“I think it’s best,” he said.

“For who?”

“Both of us.”

“You don’t speak for both of us. You speak for one of you.” She was silent for a while, pacing. “All right, you goddamn son of a bitch,” she said abruptly. “You saw what you saw. Christ on a raft, you saw what you saw. Shit, now this is what I call a total mindfuck.” A mordant chuckle. “Shouldn’t do that on a first date, or they won’t respect you in the morning.”

Janson was lost in his own whirring thoughts. Peter Novak: just who was this living legend, this man who emerged from obscurity to global prominence in such a meteoric blaze? Questions crowded his mind, but they were questions without answers. His stomach churning, Janson threw his Deruta mug into the fireplace, where it smashed against the heavy stones. He felt better for a moment, but only a moment.

He returned to the scarred leather chair near the fireplace, settling one battered hide against another. Jessie stood behind him, and began to rub his aching shoulders.

“I hate to add to the tension,” she said, “but if we’re gonna figure out what the hell’s going on, we have got to get out of here. How long do you think it’s going to take Cons Ops before they find us? They’ve got all that eye-in-the-sky data, and believe me, they got technicians working around the clock to identify your car, alternate means of conveyance, whatever. From what my friend told me, the cables so far are worthless, just a lot of false sightings—but there’ll be a true one before long. They’ll be shaking down known contacts in Europe, following thousands of dangling threads, reviewing video from highway tolls and border crossings. All that cybergumshoe shit. And sooner or later, something’s going to lead them here.”

She was right. He thought of the philanthropist’s motto: Sok kicsi sokra megy. Hungarian folk wisdom. Would their own small efforts yield a larger result? Now he recalled Fielding’s words: It’s in Hungary, still, that you’ll find his greatest admirers, and his most impassioned foes. And Lang’s observation: For better or worse, Hungary made him who he is. And Peter is not one to forget his debts.

It made him who he is.

And who was that?

It made him who he was: Hungary. That had to be Janson’s destination.

It was his best chance at flushing out Peter Novak’s blood enemies—the ones who had known him longest and, perhaps, best.

“You look like a man who’s just made up his mind,” Jessie said, almost shyly.

Janson nodded. “What about you?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“I’m thinking about my next move. What about yours? You going to go back to Cons Ops now?”

“What do you think?”

“Tell me.”