And yet the accounts of the philanthropist’s life were all agreed: Peter Novak, the beloved only son of Janós Ferenczi-Novak, had been born in October 1937, and reared in the war-torn village of Molnár. That much was part of the official record.

But as for the rest of it?

There could be no doubt that the old woman was telling the truth as she remembered it. And yet what did it mean?

Peter Novak: the man who never was.

Amid a growing unease, possibilities fluttered through Janson’s mind, like shuffled and reshuffled index cards.

Jessie unzipped her knapsack, took out the picture book on Peter Novak, and opened it to a color close-up of the great man. She showed it to Gitta Békesi.

“See this fellow? His name is Peter Novak.”

The old woman glanced at the picture and looked at Jessie, shrugging. “I do not follow the news. I have no television, take no newspapers. Forgive me. But, yes, I think I have heard of this man.”

“Same name as the count’s boy. Sure it couldn’t be the same person?”

“Peter, Novak—common names in our country,” she said, shrugging. “Of course this is not Ferenczi-Novak’s son. He died in 1942. I told you.” Her eyes returned to the photograph. “Besides, this man’s eyes are brown.” The point seemed to her almost too obvious to belabor, but she added, “Little Peter’s were blue, like the waters of the Balaton. Blue, like his mother’s.”

In a state of shock, the two began the long walk back to the Lancia, one mile up the hill. As the house receded into the overgrowth, they began to talk, slowly, tentatively, exploring the deepening mystery.

“What if there was another child?” Jessie asked. “Another kid nobody knew about, who took on his brother’s name. A hidden twin, maybe.”

“The old woman seemed certain that he was their only one. Not an easy thing to hide from the household staff. Of course, if Count Ferenczi-Novak was as paranoid as his reputation had it, any number of ruses are conceivable.”

“But why? He wasn’t crazy.”

“Not crazy, but desperately fearful for his kid,” Janson said. “Hungarian politics was in an incredibly explosive condition. Remember what you’ve read. Béla Kun took power in March 1919, ruled for a hundred and thirty-three days. A reign of terror. That was followed, once he’d been toppled, by an even more horrifying massacre of the people who helped him gain power. Whole families were slaughtered—Admiral Horthy’s so-called White Terror. Reprisals and counter-reprisals were just a way of life back then. The count might have felt that what comes around goes around. That his association with Prime Minister Kállay could be a death sentence, not just for him, but for his family.”

“He was afraid of the Communists?”