Deceptions by Anna Porter (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

“Five doors on that floor but only three doorplates with ‘doctor.’ I assumed the other two names were assistants.”

“Secretaries,” Attila laughed. “We’re old-fashioned around here. No one calls his secretary an assistant.”

“Anything you can tell me about the doctors?”

Attila sat on the step next to Helena. “Depends on what you want to know. They are all ruling party stalwarts. Magyar has been with the pocket dictator since the day he decided that democracy was bad for the people, that they were too ignorant to be trusted with it. He is the justice minister now, but he has had a smorgasbord of other portfolios. Deputy prime minister, foreign minister. Doesn’t much matter. He is not in charge of anything, the pocket dictator is. Magyar has issued statements backing every one of the government’s dictums. He is not a stupid man; he knows how to benefit personally from such unwavering loyalty. A journalist, working for the last vestiges of our long-gone free press, reported that Magyar now owns a large piece of real estate in — of all places — Canada. Isn’t that where you are from?”

“Born there,” Helena said. “But why ‘of all places’?”

“My intelligence source told me that in Canada, the supervision of who buys land and with what kind of money has been absent for years. Banks don’t ask questions. Sellers also don’t ask, and there is a lot of real estate for sale at the right price. Big country.”

“What about Németh?”

“He is known as the Parrot, reliably repeating whatever he is told by our supreme leader. Used to be a long-haired hippy, but he has shortened his hair and maybe his ambitions. He used to represent us in Brussels; now he owns a bunch of media companies and is in charge of communications on the side. He has avoided being seen as a competitor to our blessed dictator. He is the one most likely to come out with Christian religious guff, though he would know it’s all bullshit. This regime is not interested in religion, except for its possible influence on Hungarians.”

“And Nagy?”

“More of a dark horse. Industry and commerce portfolio. He rarely makes statements. Elected a couple of years ago. He had been flirting with the far right until then. It’s fairly obvious he was offered a lot of forints — or, more likely, euros — to abandon Jobbik. No one knows how much, but it was enough for him to send his sons to school in Germany. He is also not the arty type.”

“Apu!” Anna stood in the doorway, arms akimbo, legs apart, face set in an expression of grim forbearance. “Mi lett a vacsoraval?” What happened with dinner?

Helena pulled out of her bag a drawing she had made of the killer’s face. “Does this look like the man in the Strasbourg police photo?” she asked.

“I think so,” Attila said. “But they didn’t get much of him. The hat, the coat collar . . .”

“Any luck with Vargas?”

“Not yet.”

“Apu!”

“Mindjar,” In a minute, Attila said. “Are you sure you won’t join us?” he asked Helena.

“Not tonight. I have work to do.”

Then, suddenly aware of how abrupt she had been, Helena turned on the first landing. “Could I take you out to dinner tomorrow?”

“In Strasbourg?”

“Wherever.”

Helena went downstairs as Gustav ran up, ears flapping, tongue hanging out, grinning with excitement, short legs pumping, tail held high ready to wag but only when he saw Attila and the girls. He gave Helena a wide berth.

Chapter Fifteen

All three of the men she was interested in lived in Rózsadomb, a green, leafy area of the city with houses far enough apart to guarantee privacy. Since Rózsadomb meant “rose hill,” Helena was not surprised to see gardens full of rose bushes even now, in early October. A few dark red late-blooming roses and clusters of pink climbers were braving the chill of the evening. She wore her black jogging pants and T-shirt, her black running shoes, a bandana around her auburn Marianne wig, and earbuds — the perfect outfit for a late evening run, and exactly the sort of look that would not attract attention in a part of the city where joggers would enjoy the challenge of an uphill climb.

The Magyar residence, a three-storey art nouveau wonder with large semi-oval windows, was protected by a dense, high laurel hedge, a uniformed guard, and a wrought-iron gate. The garage door was closed, but the lights were on outside, and there were small cameras attached to the trees near the garage. The guard was on his cellphone. He paid no attention to another late evening jogger. Helena bent over, hands on her knees, hair falling forward, and panted. The guard looked at her, looked away as he kept listening on his phone, looked at her again, said something into his phone, and started to stroll toward her. Helena panted.

“Jó napot,” the guard said.

“Nem beszélek magyarul,” I don’t speak Hungarian, Helena said. “English?” she asked breathily.

“Okay,” he said, scratching his balls with his phone.

“It’s a longer run than I thought,” she whispered.

He nodded, said something to his phone, and clipped it to his belt. “You want something?” he asked.

Helena straightened up and took a good look at the house behind the guard. “What a beautiful house,” she said. “Wow!”

“Villa,” he said. “1900.”

“Must be stunning in the daytime.”

“Stunning?”

“It would be great to see the colours. Yellow?”

“And red.”

She edged around him for a closer look. “Anybody home?”

“Mr. Magyar came home. Yes.” He moved to block her way. “You can’t go closer.”

“Oh,” she said. “Mr. Magyar must be very rich.” She giggled.

“Yes.” The guard was young, face still erupting in spots, nose florid, prominent Adam’s apple on a very thin neck, ears sticking out under his cap. “He works for the government. Where are you from?”

“Australia,” she said.

“If you come back tomorrow morning, I could maybe show you the villa. It’s on the tours for foreigners.”

“Thank you,” she said, “What time?”

“Oh, around nine. He is flying to Strasbourg early tomorrow. Where are you