Many of the other clippings he came across, besides mundane pieces on trade deals in Central Europe and the Balkans, were less impressive: “The 9/11 Conspiracy-What the Commission Doesn’t Want You to Know” and “One World Government-Does It Represent You?”
Yes, there were mainstream articles attributed to Gray, but they drowned in the mass of his conspiracy pieces littering the Net. He took on bottled water companies, which had, assisted by the American government, convinced the world that they should be paying for what nature considered a free resource. He speculated on the Bilderberg Group, an annual secretive meeting of influential business-people and politicians that, according to him and some similarly minded people, were working steadily toward the implementation of a world government. Gray had no doubt that the CIA was behind 9/11, a proposition that Milo, despite his ambivalence about his soon-to-be-ex-employer, found unbelievable. Not because someone at Langley couldn’t have dreamed it up-some were paid solely for their ability to dream up the unthinkable-but it was unimaginable that the Company could have pulled off such an enormous ruse without getting caught; its track record wasn’t encouraging.
In the end, the picture he gained of Henry Gray was of a paranoid, rootless investigator into conspiracies, who hoped that they might someday explain away the dissatisfaction of his own life. People like that were a dime a dozen. Which raised the question: Why did someone using Milo’s name want to find him?
Even with such opinions, Gray would have friends in Budapest, because expat circles, particularly journalistic ones, are tiny. Milo gathered a list of British, Canadian, and American stringers based in Budapest, with addresses and phone numbers.
Though Schwartz had said Gray had been in a coma, Milo found very little to back this up beyond a brief mention in a sidebar of the August 8 edition of the Budapest Sun: “Local journalist Henry L. Gray is in serious condition in Péterfy Sándor Hospital after a fall.”
Of Gray’s girlfriend, Zsuzsanna Papp, there was little. He found some of her Hungarian-language articles for the tabloid Blikk. These, as far as he could tell, covered the tensions between the nationalist Fidesz party and the socialist MSZP party, which now held shaky power.
Then he ran across Pestiside.hu, a satirical English-language news outlet on all things Hungarian, which spent as much time ridiculing the Hungarian character as it did the expats that filled its capital. February 28, 2008, yesterday: “Journo-Stripper Ends Humiliating Sideline; Quits Journalism.”
Fans of Zsuzsa Papp’s biting Blikk commentaries on political targets such as right-wing nut job Viktor Orbán and fey communist liar Ferenc Gyurcsány will soon have to discover their political opinions unaided. According to Blikk management, Papp has left the paper in order to pursue her first love, undressing in front of drunk English hooligans at the 4Play Club. Who ever said there was no such thing as journalistic integrity in Hungary? Not us.
20
In the morning, he took a bus to Oktogon Square, where he mixed with Saturday pedestrians around the gray Central European intersection. They leaned against the wind, smoking or hurrying to the next warm café. Milo faced the winds along the boulevard that marked a Pest-side circular route cut in half by the Danube, then turned right onto Szondi utca. Szondi was less kept up than the boulevard, and years of soot lodged in its crevices, but the buildings had an undeniable charm.
Number 10, one block in, was hidden by scaffolding swathed in black plastic netting to avoid tools falling on pedestrians’ heads. It wasn’t the only building undergoing renovation, and when he looked he saw these occasional black masks all the way down the street. He checked the buzzers and pressed the one with parkhall stamped on it. After a moment, a weary “Igen?” sounded over the speaker.
“Mr. Terry Parkhall?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you. My name’s Sebastian Hall, and I’m looking into the disappearance of an associate of yours. Henry Gray. You think you could spare a minute?”
“You press?”
“No.”
There was a moment of static. “Then what are you?”
“A private investigator. Gray’s aunt, Sybil Erikson, hired me.”
“I didn’t know he had an aunt.”
“A lot of us have them, Mr. Parkhall.”
The heavy front door buzzed, so Milo pushed it open as Parkhall said, “Third floor. Take your time; I’m not dressed yet.”
The stairwell was a mess of dust and chunks of concrete and loose steel pipes left behind by construction workers out for the weekend. He mounted the stairs and tested the railing, but it wouldn’t hold a child if it came to it, so he continued up with his hands clasped behind his back.
He’d settled on the cover story during his walk here. Originally he’d thought that introducing himself as a new freelance journalist would do the trick, but on reflection realized that this would take too long-inevitably the way to greet a newcomer is to take him out and get him roaring drunk, not to answer questions about a missing colleague. Nor would honesty work-this man might have met the previous Milo Weaver, and wouldn’t believe that he had been fooled before. So a private investigator came to mind, and an aunt that would take days for Parkhall to realize didn’t exist.
There were two doors on the third floor, both with barred steel gates on the outside, but only one of these was open, so he stepped up to it and rapped on the wooden door. “Mr. Parkhall?”
From behind him, a male voice. “Wrong way.”
He turned to see a tall, thin man in a robe and pajama pants standing behind the bars opposite, rubbing his disheveled hair. He went to Parkhall as the door he’d knocked on was unlocked and an old woman peered out. “Mi van?”
“Nincs,” Parkhall said with a wave of his long fingers. “Bocsánat, Edit.”
As Parkhall unlocked his gate, Edit locked her own door, filling the stairwell with the echo of locks being turned. They shook hands, but Parkhall didn’t let him in that easily. “You have some kind of ID?”
“I left my investigator’s license in the hotel. Passport do?”
Parkhall shrugged, then examined the Hall passport to his satisfaction. Milo followed him into a large living room decked out in IKEA and a muted television playing BBC News. The place had been nicely renovated from what must have been a ubiquitous chopped-up communist apartment. Parkhall grabbed a coffee and two pills from the coffee table and swallowed them. “Hangover. You’ve had Unicum?”
“Sure. It’s not bad.”
“Just remember moderation, or you’re in for a world of hurt.”
“I’ll make a note of it.”
“Coffee?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had enough already.”
Parkhall flopped onto his couch. “Go ahead. Sit down.”
Milo kept his coat on and took a chair. “This should just take a few minutes. I mean, I have the background already. Gray was in the hospital before he vanished, wasn’t he?”
Parkhall nodded. “How did he end up in a coma?”
“You don’t know?”
“I’ve got conflicting reports. I’d rather hear what you, as a journalist, have to say.”
Parkhall shrugged. “According to him, an intruder in his apartment threw him off his terrace. Back in August.”
That was unexpected. “Did the police find the intruder?”
“You’ll have to ask them. As far as I know, they didn’t.”
“I’m visiting them next,” he lied. “So why ask me?”
“It’s good to cover your bases.”
A smile slipped into Parkhall’s face. “Particularly with Hungarians.”
“What about Gray? Did he have any idea who did it? Or was it just a random break-in?”
Parkhall considered him a moment, then stood up with his mug. “Sure you don’t want some coffee? I’m getting a refill.”
“Twist my arm. Thanks. Black.”
Milo followed him to the kitchen doorway. “What about Gray?”
Parkhall was fillin
g the cups from a French press, and when he turned his expression was pained. “Henry has a lot of ideas-theories.
He’s that kind of journalist. A theory about everything. Conspiracy theories.”
“I saw a few things he wrote,” Milo admitted. “Kind of weird. To me, at least.”
“To the rest of us, too,” Parkhall said as he handed over a cup and they returned to the living room. “Honestly, the guy was a bit of a joke with us. That tsunami that wiped out Indonesia a few years ago? We were out drinking, and I joked that I’d heard of a document proving the CIA was behind it. Weather experiments. Everyone laughed except Henry-I mean, he really bought the story!”
“Unbelievable.”
“Yeah. So if you asked him who tossed him off his terrace, there’s only one possible answer, and it’s the one he spouted about as soon as he woke from his coma. The CIA had tried to kill him.”
“He told you this?”
“Called me after he woke up. Thought I would write something for the Times on it. Pure delusion.”
Milo set down his coffee. “Any reason the CIA would want him dead?”
“It’s called hubris, Mr. Hall, and Henry has it in spades. According to him, he received a letter that would have blown the CIA apart. The CIA knew he had it, so they decided to liquidate him. The guy really should be writing thrillers.”
Milo shared a polite laugh over that, then drew a serious face. “Any idea what was in this letter?”
“God’s own mystery. Disappeared when he was tossed off his terrace. When I asked what was in it, he said he couldn’t tell me. Know why?”
“Why?”
“He didn’t want them coming after me, too. Shocking!”
“But then he disappeared, didn’t he?” Milo said, trying to stay on topic. “Isn’t anyone worried about him?”
“Ah, hell,” Parkhall muttered. “I mean, the boys like him all right, but…” He frowned, thinking through his words. “But life hasn’t gotten much worse with him gone, if you know what I mean. No, we’re not worried, because we know he’s just holing up somewhere, maybe in Prague, maybe Belgrade, with a bottle of vodka, waiting for the heat to blow over. An extended bender, probably. We’ve all had them.”
Milo nodded agreeably. “Listen, I heard something-maybe just a rumor-that just after he disappeared someone else came looking for him. A man.”
“Milo Weaver,” Parkhall said with some enthusiasm. “Nice guy. Works for AP, you know.”
“AP?”
“Associated Press.”
“Right, of course. I have a feeling I’ve met the guy before, but I’m not sure-can you describe him?”
“Sure. Blond. Tall. What else? Blue eyes-vivid blue. Jesus. Sounds like I’m describing a girl I’m hot for, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly,” Milo said. While it wasn’t much of a description, it was a start. “Speaking of girls, didn’t Gray have one? A Hungarian girlfriend?”
“Zsuzsa!” Parkhall exclaimed, sitting up. “If you believe him, they did sleep together, but ‘girlfriend’ is a stretch. Now, she was worried about him. Spent a while poking around. Zsuzsa’s all right, but she got obsessed to the point that she lost her job.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Maybe. But she takes her clothes off now for much better money.” He paused. “If you want to know about Henry, she’s the one to talk to. When you see her you’ll understand why none of us could believe he actually got her in bed. Me, maybe. But Henry?”
“That good, huh?”
“Better. Listen,” Parkhall said, straightening. “If I can get rid of this damned headache, maybe you and I should go see her. She’s dancing tonight at the 4Play. If you go alone, she’ll think you’re just some pervert… or from the Company. Which is the same difference.”
“Thanks,” Milo said. “That would be really kind of you.”
21
On the surface, Milo and Henry Gray were not so different. To an outside observer, Milo realized with despair, they might just look the same. Both viewed the world with a paranoid eye, were prone to sudden disappearances, and chose to leave their friends in the dark in order to protect them-this was what Milo had done to his wife. In the hours leading up to his eight thirty rendezvous with Parkhall, though, he concentrated on their differences.
While Gray puzzled over Masonic symbols to back up his conspiratorial premises, Milo looked at facts to find the connection, if any, between them, and then built up his theories. This distinction, though small, was crucial: For someone like Gray, Occam’s Razor did not exist, for his logic was already corrupted by assumptions. Milo’s, hopefully, began with as few assumptions as possible.
So he examined the facts at hand by breaking into Gray’s dusty Vadász utca apartment. He browsed Gray’s extensive collection of books (nonfiction with a small shelf of international thrillers), the elaborately renovated kitchen (which suggested a budding chef), the unopened box of twenty condoms in the bedside drawer (Gray lived in hope), and an enormous plasma television.
He called the closest major hospital, the Péterfy Sándor Kórház, and like his namesake claimed to be an American doctor interested in Henry Gray’s medical records. After being passed to someone who spoke English, he was told that Gray and all of his records had been forwarded to the Szent János Kórház last year. He took the number 6 tram across the Danube to Buda and visited the St. János grounds, but the doctors were gone, and the few nurses who spoke to him were too busy to help. They told him to come back on Monday.
So he returned to Pest and drank caffè lattes at the Peppers! restaurant in the Marriott, overlooking the quay against the steely Danube.
Again, the facts: In August, while Milo was in a prison in upstate New York, Gray received a letter that contained something that could do damage to the CIA. Soon afterward, someone tossed him off his terrace and stole the letter. It was a curious method of disposal, but he supposed the agent in question-there was nothing yet to prove it was a Tourist-thought it would look like suicide.
Gray proved more resilient than expected. By December, he not only woke up but was soon able to walk out of the hospital and disappear.
You don’t begin with assumptions; you begin with facts. A paranoid journalist’s delusions are proven right when someone tries to kill him. What does he do when he’s finally able to walk?
He runs.
Then, days later, someone calling himself Milo Weaver came looking for Henry Gray.
Presumably, this was the same man who had tried to kill Gray. Once Gray woke, he returned to Budapest to finish the job.
Why would he use Milo’s name? It made no sense.
Milo was back at Oktogon Square by eight twenty, in front of the Burger King. Parkhall was fifteen minutes late but made no apologies, instead explaining that being late to meetings was an obligation of life in Budapest.
First, they went around the corner to Ferenc Liszt Square, where, between a statue of the famous composer and the music academy, restaurants and cafés faced off, vying for business. They went to the upscale Menza, a restaurant with orange-toned retro decor, where Parkhall introduced him to a table of four friends.
Milo wasn’t comfortable advertising his presence with such a large group, but soon realized that the entire table was drunk. They’d spent the day in the Rudas bath house, then moved through three bars until, famished, they had ended up here. None of them were lively enough to investigate Sebastian Hall’s credentials, or even rouse themselves at the mention of the 4Play Club and the chance to see Zsuzsa Papp naked. So Milo turned the conversation to Henry Gray.
The other journalists, it turned out, felt much the same way Parkhall did about Gray. The Canadian, Russell, referred to him condescendingly as “a gifted amateur.” Johann, the German, questioned the word “gifted.” There was an English stringer, Will, and an Irish radio reporter, Cowall, who was apparently between jobs-according to Parkhall, he’d come to Budapest “to find himself.” Only Cowall felt sympathy for Henry Gra
y, but his day of drinking had deepened his sour mood.
“We make fun of him, yeah? We all get a good laugh out of his crazy ideas. But what happens? You can come up with any explanation you like, but the fact is someone did toss him off his terrace, and expected the fall to kill him. It nearly did. Whether it was the CIA or the Hungarian mafia or the Russians or just some lunatic-it doesn’t really matter. Someone was after him.” He paused, staring sickly at his plate of goulash. “Goes to show. Even paranoid people get it right now and then. It’s the law of averages.”
“Christ,” said Russell. “If I’d known you’d be such a downer I wouldn’t have invited you out.”
“Oh, well,” Cowall said halfheartedly, then stood and walked out of the restaurant without looking back.
“He didn’t pay for his goulash,” Will said, unbelieving.
“I’ll cover it,” Milo said.
“Don’t worry about it,” said Johann, his German accent very faint. “Cowall, I mean. He’s no good with his alcohol. Besides, his opinions don’t mean much-he’s a devout member of the Church of the SubGenius.”
“Spent too much time in college,” said Parkhall. “Like he never left.”
Milo ate Cowall’s heavy goulash, hoping to dull the drinking he would do at the club, and probed for more theories about Gray’s whereabouts. No one knew, nor did they particularly care. They were too exhausted to feel anything. He paid Cowall’s portion of the bill, calling it Company expenses, and he and Parkhall jumped a tram farther down the boulevard to the 4Play.
“Well, hello, hello,” Parkhall said to the large bald doorman.
Throughout his life, Milo had found himself in a surprising number of strip clubs. They were ideal for money laundering, their profits constant because men all over the world are willing to pay for a glimpse of bare female skin. His first visit, to a Moscow club, had been Yevgeny’s eighteenth birthday present-and each one since took him back to that June night in 1988 when he’d felt little arousal, mostly just shame and a childish love.
The Nearest Exit Page 23