Mac shook his head and scoffed. “You’re just trying to save your own skin, monk.”

“No. My skin means nothing to me. I’m trying to save Ashley and David. Balaton went to your people for help in combating the mad monk; he would trade information for their help in ridding him of the monk’s campaign against him. What he didn’t know was that orült szerzetes was never controlled by the Americans. He acted on behalf of the Hungarian people—his friends and neighbors.”

“It’s a little late to sound so holy. But go ahead, monk. Keep trying. You won’t convince me.”

“Then innocents will die.”

“Not if you’re in custody, they won’t.”

“You must take Balaton with me, then. Take us both in. Let us both face a court of law. Don’t you see? Once Balaton had gone to your people, he had to provide them with information or they would compromise him. But he also had to prove himself to his superiors within the ÁVH. So he renewed his campaign of terrorizing innocent Hungarians. If anything, you made him worse than he already was. He was involved in a dangerous, treacherous game of playing both sides against the middle, neither knowing what he really was, and he became increasingly desperate.”

“Stop!” Mac yelled. He had forgotten how glib and educated this man was; he had been seduced by the You piece’s talk of his being a simple farmer. “Just stop.”

“No. It’s time you heard the truth, MacGregor Stevens. When violence broke out in Budapest, Balaton saw his chance to escape everyone—his past, the ÁVH, your people. He decided to become Count András Balaton in all eyes.”

“He is Balaton. He took on the identity of József Major to get himself inside the ÁVH.” The gun was getting heavy, and fatigue had begun to cloud Mac’s thinking. He knew he had to stop this. And yet he couldn’t. Was the farmer beginning to make sense? But of course. He’s had thirty years to work out a plausible scenario. “You’re wrong, monk.”

The farmer took a step toward Mac, but Mac straightened himself up, the gun pointing at the man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield, and he stopped.

“Call him what you will, he couldn’t bear to live with the fear of having MacGregor Stevens, the only man who had actually seen him, identify him as József Major, not a dispossessed Hungarian count. So he decided to get rid of you. He betrayed you at the border. He told the Russians not about himself and the two women, only about you. He said an American intelligence agent would be crossing the border. He gave what details he had to.”

“Bullshit.” It was all Mac could think of to say.

The farmer ignored him. “The Russians didn’t want to kill you, of course. There was much propaganda to be gained from exposing you. I was able to divert them, and some of my friends grabbed you and took you away. I’m sorry you were shot. But that’s what happened, MacGregor Stevens. I did not betray you.”