Francine Mathews - The Cutout

“Budapest,” she told him, “is a middle-aged man in a shabby coat, nursing an espresso at an outdoor café. It is very cold, and the smell of dog urine from the wet pavement mingles with the coffee and the sharp scent of pickled beets from somewhere down the street.”

“He's wearing wire-rimmed spectacles,” Shephard offered, “and writing in a notebook with a torn cover. His wife left him years ago, but he's haunted by the memory of her laugh.”

Caroline turned to look at him.

“Is he?” she asked. “Better laughter than tears, Tom.”

The hazel eyes did not waver.

“What are you haunted by, Caroline?”

It was all there before her suddenly, the concourse in Frankfurt and the man turning away.

“The memory of silence,” she replied. And did not speak again until they had reached Szabadsag Ter.

The protesters had abandoned the U.S. embassy. No mega phoned speeches or hurled rocks greeted Shephard and Caroline as they approached. There was a checkpoint, however, backed by the ominous clatter of tanks, so they dismissed the taxi and covered the last thirty yards on foot, their diplomatic passports held high.

After a grim few moments of consideration, the guards waved them through.

The stretch of turf that ran between Magyar Television and the National Bank, a modernist cube of glass and steel, was churned to mud and studded with green shards of what had once been soda bottles. The burned trash cans were smoldering now, and stank of seared plastic; a bird, brown as the Danube in winter, pecked disconsolately among the torn seat cushions of a torched car. But the impulse toward civilization had begun to reassert itself; red tape with harsh Hungarian exclamations already cordoned off the worst areas.

Vie Marinelli met them at the embassy door.

“I'm glad you're early,” the Budapest station chief said without preamble. “Our meeting's off.”

“Because of the riots?” Caroline asked.

He shook his head.

“We'll discuss it upstairs. Let's get you through security.

“Morning, Corporal. I'd like to take these people up.”

The marine guard studied their diplomatic passports, then gave them embassy passes they clipped to their clothing. Vie hovered impatiently. He looked, she thought, like a Medici prince — black eyes heavily lidded, full lips set in a permanent curl. She glanced at his hands: the long, tapering fingers of a philosopher-priest.

“Wally Aronson sends his regards,” she told him. “I've already talked to Wally this morning.”

“Then he's up early,” Shephard said.

“I'm not sure he ever went to bed.” Vie looked appraisingly at Caroline.

“He thinks a hell of a lot of you.”

Tom Shephard was staring through the embassy's front window at the garrisoned square below.

“Are those Hungarian tanks?”

“Yes,” Marinelli said tersely, “but only a few Hungarians are manning them. Most of those men are Germans. They arrived this morning. The prime minister asked for NATO help two hours before he resigned. He was refused.” The station chiefs eyes flicked over to Caroline's.

“You've heard about the provisional government, of course?”

“Not a word. Tell us.”

Marinelli led them down a high-ceilinged corridor, past the state drawing rooms and the ambassador's suite.

“Hungarian Pride has formed a cabinet. They seem to have anticipated the treasury heist.”

Hungarian Pride was a right-wing faction led by a charismatic and highly articulate history professor named Georg Korda. The group had never boasted significant power, but their nationalist, pro-cleansing rhetoric had steadily gained adherents.

“Korda's hitting the former government over the head for incompetence, and calling for economic austerity. As though belt tightening can protect you from electronic plunder.” Marinelli grimaced.

“You believe it, then?” Caroline asked.

“That Lajta embezzled the treasury before he killed himself?”

“Somebody did,” he said curtly.

The door of the station suggested a closet tucked into the second-floor landing, something to be overlooked. Marinelli waited for her to precede him, arm outstretched in a gesture of courtesy; this was, after all, his domain. But in Caroline's mind it would always be Eric's. She stepped past him.

Every moldy smell, every curling bit of plaster, every length of electrical wire glimpsed under an upturned edge of carpet screamed to her of the days that were gone. Eric had ruled this station for a while — he had breathed, drunk, and ingested it for the length of his tour and if the soul of that dead time could be said to live anywhere, it was here in the Budapest embassy.

“Okay,” Marinelli said, shutting the door behind them, “here's the state of play. DBTOXIN Bela Horvath was found shot to death in his laboratory this morning. His house and the lab were thoroughly ransacked.”

“Then he's been blown.” The sick feeling of disaster tightened Caroline's shoulder blades.

“I'd like to think it was a coincidence, something to do with the riots. But the timing is too perfect. It looks to me as though Horvath was silenced.”

“By Krucevic?”

“Or his wife.” Marinelli gazed at her levelly. “You know Wally Aronson passed on her number yesterday. A call came through while we were monitoring her line last night. It mentioned toxin's first name.”

“What exactly did it say?” Shephard was frowning.

“"It's me. We're in town. Tell Beta to watch his back. And for Christ's sake, be careful,"” Marinelli quoted.

Eric. It could be no one else.

“That sounds like a warning. Not a death threat.”

“Perhaps the caller is someone she betrayed,” Marinelli suggested. “Just like she betrayed Bela.”

“But the we makes it sound like one of the terrorists.” Shephard's scowl had deepened.

“Or a different group altogether. We can't know for certain.” If Eric could not trust Mirjana Tarcic , Caroline thought but no, the very idea was absurd. The woman hated Mian Krucevic. He had robbed her other son.

“Is anything missing from Horvath's lab? Or his house?” she asked Marinelli.

“Did they find what they were looking for, you mean? I don't know. I'm trying to get that information from the Budapest police. I have a contact there, but with the riots, the looting “ He shook his head.

“I suggested they get one of Horvath's lab partners to go through his things with them. Tell them what might have been taken.”

“If Horvath is blown,” Tom asked, “do we assume that 30 April has already left Hungary?”

“I sure as hell hope not. Because Wally Aronson just came through with something brilliant.” Marinelli reached across his desk for a manila envelope.

“Look at this.”

A sheaf of blueprints, overwritten with handwriting so fine it was almost impossible to read. Page after page of blueprints perhaps a dozen in all.

Caroline bent over the plans.

“What are these?”

“The security details of Mian Krucevic's Budapest headquarters.”

“Jesus,” burst out Tom Shephard. “Has anyone called Washington?”

“Of course,” Marinelli said patiently.

“I suppose we owe this to old what's-his-acronym,” Caroline murmured.

The station chief glanced at her sharply.

“Wally got these blueprints from a developmental. A Russian security expert. He's dead.”

Tom expelled a gusty breath.

“This job just gets less and less healthy. So when do we storm the compound?”

“When we know where it is,” Marinelli said crisply.

Caroline and Tom exchanged a look.

“One person might be able to help us,” she said.

“Mirjana Tarcic.”

“We can't trust her.” Marinelli dismissed the notion instantly. “It's probable that she betrayed Horvath. If we contact her and she warns Krucevic, he'll be long gone by the time we arrive.”