Deceptions, Anna Porter [ebook reader with built in dictionary .txt] 📗

their Sunday clothes to explain the early morning drop-off. He didn’t want to mention that he had to catch the eight o’clock flight to Strasbourg or lose his job. Amazing that even after all this time separated from his wife, he was still anxious not to offend her by displaying concern for his job — concern that she thought ridiculous because he should never have become a private detective. Not that she had ever been pleased with his previous profession, but at least it was steady work. She had rarely mentioned to her friends that her husband was a police officer and tended to agree with his mother that policing was underpaid, ill-defined menial labour with few vacations and even fewer perks. The past twenty years of state-sponsored kleptocracy had offered thousands of opportunities for the men (“Yes, men! But not you!”) with the right connections, and Attila had failed to take advantage of even those that had dropped into his lap. Now, Anna’s jaundiced view of Bea’s current boyfriend suggested that he was more enterprising but less likeable. “A lawyer,” she said, making the word ügyvéd feel slimy, “with all the ‘right connections’” (imitating her mother’s tone of voice). “And, what’s even more important, a very nice car.”

Had there been more time for such discussions, Attila would have told his daughter that the reason her parents no longer lived together was not just her father’s inability to make more money, or to buy a better car, or make the right connections, it had had more to do with having outgrown each other. Whatever had been the basis of their relationship was now foreign territory for both of them. Even their conversations were stilted, each word weighed before it was allowed to slip out. When he saw Bea, he felt like he was looking at a stranger, a lovely stranger but certainly not the woman he had lain in bed with every night for eleven years.

Perhaps there would be time for that conversation when Anna was older.

He barely made his flight and knew he would be late for his command performance at Vaszary’s office, but he felt calm enough about the prospect that he didn’t rush the security process and didn’t run up the long staircase to his Council of Europe offices. Despite his usual abusiveness, there had been something about Tóth’s demeanour that suggested Attila would not be fired. Whoever had insisted that he be sent to Strasbourg was interested in keeping him there. Otherwise, Tóth would have relieved him of the job already for not answering his phone or for any other spurious reason that occurred to him. In hindsight, whoever it was must have some serious clout. Tóth on his own would not have chosen him for something as cushy as Strasbourg. So, why did he?

Vaszary’s offices were on the third floor. His secretary, a Mrs. Gilbert, occupied the small area overlooking a waiting room with grey fake-leather (faux, Bea would have said) seating for five. Only one of the seats was occupied, and its occupant seemed only half here, his ass hanging over the edge of the soft cushion, his feet neatly arranged in front, a folder held up with both hands, as if he were preparing to present it to someone or to run away. He was either smiling or his face had settled into a nervous rictus, it was impossible to tell.

Though there was no need because Mrs. Gilbert knew very well who he was, Attila introduced himself and asked whether the ambassador was already in. It was past ten o’clock. He had been ordered to be here at nine, but, he explained, the plane had been delayed. He didn’t say that he had every reason to expect he would be kept waiting. Vaszary liked to show his displeasure in whatever small ways were available to him, and this time he had good reason to be displeased.

Vaszary came through the door with a stack of files balanced on both arms, his briefcase on top, his tie askew, his jacket open, and a big smile on his face. He dumped the files and briefcase on Mrs. Gilbert’s desk and continued to smile as he opened his arms to the nervous visitor.

“Zbignew,” he said, much too loudly for such a small space. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting. A big day for both of our nations. I do hope your ambassador will be in the great hall for the address. Such an important — no, vital — address on the major issues that affect us both. . . .” He grabbed Zbignew and hugged him with such enthusiasm, the smaller man and his folder collapsed against his chest. “We must. We absolutely must show them that solidarity — our solidarity, much like your historic Solidarność — will stand for the principles that have been our guiding stars since, well, since forever.” He was speaking English with a fine Hungarian accent. He let Zbignew escape from his embrace, but he was still holding the smaller man’s shoulder with one hand and kept thumping him on the back with the other. “Middle Europe,” he continued at increasing decibels, “still counts! No! It counts again, after being ignored for decades while Brussels meddled in our internal affairs, after their edicts aimed at destroying our independence, our security, our national independence, yes . . .”

“I was here to talk about today. . . .” Zbignew said, or tried to say, but his words were half-buried in Vaszary’s loud enthusiasm.

“Yes, yes,” Vaszary said. “We are all here, preparing for the moment. My chief is ready. I know Slovakia is waiting for us to begin, and the Czechs are — should be — ready. Poland will be by our side. . . .”

“It is with great respect . . .” Zbignew tried again.

“As it has always been, our two noble nations facing east and west, two great bulwarks of Christianity against the hordes . . .”

Zbignew managed to extricate himself from