crowder, the newspaper reporter.” He looked frightened. “What’s this all about? And why did you lie to me?”
She took a deep breath, hoping Gyorgy wouldn’t terminate their discussion. The time had come to level with him. “You’re right, I am Elizabeth Crowder. I don’t believe the Potomac fire was an accident. I’m convinced Peter was murdered, and I want to find out who did it.”
He didn’t look surprised. “For your newspaper?” he asked.
“That’s right. I lied to you because I know that Prime Minister Szabo and Peter were enemies. I didn’t want to create problems for you if Szabo was listening in on your phone calls.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. For the same reason, I didn’t want to talk to you in my office. I’m afraid it may be bugged.”
“I hope you’ll talk to me now.”
Without hesitating, he said, “I was devastated by Peter’s death, and I’m convinced Szabo is responsible. I want you to establish that and broadcast it to the entire world.”
“If the facts support that conclusion, I certainly will.”
“That Szabo . . . he hates—excuse me—hated Peter. He would do anything to strike at Peter. Look at the condition of our office building. It was once the finest in Budapest when Peter Toth Industries was thriving. We occupied the top five floors, and the first was retail. We had a large neon sign on the roof with ‘Peter Toth Industries’ in bright red letters.”
“And then Peter sold off his companies?”
“It was more than that,” Gyorgy replied with a sigh. “Peter Toth Industries still owns the building, but Szabo directed the police to take down the neon sign on the roof. I learned from a police source that Szabo gave the order to deface the sign in front of the building. From time to time windows are
broken at night, but the government has refused to permit any repairs. They tried to buy the building for a pittance of its worth, but Peter turned down their offer. Szabo is now threatening to take it over and not pay anything. As you may be aware, our prime minister doesn’t have any respect for the rule of law. Now with Peter’s death, I’m afraid Szabo is directing his venom toward me.”
After two left turns, they arrived at the Picard Cafe, which was half full. Gyorgy led them to a table in the back. They both ordered cappuccinos, and Gyorgy asked for a couple of pastries.
When the waiter was gone, Gyorgy said, “I can’t tell you how sad I was to hear of Peter’s death. He was more than a business partner and a good friend. He was a great human being, a man of enormous political principle. When he sold most of the business, I remained in Budapest to handle the disposition and to manage what was left.”
“How long did you work with him?” Elizabeth asked.
“I first met him in 1991 shortly after the Soviet Empire had collapsed and Hungary achieved its independence from Russia. He told me about his business plans in Hungary, and I agreed to work for him. We started out slowly for the first few years. Once privatization came in 1995, we hit the ground running.”
Gyorgy paused as the waiter returned with their peach and blueberry cakes. Elizabeth sipped her cappuccino.
When they were alone again, Gyorgy resumed talking. “Peter was born in Hungary and then lived in the US from 1977 to 1991, but he wasn’t happy there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It may be hard for you Americans to understand, but many Hungarians have an incredible nationalism in their blood. We’re not content living anywhere else, even if that place has material advantages. And Peter certainly lived comfortably in the United States. In 1980, he married Reka, a woman from Cleveland whose father was also a Hungarian refugee. They had one child, a son named Viktor.”
“Who died a year ago?”
“Exactly.” Gyorgy paused to sip his cappuccino, then continued. “The reason I thought Peter wasn’t happy in the United States was because as soon as Hungary became independent, he arrived in Budapest to start a business.”
“Did Reka and Viktor come with him?”
Gyorgy shook his head. “She didn’t want to leave her family in the States, and she hated Hungary. He spent almost all of his time here, only visiting Reka in Cleveland a few times a year. With the free market economy taking off in Hungary, it was a great time for Peter to build a business empire. Fortunately, he had some money from his father-in-law to invest and the state was privatizing, which is a fancy word for selling off state assets for a fraction of their worth.
“Peter also had another advantage. He was well connected with Franz Szabo and Janos Rajk, who were rising political stars and with whom he became close friends. With their help he got control of a major portion of Hungary’s telecommunications and energy sectors. For about twenty years Peter was making a fortune in these businesses. Our company was flying high.”
“Then what happened?” Elizabeth asked, picking at her pastry and watching him intently.
“His good friend Szabo became prime minister and Szabo’s politics changed.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Peter first came to Budapest,” Gyorgy explained, “he, Szabo, and Janos were all liberals. But over the years as Szabo sought to become prime minister and then to hold on to power, he moved more to the right.”
“Did Szabo’s views change?”
“It may have been that, or it may have been his effort to deal with the increasing right-wing movement in the country by broadening his base and seizing his political opponent’s support from the center right.”
“I’ve seen it happen elsewhere,” Elizabeth commented.
“But regardless,” Gyorgy continued, “Peter and Szabo would increasingly argue, and their disputes became more and more bitter. Janos, who is now justice minister, frequently tried to serve as a mediator or referee, but that eventually became too difficult. Finally, about two years ago when Szabo signaled a tilt toward Kuznov and Russia and away from NATO and the West, it was too much for Peter. He had suffered so much at the hands of the Russians when they ruled Hungary that his hatred for Moscow knew no bounds. After learning that Szabo was sucking up to Kuznov, as Peter put it, he and Szabo had a bitter argument and a total break in their relationship. This time Janos couldn’t repair the damage. Peter went berserk, attacking Szabo in the media. He even told me that he wanted to kill Szabo.”
“He actually said that?”
“Yes, but I don’t think he ever attempted to act on it. At any rate, after Peter’s diatribe in the press, Szabo gave him six months to liquidate his business interests and leave the country. Otherwise Szabo said he would confiscate everything and find a reason to arrest Peter. As I said, our prime minister doesn’t respect the rule of law. Peter complied.”
“How did Emma Miller enter into all this?”
“Emma Miller,” Gyorgy whispered, dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t believe she’s dead too.” He took a deep breath, and then blew it out. “I need some air. Let’s go outside to talk about Emma.”
Gyorgy led the way to a small park two blocks away. It was deserted. They sat on a bench.
“Beautiful, brilliant Emma,” Gyorgy sighed. “I feel so terrible.”
“How long did she know Peter?”
“She and I both started with him at the beginning in 1991. She had been born in Budapest, educated at the London School of Economics, and was working in Budapest for a London-based international bank at the time Peter met her. She was amazing with finances—the smartest person I’ve ever met. Increasingly, Peter relied on her to build his business. She was the CFO. I was the COO. When Peter liquidated, Emma moved to Paris and took a job with Credit Suisse.”
“Did Emma and Peter have a personal relationship as well?”
Gyorgy fiddled with his tie. “Why do you ask?”
“As you said, she was beautiful. Peter was here without his wife. Emma wasn’t married. It wouldn’t be surprising.”
Gyorgy smiled. “I understand why you’re so successful as a reporter. You’re very good at interrogation.”
“I promise you that I will never write anything about their personal relationship,” Elizabeth reassured him.
“I guess it doesn’t matter if I talk about it. Everyone involved is dead. The answer is that Peter and Emma fell in love and were lovers for about fifteen years. Even after she moved to Paris, he traveled there about once a month to see her. And there’s something else.”
Gyorgy paused for a minute. Then he continued, “Twelve years ago, Emma, who was nineteen years younger than Peter, became pregnant with Peter’s child. She wanted to have an abortion because a child would interfere with her career. Emma didn’t have great maternal instincts. At the time, Peter knew that his son and daughter-in-law couldn’t have a child and were trying to adopt. So Peter convinced Emma to have the child as a remembrance of their love. He told his son and daughter-in-law that he had learned through a connection in Budapest of a woman who wanted to put a newborn up for adoption. Peter worked out all the legal details and flew to Washington with a nurse and the baby. It was a boy who they named Nicholas.”
Elizabeth nearly fell off the bench. Holy shit, she thought. Peter was Nick’s father, and the kid had no idea.
“To my knowledge,” Gyorgy added, “Peter never told Viktor or Ellina that he was Nicholas’s biological father.”
“What do you know about the death of Peter’s son, Viktor, and Ellina?”
“Nothing at all. Peter believed Kuznov had them killed, but he never gave me any basis for that. He . . .” Gyorgy stopped talking and looked at Elizabeth. “You’re American?”
“Correct.”
“Do you work with the CIA as well as the International Herald? I know they use reporters from time to time.”
She believed she could trust Gyorgy. “Let’s just say that the CI
A director and I are good friends.”
“Well tell your friend the director that Peter and Emma dying within hours of each other could not have been a coincidence.”
“Who do you think was responsible?”
Gyorgy looked around nervously, then said, “As I told you a few moments ago, our prime minister doesn’t respect the rule of law.”
Elizabeth pondered Gyorgy’s words for a moment. “But what would Szabo gain from killing Peter and Emma?” she eventually asked.
“He would be eliminating vocal opponents. Remember, I told you that Szabo was pivoting toward Moscow, and that’s straight from the Russian playbook.”
Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. “Perhaps, but I need your help. I would like to meet with the justice minister, Janos Rajk, the other member of the triumvirate with Peter and Szabo. Do you know Janos?”
“Reasonably well. Peter included me in a number of meetings with Janos.”
“Could you call him and arrange a meeting for me?”
“What should I tell him?”
“That Elizabeth Crowder, the reporter from the International Herald, is doing a piece on Peter’s life and would like to get his perspective on a longtime friend.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
Gyorgy took out his phone. Listening to him conduct the conversation in Hungarian, all Elizabeth understood were the words, “Elizabeth Crowder.” When he put down the phone he said, “Janos is tied up today, but he can meet you tomorrow at 10:00 a.m. in his office.”
“Thanks. I’ll be there.”
“What will you do this evening?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t planned to stay overnight. Get a room at the Four Seasons I guess.”
“I have a proposal for you. How much do you know about the 1956 Hungarian revolt against Russia?”
“Only what I remember from a modern European history course at Harvard.”
“Well if you want to understand Peter, who he was, and what motivated him, you have to focus on 1956. Those events shaped his entire life.”
“I do know that Peter was eight at the time, and that his father, Zoltan, was a leader in the rebel movement.”