“You didn’t help me.”

“That’s a matter of opinion, but it makes no difference now.”

The farmer reached into his trouser pockets and withdrew a tiny glittering gold crown. He handed it across to Balaton.

The color had gone from Andrew’s face, and his hands began to tremble. He refused to touch the crown of his nightmares. He swallowed with difficulty; shock had constricted his throat.

The man who called himself Bartholomew Wakefield smiled. “I see you recognize this little crown. Such a simple piece. Do you know it’s a replica of the Crown of St. Stephen? The first king of Hungary. Pope Sylvester II sent him the crown and an apostolic cross in the year 1000. St. Stephen christianized Hungary, bringing it firmly and irrevocably into alliance with Western culture. His realm extended Hungarian influence and borders far beyond what they are today, and because of him his country became the ‘shield of Christianity’ for centuries, a bulwark against expansionism of the Mongols, the Turks and the Russians. Of course, in many ways St. Stephen was a brutal man, but history forgives the weaknesses of its heroes. Some say the Crown of St. Stephen is Hungary, even today. The Communists, naturally, would say that is counterrevolutionary propaganda. What do you say, Balaton András?”

He gave the Hungarian pronunciation of his name, with the surname first, according to custom. Andrew gripped the sides of his chair. “I am Hungarian,” he said stiffly. “I know the history of my country.”

“But do you know the significance of this tiny crown?” The man in black held it up between his thumb and forefinger.

Andrew looked away. “It’s the sign of the mad monk.”

“Orült szerzetes. A ‘hero’ of the ‘56 revolution.”

“A myth. He never existed!”

“Anything’s possible, I suppose.” The farmer pocketed the crown.

Andrew cleared his throat. “Where did you get it?”

“It was left for me. You see, Balaton András—”

“Don’t call me that! My name is Andrew. Andrew Balaton. I haven’t been back to Hungary since the revolution. I’m an American citizen. This is my country.”

The farmer shrugged impassively. “As you wish. But Andrew Balaton, legend or not, the ‘mad monk’ has returned. And he’s watching us. You, Andrew. And me.”

“No!” Balaton sprang from his chair. “It’s you who wants to destroy me!”

“How could I destroy you? I’m a farmer. All day I plant, I hoe, I work. You are the head of a giant corporation. I can’t destroy you.”

Balaton’s hair was wild, his eyes blazing with anger and confusion. What was this man doing to him? What did he want? He wiped his brow with the back of his hand; only on the squash court did he sweat like this. “Why are you here?” His voice was hoarse. “What do you want?”

The man in black remained silent.

“Tell me!”

“I have the Balaton jewels.”

Balaton collapsed back into his chair. “You can’t.”

“I wouldn’t have come to you unless I did,” the man in black continued calmly. “I know you want them. I know you must have them. However, to get them, you will have to help me.”