Yet who was this Kurzweil? The Canadian investor was cagey, obviously unwilling to say what he knew. “All I can say is that he has been a very good client of ours.” Within hours, Janson’s cell phone began chirping with testimonials on the Hungarian’s behalf; the man had obviously been calling in favors. Well, the Canadian conceded, Kurzweil would be passing through the Miskolc area, near Lakatos’s primary residence. It was possible he could be persuaded to meet. But everyone had to understand: Kurzweil was a very untrusting man. If he declined, no offense should be taken.

Despite the tactical pretense of reluctance, Janson’s eagerness for the meeting bordered on desperation. For he knew that the one sure way to reach the ancient and entrenched enemies of Peter Novak would be through the Hungarian merchant of death.

Janson, seated at a tall leather chair in the hotel lobby, had observed Lakatos’s arrival and deliberately waited ten minutes before joining him. As he approached the Hungarian at the banquette, he maintained a pleasantly blasé expression. Lakatos surprised him by standing up and embracing him.

“We meet at last!” he said. “Such a pleasure.” He pressed his breasty upper body to Janson’s and reached around, his plump sweaty hands vigorously patting his back and then his waist. None too subtly, the effusive embrace served as a kind of crude security check: any upper-body holster—shoulder, small of back, bellyband—would have been detected easily.

As the two took their seats, Lakatos nakedly scrutinized his guest; avidity vied with no little suspicion of his own. There were, the merchant had learned, opportunities that were too good to be true. One had to distinguish between low-hanging fruit and poisoned bait.

“The libamaj roston, the grilled goose liver, is excellent. And so is the brassói aprépecsenye—a sort of braised pork.” Lakatos’s voice was slightly breathless and fluting.

“Personally, I prefer the bakanyi sertéshús,” Janson replied.

The Hungarian paused. “Then you know this place,” he said. “They told me you were a worldly man, Mr. Kurzweil.”

“If they told you anything, they told you too much,” he said, a trace of steel in his voice belying his half smile.