Janson dropped her off in front of the National Archives building; he had some dealings of his own to conduct. Years in the field had given him an instinct for where to find the black-market vendors of false identity papers and other instruments that could come in handy. He might or might not get lucky, he told her, but decided he might as well give it a try.

Now Jessica Kincaid, dressed simply in jeans and a forest green polo shirt, found herself inside an entrance hall, scanning a chart of the Archives’ holdings that hung beside a vast and intimidating list of sections.

Archives of the Hungarian Chancellery (1414–1848) I. “B.”

Records of Government Organs between 1867 and 1945 II. “L.”

Government Organs of the Hungarian Soviet Republic (1919) II. “M.”

Records of the Hungarian Working People’s Party (MDP) and the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party (MSZMP) VII. “N.”

Archivum Regnicolaris (1222–1988) I. “O.”

Judicial Archives (13th century–1869) I. “P.” Archives of Families, Corporations and Institutions (1527–20th century).

And the list went on.

Jessie pushed through the next door, where a large room was filled with catalogs, tables, and, along the walls, perhaps a dozen counters. At each counter was an archival clerk, whose job was to deal with requests from members of the public and certified researchers alike. Over one counter was a sign in English, indicating that it was an information desk for English-speaking visitors. There was a short line in front of the desk, and she watched a bored, coarse-featured clerk deal with his supplicants. As best she could tell, the “information” he dispensed consisted largely of explanations of why the information sought could not be provided.

“You’re telling me that your great-grandfather was born in Székesfehérvár in 1870,” he was saying to a middle-aged Englishwoman in a checked woolen jacket. “How nice for him. Unfortunately, at that time, Székesfehérvár had more than a hundred and fifty parishes. This is not enough information to find the record.”

The Englishwoman moved on with a heavy sigh.

A short, round American man had his hopes dashed almost as summarily.

“Born in Tata in the 1880s or ’90s,” the clerk repeated, with a reptilian smile. “You would like us to look through every register from 1880 to 1889?” Sardonicism turned to umbrage. “That is simply impossible. That is not a reasonable thing to expect. Do you understand how many kilometers of material we house? We cannot do research without something far more specific to guide us.”

When Jessie reached the counter, she simply handed him a sheet of paper on which she had neatly written precise names, locations, dates. “You’re not going to tell me you’re going to have a hard time finding these records, are you?” Jessie gave him a dazzling smile.

“The necessary information is here,” the clerk admitted, studying the paper. “Let me just make a call to verify.”

He disappeared into an inventory annex that extended behind his counter, and returned a few minutes later.