CHAPTER ONE

 

Radvany, Hungary, 1941

 

He found mention of the war on page three of the Hungarian daily. Disheartened, Carl McCartney folded the slim newspaper and tossed it on the breakfast table. In England, news of Germany's march on Yugoslavia would have been the lead story of every Fleet Street publication. Here it was almost a footnote.

Since declaring itself neutral in 1939, Hungary continued to stick its head in the sand. Unbelievable naivety on the part of the county's leaders. At some point Hungary would be forced to deal with Hitler and Carl didn't want to be around when that day arrived.

Damn Don Maclean! And Philby as well.

Carl had come to Hungary on sabbatical to study Magyar history and languages, not to muck about in the shadow world of covert negotiations. The latest German advance made his continued stay in the chateau even more dangerous. He'd made a huge mistake when he'd agreed to act as a conduit for messages coming out of Eastern Europe. How the hell had he let himself be sucked in?

With or without instructions it was time to leave. But first, he'd have to do something with the last packet of correspondence and papers. The contents were explosive, and in the wrong hands he was pretty sure the English monarchy, and certain government leaders would be destroyed.

A burst of laughter intruded on his thoughts. Breakfast in the chateau's elegant, albeit chilly, dining room was coming to an end. Few of Count Karolyi's guests, the majority of whom were German, seemed concerned about events beyond the borders of the estate. Perhaps the unhindered advance of the German blitzkrieg made them cocksure, or, Carl mused, since they had paid to be treated like royalty they felt they were allowed royalty's disdain for anything that interfered with their personal pleasure.

Frau Schneider gave him a wave of acknowledgement and one of her looks that was far too intimate for Carl's taste, as she passed his table. A clutch of brightly dressed women followed in her wake. Their usual morning routine included several hours in the ladies lounge on the upper floor - strictly off-limits to the men, of course. Her husband joined the group of men gathering near the serving station. Plans were in the works for a boar hunt later in the day. Rows of anonymous Karolyi ancestors gazed down from portraits on the walls in stern approval of the men's aristocratic pastime.

Bela Makkos, the chateau's manager, caught Carl's eye. Makkos smiled as he approached Carl's table and addressed him in flawless English. "Professor McCartney, you have mail this morning." He laid a small pile of letters next to Carl's empty coffee cup. "I apologize once again for the carrier's late delivery, sir."

Like his employer, Count Karolyi, Makkos was a member of the aristocracy - although a minor one. In the past few decades much of Europe's nobility had fallen on hard times and now had to work for a living. If he resented his circumstances Makkos hid it well.

Carl fingered the bundle of letters, willing one to be from Don. God, this was such a mess! Last year's reunion at Cambridge to celebrate both Donald's upcoming nuptials and Carl's sabbatical had turned into a booze-soaked discussion of politics. A few too many gin and tonics, plus talk of down-trodden nations had resulted in an ill-conceived plan, and then Carl's commitment to 'assist in the cause of diplomacy'.

Discrete throat clearing drew Carl from his thoughts.

"Would you be interested in a game of chess this afternoon, Professor McCartney?" Makkos asked. Both Carl and the estate manager shared a passion for chess and had fallen into the routine of playing most afternoons. Unfortunately, Carl had lost respect for the man after inadvertently witnessing an incident between Makkos and a chamber maid, but he did enjoy the estate manager's skill as an opponent in chess. They were evenly matched, so the games had an intensity that allowed Carl to forget his circumstances for a short time.

He nodded in agreement. "I'd enjoy a game. Shall we say 3:00 o'clock, by the pool?"

Back in his room, he lit his second cigarette of the day as he sorted through the letters. Mail delivery had become quite unreliable. Often a glut of letters arrived followed by several weeks with no correspondence. He recognized his mother's handwriting, a letter from the research department. Yes ... Don! He tore the envelope open and removed the thin sheet of blue onion-skin paper. Amid general comments of life in France his friend cautioned, "If you have to leave Hungary quickly don't bother with your luggage, old chap. If it's time to get out, just leave it behind in storage. When things settle down you can always retrieve it."

Carl let the paper fall from his hands. Good God! What a cock-up. Had he wasted his time on all those daytrips? The so-called interviews that had nothing to do with his research? He retrieved the letter, tore it into small pieces and pulled the chain to flush it down the ancient loo. If it hadn't been for the documents and notes he would have been out of Hungary weeks ago. Now the German army was advancing on one side and the Russians on the other. In chess terms, Hungary was the pawn in an opening gambit.

 

Carl pulled his straw hat lower over his brow to ward off the sun's rays. If it was this hot in June, what would it be like in August? The heat, and his dilemma over the documents made concentrating on the chess game doubly difficult.

His wandering gaze settled on a distraction in the pool. An insect had fallen into the water. The tiny creature's struggles sent small water ripples fanning outward in ever-growing concentric circles. Below the surface the black and white tiles on the bottom of the pool resembled the chess board in front of him. The war, life--it was all like a chess game. A deadly serious one, but a game all the same. Every move and countermove had consequences across the board.

Makkos offered up a King's Bishop's Pawn.

As Carl reached for a knight, the afternoon's outward appearance of tranquillity shattered when a young serving girl rushed from the chateau in tears. "Kassa was bombed! By the Russians! Kassa was bombed!"

Kassa, a not insignificant city about fifty kilometres from where they sat. Carl's stomach knotted. Hungary would now be forced into her opening move. It was time to "store the luggage" and leave by any means possible.

CHAPTER TWO

 

Budapest - Today

 

Stan placed a protective arm around Sonja's shoulders as he steered her past a group of British tourists gathered around their tour guide. His wife glanced up to smile her thanks and a wave of warmth spread south from his gut. They'd been married for six months and one look from her could still turn him on. He raised an eyebrow in return and added a lecherous grin.

"Stan! Behave yourself." Feigned shock permeated her tone. "I'm supposed to be giving you a tour of Budapest."

"But, we're on our honeymoon." To the delighted whistles and claps of bystanders, he swept her into his arms and kissed her. The members of his RCMP detachment back in Winnipeg would be shocked by their superior's public display of affection. In truth, more than one would be envious, given the charms and beauty of the woman in his arms.

Sonja disengaged herself with a laugh and pushed her dark hair back into place. "Honeymoon or not, we're going to see the sites today. Now listen. That beautiful palace across the river...."

Stan struggled to pay attention. It was a relief to see her so carefree. He had initially questioned her suggestion to visit Hungary for their honeymoon. Why would she want to return to the place where her dreams, and her body, had been sold to the highest bidder? He suspected it had less to do with confronting her past than it had with finding her miserable excuse for a brother.

"Perhaps to look for Ferenc," she admitted when Stan probed. Whenever she was stressed Sonja slipped back into the heavy Ukrainian accent she had worked so hard to soften. "He is my only family now. We can just look for him, yes?"

Stan wasn't sure how he would react if they did find Ferenc. How a brother could smuggle his beautiful desperate sister out of Ukraine into Hungary, then use her to pay down a drug debt, was beyond Stan's understanding. As a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police he had often gone undercover to infiltrate drug organizations, so he was familiar with the darker side of people's nature. Still, he had never expected he would have a brother-in-law who fell into that category. As far as Stan was concerned Feri, as Sonja often referred to him, could stay missing.

His thoughts were interrupted when he realized his wife stood, arms crossed, waiting for him to notice she no longer played tour guide. Her hazel-green eyes narrowed with mock annoyance. "Stan! You aren't paying attention to what I'm saying." She softened. "Have you had enough?"

He smiled and shook his head, then pushed the troubling thoughts aside as he focussed on the Royal Palace that dominated the opposite shore of the Danube. Serving as a backdrop, Buda's forested hills glowed with September colour in a palette ranging from bright yellow to deep violet. A cloudless blue sky completed the setting. Impressive. It reminded him of fall in the hills near Gatineau, Quebec.

"During the Second World War the palace was one of the last areas of resistance against Russia's Red Army. It was totally destroyed just months before the war ended and then rebuilt..." Sonja lowered her guidebook. "Europe has such a violent past compared to Canada."

"Its present is still pretty grim," Stan replied. "Organized crime, terrorist groups, drug trafficking, nuclear weapons sales...." He left out the obvious additional activity but Sonja caught the omission. The excitement in her eyes died.

"And exporting young girls to North America for the sex trade."

"Sonja, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking."

"Come," she said as she jammed the guidebook and her camera in her purse. "We'll go have a refreshment and forget about crime for a while. Your job should have stayed at home."

Stan swore under his breath. Their chances of locating Feri were practically nil, yet found or unfound, the bastard was messing with their honeymoon.

They strolled along the promenade in the direction of Vaci utca, Budapest's version of New York's Fifth Avenue. When he took her hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze she smiled in acknowledgement. I'm a lucky man, Stan reflected.

Tourists, responding to the lure of the balmy afternoon temperature, were out in droves. A smattering of Ukrainian and, not infrequently, English, fell on his ear from those passing by. It gave his spirits a lift to know there were people around he could talk to, and understand, if need be. In the rural areas they'd passed through on their way to Budapest he often had to rely on Sonja as his interpreter.

The Vaci utca was off limits to cars so pedestrians filled the street. Ornate shops, their windows crammed with merchandise from across Hungary as well as Europe, did their best to tempt shoppers to part with their money. He leaned against an ornamented lamppost, one eye on the crowd, the other on his wife as she examined first a display of pottery, and then a table of embroidery and intricate lacework.

Two boys on skateboards, the wheels chattering on the paving stones, caught his attention when they were still a half block away. They were expert, perhaps too expert. Stan's muscles tensed as the boys wove their way around the kiosks and outdoor display tables narrowly missing Sonja when they shot by. The cop in him wanted to caution her to put the strap of her purse over her head to the opposite shoulder rather than clutching it under her arm, but he forced the thought aside. As she'd said, the cop should have stayed at home.

Her interest in the display satisfied, Sonja moved to rejoin him but stopped to allow a couple pushing a pram to pass. Her face brightened at the sight of a drooling baby. When she shot him a glance, Stan's stomach did a flip. Children? He was pushing thirty so there was nothing wrong with the timing. Still... The image of a toddler, a copy of himself with the same dark hair and brown eyes, sprang to mind. How did men learn to be fathers? Yet another conversation he wished he could have with his own father. He shook his head; questions this big called for a glass of wine.

With a firm grip on his wife's elbow, he directed her toward an attractive restaurant with tables that spilled onto the sidewalk. A soft Strauss melody and the aroma of chocolate surrounded them as the waiter led them to a bistro table set for two. "Here. Practise your Hungarian." Sonja handed him a leather-bound wine list.

He groaned aloud as she rewarded him with another smile. He could speak French, English and Ukrainian. Why was Hungarian such a struggle? He'd even taken a course before they left Canada but the Magyar language with its fourteen vowels still eluded him. His roaming finger came to rest on an entry near the top of the list. "How about Egri Bikavér?

"Bull's blood," translated Sonja. At the startled look on his face she broke into a laugh. "No, no. You said it right, but that's what it means. Bull's blood. It's really quite a famous red wine from --"

Her words ended in a harsh gasp. Something on the street behind him had caught her attention. Something that drained the colour from her face.

Stan twisted in his seat to follow her line of vision. A small group made their way along the street - several stylishly dressed women escorted by a dark-haired man in his late forties. He was tall, dressed in a two-piece suit that could never have come off the rack. A dusky complexion coupled with a thin black moustache that traced a line above full lips spoke of Latino, or Gypsy, heritage. At first glance, he seemed an elegant gentleman. It was when Stan sought his eyes that the illusion shattered - they were the wary eyes of a predator.

"Sipos. Sipos Sandor." Sonja spoke the name so softly Stan thought he had misunderstood. What were the chances they'd run into Sipos on their second day in Budapest?

 

***

 

Sonja leaned over the sink and splashed more cold water on her face. Her nausea had lessened. She had put Sipos so firmly out of her mind that it never occurred to her she might see him in Budapest. A shiver crawled up her spine and she shook her shoulders in a small dance to drive it away. She wouldn't let him ruin her honeymoon - or her new life. She wasn't the same innocent girl she had been two years ago. She had someone who loved her, and she had learned how to defend herself. In fact, she'd learned that lesson so well she had almost killed a man.

She dried her face and ran a comb through her hair. Even if she didn't feel like eating, Stan must be hungry by now. They could find a little restaurant and decide if they should leave Budapest. Maybe they could drive to Lake Balaton, or go north to the wine region. She had been foolish to think she could find her brother here after all this time.

The ring of the phone in the suite's main room ended abruptly. Stan voice, the words indistinct, reached her through the closed door. Odd. Only a few people knew where they were.

CHAPTER THREE

 

Yesterday's pleasant weather had given way overnight to lower temperatures and a steady drizzle. As the taxi passed through the garden district of Buda en route to the Canadian embassy, Stan wiped condensation from the window to get a better view of the villas and mansions on either side of the street.

He'd certainly had a misconception of Hungary. This was no backward country stuck in the dark ages, especially Budapest. Hungary had once been a dynamic, prosperous nation. Sadly, quick glimpses of the magnificent houses they passed told a story of decades-long neglect. No wonder the Hungarians felt no love for the Soviets. Since the Second World War when the Communists gained control they had used their iron rule to rape and reduce the nation to destitution.

A woman walking with her dog on the sidewalk stepped back to avoid a spray of water from the cab's passage. Given the miserable weather, Stan was glad Sonja had decided to stay at the hotel. After the shock of seeing Sipos Sandor yesterday, she suggested they leave the capital. Stan agreed. Budapest, for all its history and beauty, had lost its appeal with that single glimpse of the man. There were other regions of Hungary that had a lot to offer tourists. Once they were away from the capital he would do whatever it took to bring back the sense of adventure and light mood that had marked the start of their holiday.

While Stan visited the embassy Sonja said she would collect maps of the outlying districts and chart a route for the remainder of their stay. And, she hadn't given up on finding Feri. She wanted to give it one last shot. He had no Facebook or other internet presence, but there was still the phone book to check. Perhaps there was a phone number listed for him. If not, she wanted to visit the address she remembered from two years earlier, although she agreed there was little chance he was still there. Stan was confident Sonja was on a wild goose chase so he was sure they would be able to leave Budapest by late afternoon.

A stunning three-story villa on a small rise caught his eye. When he saw the Canadian flag flying inside the gate a feeling of pride ran through him. The taxi pulled into the circular driveway. "Canadian embassy, sir," the driver stated. Farther down the slope an ugly cube-shaped building appeared to be the centre of some activity. The driver noted Stan's interest and explained, "Visa office, passport, such things. One day I stand there for passport, then go to Canada." His accent was heavy but the meaning was clear.

The car pulled to a stop at an armed barrier. After confirming his name was on a list of expected visitors, Stan paid the driver, raised the hood on his jacket against the rain, and picked his way around the puddles pock-marking the cobbled courtyard.

The phone call from the embassy the previous afternoon had come as a surprise. The secretary offered no information but requested Stan meet with the ambassador at 8:30 the following morning.

Stan considered the possibilities. Their passports and paperwork should be in order. If there was a problem with their flights the airlines would take care of that, and they hadn't broken any laws he was aware of. The only reason that made sense didn't sit well with him--the request to visit might be work-related. Only a national emergency would tempt him to cancel this holiday.

The scent of beeswax rubbed into rich wood over decades greeted him as he entered the embassy's outer foyer. He stopped, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Memories of attending mass with his parents at St. Boniface Cathedral in Winnipeg flooded back from his childhood.

Beeswax, old wood, incense... He had found the hushed, dim interior of the huge cathedral and the symbolism of the mass comforting when he was young but even so, both he and his father stopped going after his mother's death. The mysteries and promises of the religious ceremony could not fill the emptiness of the space she had occupied beside them on the pew.

In the foyer a guard checked his identification before pointing him in the direction of the ambassador's reception area. He stripped off his wet jacket as he approached the desk. "Stan Boyko," he announced to the young woman sitting there. A nameplate identified her as 'Louise Craddock' a name, Stan thought, more suited to a woman several decades older than the twenty-something receptionist eyeing him with apprehension.

Fingers with nails bitten to the quick tapped information on the computer keys.

"Would that be Constable Stanley Boyko and Mrs. Sonja Boyko?" She glanced behind Stan as though looking for another person.

"Partially correct, Louise. You can make that Corporal--."

"Oh, no, I... I'm not Louise." A flush crept up her neck to stain her cheeks.

When Stan glanced at the nameplate she reached for it and tucked it in a drawer. "Louise was in an accident two days ago and I'm--" Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, my God. I probably shouldn't have said that. We're not supposed to give out any personal information. Oh, brother." The remains of a nail succumbed to sharp teeth.

Overwhelmed and under-trained in the position, Stan decided. Probably the only woman in the typing pool with enough Hungarian to replace the injured Louise. Best to make light of it.

"Then we have something in common. I've also received a new position. You can change your records to read Corporal Stan Boyko. Mrs. Boyko didn't come with me this morning."

The flustered receptionist made several attempts to work her magic with the computer keys. The effort with an unfamiliar system resulted in a series of beeps.

"Miss?"

She glanced up, eyes bright with gathering tears.

"I'll just take a seat here in the waiting room. That will give you a chance to make the changes without me hanging over the desk. Will the wait be long?"

"Oh, no, not long. I'll just, ...I'll just finish this and bring you a coffee, okay?"

Thick Turkish carpets centred on marble floors muffled his footsteps as he circled the spacious room. Heavy draperies swathed mullioned windows fitted with bevelled glass. A sofa and two club chairs set at right angles to the marble-faced fireplace tempted him to run his hand over the buttery softness of the high-end leather. Overall, an impressive waiting room. One of the best he'd encountered. Canada had done very well for itself in the Hungarian capital.

As he settled into the embrace of one of the club chairs a stack of magazines on the coffee table caught his attention. He considered, then chose one at random. Although he wasn't in a great hurry, he hoped the young woman would remember to advise the ambassador he was waiting.

The magazine proved current, and written in English, although it contained only Hungarian news items. One story immediately caught his eye: Canada Safe Haven or Immigration Scheme

Hungarian immigration scheme...he'd seen something about this back home. Right! A few days before he'd left Canada there had been a report out of Ottawa from CSIS mentioning a Gypsy scam. The details of the report proved elusive, flirting on the edge of his memory, but staying just out of reach. He thumbed through the magazine looking for the article.

When he found it a quick read jogged his memory. An immigration scam used so successfully in the Czech Republic several years earlier was now being used in Hungary. For a hefty fee Gypsies, desperate for jobs and decent schooling for their children, were promised easy entry into Canada if they claimed persecution in Hungary. They were told that once in Canada, they were guaranteed acceptance as refugees and given jobs and free housing. Dozens of families had already borrowed heavily and sold everything they owned to raise the price of the illegal documentation package with instructions and carefully worded storylines.

Stan shook his head in wonder. How could anyone prey on people already so desperate? When it came to taking advantage of the less fortunate, mankind could be very disingenuous. Sipos Sandor came to mind along with an image of the pain on Sonja's beautiful face. Stan clamped a lid on the thought and turned his attention back to the magazine.

The article's author, Allan Howland, an American correspondent living in Hungary, went on to say that the Hungarian government was investigating several leads in their bid to end the illegal scheme. From experience Stan knew the words meant little to desperate people.

Instinct honed over years of undercover work warned him he was being watched. As he glanced up the receptionist returned the phone to its cradle and nodded in his direction. "Ambassador Graham will see you now, Mr. Boyko."