“Yes.”

“And he compromised his own mission.”

“That’s right.” With a sterling silver lighter, she finally lit the cigarette she’d been holding tightly in her palm. “He was helping a Hungarian who’d been passing information to the Americans—our dear sweet Andrew Balaton. Mac hid us out with him and told us he’d leave us to the KGB if we didn’t do as he said. At first, we had no idea he was a count. We thought his name was József Major and he was a dashing freedom fighter. He told us stories, restored our confidence in ourselves, made us believe we weren’t the idiots we knew we were. He made us feel brave at a time when we deserved to feel only stupid and terrified.”

When she paused, blowing out smoke, Jeremy looked at her thoughtfully, trying to imagine what it must have been like. “You were in an untenable situation.”

“Oh, Lord, yes. We didn’t know what was worse: facing Mac, the Russians, Land Crockett or Addison Parker. And my mother—my mother would have skinned me alive.”

“When did you learn József Major was a count?”

Lillian left her cigarette to burn on the edge of the ashtray. “The night before we were to make our escape, Judith wasn’t feeling well; the cellar where we were hidden was damp, freezing, a perfect hellhole. So Andrew told us his own story, about being the last of the Balatons, hiding from the Russians all these years, right under their noses all the time, pretending to be a trusted servant. We were mesmerized.”

“What was his position?”

“He wasn’t permitted to say, but I imagine it was a government clerical post—one of those positions where you have no power but access to tremendous amounts of information. Given the paranoia of the regime, it’s a wonder he was able to pull it off.”

“Had he been exposed?”

“Apparently it was imminent. I know Mac made it very clear Balaton had to get out of the country, but with two more added to the list...well, I was worried. I snuck out one evening, and I found the Hungarian who’d helped us earlier—and I asked him to help Mac now. He was a legend, you see. A sort of Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Orült szerzetes.”

She sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Yes, the mad monk.”

“You were thinking what a hell of a story you had, weren’t you?”

“Oh, but of course. I’d already thought of how I’d change the names of the people involved, to protect the innocent, and all that noble stuff journalists sometimes do. I was keeping notes.”

Thirty years later, in light of what Lillian Parker had become, Jeremy thought he could understand her desperation. “And Mac?”

“I sent our ‘mad monk’ to him. Mac reluctantly accepted his help. Originally, our monk was to escort us to the border, but that plan fell through at the last minute. We had to go alone—the four of us. There was a clearing near the border. It was a landmark, a place where we could rest. It was so cold, and Judith had taken ill. Mac was in charge.” She licked her lips as her voice grew increasingly hollow. “He moved us out of the clearing as quickly as he could—we were so tired and just numb with the cold. But it was dangerous to waste time. Mac picked up the rear. There was a light, and we heard voices...shots. Andrew kept us moving. There was nothing we could do. We knew the Russians had Mac.”