The Appraisal

by Anna Porter

  At least that was the marriage counsellor’s quick diagnosis after just one meeting with “both parties.” Bea had not been interested in a second session. “This marriage,” she had said, “is as dead as last week’s fish and smells worse.”

  Their two daughters seemed to have weathered the breakup better than Attila and the dog had. They were busy with friends and considered their parents mostly irrelevant.

  He had a date with them for the weekend. Early afternoon pickup, perhaps some swimming or a movie, a sleepover at his apartment (he had to clean up before he picked them up), maybe a day at a beach near Leányfalu. He had found an eddy close to the bank of the Danube, with gentle waves and shallow water that would be safe even for Gustav.

  Gustav, attempting to seem both humble and cute, was curled up close to his feet. From time to time he lifted his head and looked at Attila in silent supplication. He loved sugar cubes, but they made him fart. Attila was about to give in and offer him a second one when Alexander arrived.

  The undersecretary for government relations at the Russian Embassy, Alexander was a former KGB man, now a ranking member of its proud successor, the FSG — the same organization that had employed sometimes-president, sometimes-prime minister Vladimir Putin. Alexander loved Budapest. He was first stationed here as a Soviet “adviser” during the Party “disturbances” in the 1980s, and he had made the excruciating effort to learn the language.

  The Kremlin had become increasingly concerned about János Kádár’s new brand of Communism that allowed for small private enterprise and cozying up to Western Europe. The Central Committee of the Communist Party, particularly Yuri Andropov, rather than the addled Brezhnev, had ordered the surveillance of those close to Kadar. Andropov had been Soviet ambassador to Hungary during the ’56 Revolution and he remained suspicious of Hungarians. One leading historian, whom Alexander had read in English, opined that Andropov had a “Hungarian complex.” It had been Andropov who had voted to crush the Prague Spring but he never developed an active Czech complex. Alexander had thought Andropov’s antagonism had something to do with the language. Czech, as distinct from Hungarian, was discernibly Slavic.

  Alexander, who was only two in 1956, had seen film footage of the Hungarian Revolution and thought the rebels looked rather brave against the tanks. He was delighted with his new posting.

  Attila had first met Alexander back when he was a young detective learning about the international drug trade. There wasn’t much of it in Hungary, but Alexander was sure it would follow the tourists. Alexander had a surprisingly sunny disposition, a weakness for fine wines, and a penchant for pretty Hungarian women. They had developed a bantering friendship over cases of dry Hungarian sausages, bottles of palinka, and discussions of laundered rubles that showed up in Hungary as dollars or, more recently, as euros invested in real estate developments and open-air restaurants.

  Today, he wore one of his trademark light wool jackets over a striped brown T-shirt and Hugo Boss chinos that made the most of his slim figure. He favoured soft blue walking shoes without socks in the summer, had a watch that displayed both Budapest and Moscow time, and absolutely eschewed all other jewellery. He had once told Attila that heavy gold jewellery tended to distinguish Russian organized crime heavies from other citizens of the failed state he served.

  “Szia,” he greeted Attila and flopped into the chair next to his. “Your usual table, too. All the better to hear you,” he said, nodding at the statue of Mihály Vörösmarty. Attila knew that Alexander was sure there were cameras hidden in the marble folds of the great poet’s outfit, recording everyone’s conversation.

  “It’s a lot easier these days to hack into computer networks than to stick a recorder into a crevice in a statue,” Attila said. “The old technology is outdated, unreliable, and it was mostly removed. Haven’t you heard of covert channels of radio waves?”

  “Sure, but we don’t use that for small fry like you and me. And the Americans use it mostly on the Chinese and the Arabs. Complicated stuff called Quantum,” he whispered. “And your government? They don’t have Quantum. They can’t afford it.”

  Attila sighed. “How was your trip to Moscow?” he asked.

  “More or less the usual. Family grumpy, complaining about the lack of opportunities for the grandkids. My mother is old and hates being a burden on everyone. The government is still bowing at the waist every time the Big Boys pass by, and every petty official is eager to take a bit on the side. Did I say ‘a bit’? I meant ‘a lot.’ Thank God for the gas. The price has dropped, but it keeps us rolling.” He lit a black gold-tipped cigarette and grinned for the possible cameras. “Good to be back.”

  “I didn’t think they made those anymore,” Attila said about the cigarettes.

  “Sobranie. Black Russian, only nine milligrams of tar and it’s low in nicotine,” Alexander said. “And I like the way they look. How is your mother?”

  “Much the same. She has acquired another man. She thought the last two had become tiresome.”

  “How are Sofi and Anna?”

  “Fine, I think. But they are more and more like their mother. Into their weird teens. We never had those teen years. Did you?”

  “Not allowed in the people’s federation. Back then, we did what we were told. Now we have Pussy Riot and twerking.”

  Attila ordered a Vilmos brandy, his favourite. “I have been working for Tóth,” he said.

  “That idiot? Why?”

  “Nothing much else on offer these days. At least nothing interesting. I think I am too old to start spying on wives and husbands, and it’s boring work.”

  “You shouldn’t have retired just as things started to get intriguing.”

  Attila shrugged. He had told Alexander at the time that he was not attracted to bribes or influence peddling and so they hadn’t exactly given him an option. “I was too old to adapt.”

  “You’re not too old; you’re too stubborn. I would have taken the money, stashed it in a numbered bank account, and been enjoying the weather in Jamaica.”

  “I don’t think I would like Jamaica,” Attila said. “They don’t make good coffee there.” The waitress had just placed Alexander’s espresso in front of him with a smile that suggested she would be free later in the day, if he was. Alexander thanked her effusively, making sure he touched her hand with his fingertips. Nice.

  “So,” Alexander said, leaning across the table, “what is all this about paintings?”

  “Would you be more comfortable in another café?” Attila asked, wondering whether their closeness would put off the waitress before she delivered the torte.

  Alexander shrugged. “Makes no difference, they have cameras everywhere, and you should know. You stuck some of them up.”

  “So did you,” Attila said, “and it was not for the drug squad.”

  “We had a lot to worry about those days . . .” He lit another cigarette.

  “This is not a contest.”

  “Good thing,” Alexander said with a happy smile. “I am tired of winning. The paintings?”

  “There seems to be a competition to buy a Titian from a casual collector, and one of your guys may be involved.”

  Alexander cupped his mouth with the hand holding the cigarette. “How big?” he whispered.

  “If you mean the man, big enough to be able to buy a painting worth many millions.”

  “On the level, or under the table?”

  “It would have to be illegal because you can’t take Titians out of the country, even if you own them. We consider them national treasures.”

  “Whatever Titian was, he wasn’t one of your national treasures,” Alexander said. “Wasn’t he a Venetian?”

  “No matter. If it’s here, it’s a national treasure. The last time a couple of Titians were sold in Britain, the National Gallery bought them for a hundred million pounds, and the sellers said they
were doing the gallery a favour. They could have got more on the open market. Last year, one was sold at Christie’s for seventy-nine million US.” Attila had done his homework.

  Alexander whistled. “That would buy a lot of champagne!”

  “This sort of art rarely comes on the market,” Attila said, “so people think it’s worth a ton. And this is a big painting.”

  “We have some in St. Petersburg,” Alexander said.

  “Stolen from the rich guys who had that sort of art before 1917.”

  “Ah, the glorious revolution . . .”

  “Some of them are marked donated by, but shit, everyone knows how eager all those rich men were to donate to Stalin and Lenin.”

  “If it’s pod stolom, there will be a big lineup of buyers.”

  “And some of them will be Russians.”

  “Most likely,” Alexander said. “If you already have everything you need, why not add some priceless paintings to your giant yacht. Makes for a nice backdrop to deal making in Montenegro, or just resting after a hard day of trying to stay out of the Krasnokamens labour camp. It’s hard work but worthwhile — I mean trying to keep your nose out of politics and your face out of our president’s way. But it’s not nearly as hard work as slaving in a uranium mine.”

  “I was wondering whether one or more of your super rich has landed here in the past week or so.”

  “At least one,” Alexander said, leaning even closer and cupping his chin in his hand.

  “Very pretty buffed nails,” Attila said.

  “He brought his own security, so nothing to do with the embassy.”

  “Would he employ Bulgarians for security?”

  “Bulgarians? Why?”

  “Some people like to hire them for security,” Attila said. “And we found a dead one at a four-star hotel.”

  “ID?”

  “None.”

  “So how do you know he is Bulgarian?”

  Attila laughed. “It’s what you would have said, had you seen him. Does the one wealthy Russian newly in town use Bulgarian muscle?”

  “Only if he has to. We really prefer our own. But this one spends a lot of time in the Adriatic, so he may find Bulgarians handy, closer, and cheaper. He has a ton of money, though, so I ask myself, why bother? The answer is that these guys don’t like to waste money. They know the value of a good thing, and the Bulgarians are good.” Alexander said. He leaned back and took a bite of the torte that the waitress had just brought. “This guy has bought art before to launder his excess cash.”

  “Drugs?”

  “No. Mostly megaprojects. A pipeline across Ukraine. A sports pavilion at Sochi. Megabuildings on the steppes. Some big deal in Bulgaria with the government and a local oligarch. Buying art makes the extra profits harder to track, especially if you keep the art in one of the airport warehouses in a tax-free zone. Freeports, they call them. There are several in Europe: Findel in Luxemburg. Chiasso, Geneva, Zurich — the Swiss were always smarter than the rest of us. Now even London is getting into the act. Uber-warehouses for the uber-rich who dislike paying taxes. And, as you know, our modern czar has his people watch tax returns. He doesn’t like wealth flooding out of the country unless he is a direct beneficiary. We use tax laws to punish the over-greedy and anyone with political ambitions.” Alexander took another bite. “Or we have them killed.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Piotr Denisovich Grigoriev. Forty-five years old. He has a twenty-year-old wife and an eighteen-year-old girlfriend. He also races horses. Owns a Gulfsteam IV, a massive yacht on the Black Sea, close to the czar’s summer retreat. They get together for vodka and gossip.”

  “Where is he staying?” Attila asked.

  “The Gresham. He usually takes a floor.”

  “Would he be so upset by someone knocking off his Bulgarian that he would talk to the Hungarian police?”

  Alexander shook his head, then leaned in again to speak directly into Attila’s ear. “Easy come, easy go. He wouldn’t grieve over a lost Bulgarian. He wouldn’t talk to the police. But he would talk to me, and maybe I could talk to you if you leave him alone.”

  CHAPTER 14

  It was early evening when Maria Steinbrunner checked into the Gresham. Helena had made a reservation using Maria’s Visa and, although she had requested an atrium room with a view of the Széchenyi Chain Bridge and the castle, she settled for a room with a view of Pest. King-sized bed, of course. She didn’t have time to wait for the late-departing guests to vacate the room she had paid for in advance.

  She was surprised to note that the plastic key she had taken from the dead man at the Gellért was similar to her own new Four Seasons’ key card. Given the man’s looks and clothes, she would not have classified him as a typical Four Seasons guest. More likely, his room had been paid for by someone staying at this hotel. His had been the kind of side assignment considered easy, but why would the person who had hired him want her dead? And why was he not warned that Helena was expert at self-defence? The poor sap had even smiled when he saw her approach.

  She had been running through variations of the scene at the Gellért. Could she have disarmed but not have killed him? Her split-second decisions were not usually so lethal, but as she got older, she found herself less able to make the right choice when she was threatened. She was afraid of becoming like Simon: quick, efficient, and self-absorbed. He had not been interested in other people unless they furthered his own aims. He had been proud of his own exploits and delighted in easy money. An adventurer who lacked empathy.

  Her rented Fiat could be returned by one of the doormen in exchange for a handsome tip. The concièrge had already booked her a taxi to the opera house and provided a map showing the nearby restaurants and cafés, although he had pointed out that the hotel’s Kollázs restaurant was one of the best in the city and that its café offered one of the best selections of freshly made cakes.

  She washed her hair, frizzed it with her fingers and a bit of gel, then pulled on the black pants, the black top, the linen jacket, the silk scarf, and lastly high heels over her bare feet. No need for a wig tonight.

  She took the taxi to the opera house.

  Vladimir Azarov was waiting at the long curved bar. He was wearing a tuxedo, which was too much even for the Hungarian National Opera, but it did make him look distinguished. He didn’t turn when she reached him, he just handed her a fluted glass of Champagne. “I hope you like La Bohème,” he said. “If not, we could try Nabucco tomorrow night.”

  “Puccini is fine,” she said.

  “I wondered whether it might be too light for you, but it should make a pleasant change from your difficult day.” He grinned over the rim of his glass.

  He was built like a wrestler: tall with broad shoulders and long, muscular thighs and arms. The material of his elegant outfit stretched over his chest and shoulders. He had wide-spaced black eyes, wide cheekbones, thick greying hair, a healthy tan, and a soft Slavic accent under his breathy English.

  “I doubt we’ll still be here tomorrow night,” she said.

  He preceded her to the baroque auditorium. “It’s impolite, but I know how much you hate anyone at your back,” he said over his shoulder.

  Even by central European standards, the opera house was excessive with its vast, sweeping staircase, red plush seats and carpets, golden balcony rails, and its massive bronze chandelier hanging from the centre of a huge ceiling fresco of languorous Greek gods. It was the perfect setting for the son of a miner who had made a fortune under the gaze of the recent czar of Ukraine. And a woman who would kill if the situation demanded it.

  “We have seats in the third row,” Vladimir said, “so you can see the orchestra. Farther forward and you’d have to crane your neck. The conductor tonight is Pinchas Steinberg. I think you’ll like him.”

  She followed him to their seats. “Have you bought any
more Renoirs?” she asked when they were seated.

  “None were offered, except an early sketch.”

  As the overture began, she asked him whether he would be willing to let the Krestin painting go if she offered him another Titian.

  “I like this one,” he said.

  “This one may not be genuine. Besides, there is a prior claim.”

  “I don’t think so. I first learned of this painting when I was a little boy. My father heard about it in the mines.”

  “Vorkuta,” she said. “He was one of the guards.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No. But he must have been at that mine to hear about the painting. Of course, he could have been one of the prisoners, but you are educated, so he must have had a Party position during the ’60s and ’70s. Not many Ukrainian Gulag prisoners had Party pins, and their sons didn’t study at the London School of Economics.”

  “You always do your homework,” he said, chuckling.

  “Do you know what the painting is?”

  “Yes, it’s of Christ entering Jerusalem.”

  The people in the seats behind theirs shushed them.

  During the intermission, Vladimir bought more Champagne and asked what the other painting was.

  “The Last Judgement. It’s in Romania, in Cluj-Napoca,” she said. “It was probably commissioned by Mary of Hungary in the early 1540s. Mary had a more educated taste in art than Philip or her brother, the emperor. She was less demanding, less bent on dictating how Titian should paint. Sadly, a lot of his works for her were lost in the great fire. Less of The Last Judgement is painted by his assistants than is the case for several works in the Accademia. Much less than Krestin’s painting.” She made an effort to look thoughtful. “Frankly, I am not sure Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem is a genuine Titian,” she said. “I suspect it was done by one of his followers. Not even his studio.”