“You’ll forgive me, Mr. Kurzweil. Yet, as you know, ours is a business based on trust. Handshakes and reputation substitute for contracts and paperwork. It is the old way, I think. My father was a butter-and-egg man, and for decades you’d find his little white trucks up and down the Zemplén range. He started in the thirties, and when the Communists took over, they found it was easier to cede these little shipments to somebody who understood the routes. You see, when he was a teenager he was a truck driver himself. So when his employees would tell him that this or that difficulty—a flat tire, a blown radiator—meant that their route would be delayed by half a day, well, he knew better. He knew just how long it took to fix these things, because he’d had to do so himself. His men came to understand that. They could pull nothing over on him, but this did not breed resentment, only respect. I think maybe I am the same way.”

“Do people often try to pull things over on you?”

Lakatos grinned, flashing a row of porcelain teeth, unnaturally white and regular. “Few are so foolhardy,” he replied. “They recognize the dangers.” His tone wavered between menace and self-regard.

“No one has ever prospered by underestimating the Hungarian people,” Janson said soberly. “But then yours is a language, a culture, that few of us can pretend to understand.”

“Magyar obscurity. It served the country well when others sought to dominate it. At other times, it has served us less well. But I think those of us who operate under conditions of, shall we say, circumspection have learned its value.”

A waiter appeared and filled their water glasses.

“A bottle of your ’ninety-eight Margaux,” Lakatos said. He turned to Kurzweil. “It’s a young wine, but quite refreshing. Unless you’d like to try the local specialty—one of those ‘Bull’s Blood’ vintages. Some are quite memorable.”

“I believe I would, in fact.”

Lakatos wriggled his fat fingers at the waiter “Instead, a bottle of the Egri Bikavér, ’eighty-two.” He turned again to his companion. “Now tell me,” he said, “how do you find Hungary?”

“An extraordinary land, which has given the world some extraordinary people. So many Nobel Laureates, film directors, mathematicians, physicists, musicians, conductors, novelists. Yet there is one laureled son of Hungary who—how shall I say this politely?—has given disquiet to my clients.”

Lakatos looked at him, transfixed. “You intrigue me.”

“One man’s liberty is another’s tyranny, as they say. And the foundations of liberty may be the foundations of tyranny.” He paused to make sure that his import was taken.

“How fascinating,” Lakatos said, swallowing hard. He reached for his water glass.