Murder In Steel

MURDER IN STEEL

John G. Lenard

Copyright  John G. Lenard (2011)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior permission of the publisher.

Printed in Canada

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John G. Lenard 

575 Clair Creek Blvd. 

Waterloo, Ontario N2T 2B9 

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jglenard@uwaterloo.ca

ISBN 978-0-9878240-0-4

Published by John G. Lenard, 2011

Acknowledgements

I am truly grateful for the support and encouragement of my daughter and my wife which made the writing of this novel enjoyable.

I sincerely thank my editor, H. Racko, for the suggestions, corrections and creative advice, transforming a set of notes into a readable and hopefully enjoyable book.

The photographs on the front and back pages were taken by Stig-Goren Nilsson. They are reproduced by permission of Jernkontoret, the Swedish Steel Producers Association.

MURDER IN STEEL

Disclaimer: this book is pure fiction. There is no relation to reality anywhere in it, with the exception of the tragic death of Mr. Valyi. Any resemblance to real people, dead or alive, or to real events, exists only in the imagination of the writer.

PROLOGUE  

 A number of political parties, spanning the right-left spectrum, competed in the 1948 general elections in Hungary. The Communist Party was the winner and in a very short time the one-party system was introduced. The mantra of the Communists was, "If you are not with us, you are against us." No criticism of the rulers was allowed. While everyone was deemed equal, the personality cult insured that the leaders were more equal. They were godlike and omnipotent.  

The "official Party line", often changed daily, told the people what to think, what to say, what to do and how to do it. Variations, comments or individual opinions were not welcome. Anything that was permitted was compulsory or, at the very least, highly recommended. Citizens were to address everyone by the title "comrade", translated literally from the Hungarian word as "partner in ideas".  

Nobody dared to discuss political ideas in public. Even potential thought crimes were harshly prosecuted. The thought-criminals were subjected to highly publicized show trials and after confessing their guilt, summarily executed. Fear affected all. Countless numbers of studies, essays, films, documentaries and novels detailed the history of these events. By the mid-fifties people had enough. Revolutions broke out in Poland and in Hungary. What follows is a story whose origins are found in these difficult times. 

CHAPTER 1 

BUDAPEST, LATE FALL, 1956

The visitors were over the container in which the hot, molten steel was bubbling. The chief visitor, the Minister, standing by the low banister, looked into the inferno and turned to tell a joke to his next-in-command. A blood-curdling scream followed, the Minister disappeared into the flaming conflagration, and the group was motionless in total shock.  

The body was taken away in an ambulance, even though the charred corpse showed that death was practically instantaneous. The foundry was taken over by senior officers of the much-feared Secret Service, including their crack, black-clad, body-armored SWAT unit. All doors were locked and heavily armed guards were stationed at all of them. The scene of the unfortunate occurrence was studied closely, photos were taken of everything, especially of the footprints, all evidence was collected, all personnel were fingerprinted and photographed. All were interrogated at length with no distinction between blue and white collar workers. All were told to relate events independently and handwritten notes were taken, slowly and laboriously. The proceedings took all day and all night. Nobody was allowed to leave, not even the group of visitors. No unescorted washroom breaks, no food, no drinks were allowed. Everybody was processed by the morning, all were searched bodily while stripped naked, and were told to leave the foundry, to take the rest of the day off, but not to leave the city without informing the police. Detailed interrogations were to follow. The times were to be posted.  

The pub, located next to the steel-making factory, was on the main floor of an old building, built in the late 1890s. While the building looked impressive from a distance, a closer look revealed the cracking walls, peeling paint, broken windows and the general disrepair, visible on most buildings in Budapest. The inside of the pub wasn't any different. It was relatively clean but it was in bad need of a major renovation. The floor boards were broken. The tables and chairs were in bad shape. There was only one, low powered light bulb. The place was dingy, musty and cheerless. Only draft beer and wine, of the cheapest varieties, were served. 

Comrade Baugel was the Secretary of the local branch of the Communist Party in charge of collecting information. He was sitting in the pub, drinking beer in the early afternoon following the day of the alleged accident. His job was easy. Each day he talked to a few of the workers, and asked them to relate what they heard during the day from friends and fellow workers. Politics, family matters, jokes, all were to be included. He, in turn, compiled and submitted a report on these daily to his boss, the Chief Secretary of the Party. He noticed four workers sitting nearby and as his job required, strained to hear their discussion.  

The four, nearly middle-aged men, foundry workers, were slouching around a rickety wooden table in the pub. They knew each other well, and while they were not close friends, they worked side-by-side for years, and to some extent, they trusted each other. They went home in the morning as they were told but couldn't stand being alone and without any special arrangement went directly to their usual watering hole, the place where they went to often, especially in needy times, to vent, to unload.  

They heard about the disturbances in the city, the demonstrations by the students, their demands for more freedom and the rumours that there was some shooting at the radio station where members of the Secret Service opened fire on the crowd. They owned no radios, read no newspapers and they didn't realize - how could they? - that a major revolution against the Soviet occupation was well underway. 

The four men witnessed the horrible death of the visitor, the Minister, and felt an irresistible need to discuss it and talk about its consequences and especially about the threat of the upcoming interrogations. They were well aware of the methods of the police. Arrest as many people as possible, assume first that they are guilty, treat them as such, hold them without charges as long as they wanted, and beat confessions out of them, regardless of their actual guilt. They knew that they might very well be targets since during the previous day they were where they shouldn't have been. Curious, they joined the VIP crowd around the distinguished visitor who was coming to inspect the new foundry equipment that had been donated by the Soviet Union. They knew that it was only a matter of time before the detectives learned of their unauthorized curiosity. They knew that more questions would be asked, under very unpleasant circumstances.  

All four were members of the Communist Workers' Brigade, a quasi militia, established by the regime to be ready to quell unrest of any kind by anybody. They joined not so much from conviction but from the need to survive. Being members provided them with certain privileges and gave them access to food and clothing which were not always available to the general population. Their children were assured of good, or at least, acceptable jobs when they left school. They sat in silence, slurped their beer, burped on occasion and didn't look at each other for quite some time. 

"I can't stop shaking," said Joe Takacs finally, breaking the silence, his voice hoarse. He was short and chubby, the oldest of the four. He sometimes felt he was responsible for the welfare of the others. At 35, he looked more like 50, was none too clean and didn't smell so nice either after a day and a half at the foundry. He wasn't thought to be very bright. He maintained that he'd been a Communist all his life, coming from a dirt-poor background, growing up as an orphan, raised by his uncle, long deceased. He claimed to have spent many years in jail for his beliefs. The one story Joe repeated regularly was how one of his arms was broken by Nazi thugs. The arm had never healed properly and Joe would often proudly demonstrate how it could bend backwards at the elbow. No other proof was ever offered for his claims and no proof was ever asked of him. The stories of how he was beaten and how he was humiliated were not too far from repetition at any time.  

"What the hell made you all stick with the visitors?" he continued, not really phrasing a question, just saying what was on his mind, looking at and talking to his beer mug. "You know better," and he raised his eyes and looked fiercely at the other three. 

"You were there, too," said Michael quietly, still a bit afraid of Joe, in spite of their years together. Michael was attempting to establish himself as a trustworthy member of the group. He was the youngest and not fully accepted yet and he knew it and he wasn't happy. The others were familiar with his background and knew his stories of gloom and misery by heart. All knew that he was expelled from high school when he was caught stealing. He cried bitterly when caught and in spite of claiming a long family history of dutiful and faithful Communism, he was kicked out of school. The school principal told him that true Communists don't steal. Michael, in addition to being a crane operator, was assigned his current extra job which consisted of listening to all comments made by his colleagues during the day and submitting the collection at the end of each shift, to Comrade Baugel.  

"I was just fucking trying to get you the hell out of there just as the Minister got near the edge," Joe added, a little bit louder, turning his head slightly away from the Party official, trying to avoid his attention.  

"Like hell you did," was Michael's retort, angrily but still quietly. His hands were trembling a little. This was the first time he stood up to Joe. "We were there together," he said. "Admit it." 

Silence, burping and slurping followed. Baugel stood up to go to take a piss. Joe put his beer down on the table. He looked straight at each of them, keeping eye contact, not blinking. Then he spoke, clearly but quietly. For the first time, his speech betrayed a little more education than admitted so far and some indication that the "not so bright" behaviour of the past was a bit of a con, hiding his real background, which might have been that of a closet intellectual. He continued looking at the others in turn as he spoke, with a longer glance at Michael, holding it for several seconds. 

"I know what happened. So listen and listen well. I will most likely not have the chance to say this more than once. We know that we will be interrogated. We know that this will take place in the basement somewhere, in a dark room, with a sharp, bright light in our faces. We will sit on a hard chair, or maybe we will be made to stand at attention, facing the wall or the corner. We know that we will be taken to be guilty and will be accused of crimes, real or imagined. Maybe, and in my view quite certainly, we will be accused of shoving the Minister into the hot steel. We know that the questions will be asked for a long time, they will be repeated, they will shout at us, they will threaten us, threaten our family and we will be there for days with no sleep. We may be beaten. We know that we may not be allowed to leave at all, dead or alive. We know and they also know or will soon know that we were at a place where we should never have been." 

He paused here and they all slowly realized that he now separated "them" from "us". This was a momentous discovery, recognizing the fact that once there was trouble, "they", the authorities, the Party functionaries, would treat everyone with the same suspicion, same brutality. Past allegiances would count for nothing. Joe continued. 

"We know that we will have to explain, why." He looked up, looked at each of them in turn again. "We must make sure that we say the same thing, not in an identical manner but the meaning, the gist must be the same," he then said, so quietly that all had to lean toward him to hear. "We must divert suspicion from ourselves and the best way to do that is to accuse somebody else," he said. "And just one more thing. This is important. We are not, repeat not, to accuse each other."  

The three others didn't comprehend instantly what Joe was implying. They stared at him, at each other and at the door of the toilet, worrying about Baugel's imminent return. Michael caught on first, incredulous and stammered, not at all sure of himself, just feeling stunned and overwhelmed by the danger they all were in. 

"You can't mean this fucking nonsense, that this would be shoved up our ass, that somebody would accuse one of us of wasting the comrade? Jeez, you are out of your fucking mind!" 

The men sat pale and in total shock. Joe continued, just as Baugel was making his way slowly back to his table. 

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. You or I or one of us or all of us together. That we murdered the guy. We must say that we saw somebody else do it. We must say we saw him. We must be able to describe what we saw. We must identify the murderer of the Minister. We must tell what he wore, how he did it, which arm he used to push, how his face looked, what he did right after." He stopped just as Baugel was near hearing range, took a sip of his beer and actually felt relieved for speaking his mind, maybe for the first time. 

The gears were grinding in their brains, the neural connections at the synapses completed, one by one. Michael seemed to get a brainwave first and he spoke, almost shouted, to Joe, "But you were the closest ...," and Joe snarled, interrupting viciously. 

"Stop right there Michael, don't even fucking think it," and his face was hard, full of hate as he looked at his friend. "As I recall, you were also within a foot of the poor guy," referring to the victim not as a "comrade." 

The impact of Joe's words hit them little by little. The objective of the meeting had now become clear. It was to identify and convict in advance the perpetrator of the accident of the previous day. They were beginning to think that Joe was right, that claiming to be eye-witnesses and reporting a criminal might result in more pay and extra holidays. But most important, suspicion would fall on somebody else, and the credit they might get could serve them well.  

The men were suddenly out to prove that no accident occurred, outdoing one-another in their enthusiasm. It was murder, they agreed. Yes, of course it was, they said. The Minister was an excellent person. He was a true Communist. As we loved them all, we loved him, maybe even better. Had we been there, closer to him, which one of us would have hesitated a second to jump in the hot steel and save him? All of us would have jumped, without a thought for our safety, no question. It was to be regretted that we were too far to help, it was too late by the time we got close. But we tried desperately, didn't we, of course we did, we were ready to risk our lives to save him. No reward is necessary, only justice, the true, Communist kind of justice. 

"Did you see that young bugger running like hell from the foundry, immediately after?" asked Joe.  

"I did. I saw the fuckface, he was the one who pushed Comrade Lomonoszov," said Michael, now fully on board, co-operating with Joe. 

"Do you know the bastard?" asked Igor Benchuk, a huge man, with hands the size of frying pans. He had been given a Russian name at birth, his parents thinking that it would get him ahead in all endeavours. People assumed that he and his parents were citizens of the USSR.  

"Sure as hell do," said Michael, seconded by Joe. 

He continued. "Isn't he the snotty kid who hates working? I know the fucker. His name is Lederer. He's from the technical school, and I hear his old man is an accountant, an intellectual, believe it or not. I never trusted the stupid joker. He thinks he's gotten through school, so he's so special, better than us, doesn't fart, doesn't spit in his soup, doesn't pick his nose. He looks down on us, uses his own goddam towel, thinks he's too special to use the one we all use. Even has his own soap. Where's he get the money to buy soap? Can we afford to buy soap? Has that punk even been in the army? He would learn some discipline there, to obey the boss, he'd learn to take orders, he'd learn some humility for a change."  

"Tell Baugel," said Joe.  

"It is Comrade Baugel to you," interrupted the chief information collector, but he was smiling at Joe, though in a somewhat wolfish manner, implying some small suspicion of what was said or not said just before. Joe turned pale, started to stutter, and said, "Of course, Comrade," but Baugel interrupted. 

"Don't worry Joe, I know your heart is in the right place. I know you mean well for the community. Please repeat the story about that bugger. I also didn't trust him. He had that air of superiority about him. I agree with you that he thought he was better than all of us. We are simple Communists, we belong to the workers, we use our hands to produce, our fingernails are not always so clean - but we are proud people, we are the proletariat. Didn't you see him clean his fingernails constantly?"  

Joe suddenly became not so good at telling a story from beginning to end, but he appeared to try hard, his educated speech vanishing, his old not-so-bright routine, developed over the years, was coming back. 

"This was what I saw, Comrade. I swear to you on my sainted mother's grave that what I'm saying is the fucking truth. I watched the comrades with the Comrade Minister. I saw the snot-nosed asshole, the guy we were just talking about, standing very close to the Minister. I saw him stick out his right arm. I saw him push the Minister into the hot steel. I saw him turn and run and then disappear, and his face, it was all twisted up in hate. An animal he was, a fucking animal." By the time Joe finished he was completely covered in sweat and needed to take a large drink of his beer. He looked at his fellows and said, "Ain't that the truth? Didn't you see all that, just like I said?" And they all nodded, muttering, "That's the truth." Baugel was now taking notes of all this, and thanked Joe. 

Michael was a very good friend of the floor manager who assigned the work in the shop. He spoke, with a snide snicker.  

"Do you think it was by accident that the scumbag got to work on cast iron and aluminum in the workshop? We all know that your hands can't be cleaned when you work those metals. The Comrade Manager noticed how he loved his fingernails, cleaned them, had his own special nail-brush, that's why he had to teach him a lesson. Clean fingernails belong to the rich, to those who exploited us for thousands of years, exactly as Comrade Stalin said." 

The fourth man was silent so far. His name was Aladar, a name he was ashamed of because many former members of the Hungarian aristocracy, who now were designated as class-enemies, shared it. He, in fact, had attempted to change the name to Vladimir, to emulate his idol, Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Lenin. The judge, hearing his application for the change made a comment which stung him at the time and hurt him still. There was only one Lenin and nobody could use his name.  

"But Comrade judge ...," muttered Aladar, at a loss how to protest.  

"Shut up," said the judge. "Go home. Go away. Don't come back." 

This story wasn't widely known in the company, and Aladar didn't boast of it. 

"Why did the kid run?" asked Aladar. "Only the guilty run that fast. Where did he run to? We saw him, he was standing too close to the Comrade Minister, he wasn't part of the group. What the fuck was he doing there anyways? How could he be allowed to be there in front of the bodyguards?"  

Baugel, who had been listening attentively and continued to take notes, said to all of them. "You did well to tell me your story. I will make sure that you get a commendation from the Party. In some time, you may consider applying for membership and as you know, there is no better acknowledgement of your faith in our Communist future than that. If the criminal ever gets caught, you may have to repeat your story in a court and I am sure you will do that well. He mustn't go unpunished." 

The meeting was over. Baugel left, after shaking hands with the four. With Baugel out of hearing range, Joe said, "Come back when it's over."  

They also left, not looking at each other, not shaking hands, just wanting to get the hell out of there.  

The next morning the list of names of people to be questioned was posted on the wall of every shop in the factory. All were to appear later in the morning and wait in the lunchroom of the police station. No one was told when it would be his turn and everyone knew that it might well be days before they were allowed to leave. They knew what to expect, either from personal experience or from a friend's story. Interrogation by the Secret Service wasn't a gentle event. No Geneva Convention, no "innocent until proven guilty," no kid gloves, no ban on slapping, kicking or brutalizing. There was one and only one aim: confession at all cost.  

Joe was the first of the four conspirators to enter the room. It was his first encounter with the Secret Service and he was frightened. The room itself didn't look encouraging. It was in the basement of the station with only a small window which had an iron grill on it, giving the impression of a jail cell. It was about 15 feet by 15 feet square. The lack of ventilation left the acrid smell of sweat and urine of the previous occupant fouling the air. There was a small desk, a pad of paper, a pencil, and table lamp, aimed directly at the Joes' face, blinding him. He was told to sit on the chair facing the desk, not to move and to just wait. His watch, belt, glasses and shoelaces were removed. There was no sound and Joe was aware only of the pounding of his heart.  

The door opened quietly after an excruciatingly long wait. A uniformed police officer entered and Joe noticed the blue collar, identifying a member of the Secret Service. Decorations and stripes indicated that the man was a fairly high-ranking officer, though Joe was unable to tell how high. He was young, relaxed, clean and cool. His hands were rough though, with broken fingernails, Joe noticed, and that wasn't a good sign. His physical labour most likely consisted of the sharp end of the interrogations. He sat down at the desk, didn't look at Joe, said nothing but picked up the pencil and began to write, slowly and neatly, such that with his glasses Joe could have read the text.  

After another interminable wait during which the only audible sound was the scratching of the pencil against the paper, the officer looked up and smiled at Joe, a genuinely friendly smile, and said, in a quiet, gentle tone, "I am Major Komlos. You know, of course, what the objective of this meeting is. There is a suspicion that the death of the Comrade Minister wasn't accidental. Rumours are circulating that somebody pushed him just as he was at the edge of the pit. My job is to find out everything that you know, did, saw and thought about this matter. And I mean everything. You are well known as a tried and true loyal old-time Communist and you understand that your role is to tell me everything, to answer my questions truthfully and co-operate with me without hesitation." He paused while looking straight at Joe, still smiling. Then he started. 

"Just for the record, please state your name, your place of work, address, names of your wife, children, parents, grandparents, and in-laws."  

The Major was writing as Joe was providing the information, comfortably and slowly. When Joe was finished, he said, "Thank you."  

He added, speaking pleasantly, "Now please remove your trousers." Then came, practically without a break, "May I offer you a cup of tea?"  

Joe, now completely confused, began to remove his trousers with shaking hands and fingers which had difficulty unbuttoning his fly, said, "Yes, that would be highly appreciated." He wondered when the boom would be lowered and why the strip was required. So far the interrogation proved not at all as he expected and while sitting in his underwear was disconcerting, he was pleasantly surprised by the otherwise low keyed treatment.  

The Major rang a bell on the underside of his desk, and both men waited in silence until the tea, boiling hot on a nicely arranged tray, was brought in by another uniformed officer. A sugar container, spoons and a lemon cut into quarters were also on the tray and Joe became quite relaxed. The tray was placed on the table. The Major smiled again and asked, "May I call you Joe?" and Joe answered "Yes, of course, Major."  

"Now, Joe. You are a Communist. Tell me the truth. Why did you push the Comrade Minister into the container of the hot steel? Didn't you know that he would die? Didn't you know that he would suffer? Didn't you know that killing is against the law? Didn't you know that the punishment for murder is hanging?" 

As the Major was talking, still quietly, calmly and still smiling, he stood up with his cup of tea and moved to the other side of the desk, close to Joe's chair. Joe was in shock by now. He knew that accusations would fly, that his past as a loyal Communist would be of no consequence here but the low keyed manner of the bald charge, the smiling Major and the jolt of it all confused him totally. He began to stammer. 

"Major Komlos, your accusations are ...," and at that point the cup of tea, still boiling hot, overturned with hot brew landing on his crotch and immediately scalding his penis and scrotum. As he screamed in pain, the Major kicked the chair and Joe landed on the floor, still screaming and clutching his badly damaged parts.  

"I am sorry, so sorry, I apologize. I know that my clumsiness hurt you badly. I just slipped, you see, the floor wasn't cleared well, it should have been washed," exclaimed the Major, managing to look badly embarrassed and helping Joe back on his chair. "As soon as we finish here you will get medical help. The nurse will apply a salve to your burns and the pain will ease immediately. Now let's get back to where we were. I asked you a few questions and your answers were interrupted by my clumsiness and by this unfortunate and highly regrettable episode. I promise not to repeat it. I still want to know, though, why you murdered the Comrade Minister." 

Joe, still in agonizing pain, wasn't at all certain if the hot tea incident was an accident. The pain however cleared his mind and he remembered the discussion of the previous day. It was time to tell the story so he began, trying to keep his voice steady, "Comrade Major, I didn't kill anybody...," and he watched as the face of the kindly, smiling Major changed into the face of fury, and he heard the deafening roar. 

"You fucking snivelling scumbag, you piece of shit, you will confess and will not leave here alive until you do, do I make myself clear?" And the smile was back. 

"Comrade Major, please listen to my story. Let me finish. I am not the guy you want. I saw what happened in the foundry. I saw who murdered the Comrade. I saw him push and I saw him run. I was too stunned to run after him and catch him. Instead I wanted to help save the poor Comrade. I also know the name of the motherfucker," Joe said fast, before another cup of hot tea or worse should visit him. 

"Now we are getting somewhere," said the Major, with obvious satisfaction. "You see, everyone confesses here to everything they know. You will now tell me all that you know. The facts, the names, the truth." 

And Joe told all, as agreed, hoping that the three others would back his story. He told how he saw the right arm of Lederer reach out, how the bodyguards were looking elsewhere, how Lederer's face was disfigured in pure hate, how he pushed and ran. The Major wrote everything down carefully and when finished, gave the pencil to Joe to sign the statement.  

"Joe. I am sure you understand the gravity of what you have just signed. To summarize: you accused somebody of committing a terrible crime. Convince me now that you did this, not to save your own skin but that what you told me was the complete truth." 

Joe wasn't sure how to prove to the Major that his fabrication was indeed the true story of the murder. He was actually surprised at himself and at his brain, which, in spite of the pain in his crotch and the humiliation of sitting in his wet underwear, was now working. He decided to take a chance on the Major being a fellow comrade and said, while trying to control the shaking in his voice, "Major, I am a Communist. Just as you are a Communist. I am also quite a bit older than you. I have spent time in jail for my underground activities and beliefs in the past when Communist ideas were banned. Us Communists don't lie. What I told you was what I saw. These are the facts." He now thought that the Major looked impressed, or was that only acting? But the smile was back, the low keyed and friendly tone was also back.  

The Major went on, "OK, Joe. You are a Communist. Actually I know you are. And you are right, Communists don't lie. So here is my next question. When you were questioned yesterday, why didn't you tell then what you told me now?" 

"I was in shock, Major. I froze. I wish I could've reacted faster but the sad fact was, I couldn't and I will never forgive myself for it. I am ready to accept the punishment that I deserve, and I hope it will be harsh."  

"There will be no punishment, Joe. Your confession here absolves you of responsibility. Put on your pants, you are free to go. Go up to the next floor, to the medical office, see the nurse, get your burns treated. Don't leave town in case I need to ask you more questions. You can go back to work." 

Joe stood, got his pants back on, noted the lack of a handshake, and got out of there as fast as his burned jewels allowed, before the Major changed his mind. He did get the salve in the treatment centre, applied by a nurse, and true, the cream helped. Back to work now, happy to get the hell out of this building, hoping never to come back.  

All three of his friends were also questioned by Major Komlos. All gave essentially the same story and it wasn't to the Major's credit that he didn't suspect collusion, didn't check their background and didn't know of the friendship of the four. He didn't bother to talk to Baugel who could have told him about the meeting in the pub. He didn't check their employment records. He simply informed his superior, General Kovacs, that four independent, voluntary statements proved that the murderer had been identified without any possible doubt. 

The General's question concerning a scalded set of balls and their relation to a statement given without duress, resulted in a smirk by the Major and a description of how the hot tea slipped and fell on the poor guy's instruments.  

Next day, Major Komlos was meeting General Kovacs to summarize his findings. The meeting took place in one of the heavily protected conference rooms in the main building of the Secret Service. Only the two men were present. Komlos began. 

"Comrade General. My findings point clearly and unequivocally to the fact that a premeditated, cold-blooded brutal murder took place in the foundry a few days ago. The answers provided by reliable, long time Communist workers unambiguously indicate that a young scoundrel, who had no business to be in the foundry, committed the dastardly act. He hasn't been seen since, but I have initiated a search for him. We will find him and he will be punished." 

As the Major spoke, he saw the General's obvious discomfort. When the General began his reply, the reasons became evident.  

"Major, you did a remarkable job. You were efficient and you identified the criminal. There are a few problems, though, and what I am about to say will not go beyond this room. You, as a true Communist, will appreciate what I am about to say." He continued. "You must know about the counter-revolution going on outside. All our forces are committed to fighting the insurgents. There is no time now to look for a murderer. You will get your orders to join the battle and I'm sure that you will distinguish yourself, defending Communism. There is another, potentially more important point. I looked at the files of the Comrade Minister's bodyguards. One of them is called Rakosi, and he is the second cousin of our beloved comrade, the former First Secretary of the Party who is now receiving medical help in the Soviet Union. I am sure you join me in wishing him a complete and fast recovery. His and the other guards' failure to stop the murder mustn't ever be publicly acknowledged. The conclusion is that no crime was committed. No further action is to be taken. No public announcement of the event will ever be made. The search for the killer is to be called off, on my orders. There will be no, and I repeat, no mention of this case ever again."  

He stopped here for a sip of water, but also wanted to let the Major absorb the bitter news. His investigation wouldn't be acknowledged, the promotion he was sure of wouldn't happen, and he was to live with a secret shared only by his boss. He thought of objecting but the General was faster and said with only a slight increase of volume and just a hint of threat. 

"Did I make myself completely clear, Major? Give me your Communist word that this is the end of the affair which, from this point on, never happened and doesn't exist," and he watched for any sign of hesitation, knowing very well that that would be extremely unpleasant for the Major. The Major knew that also, and he stood up and replied right away, in a clear loud voice, looking straight into the eyes of his superior. 

"Comrade General, you have my word as a true Communist. I will never reveal what transpired here." 

The two men stood, shook hands and parted company. 

One evening a few days later, the same workers were in the pub, at the same table, drinking beer again. Three of them were there. Aladar didn't show and none of the others questioned where he might be or why he wasn't coming. He wasn't seen at his workplace after the incident in the foundry and at the questioning. He wasn't seen in the room he was renting. The men drank without talking. They knew that sometimes people disappear after an interrogation and they knew not to mention it. Neither in public, nor in private, with anybody, ever. When the beer was finished, they stood up, shook hands and left, still in silence. At the door, they hugged each other.

CHAPTER 2 

BUDAPEST, 1955

Shortly after I began my career as a skilled worker in the summer of 1955, I was approached by a western spy agency. The contact was extremely low-keyed, such that no observer would have noted anything untoward. It happened on a sunny and warm Saturday and as always, I was spending the time at my favourite set of swimming pools in Csillaghegy, a small town, reachable by a tram line from Budapest. There were several pools there, of various sizes, for bathing, playing and swimming, in addition to places reserved for suntanning, picnics, soccer and general relaxation. I was swimming in one of the pools which was divided into two halves. In the other half a friendly water polo game was going on. Suddenly a ball was thrown over the bulkhead separating the pools, hit me in my left eye and knocked me out. I must have been pulled out of the water, resuscitated and when I came to, I had a blue, swollen eye and there was a small piece of paper with a telephone number tucked into the belt of my bathing suit. I was young, curious and carefree at the time, and I called the number and was simply told to be at a particular location at a particular time. I was still curious, so I went. I swore never to reveal who I met at that place.  

I was trained in Hungary, at non-disclosable locations, at non-disclosable times by non-disclosable methods and non-identifiable instructors, to become a covert operator. The instructors always appeared in complete disguise and I never even found out their gender. They spoke through microphones that altered their speech. They wore gloves, summer and winter. I was driven to locations, always wearing blindfolds. I was never allowed to write anything down.  

There were a few "musts" and these included studying Machiavelli's Prince and Mann's Confessions of Felix Krull, Confidence Man. We were taught how to keep a poker face, regardless of circumstances. We were trained to fool the best lie detectors and this included acquiring the ability to control heartbeat, blood pressure and sweat glands. We learned how to apply hypnosis. We were subjected to it, as well. We were taught how to control the sessions while the hypnotist is unaware of this. These were not easy. Memory training was another activity, practised every day, until even the slowest among us developed near photographic memory. One of the techniques was borrowed from an old FBI text. The teacher would suddenly turn to one of us and say, "You looked out the window ten minutes ago. What did you see?" Woe to you if you couldn't describe all in minute detail. 

We also learned how to manipulate people, but after the poker face, the superb memory, the inevitable acting classes and my enjoyment of the outcomes, this was easy.  

After training in various hidden locations, a spy, in order to graduate, had to be "made," similar in a sense to being "made" within the Mafia. An anonymous instructor assigned a project, the one criterion being that the assignment be similar to those in "Mission Impossible," the old TV serial. No attention was paid to danger, no attention was paid to broken laws or harm done to civilians. The assignment was to be completed successfully. The only point of importance was that the aspiring spy should emerge from the project with nobody suspecting her. Or him. Projects might have appeared to be easy on the surface. But all kinds of difficulty and danger existed in all of them. 

My success at graduation depended on my ability to achieve what none succeeded at so far. I was to gain entry to the Communist Party headquarters at the place of my employment and remove the dossier dealing with the much feared and hated local secretary. They suspected that the contents were of a highly damaging nature, including fraud, bribery, major theft and sodomy, which were glossed over by his superiors, fearing that he had collected damaging information about them also. I was to get a copy of this file. Photocopying wasn't available at the time and copies were to be made by old fashioned photography or handwriting. I was to replace the files before the next morning. I wasn't the first to be given this assignment. The three previous trainees who tried it were never seen again. I wasn't given a deadline. I was told that when the copies reached the office of Radio Free Europe in West Germany, this would be acknowledged and the deed was never to be mentioned again. Please check the archives of Radio Free Europe, dated October 3, 1955, 4 p.m., Berlin time, though they may still be classified. You will be surprised. The broadcast was heard by the right personnel and I became "made," a political spy. The Party Secretary was arrested a few weeks after the broadcast and confessed to have always been a spy, of course in the pay of the CIA. He disappeared.  

Two other goodies I learned in the spy school deserve mention. I learned to keep secrets as I learned not to trust anyone not related to me. Also I learned to keep a poker face, no emotion to be shown, unless I allowed it. So far, both have served me well. 

 CHAPTER 3 

BUDAPEST, 2001

Budapest is a city of cafes in the comfortable old-world style. The daily newspapers are always available, hung on wooden frames and you can sit and read them as long as you like. Order a simple espresso which is served with a small glass of water, sip it slowly and nobody will bother you. I visit the city, the place where I was born, as often as possible. During one of my recent trips in the spring of 2001, I was spending a restful afternoon in one of these cafes, my favourite, where the servers know well that I want the coffee to be steaming hot and that the tip that follows is worth the extra care and effort.  

By that time, Communism was long gone. The regime in Hungary had changed from the "Dictatorship of the Proletariat" to a democratic republic more than a decade before. Numerous political parties freely competed for power. Discussions of politics, government policies and economic directions were encouraged and held freely. Many of the discussions were held in cafes, much like the one in which I planned to read the papers. 

The cafe was recently rebuilt and renovated. The dark brown parquet floors were covered by modern carpets. The walls were wood paneled. There were paintings by Munkacsy, a well-know Hungarian artist of the 19th century, which appeared to be originals or at the least, very good copies. The old chandelier was there, just as it was when the place opened its doors over a century ago. The padded armchairs and marble tables were most inviting.  

I was reading an article in a newspaper about the death of the vice Prime Minister, Peter Valyi, in 1973, in a tragic accident during a visit to a steel mill. The description of the unfortunate and untimely death of the Party functionary caused me some unsettled feelings. I couldn't identify the cause of my unease. Vague memories of the 1956 revolution and the last few days at my place of employment in the machine shop near the foundry were in my mind but the connections to my anxiety appeared to be tenuous.  

I began to research and contacted a few newspapers, including the one in which the article I just mentioned appeared. I asked for details and to my surprise I received a copy of the original news, as it was published in 1973. That item appeared in the newspaper of the Communist Party of Hungary, Nepszabadsag, in 1973. The title of the newspaper, freely translated, is "Free People," or perhaps "Freedom of the People." Below, I give my translation, as close to the original, as I could make it. The English translation:

Nepszabadsag, 1973.09.16 and 1973.09.19; 

Peter Valyi's accident. 

Peter Valyi is dead.

Peter Valyi, member of the Central Committee of the Hungarian Socialist Labour Party, vice Prime Minister, suffered a serious accident while visiting the foundry of the Lenin Steel Works in Miskolc. He died on Tuesday, September 18, 1973. 

His death was announced by the Central Committee of the Hungarian Socialist Labour Party and the Cabinet of the Hungarian Peoples' Republic. Deep shock has been experienced by our Nation and by our friends abroad. Mr. Alexey Kosygin, Prime Minister of the Soviet Union expressed his and his cabinet's condolences. The funeral will be held on September 24.  

As far as could be ascertained, while Mr. Valyi was visiting the foundry of a steel works, he fell into a container in which the hot steel was held. The chief engineer of the company jumped after him in a heroic, if hopeless, attempt at rescue. Both were pulled out as soon as possible. Mr. Valyi died in agony in a few days and the chief lost both of his legs.  

On reading these accounts, my uncomfortable feelings strengthened and I was still unable to clearly identify their real cause. Why would an event that happened almost 30 years ago, however terrible, upset me so? Discussing this with my wife didn't remove my worries. I was beginning to develop serious, debilitating insomnia and nightmares and needed to ask my physician for sleeping pills which helped only for a couple of hours. Then I woke and the feeling of impending doom returned.  

I was already living peacefully and happily in Canada and I was a Canadian citizen when I first read of Valyi's death. When I received confirmation of the news from one of my high school classmates living in Hungary, I was convinced, immediately and without any doubt, that he'd been murdered. I knew, and needed no proof, that the whole tragic event was set-up well in advance, that at the crucial time, heads were turned and hence no eye-witnesses were ever found. No evidence was necessary to convince me. I was a sceptic.  

The topic of political murders had apparently been discussed in several publications and in television interviews since the end of Communism in Hungary some years ago. Some of these publications, discussing Valyi's death, were available in the archives of the Hungarian newspapers. One of them, entitled "The mysterious death of Peter Valyi", was available on the website of the RTL Klub online (the website of a Hungarian TV station). The article started by identifying the year of 1973 as an unusual year in the countries of Central Europe. According to gossip, several murders of politicians were alleged to have been committed that year. One, mentioned in particular, concerned the Vice-Prime Minister of Poland, killed in a car accident. The article indicated how unusual that was as politicians always traveled in limousines, driven by professional drivers at high speeds, preceded and followed by police on motorcycles while the roads were cleared of traffic.  

Following the tragic, horrible and excruciatingly painful death of Mr. Valyi, rumours, gossip and innuendo began instantly, questioning whether the accident was real or not. Was it, in fact, political murder? Did he slip or was he pushed? If pushed, was it personal revenge or political assassination? If he slipped, how could that happen? Why was the floor so slippery? Why was it not cleaned prior to the visit? If the fumes got to him and he became dizzy as a result, shouldn't someone have been aware of the possibility in advance and given him a mask? Or just a wet towel to hold in front of his face? These questions were asked neither by the public, nor by reporters but only by those who trusted each other's discretion implicitly and by the foundry workers among themselves who were present at the time of the accident and were aware of the dangers to uninitiated visitors. Why was he allowed to go so close to the hot steel? Why was there no protective cordon of people around him? Why were his bodyguards not fast enough or close enough to arrest his fall? If they were not within arms length, why were they standing so far away? No answers to these questions had ever been published. Nobody was accused of a crime or of incompetence and nobody was ever prosecuted.

CHAPTER 4 

BUDAPEST, 2002

During the last few decades I have visited Budapest, at least once, sometimes twice a year. The visits often include attending scientific conferences and meeting old friends, classmates and relatives. I recall my high school years with pleasure. A group of us became very good and close friends and every five years we organize a reunion. When an engineering conference is also held there at the same time, I get to kill the proverbial two birds with one stone, mixing science with pleasure. Buying recently published Hungarian novels allows me to keep up with changes in the language and watching new plays and movies keeps me aware of artistic progress. I go to theatres, to the opera and the museums. My travels, wandering around the city, visiting historic towns or just enjoying the place of my birth have never been interfered with. I have always been free to go where I wanted, travel across the country, talk to whomever I wished.  

This time, in May, 2002, I had been invited to present a keynote paper at a technical conference. I was also to chair one of the sessions, and to lead the discussions that were to follow. I had been looking forward to the visit and as the plane was preparing to land, I was getting excited, knowing that my classmates were waiting at the airport, and that the next few days would increase my spirits and girth.  

I was also ready for the next stage in getting to my hotel by selecting a taxi at the terminal. This wasn't as easy as it should have been.  

While traveling as a tourist in Budapest, you must know a few basic rules. Some are mentioned in most guidebooks and one, in which they all agree, is to take taxis belonging only to certain companies. It is better to call for a cab since the fare is more expensive when you flag one on the street. Cabbies of some upstart companies organize their meters to show unexpectedly high fares. I had been duped at times, even though I speak the lingo and know the scams.  

One of my experiences was quite interesting and educational. I arrived in Budapest, at Ferihegy airport, totally exhausted, and wanted to get to my hotel as soon as possible. I took the first taxi at the stand, a Mercedes. I asked how much the fare would be and was told a not too outrageous sum. I agreed. Just outside the terminal the cabbie pulled over, stopped and said, "I am sorry, I made small mistake. I quoted too low a cost, it will be somewhat more," and told me a sum, 50% over the first quote. In spite of my total lack of energy, I said, loudly and angrily, "Take me back to the terminal right away," at which my driver responded, "OK, OK, I will not fight with you over such a paltry sum," and the original fare remained unchanged. A small victory. No tip at the end, neither was there any attempt to help with my suitcase, but I wasn't beaten up, at least. Some tourists didn't get off that easy when protesting taxi fares. Bloody noses and broken fingers have occasionally been reported. 

Getting off the plane was easy and fast. The bus to the terminal was clean, I got a seat right away, the ride was short, the Passport Check had a large number of wickets and I got to the front of the line within minutes.  

At this point, however, I became a bit concerned. As soon as I presented my Canadian passport at the booth, a good looking, middle-aged lady, wearing the uniform of the border police, took a look at my name, a millisecond look, smiled at me kindly - did I detect some pity in her eyes? - and checked in her computer. Then she said, very politely and quietly so I had to strain to hear, with the line behind me carefully out of hearing distance, and with a hint of a tremor in her voice, "Please remain calm and follow me, Sir." She held on to my passport and started to leave her cubicle.  

"Is there a problem, is my passport not in order?" I asked, but she didn't listen, didn't respond and just walked ahead, moving fast, not looking back to see if I followed, her shoulders stiff. I followed, of course, surprised a bit, concerned even, but still calm as she suggested, since nothing like this had ever happened during my previous visits and I was a frequent visitor. I also realized that there was no choice but to follow, as she had my passport. We were suddenly encircled by several young men in black ill-fitting suits, white shirts and ties, all fairly well built, with bulges under their armpits or near their belts, walking along, surrounding the lady and me. None of them was smiling and they kept their right hands inside their jackets, near the bulges. I became a bit more concerned since obviously they were expecting me, were ready for my arrival and also obviously they considered me dangerous. Why three large guards, with weapons?  

"How long will this take? My friends are waiting at the Arrivals," I asked the lady, then suddenly the old-world Communist caution reminded me that maybe I shouldn't have mentioned my friends. Whatever was happening to me, they shouldn't be involved.  

"Not long I am sure, Sir, please remain calm. We only have to go a little bit further," she repeated, sadly but with an apparent effort and with a bit of uncertainty. The tremor in her voice was still there. Why was she urging me to remain calm repeatedly, why should I not remain calm, I asked again, silently. It was becoming obvious to me that my guards weren't calm, but why were they concerned, why was I taken to be dangerous?  

"We only have to go to a small office in the main immigration centre, about one hundred more steps," she said, which was good because I was exhausted after flying all night, not sleeping, and not wanting this, whatever this was. I wanted it to be over, wanted to be greeted and hugged by my friends, wanted to be taken to my hotel, take a shower, rest and go to my favourite restaurant. I was famished, I was thirsty, I was sweaty, smelly, and I was by now majorly annoyed and also beginning to be frightened and starting not to feel calm at all. A little old-time paranoia was seeping into my brain. Was I back in the past, was I to be interrogated harshly as happened routinely in the old days? 

We arrived at a nondescript door, unidentified, no sign, no bell, but made of steel, not the usual wooden door. The officer lady knocked very quietly, in a certain pattern, which I promised myself to remember, but of course, didn't. When the door was opened, I noticed a layer of thick padding on its inside, for soundproofing? If so, why? If not for soundproofing, what for? Soundproofing was used to muffle the screams of torture victims, I remembered, and felt a bit more insecure and apprehensive about my future.  

Just before I entered, I turned and saw my lady escort leave. The expression on her face was startling. Two conflicting emotions were evident. She looked relieved and furious. She marched away, fled almost, not saying a word to anyone inside the room.  

To my surprise, the room was very impressive and quite clearly it was designed to put people at ease. An awareness of the most up-to-date techniques of questioning and interrogation? First realized by the British Secret Service several dozen years ago, it was much easier to break down the resistance of anyone in pleasant, clean and elegant surroundings. The essential idea was to make the victim think that the interrogators were friends, that they were only doing their jobs. Let's get it over with and go to a local pub afterwards for a bottle of something, like nothing happened. Sometimes the persons being questioned come to identify with their investigators, being totally dependent on them for their happiness and well-being.  

The room wasn't large, measuring about 25 by 25 feet. It was well lit, partly by subdued lights and partly by a large window, overlooking a small forest, with the runways in the distance. There were paintings on the wall which looked to me to be originals by Cezanne and Matisse. There were fresh flowers on the desk. There were comfortable leather chairs and a sofa. The walls were light taupe, matching the colour of the leather chairs. Pillows were of velvet, also well matched in colour. Music was playing, which I couldn't identify as it was too quiet for my hard-of-hearing ears, but nevertheless it was soothing. The air was fresh and clear and if someone had been beaten to death just before we entered, no smell of blood or sweat or any other clues were noticeable. My paranoia was working overtime.  

Another lady met me in the room, good looking, elegant in a dark blue power suit of expensive Italian wool, skirt, not trousers, pale gray silk blouse, small diamond pin on her lapel, looking at me kindly, smiling at me. The only somewhat disconcerting things were her steely, icy blue eyes. She stood up to shake my hand, the handshake was firm and she said, "Please take a seat Sir, this will only take a very short time. I apologize in advance for disrupting your arrival to Budapest." I was reassured a little as the lady's face was kind and understanding, but still I was a bit apprehensive. She gave me the definite impression that she was trying hard to help me out of an embarrassing situation, as fast as possible.  

"Professor Lederer, welcome to Budapest. You may want to go to our rest room, freshen up a bit first," she said. An excellent idea, I thought. My worries, while still present, were slowly leaving my poor brain. Using the toilet, brushing my teeth, brushing my hair, using some hand cream, and straightening my clothes had a slightly uplifting effect, but not enough to remove all annoyance and concern.  

She started the interview, smiling at me, offering a cup of steaming hot espresso which she made herself, good crema on top, along with a small glass of soda water, as was usual in civilized cafes.  

"Professor Lederer, I am Mrs. Hegedus, a Colonel in the Hungarian Secret Service. I would like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind," she started, still smiling, but those eyes! Looking straight at me, no blinking, no wavering. Her eyes made me uneasy.  

Have I got a choice? Several thoughts were circulating in my brain now, lucky that the aged organ still worked. What could I have said to this introduction? Was I to be belligerent? Should I raise my voice and yell, "How dare you interrupt the visit of a Canadian citizen?" Or, should I start to co-operate, realizing that maybe the "innocent till proven guilty" idea had very little use among police and especially among secret service agents trained in the former Communist countries. I was feeling cornered and helpless. Quite a bit by now. I was afraid, actually terrified. Nobody knew where I was. I didn't carry a cell phone. My friends would wait a few minutes and when they didn't see me arriving, they would assume that I missed my plane. They would leave and wait for me to call them later, explaining the delay. None of them could even imagine that I was detained. None of them would call the Canadian Consulate. None of them would think that anything was out of the ordinary. While I was no chicken and had the ability to frighten people by a simple look, much of my previously learned scare tactics were developed to deal with students, the young and impressionable. I had no occasion to confront people in my spy-days, having worked mostly undercover. Would a hard look work on Mrs. Hegedus? She was old enough to have learned how to deal with criminals, political and otherwise. She must have learned her interrogating techniques in the old-fashioned way, by the hands-on approach, as an apprentice to a specialist. These thoughts frightened me a bit more, and chicken or not, I thought it best to co-operate, not shout, accept what was coming, not make her angry.  

"Go ahead with your questions, Mrs. Hegedus," I said and hoped that my voice didn't shake. My hands were not shaking yet, a good sign, but as my anxiety grew, I knew that they would start shaking and sweating soon.  

"I would like to ascertain your identity formally first, if you don't mind," she began, the polite tone and the smile, a really genuine friendly smile, still present. "You are John G. Lederer, recently retired professor of engineering. You live in Waterloo, Canada, in a large house, in an expensive, fashionable neighbourhood. You worked at the University of Waterloo from 1989 until your retirement earlier this year. You were highly displeased that you had to retire as you believed that the practice was officially sanctioned discrimination against the grey masses. Before your work in Waterloo, you were a professor of mechanical engineering at the University of New Brunswick and before that at the University of Alberta. Prior to that you worked at the Ryerson Polythechnical Institute, now known as Ryerson University and at the University of Toronto. You worked as a lecturer, as an assistant, then associate, then full professor. Are all these correct?"  

"Yes, Mrs. Hegedus, your information is correct," I responded. So she knew exactly who I was, what I was thinking, at least about enforced retirement, and what my employment history was. My thoughts about retirement or my job were not listed in my passport so this wasn't a random questioning. What was going on? I noted with some alarm that my hands started to shake. She was well prepared. She made these statements without consulting any notes. There was no dossier on her desk. My head was full of questions. Who provided the information? Why did she have it? How did she get to know my thoughts about forced retirement? Was there a spy, a mole in Waterloo? Were my office or home telephones bugged? What would her next question be? What was happening to me? Why was this happening? She gave me the cup of espresso, steaming hot, almost painfully so but that was how I liked it, and she knew that, scalding hot but how did she know? How did she know about my coffee addiction?  

"Did you leave Hungary, illegally, as a political refugee after the 1956 counter-revolution?" was her next question. 

"Yes, I did," I said and I was ready to correct her, to remind her that when Communism ended some years ago, the "counter-revolution of 1956" became the "revolution" immediately, but she didn't wait for me, she barreled on, not arrogantly but in a business-like manner. 

"Please tell me how you left the country," she asked. The story still causes me some disequilibrium when I think about it even now, and some loss of sleep when I tell it, so I hesitated but she prompted me. "Please just tell, briefly, as it happened," and she looked at me encouragingly and expectantly, but oh those icy eyes didn't ever blink, how could she have such control? 

"We heard through the BBC that thousands were streaming out of Hungary and into Austria. We heard that the mine fields at the border had been removed. We heard on Radio Free Europe, Voice of America and the BBC, that as freedom fighters, we would be welcome in the west with open arms. We also heard the messages from those that arrived in Austria, broadcast on the BBC. I was the most eager member of my family to leave. My sister had just gotten married to a physician. They delayed leaving, worried about how they would make a living out there. I was to attempt the departure first."  

I started the story and noted without any real surprise that my hands continued to shake. I went on. "My father was walking home from his office which had just opened after the shooting on the streets ended. As he stopped for a red light, a farmer, or at least someone who looked and dressed like one, sidled up to him and whispered, 'I live very near the Austro-Hungarian border. I will take you across for a small fee,' and looked away as if he had said nothing. My father, also looking elsewhere, whispered back, 'Please follow me home,' and his courage or recklessness in saying this is still a source of amazement to me. The deal was struck in our kitchen. The farmer, who never told us his name, would take me to one of the Austrian border guards. Half of the fee was to be paid right then, half when I was safely in the west. No paperwork, no contract, no certainty that the man was what he claimed to be, and as far we knew, he could be a police officer. None of us trusted him fully but the decision was made: I was going. A private talk with my parents followed. Both of them were deathly pale and very concerned, not knowing if, when and where we would meet next. The man and I left right then. I had a toothbrush in my pocket. Anything else would look out of place and much too suspicious. We agreed on the text I was to send via the BBC."  

I needed to stop here for a glass of water, my throat was dry and I noticed more shaking and that I was also covered in perspiration, head-to-toe. The water was cold and it made me feel better, though the tremors continued. 

"Please go on, Professor," said my interrogator and as I looked at her, I was surprised to see some genuine interest. So on I went.  

"The rest of the story is simple. We took a train to my guide's village. We waited for darkness and simply walked over the now-cleared mine fields. I appreciated the chance to follow him a few steps behind, as I didn't want to be the victim of a forgotten mine, but the farmer was sure-footed, didn't hesitate and walked fast. All of 30 minutes were needed to get close to the actual border and we saw that there was a hut straight ahead with a few soldiers standing outside, smoking.  

'Those are Austrians,' said my liberator. 'It is time to pay me the other half of the fee. Then you walk there on your own,' he said. Not quite what we agreed, but I did as he wanted and he was right. As soon as the soldiers saw me, they waved, smiled and hugged me when I got there." 

"An interesting story. Thank you for sharing it with us," said the Colonel and I detected just a little bit of sarcasm. She moved on, more comments, questions.  

"You went to England where you worked as a junior draftsman and when you found that your sister and her husband arrived in Canada, after being refused entry to the United States, you followed, at the expense of the Red Cross? Am I still reasonably well informed?" 

"Yes, you are dear lady," I was trying to soften the atmosphere but she gave me an icy look with knitted brows, flashing the steely blues, and showing, for the first time, some distaste, probably of me. 

"You studied engineering and after obtaining your doctorate, you were offered a position at an aircraft company in Toronto, which you accepted and then declined three days later?" She continued the questions. 

"Yes, Mrs. Hegedus, your facts are correct, but how do you know all this?" I asked, trying to be friendly, getting her engaged in a conversation. She ignored my question, as if she didn't hear or didn't care. 

"Am I correct that while you worked in New Brunswick you were visited by a senior member, detective-sergeant Lucien Lafleur, of the counterintelligence unit of the RCMP, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police?" she continued, evidently quite proud of her pronunciation of the name in English, flawlessly as far as I could tell, in perfect Canadian.  

"Yes," I said and I recalled the visit, also the topics we discussed at the initiative of my visitor, a detective-sergeant. I was asked about my frequent trips to Hungary, the price of hotel rooms and the price of meals there, implying that maybe I didn't pay for them and didn't know how much they cost. Hence I must have been a paid informer. I recalled that I was also asked by the same visitor to report back on what I saw while in Hungarian laboratories and I absolutely refused, saying that I wouldn't report on my friends and asked the visitor to leave without delay. Was my rash and precipitate action coming back to haunt me now? Was it imaginable that the RCMP passed some information about me to the Hungarian Secret Service? 

"As a result of that visit, did you begin to report some facts concerning the research of Hungarian scientists to the RCMP, using unmarked envelopes, wiped clear of fingerprints, using stamps that you didn't lick with your tongue, mailing them from various locations?" was her next question. 

"No, this is absolutely not true Colonel Hegedus," I said, and I felt my temperature and pressure rising. The conversation we were talking about took place over 30 years ago, ended badly as I remember the rage in the face of the RCMP person as I threw him out of my office. Was this his revenge? Or, is the Colonel twisting facts to rattle me a little? And I was feeling rattled and it wasn't a good feeling. I was worried. Does Mrs. Hegedus know that Hungary is now a democracy, not a dictatorship of the proletariat and that brings with it some changes in the handling of detained people? That one couldn't simply detain a visitor, cause discomfort while smiling at him. Or could that be done? Could I call the Canadian Consulate? I thought yes, but how? Would she allow me to make a call? Would she allow me to use the telephone book to look up the number? Was it time to call a friend and to get a lawyer in here? 

"Professor, I have absolute and conclusive proof that you are lying to me now," she said in a matter-of-fact, unemotional, flat tone. Turning to the guards standing behind me, she continued, "Where is that envelope and letter we intercepted, written by this lying scum?" Then she turned back to me, not expecting an answer so this was just the usual Joe McCarthy trick of, "...I have in my briefcase a document...," and I got reassured, the "absolute proof" may not, in fact, exist. It may be time to take control of the situation, I thought.  

"Colonel Hegedus, I want to call the Canadian Consulate," I started but she interrupted, now quite rudely, "I don't much care what you want Professor. No calls," and I was left to wonder again how this chat would end. 

"Did you work in the Hungarian Steel Mills (then called Rakosi Matyas Muvek, formerly Weiss Manfred Industries, one of the largest manufacturing companies in Europe before WWII) immediately before leaving the country? Did you work as a milling machine operator? Did you transfer to the tool and die design office in May, 1956"? Her next set of questions came, machine-gun fast, one after another, the friendly manner gone. We had become adversaries and I felt I was being interrogated like a criminal, and this wasn't a good feeling.  

I caught the first inaccurate fact in the lady's information and this made me feel a bit less bad. She identified my first job as a milling machine operator. I was working on a lathe, only and exclusively. I made it a point to remember this flaw, in case it should become useful. I had no intention of correcting her.  

"Why are you....," I tried to say, but she was still faster and didn't mind interrupting me. She reverted to the original kind, polite tone. Her eyes didn't blink and didn't leave my face. 

"Do you recall an event in the foundry shop in 1956 where the Minister of Industrial Production fell into the hot steel and died?" and she continued looking straight into my eyes. Her eyes didn't waver, didn't blink. The look was disconcerting. It was a hard look. Her gentleness was gone again. The smile was there but it was brittle, unkind and strained. 

Now I was getting seriously concerned. What was she talking about? In the old days, decades ago, I was in the habit of anticipating difficult times and situations, was ready for them, and was able to rise to each occasion. I got out of practice unfortunately and these days when I get into an unexpected and threatening situation, I often have trouble concentrating. It takes a while to reassert control and to stem the increasing panic. Was I in a time machine, taking me back to the Communist era? Was I in the hands of the old Secret Service, was I in danger of being lost in the gulag, which I thought to have disappeared with the old regime? I continued to sweat, my former training deserting me big time. She must have seen the beads of perspiration, the increasing tremor, the major loss of self-confidence, the loss of the poker-face. I was frightened. Like never before in my life.  

"No, Mrs. Hegedus, I don't remember," I began to whisper, and the slap came out of nowhere, on my ear, an open-palm slap, hard and shocking. I didn't even see one of the guards who escorted us from the passport-check kiosk standing behind me, nor did I notice the signal from the Colonel to the gorilla to hit. The slap was sharp. It knocked me out of my chair and my nose began to bleed. I had never been slapped before in my life and the humiliation was intense and total. My ear started to ring. My hearing aid got pushed deep inside the ear canal. 

I reached into my pocket for a handkerchief, pulled it out and it was snatched out of my hand. I reached for a tissue on the desk, and she slapped my hand. Blood was running into my mouth, and I had to wipe it using my sleeve and those around me were laughing and Mrs. Hegedus said, "You are making your pretty sweater dirty, Professor," and looked quite disgusted. The interrogation continued.  

"Get back in your chair, Professor. Don't get your mess on the leather," said Mrs. Hegedus. The transformation from the friendly attitude to that of an executioner was fast and complete. If I were not the one on the spot, I would have found it fascinating to observe. Now she looked much older. The wrinkles appeared, the snarl was audible, the polite, quiet tone changed to a rasp when she talked, the hate and the venom were thick. No more "please". 

"Let me ask the question again, Professor. Do you recall an event in the foundry shop, in 1956, when the Minister of Industrial Production fell into the molten steel, screamed in terror and burned to death in a most horrifying way?" she repeated, looking at me, directly into my eyes, no wavering. She continued, "It is time to reply, Professor." Each time she sneered when addressing me as Professor. 

While I used to be brave, I wasn't a brave person any more. I was terrified of being beaten and I felt completely defenceless. "Please give me a tissue, I would like to clean the bloo...," I began to speak and this time someone grabbed my ears from the back and pulled me to my feet. The pain was intense. Then I was let go suddenly and I collapsed on the floor. 

"Get up. The same question once again, Professor. Think back, think hard, and think correctly. It is 1956. You work in the factory. You go for a walk. You walk through the foundry where you don't belong. You see a group of senior visitors. You stop to watch. You approach the group. You mingle with them. You get near the VIP, the Minister. He slips and falls into the hot steel," she said. She spoke a bit more kindly. Maybe she felt a bit sorry for me. She knew that I was reduced to a helpless piece of garbage. I had a sudden thought. Was it possible that she had once also been subjected to this kind of treatment?  

"Where you there? Did you see this terrible tragedy?" She shouted suddenly. 

"No, I wasn't there, no, I didn't see the tragedy," I managed to say. I noticed that one of my teeth was loose. I got hit again, this time on the nape of my neck. Not a strong blow, just enough to make me slide out of the chair, and I was on the floor again, trying to get up when the kick to my stomach was delivered, this time by the kind lady herself, wearing the latest Parisian shoe fashion, sharp tip, straight to the solar plexus and I was gasping for air. The pain was excruciating, the urge to puke overwhelming. I tried but couldn't stop, I had no strength to get up and go to the toilet, out it came, the airplane food, the coffee, on the carpet, which I noticed again, as an original Persian, hand-made by children, of pure cashmere, an exquisite design.  

"You will clean that up before we are through with you, dear Professor," yelled the Colonel.  

The door opened suddenly and three elderly men, looking to be in their eighties, entered. I didn't recognize two of them but the third, a giant with the largest hands I had ever seen, twigged something in my brain. Maybe later if I got out of here alive, I might recall why or where. Maybe my so far excellent memory would return. My confusion was increasing. Why were these people here? What did they want of me? I was in pain. 

The men were unshaven, sloppy and smelly. Their clothes were filthy. All three smelled of sweat and beer. Evidently poor in both spirit and funds, they looked mean and vengeful. My memory was jogged a little again. Maybe I had seen them, but how could I be sure of when, how, under what circumstances?  

"That's him," said one of the men, the shortest among them, rattling as he spoke. "There is no doubt about it in my mind. I see it now as clear as I saw it then. I stood directly behind him. I even smelled his cologne, he smelled like a pansy. I knew him from before, from his days as a milling machine operator. He never stopped complaining. He hated to have his hands dirty, he was always picking at his fingernails. I hated him then, hate him now. The little bugger, the fucking professor, may he rot in hell. I would like to squeeze his filthy, scrawny neck. He pushed the Minister. He is the killer. He ran, not looking back and didn't report to work the next day. I am sure. That's him. For sure. I swear. Let my teeth fall out if I am lying." Spittle was on his chin. He was sweating profusely but he was pointing at me. His fingernails indicated expertise in nosepicking, his expression pure hate and he scared me even more.  

The other man, standing up to his full height said, unbidden, "Madame Colonel, my friend was speaking the absolute truth." He was trying to speak with authority, quietly and with clarity, surprisingly contradicting his slovenly appearance. The third man, the big guy remained silent. 

"Take him away. I can't stand the sight of the bastard," said the Colonel, now looking very much like a police officer, notwithstanding the elegant clothes and the smooth manner. The door opened, I was handcuffed, and the three slobs helped the gorillas drag me out through the back door. I was barely able to move my legs, I was thrown into a cell...

Six days later, and I hadn't slept through the night once. I woke up every few minutes. I knew it was six days because I marked each day by scratching the pipe running under the sink. I also recalled vaguely that I spent a few days in a hospital, some of them in a coma. The cell wasn't as it must have been in the past. It was clean, spacious, about 15 by 15 feet, one bed, not a cot, real bedding, comforter, pillow, all clean, a toilet in the corner, also clean. The door had a small window, open most of the time. Another small window let the light in. There was a desk with a comfortable chair in front of it. I was allowed to go to the library which was quite well stocked, law books, novels, classics, modern, recent publications, newspapers, available on the day they were published, in English and Hungarian, without any censorship. I asked for a computer, which I got within two hours. Connection to the internet was also easily available, but no e-mail, no VOIP. I was allowed to go to the gym when I chose, at the times I wished, where modern weight machines, treadmills, benches and even personal trainers were available. There was no swimming pool, a pity. 

The food was also quite good, not the kind I read about, not slop, not greasy. Fresh vegetables and a variety of fruits were provided. The coffee was hot, the espresso machine was in the jail's common room. The cutlery and the dishes were clean. The guards were young, pleasant and they treated me with respect. They addressed me as Professor, as Mrs. Hegedus did, at least at the beginning of her interrogation. They let me shower every day, they helped in cleaning my clothes and when they found out that I spoke English, they asked if I would teach them so there were daily language lessons. First to the guards, then other convicts also joined, appeared to appreciate the chance and didn't mind the homework, which was usually done well and on time. I was the oldest and I also got to provide fatherly advice and counselling.  

The downside was that I hadn't been told why I was there or what the future held for me. I didn't know if I would be charged with a crime. I didn't know how long this nightmare would last. My questions weren't answered, not even by the young lady, Julie, one of my friendliest guards, whom I had counseled already as she was going through a period of depression. Further, I wasn't allowed to talk to anybody outside the prison. No lawyers, no contact with the Canadian Consulate, no visits by consular officials, no telephone calls, to or by me. I expected that my family was trying to find out what had happened to me. The Canadian Consulate must have been attempting to get information about me, but all this must have happened without anyone telling me. Was it surprising that I couldn't sleep? I wondered how long I could go on with no rest. My uneasiness was growing daily, my vision was affected and some of the time I found that I was hallucinating. And the worst of it were the daily visits by the Colonel and her goons. The questions were the same every day and when I responded it was never what they wanted. I wasn't yet ready to lie to satisfy them. The slaps were delivered and the beatings, kicks and lifting me by my ear were repeated for hours, leaving me nearly unconscious. On occasion they paraded me naked in the halls and the humiliation was supposed to make me confess to murder. Luckily it didn't but I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to hold out for much longer. When the torturers were out of sight, the guards came to clean me up, to place me on my bed and to care for me until I was able to function again.  

As a result of the lack of sleep I was getting more and more disoriented, and while I realized that sleep deprivation was a common method of breaking down the resistance of tough prisoners, I didn't understand why I was being subjected to the treatment. What could my supposed crime have been? Nobody ever bothered me during my previous visits to Budapest. Why now? What happened and why was I not told? 

The knock on my cell door in the morning was so unexpected that at first I didn't know what was happening and what I was to do. Guards, interrogators, food delivery people didn't knock. They just barged in, regardless of the time of the day. This was different, an unusual event, maybe an unusual visitor.  

"Please enter," I said finally. When I overcame my shock, I stood up to greet whoever was visiting. The door opened slowly and a lady entered, short, middle-aged, not good looking but an obviously intelligent, serious face, not smiling, but the visible smile-lines at her eyes indicated that smiles came easily to her. She was dressed well, wearing a skirt and a jacket, a neat white linen blouse, well-cut, no jewellery, no make up. She wasn't fashionable, but elegant in a subdued way, her clothes fit her well, colours were matched, shoes were polished and the impression was one of comfort, education, class, intelligence, reliability and calm self-confidence. She carried a leather briefcase, well worn but well kept. What she wanted of me or with me was still to be revealed. She raised her right hand to shake mine which was another shock. I shook it, and I was suspicious right away. Was she trying to gain my confidence by showing instant rapport? Looking at her, however, reassured me a little. She looked honest, she looked directly at me, not over my shoulder, and her whole being inspired and invited confidence.  

"Good morning Professor Lederer. My name is Alessandra Brucotti. I am a clinical psychiatrist and I was asked to visit with you by Mrs. Hegedus. May I sit down?" Her voice and diction made me feel just a tiny bit less uneasy. She spoke fluent Hungarian, perfect grammar but there was a very slight accent, barely noticeable. Her name wasn't Hungarian but Italian, and her intonation reminded me of the melody of pure Italian, a language eminently suitable to operas. The mention of the Colonel, however, was disconcerting. After all, she supervised the beatings that put me in the prison hospital for days, some of which I spent in a coma. She sent this lady, and that indicated that another ordeal was probably just beginning.  

"Please have a seat," I said, offering her one of the chairs. There was no need to be impolite, not that I had the energy to be unpleasant. I took the other chair, facing her. Since she looked kindly, I took a chance and I took the initiative before she was quite comfortable and while she was searching for something in her briefcase.  

"I would appreciate knowing the purpose of your visit, Madame. I take it that you are familiar with my ordeal of the last few days and that reminding me of Colonel Hegedus isn't a good start. You know, of course, about the beatings I received while being interrogated by her. You know that I have been beaten senseless by her thugs, several times, daily. You know that I was in a coma for a couple of days. I spent some time in the prison hospital. You know of the lost teeth. You know that so far I haven't been told why I am in jail," I continued and as I was talking I noticed that she was turning pale.  

"Professor, what on earth are you talking about? Haven't you been told of the charges against you? Have you been beaten senseless? Are you serious? Have you been in a coma? Have you been in the prison hospital? I haven't been told of anything like that. These things aren't supposed to happen in Hungarian jails." She sounded flabbergasted and incredulous, but there was a little hesitation in the way she reacted, as if she felt I wasn't telling the truth. "Mrs. Hegedus informed me an hour ago that you were detained." 

I was annoyed at having to prove to her what I just said. She was an official who worked with the Colonel. How come she professed ignorance? Without another word I took off my shirt and I saw that she was getting uncomfortable but she wasn't stopping me. She was looking and waiting. The scars on my back, from being whipped with stranded wires, were clearly visible. I lowered my trousers a little so she could see the marks made by being kicked in the kidneys. I opened my mouth to let her see the several missing teeth. I took off my shoes and socks, showing her the damage done by the wire whips on the bottoms of my feet. 

She took this all in, not a muscle was moving in her face, not a word, but she was pale. It was obvious that she was shocked, that she wanted to tell me something, but at the same time was hesitating. 

"Please put your clothes back on, Professor," she said, so quietly that I could barely hear her. Her voice was shaking. "Please tell me exactly what happened to you from the time you were detained at the airport," she said. 

I needed to concentrate to do this, not to leave anything out. I didn't trust her fully and thought for a millisecond that if I did tell all, no embellishment, I might face the torturers again who would try to force me to change my story and to say that my scars were from falling down the stairs while tipsy. However, I decided to chance it, trust the lady, basically on her looks, and tell all as it happened. The lady listened. 

"Do you recall any of the names of the people in the interrogation room at the airport? Or, what they looked like, what clothes they wore?" asked Dr. Brucotti when I finished.  

"I recall Colonel Hegedus to be in charge. She introduced herself when we entered the room. The others appear to me as vague shapes, large, threatening young men in poorly cut suits, carrying revolvers. The three accusers also remain vague. I recall the disgust I felt in their presence but I may not recognize them again. She didn't address any of the goons by name. In fact, she didn't even talk to them. She only nodded, pointed and gestured but didn't speak to them."  

And then I recalled one more thing, miraculously. The name tag on the lapel of the lady at the passport control, the border-guard, said "Lola" and as I told the doctor, there was a sign of recognition. She asked me to repeat, "Lola, you said, are you sure, are you absolutely sure? Please confirm, this is very important, most important, even critical."  

I didn't understand why this was critical, but my memory suddenly became crystal clear. I confirmed, yes, her name tag showed Lola. "She wore a plain denim shirt, she was a blonde, her hair was well done, her fingernails were manicured, her eyes were pale blue."  

Dr. Brucotti then asked, "How certain are you that the men were armed? Did you see bulges in their jackets or did one of them actually pull his weapon and point it at you? Did they attempt to scare you further by subjecting you to a mock execution?" 

"No, nobody pointed a gun at me, no mock execution was performed. But all three of them left their jackets unbuttoned and the guns in their holsters were clearly visible. One of them had his hand on the gun at all times." I was recalling more and more as we spoke. 

Dr. Brucotti was now clearly disturbed.  

"Thank you, Professor for bringing me up to date on this. I will be back shortly, certainly later today, maybe much later," she continued, rose from her seat with noticeable effort, shook my hand - I detected some dampness - and left. 

I was now back to where I was before her visit. I would have liked to understand why she appeared to be disturbed by my story. Did I dare to be optimistic and imagine that the group that arrested me was a bunch of rogue cops? Why did the name "Lola" create such a shock? Maybe there was no such border guard and she was there only to greet and lead me to the interrogation? Maybe Dr. Brucotti was a true member of the new democratic Hungary and Colonel Hegedus was an impostor? Or, I was afraid to think, were these thoughts caused by my total exhaustion and the lack of sleep? Were the two ladies working together for a common aim? 

Optimism and depression alternated every few minutes. My disorientation and the vision troubles continued. My blood pressure was thankfully low under usual circumstances but these weren't usual times and I was worried about my health. I couldn't figure out what this visit of Dr. Brucotti was about, why she visited, why she was shocked. Or was her behaviour simply a show for my exclusive benefit? Should I judge people as I used to in the good old days? I used to be proud of sizing up anyone after the first look. If so, should I have dared to be optimistic that my guardian angel might really be an Italian born psychiatrist? Should I have dared to imagine that the nightmare would soon be over? Then the contrary-me was objecting. The pessimistic-me said, don't be fooled, you stupid idiot, this was another attempt to shake you further, to remove the remaining shreds of self-confidence, to make sure you know who is boss, to make sure that you confess to something they want you to confess. Was this a modern version of the good cop - bad cop routine? It was true that in my dreams during fits of sleep in the last few days I was having fun shoving people into vats of molten steel, laughing hysterically when I heard their screams. Then I would wake up soaked in perspiration, or be woken up by my lady guard who felt sorry for me and would bring a cold, wet towel to get me back to full consciousness.  

Fritz Perls in Gestalt Therapy Verbatim wrote that dreams always mean something and the meaning may be understood by concentrating on what was missing from them. I wished I had the strength to concentrate and to uncover what my brain was trying to tell me.  

The routine I devised was to take over once again, though. Sit up, try to exercise if nervous or restless, and read even with shaking hands, look at the latest news, sports, soccer, swimming. I had to resume self-control. The next English lesson was a few hours away. I needed to shower, prepare the homework, correct the last few essays. I might well be here for some time.  

It was early evening now and Julie, my friendly guard, came to see me ostensibly to ask for help in the latest English assignment. In the middle of the discussion of the fine points of English grammar, she stopped, came near my good ear and whispered, "You are being held here by a group ...," and at this time the door was flung open violently. A so-far unknown and unseen young man barged in, grabbed Julie roughly and dragged her out of my cell. The door was slammed shut. I was left to wonder what this might have been about and I thought that I might never get the true explanation. 

As I got ready to take a shower, a very unwelcome surprise awaited. For the first time I wasn't allowed to go and my question "Why?" was ignored. Something changed, but I didn't know what. The guards' attitude of previous cheerful politeness was replaced with rude indifference.  

Dr. Brucotti returned late at night. She was clearly agitated and apologized for the lateness. I wasn't sleeping of course, just trying to sleep and getting thoroughly frustrated.  

"Professor Lederer, I must talk to you now, this evening. First of all, I must apologize for the lateness of the hour and for the treatment you received when you were detained. You will receive an official apology from the Government of Hungary very soon, hopefully before tomorrow morning. Mrs. Hegedus had been reprimanded. She and her team will visit you tomorrow and will offer their apologies and they will be accompanied by my guards so you need not be concerned. You should never have been detained. At the same time there are a few legitimate questions that I need to ask you and please attempt to reply. These questions were asked in the first interrogation. You had no recollection of a certain event that occurred several decades ago." 

I became even more confused now if that's possible. Who was this lady, how could she force an apology from the Colonel? I was speechless. The lady continued after a little hesitation. I thought that she was weighing the pros and cons of giving me the kind of information that could jeopardize her position. She began. 

"I will be brief. I am a senior consultant to the Minister of Internal Security of this country and as such I am the superior of Mrs. Hegedus. I had been seconded from the Italian Security Service, with the objective of reforming the Hungarian penal system and of bringing it to the level of other western European countries. I am also a practicing, clinical psychiatrist, specializing in hypnosis and repressed memory syndrome. I was informed of your arrest this morning and came to see you in person because this was totally against the standard procedures that I initiated here. The practice is that I am to be personally informed of all plans to detain anyone at the airport well in advance, prior to arrival. I must approve all these plans personally. I must be told of all arrests within one hour. Beatings, torture and humiliation and not being informed of the reasons for the questioning are all against the rules. I confronted the lady and after a short denial of what you told me, she broke down - she wasn't aware of my ability to make people talk and tell the truth - and your story about your arrest and questioning checked out completely. Also, nobody named Lola works at the immigration desks at passport control at the airport or in any of the offices connected with border control. I instituted a search for her. Mrs. Hegedus maintains no knowledge of Lola as one of the border guards, and tells me that three security officers accompanied you to her office. The officers were alerted by one of the border guards who acted on his own. She had no recollection of who that was, except that it was a man. In a somewhat contradictory story, she admits that she passed on a message to the border guards that you were to be taken to her directly as soon as you arrive. While she admitted knowledge of my directives, she refused to tell me why I wasn't informed of the plans for your arrest in advance. You see that there are a few inconsistencies here and I intend to find out what actually happened." 

I would have liked to believe that the lady was telling the truth. She continued and her voice was serious.  

"I must go on, Professor. I will talk about an event that happened a long time ago. Mrs. Hegedus already asked you about this. In the fall of 1956, in the foundry of the factory where you worked, a terrible event took place. A visiting politician, the Minister of Industrial Production, died after falling into the molten steel. There had been rumours and gossip that he didn't slip but was pushed, and that the accident was in fact, murder. There were about 30 people around the Minister, most within arms-length. None reached out to stop him when he was losing his balance. None recalled the event, and all claimed to be looking elsewhere, all claimed to have been distracted by a large bang, coming from the other end of the foundry. Of course, all of them were questioned and while interrogation techniques at that time were less gentle than they are now, none of the thirty potential perpetrators admitted to anything other than being near the poor victim. Nobody was arrested and the case was considered closed with the official conclusion that the Minister's death was an accident." 

Dr. Brucotti stopped for a second and asked me for a glass of water. She drank the whole glass in one go, and it was evident that she found the telling of these events very difficult and exhausting. She took a deep breath, exhaled and continued. 

"The case remained closed up to about a year ago. After the regime change the surviving relatives of the poor unfortunate began to press to open a new investigation, claiming to have come across some new and compelling evidence. They contacted newspapers, radio and TV stations, they engaged lawyers and they managed to focus attention on the event, mostly by claiming that the now-disgraced Communists swept the whole thing under the carpet. A strong public outcry was created to reopen the case. They said that there were new witnesses, actually three foundry workers, who saw a young man there at that time who wasn't supposed to be there and who was known to be of questionable character. They said that this person was the thirty-first of the Minister's entourage, and like many of the others, he was standing very close to the Minister. The witnesses were alleged to have examined the photographs of all workers supposed to be in the plant at that time. They clearly, without any hesitation, and without any doubt, identified you immediately as the unknown young man. They claim that you, in fact, pushed the victim. They claim to have clearly seen you do it. They saw your right arm shoot out, and push the poor guy. Nobody questioned the contradiction of this claim - that you were not supposed to be in the foundry at all and never without specific permission - and that they all looked elsewhere at the critical time. Your disappearance shortly after the tragedy and your request for political asylum in Canada had also not gone unnoticed. The files of these accusations hadn't been released at the time. They were found in the archives of the now defunct Secret Service, about two years ago." 

I became speechless once again. The disorientation and the headache returned. The optimism faded. I was accused of being a criminal, a murderer, and I didn't know how to handle this. I had no recollection of any such event. I wasn't lying when, even during the torture and the beatings, I claimed to have no memory of the accident or murder.  

The lady continued. "It is a slight breach of my own rules and regulations to tell you the following portion of the story, and I must ask you to keep this absolutely confidential. I mentioned that one of the first procedural changes I introduced when taking office was that all decisions be checked by my personal staff, and all arrests and interrogations be checked with me and agreed to personally by myself. I repeat that none of what you related to me was checked with my office. No information whatever was transmitted to me. I am ashamed to admit that all of this should have been authorized by me personally and none of it was." 

I wondered if it was up to me to console her and to offer some encouragement, but then I realized that this was just a momentary weakness. She was a senior politician, a highly accomplished physician, she would pull out of her self-pity and she would face down those that might call for her to resign. There was a lot of strength in her. One other thought was on my mind but I was trying to ignore it all this time. Was she also another superbly trained actress and was I being duped again by the good\/bad cop routine? No she wasn't, I told myself. Relax. She was close to the Minister, she was trying to help. There was probably a bunch of people within the Ministry, though, who resented the outsider, the Italian, and wished to bring her down. There might have been private vendettas against her. Her most trusted assistant might be her enemy. Her problem, not mine. So I waited. I was the one still in jail, I was the one who was beaten and tortured.  

She took an audible, rasping deep breath. She continued.  

"There is one more piece of information here that I just learned, and it is no credit to me in my position as the senior consultant. This is that Mrs. Hegedus is the niece of the man who died in the hot steel. Up to this time she has been one of my assistants. No mention of her relation to the deceased Minister appears anywhere in her personnel files and in a short while, as soon as I am back in my office, I must find out why. Further, her daughter's name is Lola. A lady called Lola works as a cleaner at the airport. She matches the description you gave me of the lady at the passport-kiosk. It looks very likely that Hegedus conducted a covert vendetta and zeroed in on you. I am afraid that an investigation will have to be conducted and it will have to be thorough. 

I wasn't sure how this would affect me. I was as shocked by the information as she was. I had no choice but to wait. What was coming, how would I get out of here, how and when would I get home? I was still unable to call my family and apparently nobody in the Canadian Consulate knew where I was, or why hadn't they come to see me? I had no idea if they were looking for me, but if they were, they weren't doing it very well. The headache and the blurred vision were getting worse and the ringing in my ears was like a bell.  

Dr. Brucotti saw my reaction and said, "Now you see Professor, where my expertise in hypnosis may be useful. You have been asked by the disgraced lady of your recollections. No, I am not saying it well, you had been accused directly of being the killer. You have no memory of the event. I am sufficiently intrigued by the accusations of murder to ask if I may I hypnotize you and probe your subconscious. May I try to see if we are dealing with suppressing a traumatic event? You would, of course, have a lawyer of your choice present and a representative of your government, as well. It is possible that your comments under hypnosis would show that Mrs. Hegedus was attempting to locate someone, anyone, you, to blame for her uncle's terrible death. Also, tomorrow you may call your family."  

I agreed. I realized the danger but I was afraid of the consequences if I didn't. Also, I wanted clarification: what happened almost 50 fifty years ago? Did I kill a man? Is there a conspiracy against me? Am I being framed for something I didn't do? I needed to know, come what may. The lady said good night. She promised to alert the Canadian Consulate and to retain a lawyer who I could reject if I wished. Also, tomorrow I would be given a chance to call home. All this would happen tomorrow, not tonight. I was looking forward to another sleepless night. 

Dr. Brucotti arrived early, as promised. She was dressed in a different power suit, elegant as before and she was carrying her well-worn briefcase. The previous late night and her distress didn't show. If she gets me out of here, I may get her a modern, stylish briefcase, I thought. Where was the lawyer from the Consulate? I didn't question her. 

"Good morning," I said, "Let's get to a telephone and let me call home," and from what I saw in Brucotti's expression, I expected trouble.  

"My apologies, Professor," she said. "The phones don't work as there is a strike on, affecting land-lines and cell phones. I remember my promise of last night and as soon as possible you will call your family. If you don't mind though, I would like to start the session as planned." Also, she set up a DVD recorder, assuring me that I would be given a copy.  

Again, I didn't see a choice here. I was still a captive, I was still in jail, and I couldn't be certain who was telling me the truth or who was lying. I agreed to co-operate. I noted that the apology from the government had not yet been offered. Would it ever? I wondered but remained highly sceptical. I just wanted out of there, apology or not.  

"Before we begin, I would like to explain a few things to you. If you, in fact, witnessed the terrible event, you might well have blocked it from your consciousness. The scientific term here, as you likely know, is 'repressed memory syndrome'. I would like to discuss this first, and I trust, you won't mind," started the lady. Then she gave me a proper lecture on the topic.

"Repressed memories and repressed memory therapy have been studied in some detail in the past and in more recent times much of the concentration has been on sexual abuse of children and how the experience affected their lives. It was and is believed that children - and by extension, people of any age - may wish not to be disturbed by past terror and may tend to block the events and may, in fact, forget them completely. There is also the belief that therapy and especially hypnosis may bring the forgotten events to light. There are two sets of practitioners working in the field and their beliefs are diametrically opposed. There are those that believe in the validity and truth of the suddenly remembered events and those that are strongly opposed. While the battle is waged in scholarly publications and conferences and is far from resolved, patients are subjected to therapy and are made to relive past events, some of which did and some of which didn't actually happen. I am a sceptic. At this time either position may be correct."  

I was now recalling my experiences with hypnosis from the good old days, from my spy-school. I had been subjected to it many times. I had subjected people to it many times. I didn't see the need to enlighten Dr. Brucotti about these.  

I learned that the subject must agree to be hypnotized and must be willing to play by the rules. Also, there are things known about hypnosis and there are things believed about it. Subjects don't become zombies during the experience, as is commonly believed and perpetuated by hypnotist-entertainers. As well, memory is easily filled-in by suggestions of the hypnotizer, but only if the subject allows it.  

It is also known that under certain very rare circumstances a person of extremely strong character and ego and fully under hypnosis, can break out of the trance and if wanted, can fool the hypnotist. This requires pre-determination. The times, the topics or the memory, all of which may have come to light suddenly and unexpectedly, may be incriminatory and if they are not to be revealed, they can trigger the sub-conscious mind that danger is present. While breaking out of the trance is very difficult, it is possible as long as the subject is determined enough. The effort requires concentration and tremendous mental strength. Those who successfully manage to stop the process report extreme exhaustion, but the evidence is in, interrupting hypnosis is definitely possible. Since I didn't trust anybody at this point in time, I was fully determined to reveal nothing that could incriminate me or would slow or stop my departure. 

The lady was wearing a simple but fairly long and heavy gold chain on her neck and a key, a regular desk key, was dangling from it. She leaned forward and was swaying slowly, left and right, she wasn't saying a word and there was complete silence. Since I agreed to co-operate, I followed the key as it swung. This went on for about a couple of minutes and I was surprised how relaxed I felt. I hadn't felt like this since my arrival. Also, I was feeling a bit sleepy and I now heard the lady speak quietly.  

"You are feeling relaxed and you are feeling sleepy. When you wake up you will remember all that went on here. Periodically I will ask you a few questions, and please respond to the best of your ability. Everything you say will be recorded, and a copy of the recording, certified independently, will be given to you. You have my personal assurance and that of the Republic of Hungary that nothing that you say will ever be held against you. When over, I will gently touch your forehead. You will come out of your trance, feeling refreshed and relieved." 

Then she said, "You are going back in time to 1956, to the time you worked as a milling machine operator. You were just about ready to go to see the foundry in the next building. Please relate to me what happened, starting at the time you left your machine, took a shower, cleaned up, changed and began to walk out of your machine shop." 

She suggested that I would recall and remember everything clearly and I did. The text, as it is given below, has been transcribed from the recording. I have a copy of the DVD and the transcribed text has been checked and verified by an independent, Canadian notary public as well as a lawyer.  

My first employer, a large industrial complex, was named in honour of the First Secretary of the Communist Party, Matyas Rakosi. The chief engineer of the company was the external examiner at our graduation in the local school. I did well in those tests and especially well in the technical subjects. I answered the examiner's questions at some length and he commended me for my innovative ideas, saying that they were, "unexpected of a student at your stage of development." He also asked for the name of several of my teachers and I heard since that some of them had been promoted. I hoped that he might remember me and might help in transferring me away from the workshop where I was working to a design office, so I asked permission to leave the machine shop to see him. Permission was granted, and I walked to his office and this took me through the foundry, located next to the machine shop. I knew that entry to a building other than my regular place of work required a special permit which I didn't have. I was surprised that nobody stopped me on entry, as there was nobody in the guards' booth, a most unusual situation. Since I had always been interested in steel making and processing, I stopped to watch as the workers poured the hot molten steel into moulds. I noticed but didn't pay much attention to the delegation of dark-suited, serious men watching the same process, most of them standing over the hot steel on the cat-walks. One of the men, a bit greasy looking, poorly dressed and crumpled, was surrounded by what appeared to be bodyguards and another man was explaining the details of what was happening in the moulds which were located about three feet below the visitors. The entourage included most of the officials of the local Party chapter and a few young, eager engineers, whose political speeches I listened to and discussed at several meetings. Attendance at these meetings, called "brain stretch," wasn't compulsory but was closely monitored. At promotions the absences were always noted and mentioned and held against the tardy and non-compliant. Conversely, regular attendance and participation were considered indicative of loyalty to the Communist Party. I recalled that once I made a comment, judged by the Party secretary to be acceptable and I was asked to join the Party. I declined, an act that must have been recorded in a book of misdeeds. Forget about promotion, though at the time I didn't think much about that. 

The grating of the cat-walk was filthy, strewn with debris, solidified pieces of metal, oil and sand. The group appeared to stand too near the edge where the railing was only about three feet high and I recalled that in our field trips we were warned never to get that close.  

Dr. Brucotti interrupted, in the same slow, low voice as before, "Please look around you while you are observing the visitors." 

As she suggested, I was now in the foundry, looking around me and my usual photographic memory was enhanced under the hypnotic trance. I was recounting the number and the appearance of the people on the shop floor. "OK," I answered. I told the lady that I could place the positions of all, quite exactly in relation to the edge of the hot steel containers. In addition to the entourage, there were bodyguards and groupies around the Minister and there were about 30 in the group. Four of them were mingling with the bodyguards, a serious lapse of security.  

"How far were these workers from the Minister?" asked the hypnotist, so I continued the story. 

I recognized that the short, bald, sweaty man who was treated with fawning attention by all was the Minister of Industrial Production at the time, the recognition probably prompted by Dr. Brucotti's interruption. His rise to that position had been phenomenal as he was the youngest person ever to have been appointed a Minister. He was reputed to be vicious and uncompromising.  

At this time the four workers were standing directly beside the Minister. They were within touching distance. The bodyguards were somewhat further off, behind the intruders, and it appeared to me that there may have been some collusion between them and the others, as they slowly changed their places. I recognized three of the men. They were in the room while the Colonel was mistreating me. They identified me as the killer. They hurled abuse at me.  

I felt it necessary now to break out of the trance and to continue the session without anyone realizing that I was faking. I recalled how this was to be done from the long-gone days. I was aware of the tremendous effort it required. My heartbeat, blood pressure, sweating were to be controlled.  

I saw the next event clearly but my unconscious cautioned and warned me that this wasn't for telling, at least, not at this time and not at this place. What clearly appeared in my memory was the sound of a large noise, coming from the back of the foundry. All turned to look at the source of the noise and I saw from my peripheral vision the arm that reached out toward the back of the Minister. I also saw the face of the man to whom the arm belonged, distorted in hate. The sudden push made the Minister tip over the railing and fall head first into the raging sea of molten metal. The arm of the pusher appeared unusual, as if it had once been broken at the elbow. Straightened, it looked as if it was bending a little, beyond straight. If I told this now, I would have to accuse the criminal in public. It would most likely be my word against his. I wasn't ready. Should I ever do this, I might do it from the safety of Canada, surrounded by lawyers of my choice. 

Also, I now recognized one of the three men that accused me of murder a few days ago during the interrogation at the airport. It was the one who wanted to appear to be an intellectual. The hair from his ears was unmistakable. He looked like a monkey then and now, the beer belly grown substantially but present even several decades ago. He was the shortest of the three. As well, I noticed during the interrogation at the airport that his arm was quite crooked, bent a little backwards at the elbow. It was the arm that pushed the poor guy. Proof positive, even if probably inadmissible in a court of law.  

It was safer to continue the story, leaving out all of the above. I was sure that none of those in the room observed my slight hesitation or if they did, they ascribed it to fatigue. So on I went, and I managed still to appear to be completely under Dr. Brucotti's control. Actually, I was amazed that the competent and experienced psychiatrist and hypnotist the lady claimed to be appeared to be unaware of her subject's state of alertness. The disturbing thought that she wasn't what she claimed to be was in my mind again.  

My narrative continued, my eyes were closed, my breathing was steady, and I used the same quiet, relaxed, slow monotone as before.  

The men standing around the pit of molten steel were stunned. None moved, none reached out to stop the falling victim. I was terrified and I ran from the place. I ran to my interview with my former examiner, stopped to catch my breath and to regain my composure and was on time to ask him for help. He remembered me and promised to help. Still shaking, I went back to my workshop. The Minister who fell in the hot steel must, of course, have died while suffering indescribable pain. I told nobody what I saw. 

Earlier that day in 1956 the revolution against the Soviet domination began. Later in the afternoon and early evening, students marched, attempting to present their demands for discussion to ease the political situation. My friend and I joined them and we walked all the way to the parliament buildings where we chanted to get one of the then-disgraced Communists to speak to us. After some time he came - I was told that he was at home in his pyjamas, ready to go to bed - and addressed us in the usual way, as a Communist would, "Dear Comrades." We interrupted, chanting, "No comrades." He started again, saying, "Dear friends," and elated, we applauded his bravery. After the speech we walked to the radio station, and that was where I was shot at for the first time in my life, by officers of the Secret Service. I wasn't ashamed to admit that I was scared shitless and ran, probably faster than ever before. It took me some time to get home. The uprising began. It was successful for a few days. The Soviet Red Army then crushed the surprisingly strong resistance. The revolution was over. Thousands were killed. I left the country.  

The story was over and I stopped speaking. I felt that Dr. Brucotti shifted in her chair, leaned forward and touched my forehead.  

"Dr. Brucotti, it is time to let me go. I want to leave, I want never to return, just please arrange for me to be taken to the Canadian Consulate, as soon as possible," I now said, with more confidence than before, now that the ordeal was over. Not complete confidence, mind you. I was still not certain of anything. I didn't know how much I could trust this lady. I still didn't know if she was an excellent con-person. In fact, at this point I didn't know anything. I realized that I might still not even come out of this alive. Some optimism returned when the good doctor said, "Yes, you may go, Professor," and opened the door of the interrogation room. I stood up, started to move and noticed that I was still wearing the prison jumpsuit.  

"I want my clothes, I want my possessions, I want my watch, passport, credit cards, suitcase...," I began, and at this point Dr. Brucotti jumped up, and she was pushing me toward the door, not saying a word. She swung her briefcase at my face, hit me and my nose began to bleed. I became disoriented again, I allowed her to push. She was surprisingly strong and determined. I was through the door, she was still pushing, getting wild, she was now cursing in fluent Hungarian, so I was back at the thought, just get the hell out of here, just move and move fast. I reached the next door toward which she was directing me, opened it and I was on the street, the door banged shut behind me and I was free.

CHAPTER 5

No time to worry about worldly things now, just move. Flag down a cab as soon as possible, which was easy to say. I looked like an escaped convict which I actually was, I realized. The street was mostly deserted. Some of the people who walked by averted their eyes. I saw a cab, it was free, I waved my arms, I saw the driver look at me and the cab kept speeding past. The cabbie wanted no part of this, the blood was still on my face.  

I had no money. I needed a driver who would take pity on me, who would at least stop and listen. The next taxi was coming, I saw it, it was free, I stood directly in front, forced the car to stop or kill me. The driver stopped, red in the face and was ready to curse and yell. He had strong lungs.  

"You fucking idiot, you want to get killed, get the fuck off...," then he saw my prison outfit and the blood on my face, his demeanor changed, he opened the door and said, "Get in fast," which I did and we were speeding away.  

"Driver - I started - please drive me to the Canadian Consulate, fast." I said further, "When we get there, I must go inside and get some money to pay you, so please wait for me. You will be paid."  

The cabbie turned around to face me as he was speeding away, a bit of a risky thing to do, even though the traffic was light. He was an older man, I was guessing that he was near 70 and his face was kind, craggy, weather beaten and it implied that he had been through a lot. He was smiling at me.  

"I know the building you just got out of, though I thought it was closed and abandoned when the regime changed. I know the door that you walked through. I know the blue jumpsuit. I know the look on your face because I have seen it often. I was in that building for 14 years. I wore that jumpsuit for 14 years during which it was washed exactly three times. So please be welcomed by an old con and don't worry about paying me. The ride is free, no questions asked and if you want to be taken to the Canadian Consulate, that is exactly where I am taking you."  

That said, he concentrated on driving with occasional checks of the rearview mirror. He spoke suddenly.  

"Put your seatbelt on Sir, I don't like the look of that car behind us, the black Honda. It has been following us for some time. I'll lose him, just hold on," and he stepped on the gas, watching the mirror and when the follower began to speed also, he nodded to me, satisfied and said, "I was right, we were being followed. Not to worry, though, I have been through this before," and with a sharp twist of the wheel we made a screeching U-turn, speeding head-on toward the Honda, which swerved out of our way in the last millisecond, hit a hydrant, began to spew steam, blew a tire and we were free to go at leisure toward the Consulate.  

The chase, the U-turn and the game of chicken weren't good for the psyche of a just-released-from-jail-accused-of-murder person. I was struggling to catch my breath again, got my heartbeat under control, I didn't even dare to think about where my blood pressure was. Was I going to bust a valve before we got to the Consulate, before I got home?  

My extreme exhaustion was broken by my curiosity about the driver's story of his 14 years in jail. I wanted to know the details, so I asked as we were driving, now at a fairly slow and steady pace with not very heavy traffic around us. 

"What were you in jail for? Or, maybe a better question, what crime were you accused of?" and I saw the driver's face turn a deep purple and his hands began to tremble. I feared that maybe I asked the wrong question. I was getting ready to apologize, to say that his past was none of my business when I saw that he took a deep breath and regained control. 

"This is the first time I'll try to talk about the past. Maybe because your presence outside the jail made me recall a few things that I attempted to forget, with some success. You look like a person who can listen. 

"My story happened over fifty years ago. I was young, and of course, convinced that nothing could hurt me. I had no interest in politics. Like all my friends, my interest was centred exclusively on the other gender, to meet and date as many young women as possible. I spent my days working as a cabbie but my evenings were spent looking for female company. I had no idea of political correctness as it is understood today, and I had no hesitation whatsoever approaching a young lady, no problem asking for a date, no problem initiating physical contact. The girls of those days had no trouble telling me to get my paws off them, and they didn't call the police, they just walked away, no hard feelings. I wasn't a member of the Party, I didn't attend consciousness raising seminars. In fact, I never even opened a newspaper or listened to the radio, unless it played American jazz. And that was apparently the cause of all my problems. My parents owned a very good radio, a Grundig, and since I understood radios, I constructed a powerful antenna. I got music from the Voice of America, Radio Free Europe, the BBC and best of all, RIAS Berlin. My friends would gather around and we would just listen to the music. We didn't blast the volume, we didn't dare to dance, we just imagined living in a place where we could choose the music we wanted freely and without fear. When political affairs were broadcast, we just tuned to another station and continued the dreams of living for the joy of it, and not exclusively for the building of a Communist future in which our children and grandchildren would have buried the capitalists and would live without exploitation. Also, we wanted not to hear the great and ever repeated motto any more: when our grandchildren reach the nirvana of Communism, criticism and self-criticism would show the way forward. 

"You recall, of course, that at that time, in the early 50s, anything from the West, especially from America, was frowned on in a major way as decadent. Foreign newspapers weren't available, foreign magazines weren't sold anywhere and when you were allowed to travel to the west, a guide always accompanied you. On your return all written material was confiscated at the border and your name was entered into a register. No permission was ever given to anyone to travel abroad whose name was once entered into that list, no matter for what reason, and most people couldn't afford the bribe to be erased from those pages.  

"Are you aware of the current issue of our navel-gazing, the almost-complete-publication of the names of the informers?" he continued. Of course, I read the Hungarian web-sites and I knew what he was talking about. He was referring to the ongoing battle among politicians, of how - note, not if - to reveal the names of the stool-pigeons during the Communist era, those that reported on the activities of their neighbours, family and friends, for there were lots of them. It appeared that since the end of Communism the government in power usually proposed a way to publish the names and the opposition introduced amendments, which were unacceptable to the proposers. When the politicians changed and the opposition came to power, the story remained unchanged. Only the actors and their roles switched and many, though not all, of the names remained hidden. 

"One of these people reported our radio habits to the Secret Service. I have no proof but do have some strong suspicions of who he was. I haven't found his name yet on any list, but if the complete set of informers is ever published, I would. All of us were arrested - I was picked up on my way to work, while I was whistling, minding my own business - and since the alleged offence was committed in our apartment, my parents and I were charged with corrupting youth by, 'providing an atmosphere in which Western values were preferred over socialist principles.' I never saw my parents from the day we were taken in. I was taken to the building where I just picked you up." 

He stopped talking, his face was red, and I couldn't tell but suspected that it was from the exertion of telling his story for the first time. He was choked up, his face was soaked in sweat. He pulled to the curb, stopped, breathing heavily. Was it time to call for help? Was he ill? Just as I was reaching for his phone, he opened his eyes, saw my concerns and said, "I am OK. It wasn't easy to recall these things. Since I started, I will continue. 

"For God's sake I was only 18 at the time," he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice to nobody. He was crying and still sweating profusely, obviously unable to drive further. "They buried me in shit, they attached wires to my penis, the shocks destroyed all my dreams of a family, they pulled out my fingernails, they poured hot lead into one of my ears, all before and instead of a trial which I never had," he was still shouting and shaking violently. "Each time they asked: so you like the American system? You like American music? And when I said no, I hate it, they beat me and when I said I love it they beat me, and they said this was for my own good, I would learn how the Communists take care of a piece of bourgeois excrement such as me. They told me that when I got out of there, if ever, I would listen to, love and sing Polyushka forever," and they laughed, enjoying the whole situation. Each day I was dumped in a cell, alone. No cot, no blanket, no toilet, no heating, no lights, no shower. Each day I was humiliated, tortured, beaten and I lost count of the days and the weeks and as I found out sometime later, actually fourteen years passed. The next thing I remember I was sitting outside, on the sidewalk just as you were, dazed, totally unable to comprehend where I was, how long I had been there, what the day of the week, the month, the year were."  

After a few seconds, the driver continued his story. 

"What happened next couldn't be called anything but a miracle. A young man stopped his car, came to me and asked if he could be of help. Without waiting for an answer, he simply picked me up and put me on the back seat of his Lada. Another young man was sitting in the passenger seat and a middle aged lady was in the back and my head ended up on her lap. I remember her hand on my forehead which was rough like the hand of a manual worker but it still felt comforting. There appeared to be nothing I could do, I didn't know or care who these people were, whether I was being kidnapped or being put back in jail. I just closed my eyes and promptly passed out or fell asleep.  

"When I woke up, I was in a clean bed, wearing a pair of pyjamas, not mine, of course. They were clean, and it appeared that I was also cleaned up. My bruises had been treated, I had bandages on my arms. The lady from the back seat was sitting beside my bed, watching, and when my eyes opened, she called quietly, 'Come in here, he is awake.'  

"Several people came into the room, all smiling at me, giving me the impression that they were genuinely pleased to see me. My head was quite clear by then, my vision cleared and I had to know what happened.  

"Tell me please, who are you? Where am I? What year are we in? What happened to me?" The lady started to talk. Evidently she was one of the leaders of the group. What she said was astonishing. 

'We are humanists, not politicians. We see that the regime now in power has no interest other than to stay in power and the welfare of the general masses isn't considered in any way, in spite of its claims. Our objective is to help those that have been damaged by the security apparatus. We keep a 24-hour vigil outside the interrogation centres and jails and when someone is ejected, such as yourself, we nurse them back to health. Also, when they are able, we try to recruit them to help us but our help isn't dependent on this. Of course, if our existence and location were known, we would be disposed of very fast and efficiently.' She stopped talking, mostly to observe my reaction and when finding that I was speechless, she continued.  

'Your reaction is not surprising. You may even be a little sceptical and may well think that we are just a clever extension of the secret service. Fair enough. Let me prove to you that this not the case, that we are truly what we claim to be.' She rolled up her shirtsleeve and in addition to some very serious burn marks, I saw the cuts at her wrist.  

'Yes, you surmise correctly. When I was disposed of on the sidewalk, just as you were, my first action was to try to kill myself. I couldn't imagine living after the humiliation, the rapes, the beatings, the burns and the taunts they subjected me to. I was helped by the people who founded this group shortly after the Communist takeover in 1948. The opportunity to help a few survivors is making my life meaningful.' 

"While I didn't feel pain any longer, my distrust of people remained. I wanted to be sure that I wasn't being duped into a false confession. She noted my hesitation."  

'You are wondering how we could continue our work and why the all-seeing eye of the security apparatus isn't seeing us. They actually suspect that several operations like ours are going on. We have moles in their offices, probably the most dangerous part of our work, and we usually manage to be tipped off before a raid so we move somewhere else instantly. We know that eventually they will catch us. The cyanide pills we carry all the time can act in seconds and prevent our spilling the details under torture.' She showed me a small bump under the skin of her forearm, 'The pill is here. Scratch it with your fingernail or bite it when you are taken. This happened to many of us and it will keep on happening. The turnover is high. The details, the identity of the people working with us remain hidden.' 

"What time or what day is it?" I finally gathered enough strength to ask and the answer, more complete than the question requested, was another practically unbelievable piece of information. It was June of 1967 and I had been in jail for over fourteen years. I was 18 when taken in and I had become 32. I asked for a mirror and wished I hadn't, the wrinkled face that looked back at me looked more like 50. Much of my hair was gone and what was left was grey. I must have been in a coma for some of the time as I remembered the beatings for a few months but beyond that there was a total blank. I agreed to help the group with the rescue work and I am pleased to say that I assisted many victims. Now you know why I stopped for you. It was a shock to realize that the arbitrary detentions still go on. I recognized the signs when I saw you, so I stopped. Of course, if I hadn't, I would have run over you."  

The driver's story was over and he appeared to be completely spent. He was pale, looked older than just a few minutes ago, but he was relaxed. The heavy breathing, the gasping and the sweating were over. He was now driving steadily, concentrating on the traffic, with periodic glances in his rearview mirror. Nobody was following us, and I drifted off into a dreamless but not relaxing sleep.  

The driver shook me gently as we were getting close. We arrived at the gate of the Consulate, which was located in a beautiful part of Budapest with lots of greenery and trees. Lucky for me, the driver knew where to go. The cab wasn't allowed to drive to the building directly and we were stopped by an armed guard at the entrance to the grounds, at a concrete wall. The guard, young, tall, muscular, good looking, smiled and said, "How can I help you, Sir?" directly to me, politely but he was obviously ready for anything. He must have been trained to spot suspicious characters and I must admit, I didn't look so hot in my prison uniform with blood on my face. His right hand rested lightly on his sidearm, which was in its closed holster, but I imagined that the gun could appear very fast, if needed. He must, of course, have assessed my condition, the dirt and the filthy clothes. He must have smelled my lack of cleanliness, but didn't seem to find anything unusual. He didn't flinch.  

"Officer, my name is Lederer, I am a Canadian citizen and I need help," I said and I realized that my voice was shaking and I found it hard to speak English. "I have no way of proving my identity. I was arrested at Ferihegy airport some time ago and all my papers, passport, clothes, credit cards and money were confiscated," I continued, still having to be very careful to speak in grammatically correct sentences.  

The guard was cautious and slow in replying. His eyes narrowed. It may have been obvious that I was no terrorist, I wore no large coat to conceal explosives or firearms, but my English was evidently not of a Canadian-born. He was looking at me while deciding what to do.  

"Are you also a Hungarian citizen, Sir? Do you hold dual citizenship?" he asked, while trying to think of the next step. 

"Yes, I am both, I never lost my Hungarian citizenship, I was told. But please, officer. I can't answer any more questions. I need help and I need it now and fast. I need to call home. My family has no idea of my whereabouts and they must be frantic. I was through a lot and there was nobody to turn to," I said, and I heard faintly that the telephone was ringing in the guard's hut. He was turning to go but then I saw a lady sprinting from the building, in some excitement and she was waving and shouting. She was about 200 feet away, but she was loud and I could hear her well.  

"Is this Professor Lederer? How are you, Sir? It is excellent to see you, we were so worried," and as she was running and panting a bit, she was motioning to the guard to open the gates and to let me in.  

I wanted to call home as soon as possible, to find a telephone and some money to pay for the call. The staff at the Consulate helped, albeit with some hesitation, still wondering about my possible involvement in a crime. My prison-outfit didn't seem to inspire lots of confidence. They noted the official looking document, which I now found stuffed in the breast pocket of my jumpsuit. I had no recollection of Brucotti shoving it there. While it stated that I was no criminal, the officials still found me a bit of a suspicious character. They allowed me to make only one long distance call and one of them stayed in the room to monitor it. Also, they wanted to dial for me - no calls allowed otherwise - so I understood that I was still under some suspicion. A skilled English-Hungarian interpreter also joined us and she put on a pair of headphones. I was told that the call would be terminated instantly if it wasn't what I claimed it to be. One of them dialed and my wife picked up the phone. I said hello and there was a shocked silence, I heard the sudden intake of breath, and the words, "Is it you?" very quietly. "Yes," I said, "I am alive, I am not hurt, I am healthy and I am coming home as soon as I can. I have been told to keep this call as brief as possible. The details of where I was and what happened to me will follow when we are face-to-face. I love you and will see you very soon. Please tell our daughter that I love her," I managed to continue but I was getting choked up, nearly crying at hearing my wife's voice. I needed to stop talking, took a deep breath and drank a gulp of water. 

"Where are you?" asked my wife, still in that very quiet, shocked voice and I inferred that she knew nothing of what took place and what happened to me during the last little while.  

"I am in the Canadian Consulate in Budapest. I just got here and I expect that they will arrange for my return to Waterloo. They are now indicating that I should stop talking. I will call you back as soon as I know when I will be able to get home. I hope to see you very soon. Please tell our daughter that I am OK," I said, noticing that the Consulate officials were getting very impatient, I hung up the phone and felt totally exhausted once again.  

"I would like to take a shower now if you don't mind and I would like to get some clean clothes," I said to my minder who responded with some distaste.  

"Not so fast, Professor, we must debrief you as soon as possible." 

The lady who rescued me from the guard came to my help, and it appeared that she was a fairly high ranking official. Without acknowledging the comments of the young man with the attitude, she spoke.  

"My name is Christina Sackam and I am the chief assistant to the Consul. I know what you went through, Sir, but you must forgive me, I can't tell you how I know. Follow me please, the shower is this way. Meanwhile, Sam - and she pointed to one of the people around us - will get you fresh clothes." 

I felt proud at this time, seeing the beer bellies around me. "My waist is 32, my shirt size is 15 - 34. Please get me a neutral colour, gray slacks, a couple of white, long-sleeved shirts. A pair of running shoes, size 9, socks and underwear."  

Sam said, sneering, "You don't get to choose ...," when the lady interrupted him, quietly, sharply and with surprising authority in her voice, "Get what the Professor wants, Sam, and get the best quality and just go and go now," and he went but he wasn't happy at the orders and the public dressing down.  

The shower felt delicious and hot, the soap and the shampoo reminded me of how much I take for granted at home, how spoiled I had became. When I was finished, the new clothes were ready, for which I thanked Sam profusely. He picked good quality, well-made items, but remained surly and let me know without any doubt that he didn't like me very much. His moods weren't going to deprive me of sleep, he could jump into any lake he chose at the time of his choice, without even bothering to tell me. I dressed and when I was clothed, Christina was back, holding some papers in her hand.  

"Your plane leaves in one hour. We are flying you on the Consulate's executive jet. Please call your wife and tell her you will be at the Breslau airport in a few hours. Use that phone and when you are off, I'll drive you straight to the airport." I asked nothing, just wanted to get home as fast as humanly possible. 

I called and could tell that my wife hadn't left the phone since my last call. It was picked up in the middle of the first ring. I told her that I would be home in about eight hours and that I would be flown to the local airport, no more than a brief drive from my house. I told my lady that we would talk when I got home, to forgive me for my inability to debrief on the telephone. Of course, she understood. By this time I was again near collapse and asked for a wheelchair. 

The plane was luxurious, the ride was smooth. The winds were with us. I was treated like royalty. My wishes were the proverbial commands and looking back I was disappointed at not wanting anything, just to get home. On boarding I asked, "am I in Canada now?" and I was assured that stepping on the plane meant that I left Hungary and entered Canada, officially. This made me a bit more relaxed but I thought, I know I am out of the country, my Canadian pilot also knows, the two stewards know but do the Hungarians know? In my paranoia, I checked to see if Hungarian fighter planes were following us and to my relief there was none. I noted with some satisfaction that my ego was returning to its usual magnitude. Why would I be followed by the jets of the Hungarian Air Force? Was I so conceited to think that I was important enough to be shot out of the sky?  

I was allowed to lie down on a bed, still had to wear a seat belt, and fell asleep as soon as we took off. I managed to sleep all the way home. All I asked for was a glass of water and a chance to wash my face and brush my teeth before landing. Another surprise: there was no passport check at the airport which was good because I had no passport. My wife's car was on the runway. Luck was with me, our daughter was also there. Both of them gave me up for dead as there was absolutely no news about me from the minute I stepped on the plane, departing from Toronto not so very long ago, until my recent telephone call. Off the plane and into her and our daughter's arms and into the car took just a few seconds and I was now truly on my way home. 

The hugs and kisses felt excellent and rejuvenating and the nightmare was maybe, just maybe, beginning to recede. Maybe it didn't happen at all, maybe it was just a bad dream, maybe I wouldn't need psychiatric help. The ride home from the airport was fast and I rejoiced at the sight of the familiar scenes, the farms, the traffic jams and laughed when an impatient driver cut us off at a turn. I smiled and waved at him, and laughed some more at his reaction. My family understood that the story to tell would take some time and full recovery wouldn't happen in an instant. 

CHAPTER 6 

 Opening the garage door with the remote, driving into my own garage and seeing the mess in there I promised to clear out some years ago were all part of the joy of coming home. I looked forward to a long soak in my bathtub, maybe my wife scrubbing my back and scalp, a rubdown, a strong cappuccino, a stiff cognac, my favourite terrycloth housecoat, a fire in the fireplace and just silence among the people who love me.  

My plan was to re-establish my usual routine, ASAP. I wanted to go about my days as I always had, to forget, if possible, the nightmare of the last visit to the place where I was born, to reconnect with my family, students, with my laboratory, with my library, with my books, music, swimming, research. Most important was to debrief and discuss what happened and record as much as possible, as accurately as possible, in minute detail, to the best of my recollection. I needed to be brought up-to-date on how my relatives reacted to my disappearance. How did the Canadian authorities attempt to locate me, if at all, or, were they even aware of my plight? Did my wife call them for help about my disappearance? Was her call acted upon? 

As it turned out, she called the Department of Foreign Affairs several times. Each time she was told that everything was being done to locate me. She was told not to alert the newspapers. She told me that her patience was exhausted and she was going to contact a reporter the day I called from the Consulate. She also called some of my friends in Budapest, none of whom managed to find out anything about me.  

What exactly was done by the authorities to locate me? Was a diplomatic note passed to the Hungarian ambassador? Was the Canadian Ambassador recalled as an indication of the outrage the Canadian Government felt? Collecting information would take time and energy and would, no doubt, take some of my sleep away as I would be reliving the terror I felt. Don't believe the soothing words that time heals. Time was passing but I only needed to close my eyes to start sweating, to expect the next kick or blow, to feel the pain, the humiliation, the feeling of helplessness, to hear the gleeful laughter. 

I needed to rest and almost started crying when after a hot bath I was to sleep in my own bed. Even the squeak of the mattress made me happy as did the realization that as soon as I removed my hearing aids, the squeaking would stop.  

Before anything else, I needed to get a medical examination. I was tortured and beaten and I wanted proof that this left permanent and non-permanent damage. I had scars, broken teeth, burn marks in addition to some psychological damage which couldn't be seen as easily. I called my physician and asked for an exam and tests but I also asked him to have another witness there, preferably another doctor and, of course, I had to explain the reasons. My doctor had been looking after my health for a couple of decades already and I was pleased to hear his agreement. He understood the need for promptness and I was off to see him directly. A complete examination, written and photographic documentation and witnessing the resulting reports by the two doctors and the lawyer took almost three hours but, while I didn't have a clear plan for how I would use these to exact my revenge, I felt that the documentation was necessary. 

I needed to see my students, to talk to them, to ask what happened in my absence, what new knowledge was discovered, if anything broke down in my lab. The usual case when I was away was that nothing happened and on my return I would be subjected to the endless horror stories of why no work was performed, the debriefing event being dubbed the "story hour." Also, I was anxious to get back on track with my lectures and publications.  

It took a few months but I reestablished the usual flow of things. I realized the comfort in routine. I had my teeth rebuilt, and while I was sad not to be able to be proud of my perfect teeth at my age - I never had a cavity in my life - the new teeth looked superbly white, regular and I regained my movie-star smile, lost when my teeth were damaged during the interrogations.  

I started my weight training again, my swim sessions with the Masters' swim group, and slowly re-established my fairly good endurance and shape. I lowered my heartbeat. It was a bit of a shock to realize how much strength I lost in a few days of misery. The loss must have been caused by the absence of workouts to some extent, but much more due to the arrest and subsequent events.  

I was pleased by simple things that I disliked before. I became much more patient. I was reading students' reports closely, I read other professors' and scientists' research, thought about their results, and got on with my own studies.  

I have always thoroughly enjoyed my job, which includes my research and the lectures of course, but also laboratory exercises, examinations, special presentations and discussions with students on academic and private matters. There was a hierarchy of my likes and dislikes of these activities with the pride of place taken by the personal, face-to-face conversations with my students. My joy at the moment when their faces lit up and the exclamation, "Now I get it," is indescribable, understood only by those who experience it and I was always thankful for the chance to see the success of an explanation.  

As a professor of engineering I spent a considerable amount of time studying the details of steel processing. I studied and researched how steel is made. I investigated how the structure of steel affects its properties, its strength, its toughness.  

The word "steel" refers to an extremely large family of metals. There are only two common attributes to all. The first is that they all contain some iron and some carbon. The second is that the steel-making process always includes melting the combination of ingredients at very high temperatures and letting the melt cool and solidify to room temperatures. Various ingredients play most significant roles in determining the properties of the final, cooled and solidified product. The manner of cooling and the post-cooling processes, such as hot and cold forming, also contribute to the strength, shape and toughness of the steel.  

Steel's structure is revealed when examined under a microscope, using large magnification. The structure is observed to be made up of small particles, called "grains," measuring a few thousandths of millimeters. It is the size of these grains as well as their structure that are affected by all these processes and they in turn control most of the properties the steel possesses.  

The technical literature contains a massive amount of information about the development of the grains during the melting, cooling and subsequent forming processes. Many of these publications attempt to predict the size of the grains and are based on detailed, careful experiments, conducted in laboratories and in the research departments of the steel industry.  

However, nobody has ever seen, in real life, in real time, a grain of steel develop, evolve, solidify and grow. Of course, there are methods to examine them, called metallography, but they are used after the fact. The steel is made, its chemical composition is carefully prepared, it is then cast, formed, rolled, machined and at each step it is possible to section, mount, polish and etch pieces with acids and to look at the result under some magnification, using optical microscopy, scanning or transmission electron microscopy. The boundaries of the grains will be clearly recognizable. Nobody has ever seen the actual evolution, in real-time, without magnification or etching, however. I have always been curious if a real eyewitness account could ever be possible and often imagined what the actual process would look like.  

 A dream, most likely caused by my constant preoccupation with the steel's structure, was so realistic, so possible, that on waking, I had to convince myself that it was, in fact, a dream.  

 In the dream I was visiting one of the local steel companies. I approached the edge of a container in which the boiling, bubbling cauldron of steel was clearly visible. I was about six feet above the surface on the cat-walk and I felt that it was time to leave, fast, because the fumes were making me dizzy. As I turned, I saw my guide running toward me, yelling, "Get away from there." He was slipping, he bumped into me and I was falling, head first, into the churning, hot hell below. 

It's not that it wasn't hot there, yes, it was. It was very hot, hot as hell must be, dry, but still hot. There was a very strange sensation as well, as if my skin was being caressed, as you may imagine slaves cooling their owner with palm leaves, moving them slowly back and forth. There was also a very low sound, whisper like, and it was audible only on my left side. Without offering any proof, believe me that it was my guardian angel telling me that I might get out of this batch of molten steel, maybe with a little less hair, little more red in the face but alive, and that I might end up knowing a little more about the metallurgical structure of the steel then I knew before I fell - or was I thrown? - into the hot mess. And, yes, I actually saw the grains and how they were developing.  

My wife was shaking me. When I woke I was soaked in sweat, my skin was cherry red, and my body was covered in blisters. I was dazed and didn't recall immediately what I just went through. In fact, the details of falling into the molten steel had been hidden deep in my subconscious for a long time, I couldn't tell how long. I didn't actually recall how and when I was able to recount the full details for the first time. The blisters and the redness disappeared after a long soak and my head cleared sufficiently to get out of bed and after more rest and calisthenics, I went for a long walk. I felt almost new again. But the thought of my dream and the fall into the hot metal are with me still and after a few glasses of wine I always wonder what the actual reality was.  

Next day I delivered my lecture, well prepared but without notes, feeling somewhat sorry for my students, who assured me that I caused no damage to their education. Also, no qualitative change in my delivery was noted.  

A few days after getting home I felt well enough to contact the federal bureaucracy, the office of the Minister that deals with traveling Canadians and their problems abroad. It was the Department of Foreign Affairs and to get through to the Hungarian desk needed several calls and the usual "press one if you...," process, none of which I wanted. There was no special button to be pressed for the case when you were arrested abroad and tortured and accused of committing major crimes. Help had to be found and through my local member of Parliament, I finally got through to the official in charge, a Dr. Howther. He sounded young, helpful and interested and I told him, very briefly, why I was calling. His whole demeanor changed on hearing that we were dealing with a potentially embarrassing international incident. He became guarded, and he was trying to get me off the line. He didn't succeed because I was determined to be heard and I didn't hang up on him when he indicated total disbelief. I persevered and finally got invited to his office to tell the full story. I had to tell him though that the choice was his. Hear me out or I go to one the national papers, and presto, the invitation was issued.  

I arrived in his office on time. The place was impressive. It was large, bright, modern and tastefully furnished. Sofas, arm chairs, low tables and plants were artfully arranged, designed for comfortable, pleasant conversation. Large windows and subdued lights created a relaxed, low keyed atmosphere. His secretary was expecting me and greeted me with a smile. The mineral water I asked for appeared fast. A conference table, seating 20, was arranged in the middle of the room. 

A few of Dr. Howther's colleagues were there also, waiting, and after the usual introductions and pleasantries and ignoring the sceptical looks, I told my story. There was a video recorder, turned on already, to which I had no objection. In fact I wanted everything to be recorded. It took the whole morning to describe, in minute detail, what happened, how I was treated, what I was accused of, how I managed to get out of Hungary, how the lady at the Consulate helped and used their aircraft to fly me home. I was pleased to have held the attention of my audience. Nobody moved, nobody yawned, nobody interrupted. I needed a full bottle of water to finish and my voice was hoarse at the end.  

Incredulous faces surrounded me, speechless, white, strained. It was quite easy to notice that the young people had never heard a story such as this, except maybe on TV or in the movies. I found it hard to tell if they believed it at all, but why shouldn't they? Why would I try to fool them?  

After the shocked silence, the questions began, and at first I had to dispel their doubts.  

"Do you mean that you were arrested, tortured, jailed, hypnotized and sprung out jail during your last visit?" asked one of the youngsters. My patience had never been too great and it was especially short after my lengthy monologue. 

"Are you somewhat hard of hearing, or did you have a little snooze?" and he turned pink and silent but the next questions were noticeably less stupid. What I wanted to hear was whether my adventures were known to anyone in this group, and I asked and was astonished to hear the response, "No, we had absolutely no idea that a Canadian citizen was in trouble. Nobody advised us. Maybe some further checking should be done."  

"Have you heard of Christina Sackam, chief assistant to the Canadian Consul in Budapest? She seemed to know who I was and she said that they were worried about me so at least at the Consulate they knew about my experiences," I said. 

Dr. Howther piped up, "Yes, I know her, a very capable, highly qualified lady. I am anticipating your next question, Sir, and the answer is, we received no communication from her or from the Consul."  

I found this hard to believe but I chose not to question the efficiency of the local crew, at least not just yet. Who handled my wife's calls for information? I was still reasonably certain that a memo or an e-mail would be found in somebody's in-tray, not acted on or not even read, as yet. The scenario I was making up, admittedly with no facts, was the potential existence of a mole in the Department of Foreign Affairs, co-operating covertly with Colonel Hegedus and her gang. I made a mental note for this to be followed up when time permitted.  

I asked, "What is the process other countries are expected to follow in a case such as mine?" and the answer described the internationally agreed protocol. In each consulate or embassy there is a designated person whose job it is to follow the adventures and the whereabouts of their citizens. While theoretically one should register with one's consulate on arrival, tourists in friendly countries seldom do this.  

"Should I have been allowed to call the Canadian Consulate as soon as I was detained?" I asked and I knew the answer was yes, of course, and this was confirmed. Not only should I have been given the opportunity to call, an official of the Border Control should have called the Consulate or the embassy within 30 minutes of my arrest.  

Dr. Howther, still pale and obviously shaken, said, "Dr. Lederer, I must inform my superior of what you just told us. This wasn't only highly irregular, it reminds me of the times when we were looking for our citizens who vanished during the Communist regime and we found the most effective stonewalling, imaginable." He asked for a few minutes, left the office to make the call and was back soon. "The Minister of Foreign Affairs will join us momentarily. She is concerned and wants to hear your story again, so please be patient and repeat it. We are talking about a potentially major international incident and she must be careful to handle it properly." 

When the Minister arrived and I told my story again, she said, "Dr. Lederer, your story is the first I hear of any of our citizens being mistreated in Hungary in recent times. There were a few instances before but we were always informed and the calls to the Consulate were always allowed and even encouraged. Please stay in town. My ministry will cover your expenses. It is too late to call now but I will call my opposite number in Budapest tomorrow, first thing, and I would like you to be present when I call. Meanwhile please communicate about this to nobody, especially not to the newspapers. Of course, you may call home that you are staying over." 

I was taken to the Chateau Laurier, and was given an executive suite. The suite had a separate living room and bedroom, two bathrooms, terrycloth bathrobes in each, Jacuzzi in one. The rooms were furnished using genuine antique pieces the origins and ages of which I would have liked to identify but couldn't. The view was toward the parliament buildings. A large screen TV, an independent stereo system, a very well stocked minibar and a basket of fresh fruit were there, waiting for me. I checked the minibar contents and found cognac, Napoleon version, champagne, not sparkling wine, even spring water. Within minutes of checking in, a chambermaid appeared to bring me shaving things, a toothbrush and to take my clothes to be cleaned and pressed. There was a minor consternation since all my clothes were on me and were to be given to the lady but since there was a bathrobe, the need for a public striptease was removed. My clothes come back within an hour. My shoes were polished. The light supper served in the hotel's dining room was excellent and I felt good about the experience and looked forward to the phone call the next day and maybe an explanation of what happened. I slept well. I felt that I was being taken seriously and this was a good feeling.

The next day, rested, cleaned, freshly pressed, and after a couple of excellent croissants and a cafe cr\u00e8me, I returned to the Department of Foreign Affairs. I was shown straight into the Minister's office. Following the necessary polite inquiries into my health, the Minister dialed her opposite number in Budapest whom she had met several times and worked with on several international committees. She put the call on her speakerphone and indicated that if I wished I might make notes of the conversation. The talk was to be recorded in any case and I was to be given a certified copy.  

I was most impressed by the Hungarian Minister's ability to speak grammatically perfect and practically accentless English, much like the Scandinavian people whose language skills are unmatched in my limited experience. Partial proof of this occurred when in Stockholm I was accosted by a beggar, asking for change in a language which I assumed was Swedish. On hearing my excuse in English that I didn't understand, he repeated the request in excellent English. I was so impressed, I gave him enough money for a simple supper. Back to business, however. The conversation between the Ministers started and I wanted to listen very carefully.  

My Minister began. "My friend, lets get to the purpose of my call. I have Professor Lederer in my office and I trust that you recognize the name. He told me his hard-to-believe story and I would appreciate hearing your response. I also hope that you are familiar with what I am talking about and that maybe you even expected my call." 

The response was most interesting and the tone of voice implied that the speaker was telling the truth. "I am afraid I don't have a clue what you are talking about. Who is the good Professor and what is his story?" 

My story was repeated, not at the length I took the day before, but still the telling took over 20 minutes. During this time there was complete silence from the other end, and maybe I just imagined hearing the incredulity and the astonishment of the Hungarian minister. When the story was over, the comment came, quietly and in a shocked voice, "My dear friend and colleague, what you have just told me is totally outrageous. I understand that you wouldn't have called if these events had not been checked out thoroughly. At this point I am lost for words. Allow me to check with my people here. Please stay in your office, I will call you back in 30 minutes." 

We chatted while we waited for the call which came as promised. The voice of the Hungarian Minister indicated major distress. She said, "My friend, you mentioned several names of officials. You mentioned the name of Colonel Hegedus. No person of this name is in any of our Ministries. Nobody at the airport recalls the arrest of the Professor. I was told that the interrogation room hasn't been used for the last six months. There is a Dr. Brucotti, and as the story said, she had been seconded to us from Italy. She is, in fact, a consultant to the Minister of Internal Security and she is a clinical psychiatrist and an expert in hypnosis. I asked her personally and she said, and I believe her, that she had nothing to do with the professor and knew nothing about Colonel Hegedus. She just came back from her holidays yesterday. She was in Milan during the last week. Here is my dilemma: maybe I am naive but I believe the people who work for me, and the contradiction is that I also believe you. I have a request. Please allow me more time to investigate. If the allegations are based on facts, and I don't doubt that they are, there will be clues or evidence and I will find them, I promise you. While I investigate, please don't call the media in either country, as this may become an international incident. I will call again in 48 hours." 

I told the Minister that I was disappointed in the result and I didn't really care what her colleague would say in a couple of days. This was slight exaggeration because I was vitally interested. Also, I wanted to go home. I told her that I would appreciate being informed of the gist of what would eventually transpire and she promised to call me and debrief. We parted company and I thanked her for the support but as I walked out of the room after many handshakes, it was still unclear why I was subjected to the misery which nobody in Hungary or in Canada seemed to know anything about.  

A few days later, in a short, curt call from the assistant to the Minister of Foreign Affairs, I was told that there was no evidence whatsoever in Hungary that corroborated my description of events. There were no clues in the interrogation room. There were no bloodstains on the carpet. There was no sign that anyone vomited there. There was nobody who recalled my arrest, questioning, beating or the subsequent transportation to jail. Nobody in any of the Hungarian jails recalled the professor who had been giving English lessons. No taxi driver had been located who admitted to picking up anyone in a blue jumpsuit who claimed to have been in jail. A person of my description checked into a local hotel, stayed there for six days, and paid cash on departure. There was nothing to corroborate my story. Oh, but there was something else in the message, transmitted from the Minister to me. "Don't call us again. When you wish to travel, please don't invent stories. Just face the facts. You have a lively imagination. Be happy that you won't be charged with mischief, that your passport isn't cancelled and that you can travel again. We hope that this is the end of your alleged affair. We want to hear nothing further from you." 

I noted the missing links in this story and wondered why there was no mention of the Canadian Consulate, Ms. Sackam, my two calls to my family, the plane-ride home in the executive jet, and the landing at Breslau airport. How come these didn't indicate that I wasn't lying? Did the Hungarian Minister check with the Canadian Consulate? Did she check with the airport to see if there was a flight plan for my return home? If not, why not? I couldn't believe my ears. I was taken to be a liar.  

I should have shown the Minister the scars and the medical report I received a day after my arrival home, but if I did this now, I would be accused of harassing the officials and it wouldn't further my cause. Which now got substantially broader. Now I needed not just to find the perps and exact revenge but also to prove to my doubters that my story was true to the last word. My options at this point, none palatable, were to call a newspaper; hire a private investigator and return to Hungary; or forget about it all.  

I wanted to give the official some more information, so I said fast, "Please don't hang up. Just mark my words for the record. What I told you, what was on the tapes and the transcript, were the absolute truth. I don't consider this to be the end." 

"As you wish, Professor," said the assistant, annoyed at me for not accepting defeat. "Just consider that maybe your imagination was playing tricks. Remember that you are not so young any more." It was this last statement that shouldn't have been said. I was guessing the assistant's age at 26, not more, and raised with the mouth around a silver spoon, sheltered, not questioning the availability of air-conditioning and running hot water at all times, or not finding sufficient food in the refrigerator. So I told him now, rather sharply, "I will get to the bottom of this, fear not. I predict that you and your Minister will eat your words, will be apologizing in public, and I may or may not accept your apology. I am going back to Hungary. I will be in touch, you may be sure," and I hung up before any more wisdom that I didn't want to hear was uttered by the young jerk. 

Next morning I called the national newspaper. I managed to reach one of the often-read, well-known journalists and she agreed to listen to my story. I related essentially the same story I told the Minister. I described the visit to the ministry, the calls between the two ministers, the complete dismissal of my veracity and the admonishment to take my next fantasy elsewhere. The lady recorded my tale, listened carefully while I was talking, appeared to take it all in, with absolutely no reaction. When finished, in about 90 minutes, she said, "If this story can be corroborated, it would be a major news item, an international scandal, worthy of publication. Before anything like that is to happen though, corroboration is necessary. Absolutely necessary." 

I agreed, of course.  

"Please hold on to my story and have the date certified. I will attempt to get the proof you need. I am going back to Budapest," I said. "Please give me an e-mail address and I'll contact you when further information is available." 

"No e-mail, Professor, those are now quite in the public domain, easily read by anyone dedicated enough. I suggest the following. We buy digital cell phones, give our numbers only to each other, agree to call only at certain times, ring once, hang up, repeat the call in exactly 60 seconds, and use the encryption mode in all calls. We will replace the phones every two weeks. Each time I get a new phone, I will send you my new number."  

"OK," I said, "will do." 

We got the phones, tested them, asked a friendly expert to break into one of our conversations, which he couldn't do, so we felt safe enough to transmit even rumors on the secure line. 

At this time, however, I needed a break. No more Communists, no more conspiracy, just my regular life with all its happy, boring routines. The proof, clearing my name, maybe even finding the people who made my life miserable, my sweet revenge would have to wait a bit. I needed to regenerate, to rejuvenate, to regain my self-confidence, my ego, which, while still sky-high, took some bruising lately. I decided to go on with the usual routine, study, lecture, swim, eat and drink. Being merry wasn't an option just yet.  

CHAPTER 7 

 On Wednesday I was only suspicious, but by Friday I was certain. They were following me. All around the corridors, the hallways and the classrooms, into the lab, waiting outside the washrooms, there they were, singly or in groups, highly visible. They wanted me to notice them. Many of them were girls. One of them, a tall, athletic looking one appeared somewhat familiar but I couldn't place her, a disappointing failure of my memory. They looked like students. I checked the files with photos and they were legitimate registered students, some undergraduates, some graduates and several visiting exchange students, from a variety of co-operating universities. They were of the appropriate age, wearing the regulation, universal students' uniform, T-shirts, backpacks, jeans, cell phones, some of the old-fashioned or poor with portable CD players, the better-off with iPods, plugged in continuously. They looked young and eager. They were not always the same individuals but I noticed that two of them, somewhat older looking than the rest, were always part of the group. Periodically they would pass close by, in crowds, at the doorways or in elevators, they would jostle, push me, step on my feet, elbows in the ribs, always saying, "sorry". They were not subtle. Their presence alerted me to some form of unidentified danger, what Perez-Reverte called in the "Queen of the South," the "situation," the feeling of imminent doom and menace and the wish to be somewhere else. Once in a crowded elevator I was pressed into the back wall, and had some difficulty breathing from the pressure. I have been afraid since, a controllable fear to some extent, but still unpleasant.  

I noticed that some members of the crowd periodically took notes or talked into small recorders. I had no idea why they were following me, why they made sure that I would notice, how they managed to be just a little bit threatening or why there was a need for the notes. They apparently recorded my movements around the department and around my lab, but why? Or, had I developed a persecution complex? Since my arrival home I had become a bit paranoid of anything out of the ordinary. Could these students have any possible connection to my recent, very unpleasant adventures in Budapest? 

I went back to the student files to check further, hoping to find a connection of any kind that might shed some light on their activities. Students who apply to my university for admission are asked to write a letter, explaining why they wish to come here. Also, they are asked to write about their hobbies. Looking at these, there was a clearly noticeable trend. Most of them liked to read. Researching the files further, I looked at their submissions in more detail and found another clear trend. The books they liked to read all had to do, in one way or another, with social democracy, socialism or Communism. Some listed essays by relatively well-known, recent Marxist philosophers, such as Marcuse, Rosa Luxemburg, Althusser, Gramsci and Lenin and there was another, major significant clue. Many listed their past or current memberships in the Young Communist League.  

I went home Friday after the weekly coffee break in which my colleagues didn't touch the maple donut, traditionally reserved for me and I was grateful. A long time ago I reserved the maple donut and my request was being honoured. Anybody can have the second, if there was another. The coffee was strong but I drank it dutifully, out of respect for the company of my colleagues and the person who made the coffee. Caffeine ration of the day blown to pieces. The talk was about the responsibility of the university toward a professor convicted of a crime, say, serious moral turpitude and having spent some time in jail, serving out the full sentence, having paid his debt to society. Should the university also punish the offender? Should the professor be fired? Should professors show an unimpeachable moral standard to their students, be above the failings of the rest of people? Was it not enough to pay your debt to society by spending your sentence, in full, in jail? Should you also lose your job? What if your crime was cheating on your income tax? No resolution, of course. That's not necessary. We debated only for the sake of disagreeing with our colleagues.  

My next lecture was to be Thursday, 8:30 in the morning, and after several decades I learned to understand the students' need to be 5-10 minutes late. It was in their genes, it was an international gene and couldn't be removed except by aging. Disapproving superiors don't work. In my younger days as a junior assistant professor lacking self-confidence, I tried locking the doors to prevent the latecomers' entry. The lecture room doors were locked from the inside next time when I got to the classroom. I was taught a lesson and I accepted the inevitable with grace, I thought. The conclusion was that students were always late for appointments and classes. Take it with good humour and they will love you for it. 

I was cheerful, relaxed, wore my navy suit with a white shirt and a maroon tie, maroon shoes, ready to dispense more wisdom. I recalled one of the comments students made in listing what they learned from which professor during their four or five years at university. One taught them the details of fluid mechanics while another gave them the basics of differential equations. From Lederer, "We learned how to dress," they wrote. At least I taught them something useful. I miss the good old days when I dressed carefully each day. Now nobody wears suits for fear of being mistaken for an undertaker. 

The topic of the lecture was to be the rolling of metals, the first of three and I was to present the basic ideas of the process. I always liked that part of the talk and while my audience might have disagreed, I thought that I could do it reasonably well. With the usual cup of cold water in hand I greeted the children and began to talk, trying, as ever, to project my voice, so easy if you were acting but not so natural if you had never learned and had no clues how it should be done. I managed to forget about the crowd that was following me around, if only for a little while.  

 There is a hierarchy of crimes. Cold-blooded murder, planned in advance and executed without mercy, used to head the list. House-invasion, especially when the occupants are elderly, should be listed alongside murder - at least, in my opinion - but the perps, when caught, which is rare, are usually sentenced lightly, getting gentle slaps on the wrist. Since I joined the ranks of the elderly some time ago, the possibility of an unexpected, violent intruder had been on my mind, especially since the parents of a colleague had been attacked recently, tied up, beaten and robbed. They didn't resist, told the bad people where the valuables were, so the reasons for the beating defy logic. Nevertheless a few weeks of recovery were needed to restore their health. The damage to their spirit was, sadly, of a much longer duration and may not ever be repairable. The trust in their fellow human beings was also gone and may never be fully restored.  

Luckily I was in good health, I continued to exercise, my reflexes were still quite fast and I wasn't yet willing to allow just anyone into my house. The baseball bat, located at the entrance was the first layer of defence and one part of the insurance policy I instituted a little while ago. I had never needed it so far and hope earnestly that it and I would never be tested. However, the bat was there and its presence made me feel just a little bit safer. Further, I installed motion detectors, a few close-circuit TV monitors, risking being called paranoid by my neighbours, and maybe the three cameras, two in front, one in the back, were a bit over the top. Police officers came to ask what I needed them for, and left, shaking their heads a little, making sure that I saw the reaction, the old coot is off his rocker. While I would have been happier with a promise of more frequent drive-bys and checks by the cruisers, this wasn't yet on offer. I don't ever open the door to unannounced visitors, especially at night.  

While the signals from the motion detectors should have, but didn't wake me, the sudden, frantic, ear-splitting banging on the door finally did. It was one in the morning, bitter cold outside, -22 C, I was alone in the house, I was somewhat frightened and I didn't know what to do. Do I call 911? Was it possible that somebody was in real danger or hurt and my help was needed? The banging continued, and I was hearing a plea, a lady's voice in Hungarian, pleading, "Let me in please, please, I need help." I peeked out from the bedroom window and saw a woman, dressed lightly in a spring coat, but I couldn't make out who she was. 

A favourite trick of the house-invasion experts was to make the selected victim open the door to help someone in need so they can enter easily. This was on my mind and I was concerned but surprisingly, not in a major panic yet. I went downstairs and looked at the monitors and didn't see anyone lurking around or behind the house. I opened the door and saw the lady who still appeared in my nightmares fairly regularly, Mrs. Hegedus, or Colonel Hegedus, take your pick. What to do next? She stumbled in, barely able to stand and I caught her just before the complete collapse. She wasn't a large person, so I was able to lift her and carry her to the sofa in my living room. I put her down and covered her with a blanket. She looked so pitiful there, small, frightened, she was shivering and her teeth were literally chattering. She didn't appear to be the strong-willed, powerful secret service officer of major commanding presence with the steely blue eyes that I saw not so long ago. She was filthy, her hair was in a tangle, blood was on her face, and one of her shoes was missing a heel, no gloves, no scarf, no hat. She was wearing a light skirt and her stockings were torn. She was carrying a Longchamp purse, the top of which appeared to be torn off and the purse was hanging open. The way she was hugging it indicated that its contents might have been the cause of her bloody state.  

She looked exhausted, totally drained and as I watched her, expecting an explanation, she mumbled, "Don't call the police." Her eyes suddenly turned up into her skull, the whites only visible, and she lost consciousness. And there I was, with a possible fugitive from the police, or a victim of a crime, a person who commanded the team that tortured me, blacked out, in my house. What if she kicked the bucket on my favourite sofa? Why should I not call the police? And the answer was supplied immediately, as she began to convulse, dropped her purse, the contents of which spilled on the carpet. Blood was coming through her mouth and nose, she was turning deathly pale, shaking violently and there was no choice. I had to call 911.  

The ambulance arrived within minutes with paramedics, and the lady was taken off my hands. All that was left were the purse, the blood and the mud stains. Going back to sleep was out of the question now. I had to wait for the police to visit. Meanwhile, I drank a hot cup of coffee and some cognac, my usual solution to all shocks in life. A casual look at her spilled papers was permitted because the lady got me involved in something over which I wanted close control. The look soon became not so casual when I saw a list of names that immediately reminded me of the names of the students that followed me around in the corridors of the university. There was something here that needed to be clarified. Could this be proof of the connection of the crowd and the Colonel? But for what purpose? This would be a fascinating investigation if it only didn't involve me.  

The visit by two uniforms and a detective wasn't long in coming. They were pulling into my driveway at four in the morning, just a couple of hours after the ambulance left. By then I showered and shaved and I was dressed casually, wearing a pair of gray slacks and a matching sweater over a white shirt. The evidence of the lost night's sleep was there under my eyes. Other than feeling tired, I felt relaxed, I was comfortable with my actions.  

The officers were not surprised to find me dressed, ready and waiting for them. We introduced ourselves and I had the pleasure of meeting Constables Prother and Confro and Detective George Holloway, of the local detachment. We acknowledged the early hour, and I was told what must be the usual statement, "Sorry to disturb you at this hour Sir, but...," and we sat down around the kitchen table. My offer of coffee or soft drinks wasn't accepted, even though it was a genuine offer. I felt a bit sorry for the young men whose preference would be quite certainly to be at home in bed, asleep, beside and in intimate contact with their favourite warm body.  

Detective Holloway started the discussion. "Of course, you understand, Sir, why we came to your house. Your 911 call got the ambulance here quickly and they took the lady to the emergency. She was still alive, thanks to your fast call. She was suffering from major frostbite, hypothermia and several broken bones, her ankle, three ribs and her left cheekbone. Some of her teeth were also knocked out. She had a fairly strong concussion. She lost a large amount of blood. She has been given a transfusion, her bones have been set and with a sedative she is now asleep. Lucky for her, she appears to be in good physical shape. We need to know what happened to her, who she is, if she was attacked and if anything was stolen from her. We will question her tomorrow or as soon as she is able to talk. We would, however, appreciate hearing your story first if you don't mind, Sir. Why did she come to your house?" 

In my response I saw the need to be truthful and said, "Detective, there is quite a background to what just happened. I'll tell you the story but I must tell you right away that there's a considerable amount of controversy about the truth of it. I can't prove to you that what I'll say actually happened because at this time it is my word against that of several others, many of whom are prominent people and some of whom question my sanity. Please be patient, the story, even briefly, will take some time, so just listen."  

I noticed that I had his attention. I related the whole episode of my arrest, torture, jailing, escape, the ride home, the visit to Foreign Affairs, the call to Hungary and the attempt to discredit all that I experienced. I tried to be as brief as possible. The story still took a full hour.  

I ended with the statement, "This lady was the Colonel in charge of my interrogation. She was in charge of my detention and torture. I can't imagine what she was doing here or why she came to my house."  

"There is a possible clue, a connection, however," I continued and I told the detective of the group of students, following me around and the list of names, falling out of the Colonel's purse. 

Detective Holloway was patient, he listened carefully and closely, as did the two police officers, and when I finished he said, "There are so many questions, so many holes and so many unknowns that I have that special feeling in my gut: something large is unfolding here. And I always trust my gut. A few bad people are now in jail because my gut reacted as it always does. Would you, Professor, agree to come to my office tomorrow and tell your story again so I will have an official record? I will call you in the morning if the lady is not well enough to leave the hospital and then please let's meet by her bed. You may come to my office after, if you wish." 

"Yes, I'll wait for your call and I'll be there, detective," I said. "But instead of a visit, I could do one better for you. I have a record of the debriefing at the Department of Foreign Affairs, made a little while ago, in which all the details are recorded." I gave him a copy, keeping the original in my safe, for no special reason, just why not.  

"There is one more thing, Professor and it is important. That list you mentioned can't be used here, even if it contained the names of the students that followed you around. Admitting to have taken a look at it would be an admission of invading the lady's privacy. I have taken note of its contents, but please, don't mention it to anyone, ever." 

The meeting was over just as it was getting light out there. The next meeting would start very soon. I had to drink more coffee. 

 The detective called at seven in the morning, telling me that the Colonel was still groggy from the treatment and the sedatives but she was awake and was willing to talk. I arrived at the hospital at 9 a.m. sharp and was surprised to see Colonel Hegedus sitting in a wheelchair. She was obviously in pain, bandaged everywhere, cast on her ankle, tapes on her cheek, but alive, awake and looking very uncomfortable, and apprehensive. I understood her concerns. She was in an unexpected situation, not quite familiar with what was happening and probably more importantly, not in absolute control. The steely blue eyes lost just a little of their sharpness, and they avoided looking at me at first. Detective Holloway and a stenographer were there also. The detective greeted me warmly. I was offered a cup of freshly made, hot cappuccino, which I accepted with pleasure, ignoring the large number of coffees I'd imbibed during the last 24 hours. As the detective handed me the cup, his back was toward the Colonel and I saw the silent plea she was sending me - how did she know about my ability to lip-read? "Please, don't betray me."  

No, I will not betray you, dear lady, I thought. But my story was still not believed by the officials that matter, I still haven't taken my revenge. The lady's existence and that of the others who accused me of murder and were rather unkind, were still unacknowledged, here and in Hungary, so I would tell the truth as I see it. Is that betrayal? And, I thought further, she caused me grief and she forfeited her right to ask me for anything. And actually, I didn't really care what she might think. Could she read my mind? 

"Let's start," said Detective Holloway and he added, to me, "I listened to the tape you gave me last night. Interesting story, I must say."  

Thank goodness for the wide peripheral vision I have as I noticed how the Colonel looked concerned at the mention of the tape. Of course, she had no clue what it contained. 

The full tape was over three hours long so there was no sleep for the detective, though the sleepless night didn't show. No dark circles under his eyes, he was clean shaven, suit perfectly tailored and ironed, shirt, tie, socks, shoes, belt matching, even his watchband matched the rest. I was developing a serious respect for the small town detective.  

He continued. "I would like to lay down some ground rules first, about how I would like to conduct this friendly meeting. I will ask questions of both of you. I expect you to respond truthfully. I emphasize that this is not a court, nobody is under arrest and nobody is asked to take an oath. But please note that there is a stenographer here, and he will record everything. There is also a tape recorder, which I will turn on as we start. At this point I am trying to learn how and why a lady of foreign birth and nationality ended up in this hospital with very serious injuries."  

The detective paused here, looked at both of us straight in the eyes, for several seconds. I noted that he had that rare ability to look without blinking, not averting his eyes. Then he addressed each of us in turn.  

"Professor Lederer, did you follow and understand fully what I just said?" When I said I did, he repeated the question to the Colonel, who said, very cautiously, "I understand detective, but please you understand also that I am not well. I was told that I was hit on the head and I suffered a major concussion. I may or may not remember all that happened to me. I will try very hard to recall everything but my story may be incomplete."  

The detective said, "OK, let's go ahead, feel free to tell me what you can." At this time I remembered Hercule Poirot, Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, and what he believed about the stories people told him. What wasn't told was as valuable as what was. When all the facts fit and the result was seamless, the truth always emerged. I wondered if the detective read Agatha Christie but didn't ask. 

Detective Holloway now said, "I am turning on the recorder now. Please state your name, address, nationality, your occupation, your age and the name of the person you wish to be notified in case you need help or advice."  

He turned to me and indicated that I should start, in fact, show the lady how this was to be done. I gave him credit for the move. He wasn't wishing to inconvenience her any more than necessary. I wondered if a colleague was waiting outside the room, ready to join us and if the bad cop\/good cop routine would eventually be playing out here. I thought not, as I found Holloway more and more sophisticated and urbane and I had the feeling that he was very confident in his ability to handle the current situation. He held the mike in front of me and his hand was steady. 

I gave him the details he needed, speaking slowly and clearly. I felt fairly relaxed but there was a bit of apprehension as I wasn't really sure where this was leading.  

It was the Colonel's turn and the first surprise of the day occurred. She said, and incredibly her English was totally unaccented, "I am Mrs. Martha Williams. I am a Canadian citizen. I was born in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. I am a consultant in private business and my expertise is politics. I am 50 years old. I would like my husband to be notified in case of an emergency. He lives in Saskatoon. I called him as soon as I regained consciousness this morning and he is on his way here. He should arrive soon. I asked the nurse to bring him directly to this room and I trust that none of you will object to his presence." 

I was absolutely astounded and flabbergasted at this. The Colonel, my interrogator, my torturer, a Canadian citizen? Was I going old and crazy and was my memory playing tricks, and this lady just looked like the one I thought she was? Was the assistant of the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the arrogant young bugger, right when he said I was getting too old to be trusted with my memory? The detective, trained to pick up on peoples' reactions in their facial expressions and body language, noted my consternation and, of course, I noted his. We exchanged looks, implying that we were in this together, but there was a little caution and a small message and a little threat in his glance to me, "There is a change in this game now and it may be significant. I will get to the bottom of this, make no mistake." This was what I inferred from his look and I was quite sure I read him correctly.  

"Your husband can enter the room, of course, and can take part in all that takes place," said the detective. "Also, if you wish to have a lawyer present, I am willing to postpone this discussion until she arrives."  

I thought he was still playing the good cop routine but that was always more pleasant than the shouting and the name calling the bad cop would be doing. The Colonel - or the consultant? - said now, "There is no need for a lawyer at this point. But thanks for the offer, I may take you up on that later".  

Holloway continued, turning to me. "Professor Lederer, please tell me how and under what circumstances you met this lady for the first time. I understand that you described the events on the tape you gave me last night to various officials and organizations. Please repeat the whole story, briefly, so my office can also have a current, summarized record," started the detective. At this time, the door was flung open, no knocking, and in marched a very angry, large, sloppy person, 6 foot 6, broad, powerful looking, huge beer belly, red in the face, out of breath, disheveled, and soaked in sweat.  

"Where is my wife? Who the fucking hell you think you are to detain her, to interrogate her? I know my rights, I just got here from Saskatoon," and he wheezed and started coughing and choking and he needed to sit down. He drank the water the detective was holding ready. He was panting badly. Just don't have an attack of anything, I hoped. Something was wrong here. The quality of the husband didn't match the quality of the wife. If she was who I thought, she was a classy lady, even if she was a maniac. The husband behaved like an idiot and looked like an oaf.  

A nurse appeared, concerned and ready to help, but there seemed to be no need. The intruder saw his wife, got up to hug her and said, much calmer now, "I am happy to see you are alive. How are you, my dear?" and his tone made the detective and I exchange another glance. The husband sounded a bit too sweet, too sugary, it didn't sound real, didn't convey any real concern. The words were delivered as a poor actor would have, in a third rate play. Also, the lady flinched a little as the big, sweating bull was getting nearer and she was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide her reaction. Detective Holloway was taking charge again, introducing himself and continuing, low keyed and very polite. 

"You must be Mr. Williams, Sir. I am pleased to welcome you here. Your wife was brought in to the hospital last night by ambulance. She was picked up at Professor Lederer's house whose fast action in calling for help saved her life. You will get a chance to speak to her doctor as soon as you wish. Several physicians worked to keep her alive and they performed a miracle as last night Mrs. Williams was fighting for her life. She is a remarkable lady, and I am very grateful that she agreed to take part in this discussion of her own free will." He paused to gauge the husband's reaction and noticed that he was listening carefully.  

"Is my wife under arrest?" Williams asked, still belligerent and unnecessarily loud. Some spittle was on his chin, making him look like a large animal.  

"No Sir, she is not under arrest and there are no plans to arrest her as she has not committed a crime. The reason for this meeting is to find out if she was the victim of a crime. I think she was. Her injuries appear to have been inflicted by several people, beating her savagely, and in my opinion they knew how to cause pain and injury. They were professionals," said Holloway, politely and quietly but again with lots of authority.  

Williams's colour was returning to normal, and I observed that his face was ruddy, the face of one who spends much time outside. There was a curious discoloration on both of his ears that I thought might be the result of some serious frostbite, not impossible if you live in Saskatoon, among the coldest inhabited spots in Canada. It appeared to me that a warning glance passed between his wife and him. Maybe I should say "his alleged wife" but I really had no reason to doubt their marital status. It was just my basic skepticism. Holloway may have missed the glance or maybe I was just imagining it.  

"Thank you, Detective Holloway. I intend to stay here and with your permission, when I don't follow the conversation I'll ask you to explain. Professor, I'm grateful to you for your actions last night. You saved my wife's life," Williams was saying, much subdued, most likely caused by his wife's look. "Let's proceed."  

As we continued, I recalled how the Colonel became agitated at the mention of the tape I gave the detective the night before. She was now trying to send me another wordless message. She just moved her lips, "What was on the tape?" and I mouthed back, "Everything," and she was turning pale.  

"I would appreciate knowing what was on that tape you talked about a little while ago, detective. Has it anything to do with me?" she said, interrupting the flow of events, and it was obvious to me that she was attempting to take charge of the meeting. I was amazed at her strength which seemed to be coming back, injured as she was. The commanding attitude was back also. It seemed that she was an accomplished actress. She could become the injured lady in need of help or a commander, a leader of men and women. My certainty returned, this lady was the one I met, not a double, not a twin, she was the real McCoy. She was a powerful person, as knowledgeable about manipulation of people and ideas, about spin-doctoring or about interrogations as anyone. The frightened appearance was part of her game. I trusted that Holloway saw through that as well as I did, and I was reasonably certain that he did. My hope was now in Detective Holloway, hoping that he would not give up control and would more than match the Hungarian or Canadian lady.  

The detective remained as low keyed and relaxed, as ever. He was watchful and gave me the impression that nothing escaped his notice.  

"I will give you the tape when this meeting is over, you may be assured. If, as a result, you wish to meet me again, it would be my pleasure to accommodate you." Mrs. Williams said, at the same time as her husband, who shut up immediately when she began to talk, "Detective, if there is something on that tape that concerns me, I would want to see it before anything else happens."  

When she finished, the big sweating hulk simply repeated her statement, verbatim.  

"OK," said the detective. "Fine. Please realize, however, that the people that attacked you get further and further away as we talk."  

With that he handed her the tape, arranged with the hospital to provide a playback machine and said, "I will be back tomorrow morning at 9 sharp. Could you also be here, Professor?" I confirmed and the meeting was over. We said our farewells, shook hands and were on our way out when Holloway turned to the lady to ask, "Would you feel more comfortable if I posted a guard outside your room?"  

"No need for that, detective," she said. "My husband is staying with me and he is capable of defending me." There was a smug smirk on her face as she dismissed the need for protection and I wondered why. Had she not been beaten up and almost killed? Holloway agreed, however, no guards would be present, and we left the room together. 

"Detective, are you really not posting a guard at her hospital room?" I asked and he said no, he would not, in fact he couldn't, as the lady hadn't been charged with a crime. He stopped at the nursing station to say, in a way that was really an order that if the patient wished to leave the hospital, against the advice of the doctors, she couldn't be stopped but he was to be notified immediately, at any time, day or night. Also, he told the nurses, "No stranger is allowed to enter her room. A detective will soon be here and he will be watching the entrance. He'll wear a doctor's gown and will carry a stethoscope. I will introduce him to you. He should be coming up in the elevator now." He smiled at me as he spoke. The new detective appeared, walking purposefully toward us, stopped to look at the patients' charts on the doors and actually looked like a young doctor. When he reached the station, Holloway introduced him, and we were ready to leave. I gathered, rather happily, that he also had some suspicions concerning the real identity of Mrs. Williams. We walked together toward the exit, not talking. In the parking lot we shook hands, and went home. At least, I did.  

A telephone message was waiting for me when I got there, from the detective. "I am in my office now and I don't expect to get home very soon. My colleagues and I are starting a discussion about the lady in the hospital. Please join us," said the message and I was through the door, as fast as my age allowed. Of course, I wanted to take part in that, resting be damned. 

Before getting to the detectives, I called my journalist, and gave her a brief update.  

I got to the police station shortly after the discussions began. There were five of them in the room. It was well past noon by now and I was most impressed by the assembled detectives, two of them women, three men. They were well dressed, elegant, no sign of tiredness and no sign of working since early in the morning. They looked fresh, eager, interested to help and they gave the clear impression that their interest was to make life easier for their fellow humans.  

Detective Holloway summarized the events so far. He said that several items disturbed him and that the objective of the discussion was to find answers to several questions. Had a crime been committed? If yes, who was the criminal? Who was the victim? Was Mrs. Williams telling the truth? If she was lying, why? Who was she actually? In light of all, what should be the next steps? 

Each of the detectives took a turn to comment. While I was introduced to them all, I couldn't recall their names. There was unanimous agreement that a crime had been committed. They agreed that Mrs. Williams was beaten up, by "person or persons unknown" and that was a crime, of course. There was quite a bit of discussion about who committed the crime. Her injuries were consistent with a severe beating by professionals - note the use of the plural - not just a simple purse-snatcher. They decided to question her again, maybe have a formal interrogation, with lawyers and stenographers present. Answers to a few basic questions would be helpful in deciding what to do next. They suggested that Holloway ask the following questions. Why did she go to Prof. Lederer's house instead of contacting the police? Why did she not use her cell phone? Did she even have one? Was her cell phone stolen or lost? Was anything at all stolen? Was there an attempt at sexual assault? Why did she not tell how she came to be hurt, even after arriving at the hospital and regaining consciousness? Who was she really? She claimed to be Mrs. Williams, she spoke like a native Canadian and she claimed to have been borne in Saskatoon. Prof. Lederer's story identified her as Colonel Hegedus, a member of the former Hungarian Secret Service, who arrested him, jailed him and tortured him. The professor's story was denied categorically and completely by the Hungarian Minister of the Interior. The detectives agreed that they have no basis at all to believe anybody's story, with apologetic looks at me. Corroboration of all facts would be needed. 

At this time, the detectives agreed that they would consider Mrs. Williams a Canadian citizen until proven otherwise. One of the detectives suggested checking with the Passport Office, quietly, to determine if there was a real Mrs. Williams. The others agreed but warned him to be able to deny that the inquiry was made. The basis for not believing the lady was shaky. Beware of privacy issues, they cautioned. Was it possible that she holds dual citizenship? 

With deference to me and my story - the implications of which were quite clear to them - they had no choice but to reserve judgment. I understood this as there was only my word here, no corroboration at all.  

Holloway pulled me aside and guided me to one of the interrogation rooms. He said that he needed a private conversation and this room was completely private, sealed off and bug-proof. The door was closed and double locked.  

"Please don't repeat this to anybody, not even to your wife or daughter. Talk to nobody, not to reporters, not to neighbours, not to friends. Professor Lederer, my gut tells me - and you know my story about the accuracy of my gut - that we are dealing with much more here than a beat-up lady. Something is very fishy. I expect that we might not find the lady in the hospital in the morning," and he jumped, almost in a panic, to the nearest telephone, called a couple of officers to guard the hospital, in addition to the physician-detective. Then he called the hospital's nursing station on the floor where the alleged Mrs. Williams was supposed to be resting to ask about her, and he turned deathly pale as I watched, and could predict what he was being told. He thanked the nurse, his voice calm, hung up, and turned to me.  

"I am an idiot. As always, when I don't fully listen to my intuition, the worst happens. She checked out a little over an hour ago, shortly after we left. My detective was off, taking a crap. She was wearing new clothes even though she was brought into the hospital in tatters. Obviously her alleged husband, the big hulk, brought her things to wear. The check-out must have been planned well in advance. Unknown to her, her calls were monitored by us and she didn't mention clothes or escape explicitly so they must have used a code and must have staged this whole event. If it was staged then I bet that the beating and her visit to you were also part of the plot. You were to be compromised and were to be accused of beating her. The beating went too far, however. You reacted fast and saved her life when you called 911. A new shift of nurses came on a couple of hours ago and my request to be called as the Colonel was leaving was apparently not passed on to the new crew." 

Holloway seemed to regain his confidence slowly. The colour was returning to his face and he became his decisive self again. He called the duty officer and requested a check for a Mrs. Williams at bus stations, train stations, borders and airports. He took out a large colour photo of the woman and using a scanner and his Blackberry, sent it to all authorities, with a comment that the fugitive might use a name other than Mrs. Williams. 

The telephone rang and he picked it up before the first ring was over. "Holloway," he said and as he listened, the paleness was returning and his hands began shaking. "Thank you," he said, hung up, opened his desk drawer to take out a mickey, took a long slug of what I assume was something strongly alcoholic, started to replace it but then remembered me and offered it to me. Not wishing to offend but not wanting to mix mouths with him, I declined, claiming that I drank too much that day already.  

"The call was from a private airport in Mississauga. A private jet with one passenger took off seven minutes ago. The passenger looked like the photo I just circulated. The pilot was a large, ruddy-faced man. They filed a flight plan and are off to Cuba. At this point at least, we are beaten," said my good detective. And he added, "Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. I was a slow moving, naive, gullible, stupid idiot," and he took another long drink. 

A call from one of his detectives confirmed that Mrs. Williams was in fact a Canadian citizen as well as a Russian and possibly Hungarian. I never heard of a triple citizenship. Was that legal? She carried a Hungarian passport. 

Holloway called the hospital again, not the nursing station but the director of security. The purpose of the call became clear as I listened to his questions and comments. He was talking to the security boss as if they were good friends of long standing.  

"Have you her fingerprints and the blood samples?" and he looked relieved as he listened to the reply. "Good, I owe you a big one," and hung up, looked at me, beaming.  

"My friend did as I asked, knowing that what I asked might well be illegal. But we have the lady's fingerprints and a few strands of her hair and we are able to establish her DNA. This has to be done very quietly as she is neither an accused nor a known criminal at this time. You will, of course, keep this to yourself, as well," he said. Continuing, he told me that, strictly off the record, he would collect a few debts, one from the nearest DNA analysis centre where the chief's son walked free after found selling a few grams of crack. The other was a highly respected FBI agent in charge of the largest collection of fingerprints, us and international. Her not-even-teenage daughter wasn't prosecuted after a high-speed car chase, which ended up in a ditch, luckily for the young lady, in Holloway's jurisdiction. 

I was beginning to feel part of a major conspiracy but I agreed with him that if we were to establish the exact identity of the mystery woman, not too many legal avenues were open. Cuba wouldn't extradite her to Canada, especially when all we had were the gut feelings of a detective, however accurate. Holloway told me to go home and try to rest. He said that the results would be on his desk by the morning and I was to contact him, no later than 8 a.m.  

The next morning came fast. I was on time again.  

After greetings, Holloway said, "I have your lady's identity and you'll find some of these details hard to believe. Please realize that none of this had been obtained through legal ways and none would stand up in open court. In fact, I and my informant would most likely lose our jobs and our pensions if any of this got to be public. I trust that you will not mention what I am about to tell you to anybody. While I trust my contacts and the info I have, all of this has to be established legally, by the usual detective methods. But here goes." 

He took a sip of water and his hands shook a little, no doubt due to a few nights of missed sleep. Then he continued. "I got her DNA but so far it matched nothing in my friend's collection. But my other friend supplied interesting information. The lady was born in Hungary to parents who were long-time, dedicated members of the Communist Party. They had neither time for nor interest in their child. She was brought up by her uncle, also a major figure in the Communist Party. My contact didn't research the uncle in detail but found that he became a high level functionary, and in 1952, a senior member of the government. My friend didn't know his exact position. The uncle died in an unfortunate and apparently terrible industrial accident and the young lady, nine or ten years old at the time, needed several years of psychiatric treatment to overcome her loss. She was very close to her uncle who apparently was a brutal, merciless and thoroughly hated Communist. But he loved his niece.  

"Three years after the death of her uncle she was sent to live in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, a medium sized city in Western Canada, but of course, you know that, so at least some of her claims were correct. A far-removed aunt, a farmer, owned a 10 000 acre farm which was mostly used to grow wheat. She wanted help on the farm so she agreed to take the almost teenager. There was no love between the girl and her aunt and there were several police reports of her running away, being found in various cities and forced back to the farm. She completed high school in Saskatoon, while also working on her aunt's farm. Her grades were poor, just barely above the minimum, except in languages, in which she impressed all of her teachers. She established a reputation of loose morals, had several lovers and four abortions.  

"By the time Ms. Williams finished high school she spoke four languages, all practically free of accent. English she could speak with a Canadian dialect and with English dialects, from Newcastle and Oxford, or as an American from New York. She spoke fluent Hungarian, Russian, as well as French. At age 16 she was granted Canadian citizenship. 

"Using her Canadian passport, aged 18, she traveled to the then Soviet Union. She was accompanied by a large young man, with whom she may have had an illegitimate child, a girl. The child may have been born in Saskatoon - the record was incomplete here and the Saskatoon hospital had reported a break-in and the loss of patient records after the birth. The girl didn't accompany them to Moscow and there was no further information about her. The man, her companion, George Winer, the son of a Canadian farmer, was described as large, meaty, ruddy faced, bumbling and not too bright, resembling the man we just saw in the hospital. Ms. Williams and George Winer probably got married. The time of the wedding, if indeed there was one, is unknown. Winer took his wife's name of Williams but again, there was nothing definite about a marriage, no certificates, no records. The daughter at the present time is estimated to be in her late thirties or early forties. Her whereabouts are unknown.  

"Mrs. Williams returned to Hungary in 1970 or so and she joined the Secret Service. She had two jobs. One was as an interrogator and the other was a posting at the airport, one day a week. She retained that job until shortly after the collapse of the Communist regime.  

"That was as far as my contact could go. There was no further clue, just a blank wall as if there was a conscious effort to erase her from among the living. There was no information forthcoming from Hungary either, but there was a clue which could mean nothing. In a recent TV documentary, broadcast in Budapest, an elderly historian referred to political murders during the early and mid 1950's. He was referring to the relatives and the children of those executed when suddenly all the lights went out in the TV station. The show was never finished and the transcripts were lost."  

Holloway paused to drink a full glass of water, in order to dilute the caffeine of the many cups of very strong coffee of the night before.  

"Your story is beginning to make a little more sense. It is very likely that the man you are accused of pushing into the molten steel was her beloved uncle. If that is true, your adventures were part of her revenge and what happened so far must be just the beginning." 

My astonishment on hearing this was enormous. How and who could know so much about an obscure woman? One who may have had an unusual life but still a total non-entity as far as the Western spy agencies were concerned. I asked Holloway. 

"How come that whoever it was you asked knew so much about the lady?"  

"The Communist file clerks wouldn't believe this but they were amateurs compared to what the Americans collected. The files, now in digital form, include details about 1 - 2 billion people. The details have all been verified from at least two, sometimes three independent sources. More files are constantly added and the existing ones are continuously enlarged. Have you read Dan Brown's The Digital Fortress? He writes about the tremendous amount of information databanks have about us. While hard to believe, much of that is literally true. Oh, I almost forgot. My contact was sending me the photos of Mrs. Williams, most certainly your Colonel Hegedus. I will get you copies. Just don't ever mention how or where you got them." 

My first thought was what do they know about me? I must also be in that huge file. One day I might try to find out, but now I was still preoccupied with the recent past. I felt both relieved and worried. Relieved because the detective's story was the first confirmation that I didn't imagine the recent events and that I was probably not crazy. Worried because the lady, my Mrs. Moriarty, was at large. Recent events implied that she might still be totally consumed by the death of her uncle, a death that happened several decades ago and she was still looking for revenge. She blamed me and she tried twice to cause me harm. She was determined. Also, and this was just an inconvenience now, but could become a serious impediment later, I wasn't supposed to tell the detective's story to anyone. 

"What do you suggest as my next step?" I asked Holloway. He thought for quite a while. Took several gulps of water. Then he said, "My advice is simple. Buy a gun, get a license for it and learn to use it. Beyond that stay home and just be very, very careful." 

"Surely you aren't serious here, Detective," I responded. "I have been accused of being too imaginative, I have been accused of being a liar, a killer, being too old to make sense and you say I should just crawl away, sit in my armchair, read and watch detective stories on TV with my loaded gun by my side? Is that what you would do? Because that isn't what I intend to do." 

"No, Professor, that isn't what I would do. I would go to Budapest and I would find and neutralize the people who inconvenienced me. But I recommend very strongly that you simply do nothing as you have no experience in police and detective work. It is a dangerous enemy that you face and being a desk-person all your life you are not equipped to handle them. You should be armed but remain in a safe place." 

I understood that Holloway was simply trying to protect me. He was unaware of my background in covert operations, in the marshal arts, in unarmed combat and I didn't see the need to enlighten him. So I thanked him profusely for he was helpful and other than his final advice, supportive. I said goodbye and left and realized that I must think a lot and very carefully before I did anything. Which wasn't to do nothing. 

And then something occurred to me and I called Holloway and he was ashamed not to have thought about this. Mrs. Williams said that she notified her husband in Saskatoon the morning she regained consciousness. At what time was that? When did she call him? He was there within the hour. How did he do that from Saskatoon? There was a lie here. 

CHAPTER 8

 I had now decided that enough was enough. In fact, much more than enough. I had enough of being called a murderer. I was fed up with being accused of lying, of fabricating a story of kidnapping, torture, and being ridiculed for having an overactive imagination. What happened to me happened, and all that was needed was some actual proof, a smoking gun. Holloway's information gave me the incentive to clear up the mess, even if there was some danger. Danger was OK as long as I was aware of it. I decided to go to Hungary, taking an experienced private detective with me and attempt to establish beyond doubt who was trying to get me and why. Was it really the Colonel and was this really her revenge for taking me to be the killer of her uncle? I knew that a private detective would be expensive because the detective, if I should find a suitable one, would ask for a hefty daily fee and expenses. I also knew that even if my background in analyzing apparently disconnected events might very well be useful, the brain of another person, the proverbial extra two eyes, might also be very advantageous. I needed to make certain that any further danger to me would be removed permanently.  

I called my friendly reporter, told her where I was going, debriefed and promised to call again. Discarded the phone right after the call, as agreed. Planned to get another very soon.  

Of course, the detective should be near my age so we could pass as friends and should be a native Hungarian so he - or she - could blend and not attract immediate, undue attention. Also, I needed someone who I could trust absolutely. It proved to be a challenge to find the appropriate person but a lucky break led me to another elderly Hungarian, a swimmer who I met at a Masters' swim meet some time ago. Even better, in addition to the language and the heritage, he was born in Budapest so he knew the city and, of course, we could go swimming together, time permitting. He also spoke German quite well, as many older Hungarians do. His English was acceptable, a bit of an accent, much like mine, but OK. My detective-swimmer partner asked not to have his identity revealed so I will call him James. 

We discussed the strategy. The basic reason was to find out, was the Colonel after me and if so, why. Did she really think that I killed her uncle? Was this her motive? We knew that we needed the usual combination of hard work and lots and lots of luck, the emphasis on the latter. There was little to be determined before getting there. Once in Budapest we hoped to find people who were willing to talk to us provided their names were not revealed and the extra income warranted a small betrayal of their friends and acquaintances. We would try to convince them that no harm would come to them and their revelations would only be beneficial, psychologically to me, financially for them. We had euros, dollars and Hungarian currency, forints, and I worried a bit that my funds would start to deplete fast.  

We booked flights to Budapest on MALEV, the Hungarian airline, the only non-stop flight between Toronto and Budapest at the time, taking 8-9 hours, depending on the winds. I had taken the flight before and while it was long, the need to change aircraft and the wait at the connecting airports for a change was removed and that was worth the long sit and the small, or maybe not so small, risk of deep-vein thrombosis. James and I chose not to fly on the same day but several days apart. 

The flight wasn't worse than usual and in fact it was surprisingly pleasant. I sat beside a lady who kept me entertained. She was a non-stop talker, which was good because she took my mind off the length of the flight and the discomfort of sitting so long. She was Hungarian, of course, as were most of the passengers. She told me that she was an excellent cook which I believed. She told me that she was meeting her husband in Budapest. I told her that I liked to eat and she promised to invite me for a real meal, to eat hot paprika plus lots of other spices on something which really didn't matter much as long as the spices were there. I accepted her invitation with pleasure. I recalled the basic objective of this trip, however. I was also thinking of her place in Budapest as a possible refuge should trouble begin and trouble would surely begin when James and I started asking too many questions, potentially at the wrong places, at the wrong times, of the wrong people. 

I passed through the passport control easily and fast. The young lady in the passport booth checked my name on her computer and I detected no hesitation when she saw it, no change of expression, no signal to anyone and I was confident that at the least no airport-computer held a record of my past miseries. I engaged her in a brief talk, mentioned how tiring the overnight flight was and she answered pleasantly, with a smile, wished me a good day and still, I could detect no sign of hesitation. I hoped that this would mean that my abductors were not state-sponsored. Also, this could mean that after the Colonel hot-footed when she was to be asked questions by the Canadian police, she stopped any surveillance of my movements.  

James and I talked about accommodation and decided to rent a furnished two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment, not large but adequate. We chose a location near theaters and restaurants, on a quiet street. The building was quite new, which was good as the plumbing and wiring were modern and were not likely to fail as they often do in the older apartment houses. The Opera and the Music Academy were within walking distance, a most positive aspect, as both of us were fond of classical music.  

We went shopping. We bought a baseball bat and a small Gaggia pump-machine, as neither of us was ready to give up proper espresso or cappuccino just yet. We set up a very impressive communications centre, using a powerful short-wave radio receiver-transmitter in addition to our computers, scanners and printers. We also installed a few motion detectors around the apartment and hid a few video cameras that would be activated by the sensors. We didn't worry about intruders but if they came, we wanted to see who they were and what they wanted. Another item that we wanted was a device, still in its experimental state and possessed only by up-to-the-minute police departments. This one would give the geographic location of a telephone, cell or a land line, within about 20 seconds of the call. The cost was astronomical and the payoff to a non-mentionable member of the Viennese police was also of a remarkable magnitude. The unit was to be delivered by special courier, sometime next day. We also installed a fairly expensive voice-operated recorder, for those unforeseen circumstances when what was said was to be preserved.  

As soon as the computers were set-up, I downloaded the accumulated e-mails. There were a total of 94, many totally useless. I blacklisted them. There was one, from Detective Holloway, that was most interesting.

"Greetings from your homebase.  

I trust you arrived safely and you are healthy and happy. I wanted to bring you up-to-date on my investigation, strictly not-allowed. I thought the following would be helpful to you.  

I checked the list of student names you found in the Colonel's purse as I was very curious why she had those names with her. Almost all of them were female, as you recall. There was one who stood out and I was actually familiar with her name, currently the Ontario karate champion. I contacted her first and her story, so far uncorroborated, sheds light on the events prior to the Colonel's arrival at your home. 

Apparently, the students were approached some time ago by an unknown person, an elderly man who spoke with a noticeable foreign accent which the young lady couldn't identify. They were offered a fairly large sum of money to take part in a prank. They were to follow you around, crowd you in the elevators and in general, make you uncomfortable and take notes of your movements. They were told that this was all part of an innocent bet, in which your reactions were to be monitored. 

On the evening in question, the students were called to a meeting to discuss how they assessed your behaviour. The Colonel was there too and she was introduced as Mrs. Williams, a psychologist. The debrief was followed by a catered supper. The elderly man then left, the Colonel stayed and continued to chat with the students. Then she said that the game and the prank were over and it was time for some serious business. She said that the students were to kill you. This request was, of course, taken as a joke and they all laughed heartily. When they stopped, the Colonel told them that this was no joke. She told them that they all took her money and that they were all compromised and that they must kill you or that she would report them to the police as a group of conspirators.  

This was when the karate champion took over. She asked the lady to simply leave. They would kill nobody.  

By this time it was quite late at night and the young people had enough. They were slowly standing up, putting on their coats when the Colonel produced a small pistol from her purse and ordered them all to sit. Luckily for them all, the karate lady was faster and she kicked the Colonel's ankle, which broke. Of course, she dropped the gun but started to fight and you saw, she lost by a long shot. My informant actually commended her opponent for her fighting spirit. The lady would not give up but by the time the fight was over, she was badly hurt. Most of the students left by then, in a bit of panic. Those that stayed took no part in the fight.  

The Colonel was barely able to stagger outside, even with the help of two of the students. She got into a waiting car and was driven away. My informant didn't see the driver.  

Quite a story. 

 Regards, best wishes 

Holloway"

It was good to have an explanation of the lady's visit. I recalled that there were two somewhat older looking students in the group and I asked Holloway to find out if everyone on the Colonel's list was still at the university. His reply, arriving within minutes of mine, indicated that all but two of the people on the list were still there.

James and I decided to rest, let the hard work start tomorrow. We settled in our respective chairs, looked at each other and said nothing, just relaxed. This being the last day of tourism, we discussed where the next food experience was to take place. James was a meat eater, I was an almost complete vegetarian so the decision wasn't easy and we chose to go to an excellent restaurant I knew well, located near Kossuth square, in front of the Parliament building. They serve very well prepared, fresh and beautifully presented food, fish, steaks, poultry.  

I was pleased that our chosen restaurant didn't disappoint. We ate enough, maybe drank a little too much, but the walk home was sobering. We needed to get ready, to get to the main objective. Sleep well while we could. By the morning we wouldn't know when we could rest again.  

Next morning, at breakfast we looked at each other again and agreed to be tourists for just a few more days. The food last night was so good, we needed to sample more. No argument, even if all was to be at my expense and James was a powerful and exuberant eater, enjoying every bite to the full.  

The next step was to set up an agenda and start the actual detective work. I hoped that James hadn't exaggerated his detecting ability and had some real experience, as I had never done any detecting before. True, I had my training for covert operations but that was quite different. I might find some use for the techniques I learned for disguises, though, and for non-linear thinking. We realized that to appear as normal residents leading normal lives, we had to go to work each day like most people. We needed help to find employment and a form of employment history. We had to find trustworthy people who we might ask for assistance. My classmates from the school I attended in the early 1950s came to mind. We discussed the implications of involving innocents in a potentially dangerous caper. I trusted them completely, I told James. If I asked them not to tell, they wouldn't. They might offer help. They wouldn't be shy to refuse. They knew that we would remain good friends and a refusal wouldn't affect the friendship.  

"They must be told the truth," I told James and I saw that he was hesitating. "These people were good friends in hard times. There was ample opportunity for betrayal and that never happened. I trust them to be truthful with me and loyal to me," I told him and while I still saw some doubt in his face, he was beginning to accept my idea. "Have you any other suggestion?" I asked, trying to enlarge the pool of possibilities. No response, so by default, my school friends were to be contacted.  

I called them. All agreed to meet me, but at this time they didn't yet know of my agenda. We arranged to meet in the Zsolnay cafe, a beautiful, old-world type place where superb cakes were made fresh each day, excellent coffees and teas, and even alcohol were available. The service was impeccable and the dishes were made of Zsolnay porcelain, a well known and historic brand. I got there before the others and I arranged with the waitress that the bill be given to me discreetly.  

Julia arrived first. After finishing high school she became an expert in environmental protection. This must have been hugely frustrating during Communist times when production took precedence over everything, and the environment was completely ignored. She kept contact with her fellow workers and I thought she might be able to help me find some work to assist with the disguise. By now Julia was retired, was a grandmother five times over and devoted her life to looking after the grandchildren. I understood that it was a bit of a sacrifice for her to come to this meeting and I was grateful.  

Evelyn and George arrived together. Evelyn was a retired computer programmer and while the job I needed had nothing to do with high-tech, she might be able to help. My biggest hope was with George. He was running his own consulting and manufacturing company very successfully and therefore could potentially provide me with a manual job and create a few years of history behind it. The last one to arrive was Tibor, the Spaniard, born in Mexico, a very good looking man, aging gracefully. Tibor had always been a dedicated and theoretical, but not dogmatic, Communist. He wasn't ashamed of his past and I recalled one of our recent class reunions at which he yelled at the top of his voice, "I have always been a Communist, I will always remain a Communist," after some very significant alcoholic stimulation. Tibor told us that Ervin, another of the old group, couldn't come. Ervin always wanted to be an actor. He was on stage at the Opera as we spoke, as one of the soldiers in Count Luna's army. Il Trovatore was playing that night. 

I greeted them all, thanked them for coming and introduced James. We greeted each other by hand shakes and kisses. All genders kissed all genders. We got through a bit of small talk, how we were, how the children and the grandchildren were doing, accomplishments were reviewed and the pride in these was shared. I was impatient but wanted to let them talk, and I observed that they all continued from where we left off at the last meeting ages ago. They were good people. Decades of misery under the dictatorship didn't affect their good spirit, their sense of humour, their generosity or appetite. We ordered, nobody counted calories as the cakes, coffees, and brandy were delivered. Then it was time for serious business.  

After apologizing that this might take some time, I began to recount the story of my recent past. I started with the detention at the airport. I completed my recollections by describing my visit to the Department of Foreign Affairs of Canada and with the statement of one of the officials, casting doubt on everything. I told them I wanted to prove that I wasn't crazy and explained how James and I were planning to go about clearing my reputation. I also mentioned that we needed to appear to be employed and that maybe one of them could help. 

My classmates listened patiently and seriously and indicated that they understood my difficulties in having gone through hell and not getting any sympathy from anyone. After some silence which I was careful not to break, Tibor was the first to speak. He was always the leading type, always decisive, always ready to start.  

"I regret that I can't help either of you to find employment. I understand what you need but since the regime change, former Communists are not trusted nor do the natives like them very much. It's quite fashionable to do some 'commie bashing' these days and any help I would ask from a former contact would, quite surely, result in an instant refusal. I may be able to help in some other ways, though," he said. I learned in high school that when he said he could do something, I could bank on it, so I was hopeful and curious what he could be referring to. 

He continued. "The first serious shock that affected my faith in the regime - though not in theoretical Communism, mind you - happened fairly recently before the regime change. I disagreed with the Secretary of the Party over firing one of my best workers, an elderly lady. While she was never a devout Communist, she believed in social democracy and wasn't afraid to say so to anybody. This was sufficient grounds for dismissal and a probable stint in jail. In fact, as it turned out, she was arrested and when I went to get her out using a Ministerial permit, she was being interrogated in a room, like the one you described. I won the battle and got her free and back into her job. The lady became and remained a loyal friend. She probably has some inside knowledge of locations and will probably be willing to share. She is not well off and would appreciate some financial help, but would never ask for any."  

"Do you think she would be able to identify some of the interrogators?" I asked. 

"No, I don't think so. She isn't young and these events were very traumatic and difficult for her. She was afraid for her life, with some justification, and sometimes has a little trouble recalling the past. In my opinion, her mind is blocking much of the interrogation and the torture that she went through before I managed to get her out. What she might remember though are the places where she was held. I noticed several times that when she is at a particular location in the city, she becomes agitated, flushed and, in general, very disturbed. She might be able to identify these places for you. If you wish, I could arrange an introduction." 

This might help, I thought. If these locations were still in use and if James and I could get inside, I might recognize some things. Tibor promised to call as soon as he reached the lady and got her agreement.  

The next offer was from George. "I can help. There's a need for a guard at my central plant. You can have the job, starting tomorrow. I will enter an earlier starting date in your papers. I can't help your friend, though." 

The implication was clear. James was a stranger to him and, while he was willing to bend some rules for my sake, the same wasn't true for James. Both of us understood and accepted his help gratefully.  

When the meeting was over, I knew not to insult my friends by asking to keep my story an absolute secret. They understood the stakes.

We agreed that a disguise, at least for me, was necessary. At this time we didn't even know if I was spotted by anyone at the airport. I wasn't detained, but there may have been watchers, reporting to you-know-who, if she was still around. James wasn't known here and he acquired his detective training in Canada, so he didn't have to alter his appearance. Lucky for us, we arrived in the country at different times, so nobody could connect us. 

My disguise was to be that of a manual worker, with dirty and cracked fingernails, down on his luck a little, but not out of work. I was to have enough money to drink in a few pubs, local beer, on-tap only, never an import, never a bottle. No change of hair colour was needed, I had little on top anyway, but I had to grow the traditional, Hungarian walrus mustache for if I shaved off the current one, the changed skin colour would give me away fast. I used some make-up to place a menacing looking scar on my right arm, to be instantly visible at a handshake. We thought, probably quite rightly, that the pubs were the places where information could be found.  

James was to look for the taxi driver who picked me up just outside the jail. He said that if the story I was told about the humanitarians who still looked after jailed people was true, they must often cruise there, to check for unfortunates. I had to try hard to remember where the building was. That would be useless if a major scam was performed just for my sake and if the place was now deserted. We would have to rely on my infallible memory here. I recalled the surroundings, the trees, the buildings and I recalled the time it took the taxi to get to a few known locations from there. We needed to get a lucky break. James decided to apply to a taxi company as a driver and hoped to find my rescuer. We planned to start early in a few days.  

We were ready. James went to a taxi company to apply for a job and he was confident of getting one instantly. He would be driving and visiting the pubs. I was on my way to report to work as a night or day watchman\/security guard. We planned to observe, to blend, not be conspicuous. We were to have the first of several detailed post-mortems in the evening.  

My first stop was at the guard house of George's factory. I tried to dress the part, shabby, not too clean. My mustache was now of the walrus style, favoured by guards all over the city. I tried to stay up most of the night so there would be circles under my eyes which looked baggy and tired in the best of circumstances. I introduced myself to the poor guy who spent all night there, and he left fast and my turn to sit and watch and check began. George explained what and who I was to stop, whose papers needed to be examined, who to call if anything looked out of order. Since there were shipments coming in and leaving, I wasn't actually bored. I talked to all of the drivers, tried to be pleasant and a little personal, asking how they were, asking about workplace politics, and most importantly, about the soccer matches, which were very popular. 

At the end of the day the workers were streaming out of the gates and the next watchman was there to take my place. One of the departing men came over to suggest that I accompany them to the nearest pub and I was happy to accept the invitation. I felt a bit of an embarrassment though as these people were honest, simple people, salt-of-the-earth, ready to accept and welcome a stranger and I intended to take advantage of their hospitality.  

I only drank low cost draft beer at the pub, which was clean but run down, no money to renovate. The beer wasn't ice cold either, not warm, perhaps having been near some ice some time ago. The conversation was about the day's events, who did what, who argued with who, who had words with the manager. They questioned me about where I came from, where I worked before, but not too closely. I asked and spoke little, as befitting the new guy. I was respectful as these people were serious, hard workers, retaining the old world spirit of politeness, kindness and helpfulness. 

Later at home James and I discussed the first day's events. He told me about his day and how easy it was to get a job as a cabbie. No ID was needed, no proof that he could drive, he just had to give his name, address and they handed over the keys to a cab. Lucky him and lucky taxi company that he knew how to drive and he knew the city well. He talked about his rides, the tips, the drunks, and his visits to the pubs near and around the airport. There was a possible item to follow up. This was his discovery of an abandoned building, also near the airport, which looked very much like the building I described where I was picked up by my guardian angel. He took a few photos and it was just possible that the torture site had been located. In hindsight it would have been good thinking of me to mark the outer walls of the place for future detection but at the time clear thinking was absent.  

I told him about my day as a guard and my natural and easy acceptance as one of the workers. We agreed that things went well for day one and while we may not have made a lot of progress, there was no need to be pessimistic. We went to eat, optimistically thinking that a few more days would lead us to the secrets.  

At the restaurant we talked more about what to do next. We were to go early in the morning to see the location of the abandoned building, hoping that my memory would serve me in remembering if this was the one. If so, and if it indeed was where I was held, James suggested that he would sit on the sidewalk outside the building, would smear a little blood on his face - we agreed that it needed to be real blood, not ketchup - and would see if anybody stopped to help him. Maybe this was a good idea or maybe not, as we couldn't predict the outcome, of course. If my brain refused to overcome the mental block about past events, we wouldn't know if the building was the one we wanted. What if a police car, seeing the bloodied face, stopped to help, and called for an ambulance? We decided to postpone the plan for some time. Instead we determined to discover what could be inside and we thought that shouldn't be too difficult if the building was indeed abandoned. James said that opening the doors wouldn't be a problem for him. He had done that in the past, many times. 

We also decided to visit the airport at some point soon. The room where I was interrogated was in the Arrivals section and it was no more than 300 steps from where the passports and visas were checked. How exactly we could get in there was still to be worked out but it had to be done. It might have been a room set up just for my sake in which case there might be someone who remembered, someone who was paid to reveal nothing.  

 Next day we started early. It was still dark. We went in James' taxi to the building he thought might be the one. A parking place, hidden behind the run-down, apparently abandoned complex, was easily available. Nobody was visible, no lights were on so we felt quite safe and relaxed. James picked the lock with assurance in about four seconds, we entered and closed the door behind us. It took a few seconds to adjust to the darkness. The smell indicated that no fresh air had entered there for some time. On entry we caused a bit of a dust storm, which was settling slowly. We had to suppress coughing. James took out his flashlight and we started slowly to walk around. The space was large. There was a central area and there were smaller rooms around it which might have been the cells. There was no furniture anywhere. There were sinks in some of the rooms but there was no running water. There were a few rooms, some of which may have been a gym, a library, a cafeteria, a shower room, toilets but there was nothing that I could identify. I told James that this may have been the place. Nothing jogged my memory, though. We left, disappointed but, of course, we would continue the search. 

As we started to drive off with James at the wheel, I seemed to detect some small movement at the rear exit of the building, but so little, I couldn't swear that there was anything. It could have been the wind or a moving tree branch. James, whose motto was always to be aware of what was behind us, saw nothing, and I silently began to question his ability as a detective. My hearing wasn't so hot but his was sharp, so he said. He heard and saw nothing, though. So, off we drove, back to the flat where I cursed my poor memory. I had forgotten to check for the marks I left on the plumbing in my cell.  

I had remembered to pick up a few fresh buns at the local bakery. James parked at the entry while I ran in to get the buns. Another debrief followed over breakfast. 

James to his job, I to mine. The day's activities didn't change much. At the end of the day we discussed the non-events. I went with my new colleagues for a glass of beer, James got to see most of his fellow drivers when they picked up their cars at shift change. Nothing new to report by either of us. I contacted my reporter, to report nothing. Better luck tomorrow. The plan for the next day was to include a visit to the airport.

At breakfast we realized that we couldn't just go to the airport and scout around. We would be noticed, stopped, questioned and removed by security guards within minutes. We couldn't simply walk about there with no ID tags, no luggage, no ticket. Also, we had no idea of the floor plan, no idea what was behind the Arrivals, where I was taken. There were a few things we could do, however. Trying to get the floor plan was the most obvious and probably the most difficult. The next was to buy a return ticket to a foreign country, say, England, take the trip, and attempt to get lost on arrival on the way to passport control, hopefully with the map of the airport memorized. The trip could include some rest and recreation, as well. 

Which one of us to go? I pulled the short straw because I might recognize some of the halls, corridors, rooms, and hopefully my memory would be activated by something. The possibility of recognition by personnel was there in spite of a slight change in my appearance but I would be ready to offer bribes. Hopefully, greed was still alive among the not too highly paid employees. We would see. James, the taxi driver, was going to be at the arrivals with a sign bearing my name, and after about 30 minutes he would act upset and worried and would ask questions about passengers who should have deplaned already. If I was spotted and questioned, James' antics would corroborate the getting lost ploy.  

I found a miracle on the Internet just in time. I checked Google for the map of the airport and it was there, not in as much detail as I would have liked but the Arrivals section and the halls that lead to passport control, to the luggage pickup and customs were all there. Some of the doors were also indicated and I recalled that when being led to my meeting with the Colonel, we left passport control, turned left and went through a single door, which opened without a key. Beyond that my memory was playing unwelcome tricks. It refused my demands for complete recall which was annoying, and I attributed this to the lack of use since I was out of the spying game for quite some time. I decided to trust my luck and hoped that something would trigger whatever must have been left in the memory cells. I bought a return ticket to London, and the plan was to stay a couple of days in a downtown hotel near Piccadilly Circus, go to the theatre, or maybe a concert. We coordinated the return times and off I went. The days away would be good. I realized how stressful it was to be a detective when I was to detect clues to my own affairs. 

On the day of my arrival, James drove to the airport, parked and waited for the disembarking passengers, holding his VIP sign with my name on it. The plane arrived from Heathrow on time, an easy and smooth flight. Most of the passengers were English and I was pleased at that. The choice of an early departure from London was an inspired one, since that was the flight business people took, and traditionally these travelers were foreigners and were not held up at the various checks for long. Also, getting lost wouldn't be taken as a major crime, forgivable for someone bringing potential business to the country. I was dressed the part, wearing a dark suit and tie, looking like all of them, maybe not quite as crumpled. I regretted that I forgot the advice given on my arrival in England as a young refugee, a long time ago. When I asked if my jacket should be buttoned or unbuttoned, the answer was that it didn't matter as long as it was creased. As I surveyed my fellow business people, this appeared to be true. They were clean, their suits were well cut, their ties matched but nothing they wore was recently ironed. Much as if they had slept in their clothes. Would the passport people pick this up? Were they that sophisticated? Would they spot the fake? They wouldn't pick up any signs of nervousness which I felt but could hide. I needed to watch for any signs of recognition, the double-take, the hand on the alarm button.  

The landing was easy, taxiing to the terminal was fast and disembarking was efficient. The walk to passport control, which is usually very long at most airports, was mercifully short here, the line-up was also miniscule, so I got to the young border guard very fast. Just like the last time, the check of my name and passport, the brief look on the computer screen and the welcoming smile and greeting indicated no suspicion. No signals appeared to be sent to anyone, just "Have a good day, Sir," and I was on my way.  

As soon as I was through passport control and began walking, I saw the single door on my left. There were no other doors anywhere to be seen. My heartbeat increased, my hands became clammy and I was getting warm overall. I took these signs as an indication that the door I saw was the actual door, thinking that the body knows best. Trust my gut. I wanted to loosen my tie but resisted to retain the business person look. I waited a second to let a large family with several kids pass me and they hid me a bit while I stopped to tie my shoelaces and looked around for further clues. Nothing. I walked to the door as if I belonged, trying to hide the shaking knees and trying to open it, ignoring the Hungarian only sign that told me, "For Authorized Personnel Only." The door wasn't locked, I got through, and I closed it behind me fast and quietly. No alarm was ringing, at least not where I could hear it and, of course, I was wearing my hearing aids, turned up to the maximum. So the first step was done and I was almost certain that I crossed that door once before. There was dust everywhere and total silence. I was a bit frightened, but still managed to stay in complete control.  

Walk to the left or to the right? It was a pity that I wasn't a horse. Once my grandfather explained and demonstrated that when a horse gets to a crossing in a road and could go left or right and you let it know which one to take, the next time it remembers, even if years pass. I trusted my instincts and turned left. About 300 steps took me to another door, a steel door, and this one appeared not to have been used for some time. The door was locked and like everything else, it was dusty. It would have been good to be able to estimate from the thickness of the dust layer when it was used last, but alas, I couldn't. I was getting some inexplicable vibes here again. I tried to use the picks James gave me to open the lock. I inserted them into the keyhole, tried to feel the guts of the lock mechanism and I heard the alarm, shrill and loud. I knew I was in trouble but I also knew, or at least I was quite if not absolutely certain, that the torture chamber I was in some time ago was behind that door. I dropped the pick in the nearest heating duct and called on my acting skills to looked dazed and confused and frightened and by the time the lone security guard reached me, lucky me, with no guns drawn, I was just a crazy, mixed-up idiot foreigner, many of whom get lost in the unfamiliar maze.  

He approached and I saw that he saw what I wanted him to see - the lost stranger. He spoke, politely, in passable English. 

"You took the wrong turn out of passport control, Sir. Please follow me, I will lead you back to where you can pick up your luggage." 

"Thank you, officer, I need your help and I am grateful. The alarm must have turned on when I slipped and fell against that door," I said and hoped that he was willing to talk while we were walking away.  

He smiled and continued. "That door and the room behind it have been closed and locked for the last several years. It used to be an interrogation room by the now defunct Secret Service. Nobody who works here actually knows why that room wasn't just boarded up or demolished or used for something else." 

It was a miracle how fast I found the place where I nearly met my end. The guard's description confirmed my gut feelings. I wanted to take advantage of the young man's friendliness, helpfulness and willingness to believe that I got there by pure chance and stupidity, so I faked a little dizziness, started to breathe hard and fast and stopped to lean against the wall. He continued to be friendly and helpful, and caught me. 

"Take a seat, Sir, right here on the ground. You will regain your breath and we will walk further when you feel better," and helped me to sit down. I was hoping he would leave me alone to go find a nurse but no such luck. Still, I was grateful to have some extra time with him but also, I was careful not to betray his belief that he was helping an old fogey, so I took a few deep breaths and sat there a few more seconds. I needed more information so I continued, hoping that he would not notice my accent.  

"How do you know this room was used for interrogations?" 

He started laughing which I found inappropriate, but he answered and his story sounded reasonable and realistic. 

"That's quite a story. Just after the regime change one of my new colleagues, a young man of 18 was very interested in losing his virginity and was telling everybody about his wishes. The constant bulge in his pants was unmistakable. There were several older women working here, they noticed the bulge, expressed some significant interest in it and they drew lots on who would assist the young buck with his yearnings. The lucky winner took the boy to this room and since she had worked at the airport for several years, had a master key to all the rooms. The event was successfully completed but the young man came out of the room visibly shaken. He saw the torture instruments and the bloodstains and couldn't stop talking about them. He still works at the airport." 

I recalled no torture instruments or bloodstains so the room must have been cleaned up since the assignation. It must have been refurnished and repainted. I needed somehow to show photos of the Colonel and her daughter to this young man. Is it possible that one of them might have been the one who took the young man's flower? I decided on a potentially dangerous approach to continue the acquaintanceship and I trusted that the guard wouldn't misunderstand and wouldn't take me for a predator. I stood up and walked toward the luggage carousels. 

I told him, "Young man, you were good to me. You were helpful. Let me buy you a glass of beer when your shift here is over." 

He looked momentarily suspicious and I understood, what could an old guy want with him? Wouldn't a little cash be sufficient to express gratitude? But then his good nature took over. 

"Thank you, Sir, I accept with pleasure. At the end of the shift several of my friends and colleagues meet in the pub - and he gave me its name and address - and we will be pleased to have you join us."  

This was even better, I thought. I'll show the photos and someone might recall a face or two, and some connected stories.  

We reached the exit, shook hands and he helped remove my suitcase from the carousel. What luck, what an unusually nice person I bumped into in the most unusual circumstances, I thought. I told him that I would see him later and we parted. I could hardly wait to tell James that some things were gelling, practically unbelievable luck in just a few days. He was there at the exit, of course, greeted me deferentially as befits the chauffeur of a gentleman, and off we drove, in his old jalopy, unfortunately. I debriefed and we discussed the dangers of showing the two photos. We needed to balance the pros and the cons. Someone might recognize them, someone might still be in contact with them, someone might be on their payroll and alert them. Some or none or all of these were possible. Wouldn't it be a hoot if the good Colonel turned out to be the service provider for the horny young man? An excellent story to tell, should I ever get the chance.  

James was to be at the pub also, at some distance, and his job was to observe the reactions of my young friend's friends. Astonishment, terror, recognition, joy or nothing at all might be demonstrated and James was convinced that he was good at recognizing and interpreting these. Even the lack of emotion would mean something to him, he said with confidence. If there was an interesting reaction of one of the young people, James would follow him, but for that to happen, our lucky streak would have to continue. We appeared to be on a roll. 

 The group at the pub wasn't large. My friend, whose name I still didn't know, and three others of the same age, early to mid 20s, were sitting at a side table. They were dressed neatly, in jeans and T-shirts, they were talking quietly, and the table in front of them wasn't messy. James was sitting in a corner, some distance away, a glass of wine in front of him and he was reading a magazine. His line of sight to our table was clear. 

I was greeted, introduced, and I ordered a round which was politely refused with the statement, "We've had enough. One glass of beer isn't going to cause beer-bellies." My acquaintance was translating. He related how he and I got to know each other. The story of the torture room and its discovery wasn't new to them but the recollection still caused some laughs. The existence of the Secret Service, torture, repression, and Communism were far from their minds. It was old history, and for them it didn't really exist. Most of their conscious lives was lived under the current regime and their interests were those of young people everywhere: having a good time and meeting members of the opposite gender.  

I decided to level with them, more than I should, perhaps, but not completely. I trusted that James was on the ball and that he was observing everybody's reactions. I told the young men that I had an ulterior motive in meeting them and that I was trying to find two people who made my life miserable some time ago. I told them that I didn't want revenge but an explanation of why they were trying to cause me harm. They seemed to accept this rather lame story. They indicated absolutely no interest and asked no questions. I took out the photos, handed them around and watched. At the sight of Lola they all exclaimed that they knew her. She was one of the cleaning ladies at the airport and had been working there for the last several years. A kind lady. One of the young people blushed deeply, however, when he examined the Colonel's photo. He looked at me for a second, a bit embarrassed, nodded and looked away when I commented, "You know these ladies, don't you?" He said no more than the others though, just acknowledging the acquaintance with the ladies. There was more here I thought, the photos caused a red face and I was curious what James would say. I trusted that he also noticed the colour change. Could he be the friend of the young man my guard told me about? Or, even the young man himself? 

I asked if any of them had any contact with Lola or the Colonel. There was no response, but the blusher kept blushing. A romantic involvement with the older lady? The others also noted his lobster face but they didn't comment or tease. There was something here to be discovered. 

I said farewell to my young friends and they said the same, politely but not paying me too much attention. I left and saw that James was staying as he should and I had no choice but to wait for him at home to hear his story.  

My journalist and I debriefed once again and I got the impression from her that the article about my affairs might possibly become a book, after publication in the paper, of course.

James arrived in a little while and he was quite excited. There was something here, he said. He followed the blusher and as soon as the young fellow was out of the pub, out came his cell phone, and he was furiously punching in numbers. James couldn't see the numbers, of course, he was too far away, but there were many numbers, enough to indicate that the call was long-distance. The young man spoke so he didn't send a text message. Was it possible that he called one of the ladies? We had no connection to the local police who could trace the call if they wanted. There was a way though, but it would be highly illegal. Steal the young man's phone as there would be a record of the call on it. Were we willing to break the law? The answer was unequivocal, yes, of course. Just don't get caught. Our consciences wouldn't suffer. We had to get the cell phone. Planned for the theft tomorrow. We celebrated our good luck so far. Knocked on wood, three times, upward.

Any burglar knows that the first step in a successful caper is to case the joint, the "joint" in our case standing for the young blusher's apartment, person and cell phone. Did he carry his phone with him all the time? In which pocket did he keep it? We needed to know his daily routine. When did he leave his apartment, did he live alone, was there a partner? How would we get into his rooms? Was there a janitor at the entrance? Was there a code to punch in to enter the building? Did he eat breakfast at home or on his way to work? If the second, was it always at the same cafe? Without exact knowledge of these simple things, nothing would be easy. 

James was to stake out the apartment. The plan was to map out the young man's comings and goings and in about a week we might know his routine. Then I realized that some phones hold the record of past calls only for so long. Not knowing the make of his phone meant that we had to act ASAP. The stakeout was cancelled and a new plan was developed. We were now going to follow him in the morning. We hoped that he would stop for breakfast. If he stopped to eat, we planned to create a disturbance and distract him somehow. If his cell phone was on his table, we would grab hold of it and take a peek at the last few calls he placed.  

I called Ervin, the aspiring actor, for help, recalling that he was always creative, and always had unusual ideas. I explained what we wanted and I wasn't disappointed in him. His plan assumed that the young man took his breakfast in an outdoor terrace. He suggested staging a scene, involving two old men, he and one of his actor friends, who, on approaching the cafe would start to fight. One of them would fall, hit his head and pass out. James, who we hope wasn't seen the night before, would run from his taxi, would look straight at the blusher and ask to use his cell phone. Of course, he would give James his phone, and of course James would be able to check the record fast. We hoped.  

I told Ervin that all this would depend on where the young man was going. As soon as we could, we would call and give him our location. My friend agreed to be ready and be at the cafe in time. He was to call a taxi to be on standby, ready with his friend to get to where we would want them fast.  

We followed the victim. He didn't own a car and was walking toward the nearest streetcar stop. As soon as he was out the door, out came his phone and he was dialing and talking to someone, maybe to his girlfriend. I gave thanks for James' foresight. He had a pair of binoculars ready and he recognized the make of the phone. He was familiar with how it works, and he told me that as soon as the phone is flipped open and the right button pressed, the last few calls would be clearly displayed. We were cautiously optimistic that last night's call would be instantly visible. We followed the young man. He got off the streetcar and was heading toward a cafe. There were a few tables on the terrace outside and that was where he took a seat. He put his phone on the table in front of him. I called Ervin. He and his friend were waiting in the taxi and they got moving instantly. They were no more than ten minutes away. When their car arrived, James flashed the headlights to signal that the con was on. Ervin and his friend left their taxi and were now walking toward the cafe, arguing loudly and angrily. I couldn't hear what the topic was of course, but knowing that Ervin was a soccer maniac, the topic must have been one of the games of last weekend. As they approached the cafe, Ervin shoved his friend lightly, intending just a warning but the friend became angry, and slapped Ervin's hand away. They continued to walk and they were just by the table of our interest when Ervin stopped and yelled, so loud that even I could hear, "That goddam penalty was deserved, don't be a stupid idiot, you got eyes in that shitty head of yours, you know the rules, it was a penalty and...," 

His friend looked like he was ready to kill. He was beet red and he was yelling back. 

"What the fuck do you know about rules. You talk like this was your first game. Maybe it was. Maybe you slept through all the others and..." 

At this point Ervin shoved his friend violently and as he fell, he hit his head against the pavement and he was lying there, twitching. Nobody in the cafe moved. They watched but they froze. The waiter was running toward the back. No doubt the cafe's telephone was there. James was racing from his taxi, toward the fallen man. He looked full of good will. He wanted to help and he was still several steps away when he was shouting, "Give me the phone, I'll call for an ambulance," and he picked up our quarry's phone, flicked it open and I noted the slight delay when he was looking at the numbers on the screen. He was punching in the call for an ambulance. Then he noticed that the fallen guy was being helped to his feet by his grief-stricken friend and they were walking away, hugging each other. They were walking quite steadily, so James managed to look confused and all the cafe patrons also looked confused. James put the phone back on the table, thanked the young man and apologized. The young man was gracious, saying, "My pleasure," and he appeared not to suspect the set-up. 

James got back into his cab. "I got the number. The call was to Vienna." And he took a pen and paper to record the number, bless his memory. The young man made the call after I showed the Colonel's and Lola's photos so it was reasonable to assume that he called one of them. Now we just had to find out who the number belonged to, not a problem with the international reverse check.  

The owner of the number wasn't revealed, but two addresses were given. One was in Budapest and the other in Vienna. Both places were located in the fashionable, expensive and exclusive districts of the two cities. Whoever lived in either was wealthy for sure and if that was the Colonel as we hoped, where did she get the money? A good question, but not of immediate interest to us. Since the call was to Vienna, the probability was that the Colonel was there or so we assumed. I decided to call the number. If the Colonel answered, I should be able to recognize her voice. After some discussion, James was elected to make the first call, from a payphone. We found a store that stocked speakerphone-amplifiers, attachable to a payphone. We got one of them so I could also hear the respondent, whoever it might be.  

Since phone land lines were not as numerous in Budapest as in other Western cities, banks and post offices often provide phone-booths for local and long-distance calls. We didn't want to appear modern, no VOIP, no cell phones, just a regular call from a techno-peasant. No need to hide that the call was originating in Budapest, we didn't see any danger there. James spoke German but he was to talk Hungarian right away and see what happened.  

The booth was clean, there was no traffic noise so I expected no trouble listening and understanding. When all the instruments were ready, James dialed, and I was standing beside him, ready to supply the coins as the call progressed. We discussed the pros and the cons and decided to risk asking directly for Colonel Hegedus. James would have to be inventive, based on some plausible scenario that we concocted. We assumed that the good Colonel owned the other apartment in Budapest. In that case a flood in the apartment would be of concern to her, so James would introduce himself as the property manager of the building and explain the broken pipe in the wall and the antique furniture that was being destroyed.  

James suddenly stopped dialling and slammed down the receiver.  

"This scheme is stupid. We need to talk," and he barged past me, out of the booth. I followed, wondering what now? He was calm when I reached him and he saw the question in my face. 

"Listen. We want to talk to the lady. We want to confront her, if it is indeed her in Vienna. Let's not get crazy about a flood, what's the point? You call, tell her you want to meet her, tell her that there is a Canadian warrant for her arrest, and if she doesn't talk to you, you will be pleased to alert the RCMP and Interpol." 

I admitted that the guy had a point. Let's be direct. "OK, James, but what got you so disturbed, so angry?" I asked and the reply wasn't totally satisfactory. 

"Just forget about it, will you," he growled. I let it go, a bit reluctantly.  

OK, so I was to call. She might not want to talk, she might not be truthful if she did talk, but the threat of an international arrest warrant might shake her up a bit. I agreed to call, face the bull directly, come what may. Still to be decided: do I call from my cell phone and let her identify the number and our location of course, or a public phone? James said yes, use the cell phone, don't hide, sound authoritative, try to scare her. We hoped to rely on our so-far unbroken luck. 

We went home and I placed the call, using my cell phone. My hand shook a bit and I was getting hot, thinking that I might soon speak to her, that enigma who tortured, beat and humiliated me not so very long ago. The call was answered after the fourth ring by a man who spoke poor German and I spoke, in Hungarian, politely but so that no refusal was possible. 

"I want to speak to Colonel Hegedus." No "please", no identification.  

"Who is speaking, please?" was the response, also in Hungarian. I repeated the first statement, just a little bit louder, just a little bit impatient. 

"I want to speak to Colonel Hegedus. Get her now," I said again and I was pleased at the instant reply. Now the fear was actually audible. 

"Just hold on a second, Sir, she is on her way." Round one to me. While the Colonel was coming to the phone I was thinking that the man who answered didn't remind me of her Canadian husband - or, was that large idiot just a fake? - and I thought he might well be a servant. 

"Who is this?" and I recognized the dear lady's voice. She sounded just like when she was in total control, the boss, not loud but very sure of herself. I spoke, with a bit of threat in my voice. 

"This is Professor Lederer, Mrs. Hegedus. I am sure you remember me. I need to speak to you and before you hang up, kindly realize that I represent the Canadian police in Hungary. Also, you must know that there is a Canadian arrest warrant issued against you, and depending on what I report back on your co-operation with me, it might become an international arrest warrant by Interpol." I knew very well that I was stretching but she didn't. 

"Why don't you just fuck off, dear Professor," was the answer. You could cut the sneer with a dull knife, and the tone hadn't changed. The lady was still in charge, or so she thought. It was time to bellow, so I yelled, and she wasn't hanging up just yet. 

"If there is anyone here who should fuck off it is you, my dear. You will talk to me whether you like it or not and...," and she slammed down the receiver and the connection was lost. 

"Let's summarize what we have now," I suggested to James and we agreed to go to a teahouse to regroup. There was one very close, on the second floor above a bookstore, a usually quiet place, clean, good tea, Earl Grey, and real British scones with butter. There were only a few couples in the teahouse, young people, interested only in each other, so there was no fear of being overheard. We began by summarizing what we knew. Colonel Hegedus was in Vienna. She was well over 50 years old, very good looking, in excellent physical shape. She now knew that we were in Budapest. She knew that we were investigating and wanted to talk to her. She knew our cell phone number so she could trace us. She wasn't frightened by my call, as she felt free to slam down the phone. 

We didn't know who the taxi driver was who saved me. We didn't know where I was held while detained, though we had a suspicion. We didn't know why nobody in the Ministry admitted to knowing anything about my misery. Also, we needed to find out why the Colonel was in Vienna, and not in Budapest. Why was she not concerned about a Canadian arrest warrant and the possibility of the involvement of Interpol and extradition? Was there an extradition treaty between Austria and Canada? How were we to lure the lady back to Budapest?

The bottom line was this. Colonel Hegedus knew best why I was kidnapped. She must be made to talk to us. She must be made to understand that talking was more advantageous to her than not talking. But how? 

I told James that in addition to the lists, we needed to prepare another that contained our assumptions. The list could help us in planning the next steps. These included that the Colonel most probably lived alone or at most with a housekeeper. She devoted all her life to her occupation, which must have been in the old Secret Service, most likely as a skilled interrogator. She must have lost her Secret Service job at the change of the regime but she might not be able to accept that her powerful position didn't exist any longer. She was likely unemployed but wealthy. She lived in Vienna because she was afraid of getting charged with making peoples' lives miserable in Hungary. She was bored to death and her sex life was likely non-existent. 

We thought about and discussed possible ways to get the answers we needed. Visit Vienna, stake out her apartment and accost her in a cafe. Kidnap her and bring her to our apartment, threaten her and hope she would break down. Kidnap her daughter and hope that this would make her more co-operative. All were considered and discarded as stupid. Then I hit on an old idea: the inverse honey trap. Find a stud, get the Colonel to fall in love with him, get him to leave her and get her to follow her man, lure her to Budapest and embarrass her into some indiscreet revelations. Publication and the embarrassment this might cause could force her to talk to us. James was highly sceptical but agreed with me that the lady appeared to be a textbook case of a middle-aged person, constantly horny with a highly frustrated past. She took her frustration out on the people she was to question. I was one of those people. A skilled young man would have no trouble seducing her. None whatsoever. James' scepticism remained but I got his agreement finally. Tomorrow, we decided, start to look for a stud.

After a not very restful sleep, we rehashed the stud idea, liked it quite a bit more and decided to go with it. First activity of the day was therefore to contact male escort agencies and ask for recommendations. I was elected to make the calls and I wondered if I might find it difficult to explain that it wasn't a gay stud we wanted but a real heterosexual. It wasn't a problem to locate the agencies. There were lots of them on the Internet and they were openly advertising the availability of services by members of either gender. The men and the women were clearly displayed, some with their equipment prominently in the open, some chastely clad. I decided to call a few of the agencies personally as I wanted somebody who wasn't identifiable on-line. I didn't want the suspicious Colonel to start checking and to find her lover on a computer screen. The third call yielded results. Men were available but their CVs and attributes could only be obtained from them directly. These were the kind of people I wanted so I left my phone number and I was told to wait for the call-back. If any in the stable of the agency was interested, he would call. I asked when to expect call-backs, and was told "soon" and I was impatient already.  

The first call came in about ten minutes and the impression wasn't very good. The caller apparently didn't believe that a man calling for another wasn't gay. I had some trouble getting him off the phone, he was insistent and became quite belligerent at the end. By the time he hung up, there was a message and it was from another man, replying to my inquiry. He sounded better. The voice wasn't too deep but low keyed and I was guessing that the caller might well be a very good singer, a not too deep baritone. He identified himself and asked for more information about what was wanted of him. He wasn't jumping into something without knowing more and I liked that. I called him back and after a brief chat I asked him to meet me at my cafe. He said he was free now and he could be there in about an hour. I asked how I would know him and he said with a smile in his voice, "I know what you look like, Sir, I checked you out on the Internet." I liked that the potential stud appeared to be thorough and he knew at least something about computers. Of course, why wouldn't he, he was young, he was tuned into modern technologies. I went to the cafe, took a newspaper to read and asked for a cup of tea. And I waited, ready to leave if nobody showed, but in about the promised 60 minutes, a youngish looking man stopped by my table and said, "Are you Professor Lederer, Sir?" 

I looked up to see a person who I liked immediately. Luck was still with us. He was about six feet tall, well built but not an obviously muscle-bound body-builder, slim waist, broad shoulders, probably a former athlete, still keeping in shape. He was about 35 to 40 years old, dressed in a fashionable, casually elegant manner, wore a simple, but expensive sport shirt, and matching, well cut pants, Bruno Magli shoes. He had dark hair, just beginning to turn grey at the sides, just a hint. He had a friendly smile. He was smiling at me, obviously understanding the objectives of my scrutiny and he was holding out his hand which I shook and I was pleased to note the firm but not crushing handshake, the dry palms, the clean, well-taken-care-of nails.  

"Hello," he said, and I recognized the baritone of the phone call. "We talked on the phone about an hour ago. My name is Robert Verne. I understand that you might need me for an interesting assignment," he continued.  

"Yes, please have a seat, Robert," I said and called the waiter, who as a good waiter should, noticed the arrival of a new customer and was approaching already.  

"What would you like, Sir?" he asked and Robert ordered a latte and a tiramisu which came right away. I was pleased again by the manner of the young man as he asked for his goodies. He was low keyed, polite but definite, didn't treat the waiter like a servant. My impression so far, true, based on appearances only, was excellent. I hoped it would continue, as what I needed from Robert wasn't trivial. I hoped he was my guy.  

"Before we talk in detail, I would like to tell you a story," I started, even though I had some misgivings in telling the reasons for the damage I intended to cause. Robert's answer relieved my anxiety when he assured me that he didn't need the reasons, he did what he did, he enjoyed the activities, he got paid and the rest was none of his concern. He told me that he saw his job as providing pleasure and that he is good at it and there need be no reasons other than the smiling faces of the ladies he serviced. That was just fine with me, I thought, and I started explaining the details.  

"Robert, this is what I need from you. There is a lady, now living in Vienna. She is over 50 years old but looks much younger, well bred and elegant. As far as I know she has no men in her life at present. I am asking you to make her acquaintance, start an affair with her, make her feel that she is the only woman in your life and when you must return to Budapest, make her want to come with you and to be and to remain with you," I explained. 

"You want her to fall in love with me," said the young man and I told him that as long as she falls in lust with him, that would be perfectly sufficient.  

"This assignment is quite simple, I have performed well in similar situations in the past," he said. "You are familiar with the charges and expenses involved, I take it," he continued and I was again pleased by his willingness to be upfront about it all.  

"No, I don't know how much this adventure will cost," I replied so he told me the financial details. 

"All expenses plus my daily fee, which at the current rates is $500. There is no money-back guarantee if things don't work out. Also, I would appreciate a five-day advance," he explained.  

He continued, "I can't tell in advance how long this will take. I might not be able to predict the time required for a few more days as that depends on the lady and how she reacts to my advances. I will report to you as often as you like and you can cancel the arrangements with one day's notice." 

"This is just fine with me," I said and in spite of this being the first interview, I was willing to take a chance with Robert.  

"I guarantee complete and absolute confidentiality. For obvious reasons I couldn't give you the names of people for whom I worked in the past but you can be assured that in the large majority of cases I was successful. Also, you may wish to see this medical certificate, dated yesterday," and he showed me the results of his checkup. He was completely healthy, no AIDS, no venereal disease, nothing, just an excellent state of health. 

He continued, "As far as my qualifications are concerned, please consider the following. I was introduced to sexual activities when I was 15. An older lady, who was almost 35 at the time, was my teacher and she was an expert and I learned fast. Ever since, I have a permanent erection in the presence of an attractive woman." An enviable attribute, I thought. 

We needed to work out the arrangements on how he was to report. The Colonel was suspicious and savvy, she would check out the background and the activities of her suitor before she would allow herself to be swept off her feet. I asked Robert how he would explain his existence, his expensive clothes and his presence in Vienna.  

"I run my own business in addition to being an escort. I am a systems consultant and a computer expert," he said and gave me his card, which identified him as the president and CEO of Intelligence Plus, actually a well-known high-tech outfit. Even some of my Canadian colleagues involved with systems design had used his company's services. This was good news, as he had customers in Vienna, and this would explain his presence in the city.  

"I don't actually stop my consulting while on an assignment," he said.  

I decided to go ahead with the guy. No shopping around. I hoped that James wouldn't argue that I should've looked at others and call me names for my belief that I could tell honest people from crooks simply by a look and a brief chat. He would say that Robert's work required him to be a con-person and maybe I was conned. I could just as well be conned by anybody, but I had made my choice. I had made a decision.  

There were a few more things. I gave Robert the lady's phone number, her supposed address, a detailed description of her looks and her photo, the advance he wanted, in cash, of course, and he was ready to leave. Naturally, there was nothing in writing, no contract, just a handshake. I was out $2500. But before he left, I felt that a warning was necessary.  

"Robert, I know you are not concerned with the reason for this project. I must tell you a few things, however, as there might be some danger involved here. I met this lady not very long ago. Why she did what she did to me I still have no clue. She and her cronies arrested, interrogated, humiliated and tortured me, jailed me and in the process, proved that she was a thoroughly mean and ruthless adversary. If she finds out that you have been engaged and are being paid by me, your health and possibly your life may be in danger."  

Robert started to laugh, and he assured me that he had no intention of being found out, that he had been in danger before and actually loved dangerous work. He said he could take care of himself, he was fit, earned a brown belt in judo and there was nothing to fear.  

Wish us luck, I thought, as Robert left. I knocked on wood, once again.  

I settled down to wait for news of the seduction. Robert promised daily e-mails, no phone calls, no instant messaging. Also, he warned me to eliminate all e-mails instantly and clear up the history of usage. 

The search for the taxi driver, my saviour, was next. It wasn't that he might know much but maybe he did. He had been involved with victims of the Secret Service for quite some time and he and his colleagues might well know things that might help us. James would ask around, quietly and carefully and would have to judge how far he could reveal the reasons for his search.  

James arrived home quite late, not in a good mood. I surmised that the search didn't go well and also noticed that he wasn't facing me. He was turning the right side of his face toward me and while this appeared inconvenient, he persisted. When he got tired of the game, he turned and I could see the left side and the black eye and I guessed that somebody's fist and his eye collided sometime during the day. The collision was the likely cause of his poor attitude to life.  

"You first," he said and poured himself a stiff cognac. I told him the story of the seducer. As I predicted, the result was a loud, long and harsh denunciation of my "stupid, sudden, idiotic, precipitate," action - his words, not mine - and it took some time to pacify the good detective. 

James' story of the day wasn't good. It was delivered unhappily and with some shame. He started to ask his colleagues about a driver who, a little while ago, picked up a dazed, bloody passenger and drove him to the Canadian Consulate and accepted no payment. In hindsight, he agreed that this wasn't a wise way to start and he said that his three-day colleagues looked at him with some suspicion. Nobody answered James' question and for the rest of the day, the other drivers were quite cool toward him. At lunchtime, which many of the drivers took in the company's cafeteria, he decided to explain his poorly formulated question. 

"Allow me to explain. I expressed myself very poorly this morning. I have just heard the story of a driver of a cab of this company, picking up someone who seemed to be in need of help and driving him to a safe location. Would a fare like this be reported to the dispatcher? Would the driver discuss it with his colleagues?" 

One of the older drivers, a large, muscular, well built man of about 60, looked interested and asked, "How long ago did this happen?"  

"Not long" James said, "Only about a few months ago." The other guy looked away and when James continued to try to find out why he asked about the timing, no reply was forthcoming. James pressed and the result was the damaged left eye. The bottom-line as of this evening was that there was no progress locating my driver.  

We agreed that asking further questions at the taxi company would only result in more black eyes. We went over what we talked of earlier, that I - not James - should go to the building where I might have been held, bloody my face and sit outside to wait for another pick-up. James would cruise by every 30 minutes. I would wear an electronic locator with the receiver in James' cab so he would know if I was moving. 

James suddenly looked like lightning just hit his neurons. He turned pale, his eyes, not only the damaged one, became completely bloodshot and he began to look like a very angry and somewhat frightened rabbit and I had a hard time suppressing a smile.  

"We were so stupid, it hurts. We overlooked something," he exclaimed and I wondered what was coming.  

He found it hard to speak, he was so overcome with his sudden thought. "Your fellow inmates. The guards whom you taught English. Who were they? Where were they? Where did they come from? Do you recall how many were there? If the place wasn't a real jail but put up just for a scam, those people were also in on it. Were they actors, engaged only for the part? They must have been paid. Would you recognize them?"  

He was absolutely correct. I was also flabbergasted and ashamed at my lack of clear thinking and the resulting omission, and like James, I also wondered, how I could have been so stupid not to have realized the importance of the other participants in these events. Maybe the whole episode was an elaborate scam, whose purpose was still unclear. This was the most likely scenario. In that case the fellow cons and their keepers were also part of the game and they must have been sworn to secrecy on pain of something very compelling and serious.  

James told me and he was right, "The scam scenario needs to be investigated further. You must contact Ervin again. He might know about agents, how to hire extras, he might even know some who participated." 

Next day I needed to call my friend and to ask for his help once more. I was a bit relieved when the plan for me to sit outside a possible jail with a bloody face was postponed. 

CHAPTER 9

There were more items on our agenda. The first was to contact the lady my friend Tibor recommended, the one he rescued from the Secret Service. The second was to go to the abandoned building, attempt to enter and look around. Following that, I was to call Ervin and get some information about hiring actors and extras. 

Tibor called the night before to tell me that he spoke to his former employee who was more than anxious to talk to me.  

"This is an old lady, over 80. She has been through a lot and she retains a certain amount of suspicion of people, many of whom didn't treat her very well. She is sharp but she doesn't fully believe that there was much of a change in the system of government, that there are no more Communists in power. When I reminded her of the change, she said, 'Wouldn't this be a wonderful dream,' so go easy on her, my friend." 

I reassured Tibor, called the lady, and we agreed to meet. She sounded mentally sharp on the phone, no suspicion, just eagerness to meet her friend's friend. She told me that she trusted Tibor, and since he introduced me as his friend, she trusted me as well. She gave me her address which was in a rundown part of the city. On Tibor's advice, I bought some groceries for her. I got things a poor lady might not have been able to afford, such as butter, cheese, a whole chicken, some nice Swiss chocolate, fish, oranges and bananas, a couple of bottles of good wine, red and white and, of course, fresh-cut flowers without which no visit to a Hungarian lady is permitted, ever. I hoped she had a refrigerator.  

The lady, Mrs. Avner, opened the door and I was pleasantly surprised. She wasn't young, of course. She was fast, bright and cheerful, however, and told me right away to call her Violetta. She was wearing clothes that were not fashionable and looked worn but were clean and well maintained, as was her small apartment. The place was decorated in a most attractive way with antique furniture, plants, Persian carpets, none new, but nice. There was even an oil painting on the wall which appeared to be an original by Szinyei-Merse, a very well known Hungarian painter.  

"My grandfather knew Szinyei-Merse well. The painting was a gift for his 50th birthday," she explained. I handed over the groceries and she was pleased, didn't appear shy in accepting a gift from a stranger. She even exclaimed happily when she saw the chicken. 

"I haven't eaten a chicken in a few months!" 

I thought that I mustn't get to the main topic of my visit right away. We must get acquainted first. She led me to one of the armchairs, another antique, most comfortable and asked if I would like some tea and when I said yes, she went to prepare it. The tea came in real china cups, served in style, a slice of lemon and sugar. She settled down on the sofa across me. 

"Tibor told me that you need some information about the former Secret Service. Please tell me your story and if I can help, I will." 

I told the whole story briefly and as she listened closely, I saw her interest picking up. She didn't interrupt. It was obvious that her brain and memory were fully functional. Tibor's warnings about the lady were totally unnecessary. When my narrative was over, which took less than an hour, she spoke. 

"Young man, you may have come to the right place. Did Tibor tell you what happened to me several years ago?" 

I told her that I knew the outlines of her history. I knew that she was arrested, interrogated none too kindly and released only after Tibor collected some overdue favours.  

"My interrogator and torturer was a fairly young lady of the Secret Service. Please tell me what your lady looked like and tell me your impressions of her." I described the Colonel's appearance, her age which was now over 50, her style of dress and her ruthlessness.  

"What were her eyes like?" I described the ice in the pale blues and said that her looks alone would frighten most people. Mrs. Avner got agitated. 

"We were probably handled by the same agent. I also recall the icy look which turned even colder when she was questioning me, smiling as she went on. When I dream of those days, the scare returns and no tranquilizer helps, only a very stiff drink, often several of them. When I met her she was in the Secret Service. When you met her, there no longer was a Secret Service and former members were mostly unemployed. Some of them are now in the current police, some have disappeared, some have been charged with cruelty and are in jail. Mrs. Hegedus disappeared. I know because I tried to find her." 

This was getting interesting. "Did you find her? Did you find out where she was?" 

"No, I didn't find her. But, not very long ago, I saw her at the airport where I go sometimes to pass the time and to watch the planes take off and land. She was boarding a plane taking off for Toronto. I thought she might have recognized me, even though this was more than twenty years after our first encounter. She looked away fast and appeared to be a bit concerned." 

"When did this happen?" I asked and the date Violetta told me corresponded closely to the time when the Colonel came to my house.  

"There is one more piece of information you might be interested in," the old lady continued. "Some time ago, maybe 6-7 years ago, I received a phone call. A woman's voice was on the line and she said, 'At this time, I don't wish to give you my name.' I became suspicious and put down the phone without saying anything. She called back immediately. 'This is Madge Taylor calling. I just called you and I want to apologize for not being straightforward right away.' I waited, I wasn't sure who she was and what she wanted. She then continued, 'I am a member of an organization, formed shortly after the cruelty of the Communists created an atmosphere of terror almost half a century ago. Our purpose in the past was to care for and rebuild the health of torture victims. Now we are attempting to contact past victims of the Secret Service and to record their stories.' She stopped for my reaction. As I still said nothing, she went on.  

'Our objectives are several. We need to provide a forum for the victims to tell their stories publicly. We want to bring past victims together and try to have some of the old wounds heal. We try to identify the torturers and to bring those guilty to justice. There have been many who committed unspeakable crimes and they need to be apprehended and punished.' I didn't want old wounds to be reopened and didn't want to continue the call so I simply said thank you for calling, and hung up. While the call caused me several sleepless nights, I kept the lady's phone number." 

I thought it was time to tell the details of my still missing cabbie and how he had been collected and taken care of by the humanitarians a long time ago. Mrs. Avner listened with interest and spoke. 

"This is not the first independent confirmation that what my caller said was actually correct. I still keep in touch with three friends I shared a cell with. They too were tortured and all three have permanent injuries. They were also interrogated by the same lady with the blue eyes. They too were called by Madge Taylor and one of them talked to her at length. He confirmed that Madge and her organization were genuine and they truly helped and asked nothing in return. I just wanted no further involvement with any organization, just wanted to be left alone by them all, Communists, capitalists, politicians." 

I needed to know if the place where she was held was the same as where I was.  

"Do you recall where you were held?"  

"I was held in several places. At first I was in what appeared to be a former warehouse, not far from the airport. This was converted to a jail and held about 50 inmates. Then I was transferred to 60 Andrassy avenue," she said, identifying the former headquarters of the Hungarian Nazis, later that of the Communists and now the House of Terror, a museum, exhibiting the misdeeds of the former tenants. "As far as I know, the first jail was closed when the Communists allegedly decomposed." 

"Violetta, would you give me Madge Taylor's phone number, please?" I asked and she didn't hesitate, took a piece of paper and pencil and wrote it down. She wanted to know why. I guessed it was just out of curiosity and I saw no reason not to tell her. 

"I also want revenge. I am not finished with the Colonel. I can't forgive being hurt, humiliated, kidnapped, jailed, all on the whim of a paranoid woman who will not give up her former life. Also, I want to know why all this happened to me." 

Mrs. Avner and I chatted a bit longer, discussed family matters. She had children and grandchildren, all living in Australia. The old lady said that in time, not just yet, she might go there too.  

I thanked her for her hospitality and kindness and when we parted, she hugged me and spoke, calling me "young man" for the second time. 

"Be careful, young man. You are up against a monster." I feared that she was right. I was surprised that she didn't ask to be kept informed. She must have meant it when she said she just wanted out, no more conspiracy, no more Communists.  

It was time to call James to meet me at the building with his collection of make-up kits. He was to make me look bloody, ketchup this time, not real blood. I told him that I would be there within an hour. 

On my way to the potential jail on the streetcar and a bus, there was time to think and I went over the information Mrs. Avner gave me. She confirmed that my nightmare wasn't an illusion. She confirmed that others were tortured by Mrs. Hegedus. She confirmed my taxi driver's story about the humanitarians. She gave me a phone number which might also lead to further information.  

I met James and he parked his cab in a place where we were not easily observed. I put on the jumpsuit, he applied the make-up, and the next charade was ready to get under way. We waited until there was nobody in sight. I got to the building and sat down on the sidewalk. Just sat there, looked bloodied, miserable, and waited. And waited and waited. I saw James cruising by and there were several taxis of his company passing me, some of which slowed and looked but none stopped. One of the cabs almost stopped, with the driver looking at me closely but then he speeded up and left. I didn't recognize any of the drivers. We decided to devote no more than a few hours to this exercise and noted with disappointment that nothing good was gained. There was no point in continuing.  

On the way home I told James what I learned from Mrs. Avner and we discussed its importance. We agreed that maybe, just maybe, we were getting a little bit closer to solving the mysteries. I was to call Madge Taylor and see if she knew the cabbie I wanted to find. But first, when we got home, I wanted to find out about my guards and fellow inmates. 

Ervin answered the phone and first I brought him up-to-date about my current quest. I explained the information I was after now. There were really two questions I needed answered. How does a director go about finding a place, actors, actresses and extras for a movie? How could I find out if at a certain date someone was recruiting a crew to play in a movie to be shot in a modern jail? 

My friend was very co-operative and most helpful. He explained the process of hiring extras. He said that there were studios that held lists of aspiring and experienced actors. There were lots of actors with no experience at all, wanting to be discovered for their looks mostly or maybe for their hidden talents. The telephone directory or the Internet would list all of the agents. 

The answer to the second question wasn't so straightforward, he said. Some of the agents don't easily give out the names of either the directors or the actors, while some advertise openly and proudly which director they worked with, how often, and who were their acting clients. Some of them might not want to be seen to be involved with a project which, in their opinion, was destined to flop. There seemed to be no choice but to approach them one-by-one, he advised. A little grease would help, he said, as the agents were not the wealthiest among professionals. In fact, Ervin suggested, they would sell their souls, as long as the price was right. Further, their souls might not even be very expensive. 

I checked in Google and sure enough, lots of agents were listed. My question to them would be, "Who should I turn to for extras in a short movie about prison conditions?" Some of the agents listed their e-mail addresses and that was where I started. I worked up a story about the plot-line. It was to be about the lack of humane treatment of young political prisoners in the distant past. I sent out three messages at a time. Settled down and waited for replies. 

While I waited, I decided to call the alleged humanitarian, Madge Taylor. Here again, I had to be careful. I had no clue who this lady was. Had she any knowledge of my cabbie? I would have to get to the topic of my call slowly, and listen carefully to the lady's responses. I needed to know who she was before I revealed fully who I was. The best start would probably be to say that I got her name from Mrs. Avner and see how she would react. I was beginning to be worried about all kinds of conspiracies and whether I was becoming a little paranoid.  

The voice that answered my call was soft, warm and friendly. The sound made me feel right away that I could trust the speaker, a feeling I decided to ignore until her actual words and replies confirmed her goodwill. I introduced myself, and addressing her as Ms. Taylor, I told her that Mrs. Avner gave me her name and number and I hoped she had a few minutes to spare to talk to me. The lady responded in the affirmative, telling me to address her as Madge, and that she would call me John. I got a slight feeling, maybe just a tremor in my stomach, that she answered too fast, too eagerly and I decided to slow down with the information I was providing. Let's just talk a minute, I thought, and see if it was safe for anybody to discuss kidnapping, humanitarians, torture, and Communism. Maybe I should ask for a face-to-face and it being summer, maybe she would wear a short sleeve top and there might be burn and cut marks on her arms, results of past torture. As we continued talking about how lovely a person Mrs. Avner was, I was mulling over the potential scenario and a meeting was becoming more and more advisable.  

I told the lady, "Madge, there are a few things I would like to discuss with you but I would very much like to meet you in person. The topics are important to me but they are sensitive and discreet and I would rather see you when we talk. What do you think, would you have a few minutes for me?" 

She was taken aback a little and I understood the hesitation. Then she asked, with the same warm, friendly tone, "Could you give me an indication about the general ideas you want to discuss?" 

"Yes, Madge, it is only fair to be open and direct with you. I would like to talk about long-ago times, when the high terror of Communism was in the minds of everybody. I would like to ask you for your recollections, what you did then, what your friends did, how your generation managed to survive." 

"Why?" was the one-word question, not sharp but I noticed a little apprehension in the lady's voice, just a little. The warm, friendly tone was still there so maybe it was my paranoia acting up.  

"I was growing up during those times and as soon as I could, I left the country. I am asking as many people as I can, those that remained, how they coped. I want to know if the feeling of getting revenge is there. I simply want to know, for my own information."  

"Have you asked many people so far?" came next, and I surmised that I didn't manage to satisfy the lady. It was time to be a little more explicit. Madge was sharp and she wouldn't part with information just to humour me.  

"There is a long story that I must tell you before I ask more questions. The story is about how I was treated when I was arrested, interrogated, tortured and jailed, very recently. This will take some time. Also, I admit, that I am looking for both an understanding and revenge. I haven't forgotten nor forgiven anything." I realized that I spilled all or at least almost all, and if Madge was the wrong person to tell, maybe this wasn't so wise.  

"I sense that there is more that you may not be telling me," said Madge and I decided to give more.  

"Yes, there is. I heard from a cabbie that there was a humanitarian organization, operating in secret, during the terror days. They looked for and helped released political prisoners and if they needed medical help, they provided that as well. A cabdriver helped me when I was in trouble. I would like to find him."  

There was no sound from the other end for some time and I didn't want to interrupt the thinking process. Madge must be deciding how far she could trust me. Then I heard what I was afraid of, the soft click of the receiver being put down. Not slammed down, so she wasn't angry but she decided to end the conversation. Should I call back?  

I put off the decision. It was time to check if any of the agents had responded. I was disappointed that they hadn't made contact already, but didn't give up hope. As in most situations, there were only two possibilities. Either they replied or they didn't.  

James was coming through the door and I hoped that his search for the elusive cabbie was more productive than my efforts. He wasn't showing further signs of damage so he either didn't ask questions or the questions he asked weren't offensive. Still, he looked upset so I got ready to hear his complaints. He poured a stiff whisky and sat down to drink it, and he wasn't talking so it was evident that he was upset. Maybe our luck had turned. I was willing to wait him out, and poured myself a little cognac, VSOP, of course. James went for the next shot so there was something serious that troubled him. Maybe he was shy and maybe he screwed up and was embarrassed so I needed to cajole him to snap out of whatever was bothering him. 

"You look troubled, my friend," I told him and he was looking at me with bloodshot eyes, but still didn't speak. "Maybe what we need is some serious relaxation," I continued and he looked a little less agitated.  

"A suggestion. Let me call Hedi, lets book her for a massage," and his eyes were beginning to light up. 

The masseuse, Hedi, had been pummeling my body for at least a dozen years. Whenever I visited Budapest, I would call and book some time with her. Her expertise was unmatched. I would feel relaxed and rejuvenated after each session. That was what I was suggesting to James, who, it appeared, needed a major build-up of his spirit. The story of what happened to him could wait and when he felt better, he would unload. 

I called the lady, the sessions were arranged, we went to her studio, got the treatment and as I expected, James became his old self again. Now he was starving and parched, though. He needed to be fed fast and provided with lots of liquid, the kind that contained alcohol. I felt like a babysitter, which I didn't tell him, but took him to eat and when the food arrived, hot, plentiful and spicy, he couldn't shovel it in fast enough. A litre of ice cold beer entered his stomach, at a frightening speed. He ordered a tiramisu, to which I had introduced him, and a small espresso and still not satisfied, a cognac. He stopped here and I was relieved that he didn't want a cigar to which I would have had to object. When all of this was completed, he looked up at me a little sheepishly, said "Thank you," leaned back, burped and continued. 

"I didn't have a good day. Just give me some time." He waited a little, realizing that I must have been curious, and then he started his story. 

"The day started well. The man who punched me yesterday came to apologize, we shook hands and he told me no hard feelings. I drove out with my cab, had several runs, got some good tips and everything looked like a regular day, with no adventures. In the middle of the afternoon I got a message from the dispatcher to pick up a fare at an address in Buda, in Rozsadomb." Rozsadomb, loosely translated "Hill of roses" is one of the up-scale neighbourhoods in Buda, on the west side of the oDanube. There are family villas there, large, elegant and exclusive. Living there immediately implies wealth. 

"An elderly, very well dressed gentleman was waiting for me outside. The quality of his suit, his shirt, his tie and his shoes indicated a wealthy person. He got in the front seat, smiled at me and said, 'Please drive toward the airport,' and I noted the use of the word, 'Please,' rarely used in a taxi. When I told him about the flat fee the ride would cost, he said, 'The airport will not be the end of this ride, it is just far enough to ask a few things and to tell you some other things.' I became a bit concerned about his intentions and became alert, and then I noticed that his unbuttoned jacket revealed a holster in which a small gun was clearly visible. Most likely for my benefit, though at that time I had no clue why." 

James stopped here, waved to the waiter and asked for another cognac, which he got right away. He downed the drink in one gulp. Then he was ready to continue.  

"The old guy then said, 'I hope you don't mind me asking a few questions.'  

When I didn't reply immediately, he said, 'I just asked you a question. Please reply.'  

I said, "Please go ahead, but I would like to know who you are and why I need to answer any of your questions and..."  

The man interrupted, with a kind, grandfatherly smile on his face, 'You looked at my open jacket, did you not? And you saw something in that holster of mine, right? And you recognized what that was? And you realized that it was loaded, of course. And is that not sufficient inducement to you that you should simply shut your fucking mouth and stop questioning me?' And still smiling sweetly, he said, 'I ask the questions here. You answer.' I decided to co-operate." 

He ordered one more cognac. In it went, with still no sign of any effect. The shaking hands didn't stop and it was a miracle that all of the drink went in without any spill. The guy's alcohol intake was remarkable. He went on. 

"My fare, with his smiling face, then asked, 'Did you ask your fellow drivers about a pick-up one of them may have made a little while ago?'  

"I said, I did. At this point my self-assurance was diminishing fast.  

'Did you also ask about the driver taking someone who was in need of help and delivering him to a place where he in fact was helped?'  

"I said, Yes, I did ask that. At this time there was a transformation, the kind that is hard to describe. The closest I can come is to recall a movie, playing decades ago, about a werewolf. The face of a man was shown close-up, changing into the werewolf, scaring the shit out of me and I couldn't sleep for days after that. The kind, elderly gentleman began to shout at me, with his gun suddenly in his hand, pointing straight at my temple. He looked ferocious, and he spoke, exactly these words. I will never forget them.  

'You will never ask any questions about past pickups. Am I making myself clear you piece of turd? You will never ask any questions about anything. Am I making myself clear, you filthy piece of garbage, you fuckhead?' And he grabbed the steering wheel, wrenching the car into the left lane, into the path of on-coming traffic. Luckily, I managed to steer back to the right side and when I braked to a stop, my fare simply opened the door, got out, didn't pay, of course, and got into a limo that just pulled up behind me. And with a cheerful wave, he was driven off by a uniformed driver. " 

James took a big breath, and continued. "You'll not like the next comment very much, but at this point I don't give a shit. I expected no violence, no guns, no black eyes, when I signed up with you. I am finished with you, I am out of here, as of now. Don't follow me, don't ask questions, just stay, pay the bill and then go to hell. And just to save you wondering, I didn't even want to memorize the limo's license number." 

I was speechless. Was this my fearless detective? But maybe this was the best, let him go. He got up, steady on his feet, and marched out. Marched out of my life? Maybe.  

Unexpectedly, James turned around, came back, leaned close and whispered into my good ear. "This is for free. The man had a small black mole over his right eye. Good bye."  

The waiter was observing all this, weighing the prospects of a tip and now he was looking at me. I asked him for the dessert menu, which by now I actually knew by heart. I asked for a New York cheesecake, small cappuccino, and a newspaper and settled down with all the goodies, trying not to think of the future, just put it all away for analysis the next morning. I wasn't in a hurry to go home. James might be there, drunk and apologetic or, maybe he really packed up his stuff and cleared out. I somehow wished for the latter, to be rid of the unstable detective. I wondered, would he insist on getting his fee?  

I went home. I wasn't worried but amused about the poor drunk. I was relieved to find that he was gone. Good riddance. His clothes and things were gone and a bottle of cognac was also gone. The good news was that all the computer and communication equipment were present and didn't appear to have been turned on recently, as they all felt cool to the touch. I turned them on and changed all passwords. When done, I checked for e-mails and there were several, from the theatre agents and from Robert whose messages I checked first. There were two of them and they were encouraging, the first good news of the day. He found his quarry and managed to make eye contact with her in a grocery store and the lady didn't look away and smiled a little. This Robert interpreted as a good sign. He intended to arrange another chance meeting in the same grocery store and was going to look helpless in choosing an appropriate wine and trusted that the lady would offer help. The seduction had begun. 

The messages from the agents were all negative. They were willing to locate the crew I needed but hadn't been involved in any shoots of jails recently. I sent out three more requests for information. 

It was late, well past midnight and it was time to relax. Lots of things happened, mostly not good. Maybe I needed a day off. Maybe a visit to an out-of-the-city swimming pool was in order, swim, eat, drink, look at the ladies, some of whom do and some of whom don't wear bathing suits. Suntan, renew the old brain. Recharge. Stop and restart the detection again in a little while. 

I also made a brief call to my journalist contact to summarize the latest events. 

Everybody needs rest, even those in need of revenge and that included me. The day started out well, sunny and warm, and I was going to the swimming pools in Csillaghegy, the place where the spy agency contacted me, a lifetime ago. I used to spend my summers there, in the vacation home belonging to my father's company. One could rent a mat to lie on while suntanning and that was my intention. I needed a lot of vitamin D. It was the middle of the week so no crowds were expected. It would be quiet, clean and I was excited with anticipation.  

The tram started from Batthany square, on the Buda side. The ride was relaxing and I reached Csillaghegy in about 30 minutes, already feeling better, my optimism returning slowly. I bought a ticket for a cabin, undressed, put on my Speedo, rented the mat, took my suntan oil, reading material, and water bottle. I headed toward the large greens, where no more than half a dozen people of both genders were baking. I was pleased to note, that as expected, there was a lack of clothing on some of the bodies. I applied the oil carefully, and just lay there, not thinking, absorbed as much of the sunshine as possible which I missed sorely during the long, overcast Canadian winters. James' tirade, his abrupt departure and his story of the previous day were far from my mind. I concentrated on turning over periodically to get an even tan. I sipped water and I swam, observed my fellow sun-worshippers, ate and forgot about the serious newspapers I meant to read. The news could wait.  

A few hours of this decadence were sufficient to restore my mental faculties. I went to cool off and sat in the shade to plan the afternoon's events which would include entertainment and not work, definitely not searching for my tormentors. I bought a copy of Pesti Musor, a publication that lists all entertainment possibilities, movies, concerts, theatres, museums and I chose a recently produced Hungarian movie. The timing was excellent. I could get dressed comfortably, take the tram back and get to the cinema in time and to have a cup of coffee just before. There would be time for a slow supper afterwards, maybe at a French restaurant where the food would be light, and where they knew how to prepare salads without thick, heavy dressing. After that I planned to think about how to organize the future.  

I admit that I was lazy when I got home at night. I didn't bother to check e-mail, just went to sleep at which I succeeded very well, and then it became morning. The day needed to be structured carefully. I checked my messages and as promised, there was one from Robert. He was pleased to report that he talked to the lady in question, managed to look in need of help in the grocery store, and the kind Colonel did offer to help and they went for a cup of Viennese coffee with lots of whipped cream afterwards. Robert was right not to rush anything and I was pleased with his progress so far. He described his victim in glowing terms. She looked excellent, dressed casually but in a relaxed and elegant manner. She was kind and cheerful and had a great sense of humour. Maybe Robert should see how kind and cheerful her face was when she was kicking someone in the balls and how she appeared to enjoy the kick and the accompanying male reaction. I trusted that he wouldn't have the occasion to find out.  

Another piece of good news arrived. One of the theatrical agents had e-mailed me that he had recently arranged for about 40 actors and actresses to take part in a commercial shoot to indicate the state of Hungarian jails before and after the change of regimes. He gave me his phone number. I wanted to call ASAP, but it was still 6 a.m. The agency wouldn't open until 10. 

Back to bed until the rest of the world woke up.

When I got up, I wanted first to reconnect with Madge Taylor. I dialed and decided to simply ask her for help, telling her that there was nobody else who could lead me to my good Samaritan. The telephone rang several times and I imagined that she had call-display and she was deciding whether to get involved with me. After six rings she answered.  

"This is Madge, Professor Lederer. How may I be helpful to you?" she asked and there was no reference to the earlier call when she hung up on me. I noticed the formal address, though. 

"Please stay on the line, Madge. I want to tell you about some recent events. This will take a few minutes so I hope you have time to listen. When I finish, I'll ask you the same question that made you terminate our talk the last time. May I start?" I asked and I hoped she would allow me to go ahead.  

"John, I talked to Mrs. Avner since our last conversation and she vouched for your honesty. She told me that you are a friend of Tibor of whom I formed a very good opinion. Please go ahead with your story. If I can help after hearing your adventures, I will," said the lady and I was pleased not to have been rebuffed. It took a few minutes to recap the events. The last portion of my narrative concerned my saviour cabbie, his story of the humanitarians and the free ride to the Canadian Consulate. Also, I told of the general disbelief when I related my tale to the Canadian authorities. I finished by telling Madge of my wish to clear my name, prove that I wasn't a crazy old guy and to bring the perps to justice in some way. 

Madge promised to co-operate. After the loss of James I needed a good turn.  

She said, "Yes, there was and there is an organization dedicated to helping former political prisoners. I was one of the founding members. During the terror days, we were hunted like wild animals. There were many tortured and damaged people then. There are some lucky ones still alive. At that time nobody would dare to help them. Only a few doctors were willing to be involved in restoring their health. We did what we could. We had courageous people working with us, including nurses, psychologists, psychiatrists and social workers, all risking their freedom and their lives. We also had cooks and drivers. We lost many of our volunteers and we rarely found out what happened to those that simply didn't show up again. Your cabbie was one of us. I recall his story about the ride to the Canadian Consulate. He still drives a taxi, keeps in touch with me and is in good health." 

This was excellent news. "Please let me contact him," I asked, but she said that a certain protocol must be followed here because some of the former secret service agents her organization inconvenienced might still be out for revenge.  

"I'll contact your driver. I'll tell him that you need to meet him again. If he agrees, he'll call you. I promise to call him as soon as we hang up."  

"Madge, I am very grateful. How can I show my gratitude?" I asked and the answer actually wasn't surprising. 

"We - and I can talk in the name of the whole group - don't need and don't want any gratitude. We don't take gifts, we don't accept money from anybody. All that we use, such as medicines and food, come from our members. But thanks, anyway." 

She said goodbye and I was feeling lucky again. I needed to settle down to wait for the call from my driver. It might never come but I had an optimistic feeling that it would, and would come soon. The cabbie would be another independent confirmation that something actually happened to me.  

Next I called the agent. I heard the brisk, young voice of a lady who picked up the phone and when I introduced myself and referred to the e-mail of the day before, she was ready to connect me to Jay Clay, the CEO of the agency. I had a strong suspicion that the CEO was able to imitate female voices well and it was a one-person agency I was contacting. There was a little wait to imply how busy the place was, and then there was another brisk, young voice, but this time it was of the male gender.  

He spoke as if coached in a capitalist country. "How may I be of assistance to you, Professor?" 

I explained that as part of my teaching duties I wanted to inform my students of the evils of Communism and to instil in them a thorough loathing of anything that limits their personal freedom. Further, as part of this effort, I wanted to make a short documentary on how jails were run during the years following the 1956 revolution, a time the young man wouldn't remember, of course. I told him that I needed a crew of about 20, some for guards and some for the alleged political criminals. I told him that my preference was for actors who had experience in this kind of set-up, who already participated in jail-scenes. I also told him that if he could suggest a suitable location, preferably furnished as a jail already for the 30-minute shoot, which was to be done as soon as possible, I would appreciate hearing about it. Also, I wanted to know his fees and how payments should be arranged.  

The reply was the best possible, and it was the second good news of the day. The young man, Jay Clay, was very anxious to please and to do business with me. He told me that he wasn't expensive, that his first consultation was free and that he had loads of experience in exactly what I needed, having just very recently completed a practically identical assignment.  

He then proceeded to give me the details of that work and it sounded like I had hit the jackpot. I thanked him and suggested that we meet in person. He agreed fast and I suspected that he suspected that he was going to make a killing. I asked when he was free and he knew the routine, told me to hold while he asked his secretary for his appointments. While he did this, he let me hear two voices in the background, the male and the female. I admit that if both persons were Jay, the impersonation was being done very well. We set up a meet in my usual cafe, and he promised to be there at 4 p.m. that afternoon. I described my looks, my age and what I would wear so he would recognize me. He told me that he was 29 years old, five feet, six inches tall, had a blond beard and would be wearing a T-shirt and blue jeans. 

I checked e-mails once again just to see if anything had come in and there was an unexpected message from Robert, the first disturbing news of the day. He told me that I must be mistaken about this lady. He found her gentle, kind, understanding and he didn't understand why she hadn't been snapped up by men who appreciated beauty, elegance, sophistication, intelligence and good humour. He couldn't believe that she was over 50, said she looked no more than 35. He promised to continue to keep me in the loop, regardless of how this would pan out and I became concerned about him. How else should this pan out other than the good Colonel returns to Budapest? I sent a message to the seducer to reiterate that he was being conned and to make sure he covered his tracks, cleared all e-mail and eliminated all references to his employer. I also requested another message later that day. I felt better after I sent my message but still I was concerned about Robert's safety. Was the lady, the master manipulator, also a femme fatale?  

It was still early afternoon, so there was some time left to rest before meeting the actors' agent. I needed to recap and re-evaluate the day's news, good or bad, and in total, the good was more than the bad. Robert became a worry but he was warned. 

I prepared several envelopes, containing various amounts of baksheesh, for use in convincing my eager agent to part with information. Each envelope contained 100 Euros in cash and I had no idea how many would be required. I was ready to go up to five envelopes. I was interested to observe his reactions and to learn how easily he would part with the goods. It was time to walk to the cafe and off I went.  

I got there a few minutes past four and there was my agent, sitting at a table, on the terrace. He was looking at me as I approached and he started smiling and looked relieved. 

"Professor Lederer?" he asked, standing up, a sign of good upbringing. An outstretched hand was there in front of me which I shook. I also smiled and it seemed we had the start of good rapport, or maybe I was just too optimistic. I ordered a cup of tea, lots of hot water, lemon wrapped in gauze, loose tea in a perforated spoon, just as it should be. Jay was drinking pure spring water. 

"Thanks for meeting me on such short notice," I started. "I understand that you are busy and I am grateful," and I was watching for a reaction and Jay, being young, was green enough to blush. He was recovering fast though. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sir. I trust that I'll be able to help but I need more details. At this point I understand you need a few actors. Please tell me more." I noted that he spoke well and without hesitation. He appeared confident and relaxed.  

"Here is what I need, Jay. I mentioned earlier that I'm planning to produce a short video on how the jails operated during Communist times. I need a location which could be set up as a jail and I need people to play the roles of guards and inmates. I don't have much money and I don't have much time to train the actors and if there are a few with some recent experience, those are the people I need," I explained. The agent was listening carefully and as I went on, his face was lightening up more and more. It appeared that he had some difficulty in not interrupting me and I was curious what he wanted to add. I stopped to let him talk. He started, excited, fast and loud. 

"I have just what you need, Professor. Very recently I arranged for a similar video for a foreign company who I thought were from Canada. I provided the crew and made a few suggestions for a venue for the shoot," he said and he was clearly agitated and wanted to continue so I didn't stop him. Long experience taught me to let people speak uninterrupted, let them finish and usually they say much more than they need to. Clay continued and offered what I needed and I was pleased that my good luck had returned. 

"I can give you the names of the people involved," he said and I thought it was still not the time to talk. There were a few seconds of silence and he fidgeted a little, then continued. 

"It was a Canadian guy who made the arrangements. I recall that his name was Williams. Most of the details were discussed in phone calls which made me a bit nervous as I like to see the people I deal with. I asked him for a meeting and he agreed and he behaved like a real gentleman." The name Williams was, of course, a lead of major importance. 

"I have a feeling that I might know this man. What did he look like?" 

"He was a large man, ruddy faced, red haired with a huge belly and he had a tendency to speak loud. My first impression was that he was a bull in the china shop but as we talked, he warmed up to me and became quite relaxed. He appeared not to be very sure of himself, in spite of his bulk. When there was the hint of a small disagreement, he raised his voice and began to talk fast and then he apologized." I was pleased that Clay was willing to give me details without any prodding. He seemed to feel the need to please me to get the business. I had no doubt that the man of Jay's story was the alleged husband of the lady I was after.  

"I would appreciate getting the names of the actors," I told Jay. "They seem to fit the bill. Also, how can I find Williams? I would like to ask him for a recommendation for the crew." I meant this as an innocent inquiry and it looked like Jay was taking it as such. 

"I have the names and I'll send them to you by e-mail if that's OK with you," said the young man. "Also, I have the phone number of the organizer, Williams. Let me write it down for you." 

I thanked him but I needed more information. I needed to know the location where the supposed movie was taking place.  

"When did you last speak to Williams?" 

"Quite some time ago, actually. We arranged the crew, he paid and there was no more contact," and he said it naturally, calmly, no hesitation. He was either an excellent actor himself or the story and the information were true.  

"Do you recall the locations you suggested? I'd like to see them and if some of the props are still there, I might be able to make use of them." I tried to sound casual, still going on the assumption that he wasn't suspicious and he felt free to talk about what he had done for Williams.  

"Of course, I recall, but not all of them by heart. I suggested several possibilities. One of them was, in fact, once used as a holding facility for criminals prior to their trials. It was abandoned after the change of regimes. I need to check my files for the locations," he said. He continued to tell me that his files were in his office and that he would be happy to check and let me know. Then he grew just a little bit uneasy and said, shyly and hesitantly and I was getting the feeling again that a master actor was sitting across me. "Maybe, if you don't mind, it's time to talk about how much I will be charging." I agreed, of course.  

"I prefer to be paid in Euros. My usual daily fee is 100 Euros plus expenses. I trust that this is acceptable to you. Usually I receive a retainer of 200 Euros in advance. I hope this is OK with you," and he looked a little sheepish and I suspected he expected an argument. I would have liked to know how much Williams paid but didn't ask. No argument from me, let him think that I was a soft touch and I told him that his terms were OK. We agreed to meet the next day, same time, same place, he with the information from his office on the locations and the crewmembers' names, I with the retainer. We shook hands, said goodbye, and there was a small smile in his eyes, which I couldn't interpret. Maybe it was his happiness that finally some business came his way. I went home to record my impressions of the meeting, including my small but nagging and continuing apprehension that everything was going too smoothly.  

Following a strong cappuccino, I completed my notes including my worries. Next activity was to call Williams and I wasn't much surprised that the number was disconnected.  

Jay called and indicated that the place where the previous crew worked was indeed near the airport. He couldn't give me the details of the inside set-up. Once he had completed and signed the contract with the organizers, no further information was passed on. He wasn't present at the actual filming. And then he said, just a bit ominously, "Now you are on your own, Professor," and hung up before I could ask for the meaning of his warning. I called back, of course, and got the message, in two languages, "This number had been disconnected from service." Jay had disappeared and I didn't know why.

The next day was mostly uneventful at work. I processed entering and exiting trucks, chatted with the drivers, filled in logs and answered telephone calls. I could hardly wait for the end of my shift and it was getting more and more difficult to remain calm and polite to the drivers and co-workers who knew me already as a friendly, smiling, low-keyed colleague. I dressed, as in previous days, in jogging pants, a tee-shirt and a baseball cap, and scuffed, dirty running shoes. At the end I managed to refuse the usual invitation for a beer without offending anybody.  

The plan was to get to the place identified by Jay Clay on a streetcar and a bus, not a taxi. I wanted to walk around the building and enter if I could.  

I sat down on a stone ledge across the street and just watched. I took a sandwich and a bottle of beer with me, and that allowed me to stay there for a little while. The building looked abandoned, although the windows were not boarded up and the windowpanes were intact. I continued to watch for any activity but saw none. Should I try to get inside? I had to decide and finally chose to play it dangerously and enter the place where I might have been incarcerated. I ignored the small, sane person inside me who was trying to get out, ordering me to stay put, and when I overruled him, at the very least he reminded me that I wasn't so young any more, and he said, "Don't do anything stupid!" I crossed the road, knocked on the main door and waited. When several knocks resulted in no response I tried the handle and after a slight nudge by my left shoulder, the door opened with a painful screech - I forgot to bring oil. In my spy days I wouldn't have forgotten it. I stepped into the twilight. Windows were few, the lights were off and I didn't intend to turn them on either. 

My first instinct was to stand motionless. I thought, just breathe quietly, make sure that my heartbeat isn't heard by anybody else, and try to adjust to the amount of available light. There was a smell which was familiar and I tried to identify it by taking deep breaths, concentrating on its components. Was the familiarity real or did I just want the smell to be what I smelled during my time in jail? Also, I was listening for any noise and I was pleased to have had the foresight to set my hearing aids to the maximum. I wanted also to be aware of any movement of the air, which would indicate the presence of another, an intruder or a resident, friendly or hostile. The thought of the potential danger was beginning to dawn on me and maybe that should have happened while I was contemplating this highly illegal entry. It was called breaking and entering. Was there an alarm? I heard none but there might have been a signal at the local police station and if there was, the officers might well be on their way. I didn't bother to work up a story for my presence here, and the lack of foresight added to my growing lack of security. As I was standing there and was getting used to the light, my heartbeat was increasing and I heard the beats reverberating through my hearing aids. I was sweating. My armpits were wet, my palms were soaked and sweat was beginning to pour down my cheeks and my back. I was beginning to be afraid but reluctant to abandon the search. 

The smell was complex. Dust was a major component as was stale air. There was detergent or something that smelled like Javex or Ajax and there was a strong smell of alcohol, as well. I was also aware of the stench of uncleaned showers and unflushed toilets. Were these reminding me of the recent past? I recalled that the place was always clean and well ventilated and the windows were kept open. The current smell must have been a combination of a lack of recent cleaning and the musty air. Suddenly I noted a slight movement of the air around me and my feelings of approaching danger increased. I heard - imagined? - a faint creaking, stairs or the wooden floor, and I was thinking of abandoning the search. I couldn't run to the door without making an awful racket. I told myself to get a grip and in spite of the growing terror I found it almost funny, I became nearly hysterical. How could I get a grip, how could I re-establish my legendary self-control when I was beginning to be terrified? I tried not to panic, tried to think of my past as a covert operator and of the many scrapes I got out of. Fat chance. I was scared shitless. 

The air moved again, closer but from the same direction. There must have been someone else there.  

"Stay where you are and don't move." I heard a booming deep voice, from somewhere behind me and I couldn't tell if the sound was from a loudspeaker or from a real person. At this point my problem was increasingly becoming one of major potential diarrhoea. The chance of an event that would cause me extreme embarrassment was growing exponentially. My former courage as a spy was abandoning me. I wasn't pleased to recognize this now, at a critical point in my life, but there it was. I was a fearless agent sometime ago but I was also younger. So I didn't move and I only trembled and shook, and these were completely beyond my control. I hoped the voice wouldn't hold it against me.  

"How dare you get in here? What the fuck do you want?" bellowed the voice, from behind me again, and I couldn't speak and even if I could I wouldn't have known how to respond. I just continued to stand there, as rigid as my trembling allowed and waited for a miracle. No further announcement was coming and I was beginning to think of an escape. All I could think of was running, fast, toward the door and if I made it, just run while my legs held out.  

At the same time I was getting angry at myself, the voice and the whole situation. This was good and it began to help me deal with my fright and as my anger grew, my willingness to face whoever was trying to frighten me also increased. How did a disembodied voice dare to do this to me? I was recalling the relaxation exercises I learned a long time ago. I started the deep, controlled breathing and my anger turned to complete outrage and I was able to think again, to plan and maybe to regain some of what I had when I was younger. I faced danger before and scared some bad people and I thought that I might have the presence of mind to do it again.  

"Fuck yourself, whoever you are!" I roared into the shadows and I simply began to walk around the room with the trembling gone completely. The result of my loud yell was another, repeated statement.  

"Stay where you are and don't move."  

The same voice was speaking, same intonation, identical in all respects and I was concluding that a motion-activated tape recorder was installed somewhere and was playing with me. I turned on my flashlight and shone it in the direction of the voice's origin and sure enough, there was a loudspeaker, high on the wall. My first inclination was to smash it but then I stopped, thinking that the broken remains would indicate my visit and maybe that should remain a secret as long as possible. I was more relaxed now since I found that I wasn't dealing with a person here, only with a device, that eventually would let somebody know that this place was of interest to a stranger. I could have just sat outside, wait and watch for the next visitor. I put that away in my mind, to be considered later. It was possible that whoever set up the recorder had just been notified and was on the way here already, so I decided to look around fast. The fear of the runs passed.  

If this was the place where I was held, the only sure sign would be the scratch marks on the drainpipe of the sink in my former cell. The furniture might have been taken away but it was very unlikely that the plumbing was removed so I walked around slowly, near the walls and I was hoping to find a clue, proving definitely whether this was or wasn't the place. There were rooms around, their entrances were from the large room into which I entered, and none of them had doors. I shone my torch into them as I passed and I found sinks in all, but nothing else. I entered each room to examine the plumbing and when in the fourth, I shone my flashlight on the pipe and its reflections indicated the possibility of the scratch marks I was looking for. I got down on all fours for a closer look to make sure when I heard the main door opening and very quiet footsteps approaching. There was no time for a detailed check. Luckily, I was shielding my flashlight. I turned it off fast and I realized that it was time to get the hell out of there. I moved toward the exit as quietly as I could, trusting that the eyes of the new intruder hadn't adjusted to the darkness. They hadn't. I reached the door, flung it open, slammed the door shut behind me and started running which wasn't so easy nor was it very fast. I heard the door open and without looking around I knew I was going to be chased so I ran, and when I reached the corner I saw streetcar tracks. A lucky turn, the streetcar was coming and it was one of the old-fashioned types, with open platforms. I attempted what used to be easy, jump on the moving streetcar. I stumbled on the steps and a passenger with lightning fast reaction grabbed my shirt and pulled me up and yelled at me, "Are you totally crazy?" I looked back to see my pursuer, a middle-aged man, who stopped frustrated, and I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn't chased by a young man. Some questions remained unanswered, of course. Why was I chased? Did I commit simple trespassing only and the owner wanted none of it? Was that the place where the jail scam took place and the perps knew that clues remained? Was somebody waiting for me? Who chased me? 

I needed to catch my breath before my brain became usable again. A young man gave me his seat and I was highly pleased as I was in danger of total collapse. Sitting down allowed me to realize once again that what I was able to do as a young covert operator shouldn't be attempted now. How often would I need the lesson? Sad as it was, the old bod wasn't what it had been. I could still flex my muscles in front of the mirror each morning and fantasize in private but there was a sore need for realism here. Emulate Hercule Poirot and use the little grey cells and stay alive seemed to be the most attractive alternative to being chased. No more break and enter. Just go home, take a shower, check for messages from Robert, rest a little and go for a good meal. Have a good sleep. 

I checked the computer for e-mail and there was nothing from Robert, in spite of his promise of a daily debrief. No need to worry, Robert was a good guy, he was wearing the white hat and I was sure that there would be a message tomorrow. It was easy to say, "Don't worry," though. When Robert said the lady was a lady, there was indeed a con going on and he was the one being conned. 

I checked the phone messages and there was only one and I needed it. It was one of the most important events of the day so far. It was from my saviour-cabbie whose voice I recognized at once. His message was that he remembered me and would be very pleased to talk to me or better still, to meet me again in person. He left a number so I returned his call and I was restored and pleased when I heard his voice. We agreed to meet next afternoon, at my favourite cafe which appeared to have become my office.  

In the morning I evaluated the previous day's adventures. There were some very good results so far, some poor results and some interesting findings. Locating the cabbie through Madge was exciting. The news that a Canadian, possibly the Colonel's husband, wanted to make a prison video was intriguing and I needed to analyze this further. My attempt to find the former prison was promising but a little inconclusive and I wasn't certain how to evaluate it. I wanted to remain an optimist so I decided that it wasn't a major flop. I might have to go back, make sure that the marks on the plumbing were really there, even if my brain was already objecting to more heroism. The lack of messages from Robert was baffling, but it didn't cause me disequilibrium just yet.  

Then it was time to prepare to meet the cabbie. I decided to go now, even though the meet wasn't for some time yet. Just a little caution. I wanted to check if I was being watched. Was I getting too close to danger when I entered the old warehouse?  

I took a shower, got dressed properly, walked to the cafe, bought a newspaper on the way and waited with a cup of Earl Grey. The news items in the paper were mostly about the economy. I read but I was also scanning both sides of the street, trying to see who didn't belong. There were several candidates but how could I be sure? This was where the eye of a trained detective would be very useful. One of the possible tails was standing with his back to me, and it was a broad back with powerful arms. He appeared to be seriously examining the window of a clothing store, mostly for ladies. A young man's interest in clothes for women was unusual. I now noticed that it was the mirror he was looking at and there were now two possibilities. He was either admiring himself or he was scanning the street behind him and that included the cafe and me.  

Just go on reading the newspaper I told myself and decided to remember how the young man looked. If I encountered him again somewhere, I would allow myself to become suspicious. I now saw an elderly man approach and I recognized my taxi driver and he recognized me and we smiled and shook hands and even hugged. I didn't know his name and he didn't know mine. He seemed pleased to see me. He asked for a glass of mineral water and sat across me, still smiling.  

He started, "Let's talk a little. I'll tell you my name but I would like to know who I am talking with first. If you recall my story in that cab a little while ago, you understand my caution."  

I realized that I was to start. "You may be interested in hearing about the events that happened both before and after you let me out of your cab at the Canadian Consulate. Be patient, I'll tell all. My name is John Lederer."  

I proceeded to tell him about the arrest, the trip home, the appearance of my torturer, the debriefing at Foreign Affairs and the total lack of credibility of my adventures. Also, my determination to find my kidnappers, and to exact a little revenge and most importantly, to prove that I was sane, that I wasn't crazy, full of imagination, off my rocker.  

The cabbie said, "Maybe it's time to accept that a form of democracy is getting established here, though I think, more time may be needed for everyone to accept this. I know I am slow and maybe it is time for me also to accept it. Maybe it's time to stop being so paranoid." With that he extended his hand, we shook again, and he told me his name, Tamas Kossuth.  

He continued, "Anticipating your question, yes, I am related to Lajos Kossuth, I am one of his great, great, great, great grandsons, I don't know how many 'greats' there should be. And yes, maybe I inherited some of his genes and some of his wish for freedom." 

Kossuth was one of the leaders of the 1848 Hungarian revolution against the Austrian domination. He was still revered by Hungarians and justly so. Even the Communists never removed his statues and never tried to sully his memory. I was honoured to meet one of his relatives and I told Tamas who seemed to relish this revelation and my reaction. I also asked him to help me.  

"Tamas, I need your help. I mentioned a few minutes ago that nobody believed my story. Would you be willing to write down your recollections of how we met and what your impressions were of my condition when you picked me up?" 

"It would be a distinct pleasure," he said and I was very pleased to hear that.  

"Also, I am willing to get a notary public and swear on my honour that what I write is the complete truth," he promised and I was happy to realize that this would be another piece of proof that my adventures really happened. Taking the oath and getting a notary public were not necessary as far as I was concerned but should these papers get to court, they would be very helpful.  

He said now, "Lets meet here in two days and I will have the documents with me, stamped, signed, all official."  

We parted at this point, hugged once more and my day was made. I fully realized that these documents would prove only that I took a free ride to the Canadian Consulate but still I felt that my steps were getting lighter, my spirit was soaring and the future was looking bright again. When I looked across the street, the window-shopping young man was slowly walking away. During the discussion with Tamas, he continued to examine the clothes with great concentration. He was either a transvestite or he was watching us. I paid the bill, my portion only because Tamas insisted on paying his and I walked homeward, stopping to see if anybody was following. The coast was clear as far as I could tell. While the day's results were decidedly mixed, I was planning another feeding frenzy, maybe while a gypsy orchestra was playing. I was getting a bit concerned about the calories, sodium and alcohol intake and promised to cut back sometime soon. But not just yet. My waistline wasn't growing and I concluded that nervous tension ate up the calories very efficiently. 

There were two messages on my computer. One was from Jay Clay, giving me the names of some of the actors he sent to Williams. He also gave me the location of the abandoned warehouse where the video was filmed and it was indeed where I was earlier that day. When I tried to send him a message of thanks, I was informed that my message couldn't be delivered. 

My appetite disappeared and was replaced by major astonishment when I read the e-mail from Robert, the supposedly indestructible stud. He met his match and he didn't know it.  

"Dear John: I am ecstatic! I am in heaven! I have never been as happy and as excited as now in all my life! Martha and I are getting married tomorrow! How could you be so wrong and stupid about this lady, I will never understand! She is beautiful, intelligent, kind, and much younger than what you told me! I told her about my past life as a gigolo and she forgave me! I told her how you hired me to try to prove that she was a former secret service interrogator and she almost fell off the chair laughing! She assured me and I believe her that she has never heard of you! You are a sick, old, paranoid idiot. Just go home and check into a mental institution!"

And there I was sitting in front of my computer and my heartbeat had gone up. What was that testosterone-filled stud doing? I couldn't call him but I could send him a message, which in his euphoria he would probably laugh at.

"Robert, don't be an idiot. The lady in question is as wily as they come. She is as old as I said, she is cunning, absolutely ruthless and for your information, she is already married and has a middle aged daughter. And ignore what I told you at your peril. She is a former interrogator, she has tortured people, she is going to destroy you by setting a honey trap. That is exactly what you fell into! Get out while it is not too late, abandon the whole project and get back here where your friends can protect you! Remember your old mantra that served you very well in the past: brain before penis!"

A small salad and a cup of tea was all that I could take. Sleep was possible but only because I was exhausted. Maybe the next day would be easier.

CHAPTER 10

History repeated itself. The banging at my door, again in the middle of the night was loud, insistent and frightening, loud enough to wake me as well as all the neighbours along the corridor. I was shaken out of sleep. At first I didn't quite comprehend what was going on. I was beginning to panic, just like when the beaten-up Colonel visited me in my house on another continent not so very long ago. Then I remembered that I was in a civilized place, in Budapest, in an apartment. I managed to bring the panic under control. I looked out the window and could see no car in the vicinity. I looked through the spyhole in the door and saw three people in the corridor, banging, swearing loudly, "Come on you bastard, open up." For the first time in my life I called for help and dialled the night guard. Nobody answered and the banging continued so I called the general emergency number for the police. The dispatcher sounded annoyed, sleepy and not all that helpful. When my phone number along with my address and name became evident on his display, he became rude and said, "The men at your door are police officers, out of uniform. You are being arrested." I could hear a barely suppressed giggle. Also, I heard the comment, obviously to the other workers in the police station, "Guess where the guy is. Renting a new apartment, downtown. Must be rolling in dough. Hands up if you feel sorry for him," and I heard another giggle.  

At that moment in barged three large men, rushing me and toppling me to the floor. I was scared and I recalled the good old days when nothing scared me.  

What was happening to me? The men threw me against the wall. None of them was yelling, "We are the police." No warning to stay quiet, no advice that I might call a lawyer, no time to get dressed. They dragged me to their car, practically breaking my arms as they twisted them, all the while giggling, muttering, "The old goat, keep your pecker inside." I could hardly breathe.  

"Tell me what, why...," but they shoved me into the back seat, not gently. I hit my forehead against the door frame of the car, felt the skin break and blood trickle down my face. What did these animals think about civil rights, human dignity, innocent until proven guilty, police brutality?  

I was blindfolded. Nothing was done about the blood still seeping out of me, and nothing was done about my sprained right shoulder. Any sound out of me, asking what, why, where, when or a complaint about the pain and the bleeding was answered by a slap. It soon became apparent that all my energy should be directed toward survival. There must be a connection between the first arrest and this one, I thought. Maybe the Colonel and her gang were behind all this once again. 

The ride was fast. The streets weren't always paved. When riding over the cobblestones and the cracks in the pavement, I was tossed about. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to protect my head.  

A sudden stop with the brakes screeching threw me forward bumping into a shoulder, and this earned me another slap. The doors were opened and as I was dragged out of the car I fell and unable to protect myself, I got hurt further. Still in my pyjamas, I was led into a building, with the blindfold still on. 

My eyes were finally uncovered. The room I saw was spare, a desk, a lamp on it, a person, barely visible sitting behind the desk, an inkwell, a pen and blotting paper, an eraser and a dried, dead rose. I was tied to a chair, the lamp shining directly into my eyes. The room was hot, damp and airless. An interrogator was there and even though she was masked, she appeared somewhat familiar but I couldn't tell from where. She was silent, appearing to write using the pen with the nib, dipping it in the ink well, scratching the paper. Her fingers were ink-stained. She looked toward me and asked in a barely audible monotone, giving the impression that she didn't really want to ask, "Why did you kill him?" 

This was the point where I had enough. I didn't care any longer. I didn't want to retain control and I felt that I couldn't even if I tried. I didn't want to be polite, I wasn't considering the consequences, I could take no more. I felt I was ready to take on anybody or anything. I felt powerful. I didn't yell. I snarled and I saw that the interrogator was taking notice. So I spoke, and I was amazed to hear that my voice was shaking with unmistakable fury. 

"Lady. You know or should fucking well know what hell I have been through in the last few months. You now accuse me of murder again, and I am quite sure that we are back at the fucking steel mill, at the fucking visit of the fucking Minister who fucking well got stewed in the fucking hot steel. Don't forgive my profane language, you can also go to fucking hell and meet the burned Minister there and if you do, give him my best. He knows who fucking pushed him and he knows fucking well it wasn't me."  

The interrogator lady, still masked, was trying to regain the upper hand but I wasn't quite through just yet, come what may. I went on, now yelling at the top of my voice, quite out of control and not wanting to resume being a nice, reasonable person. 

"Take me back to my apartment. I want a shower. I want my clothes and when I am ready and when I am accompanied by a lawyer from the Canadian Consulate, I might agree to talk to you. You might then ask to talk to me once again about this event in the past. If you want to avoid an international confrontation, you apologize now and do as I tell you. But fast." 

I was amazed again. As always, when I talk tough, the display of extreme fury, works. The lady got on the telephone and I heard that she was asking for a limousine to take me home. And she said, "Professor, I apologize. A mistake has been made. You are free to go. I ask you, respectfully, that you contact me tomorrow. We need to talk. My name is Kate." She didn't seem to want to tell me who authorized this outrage, or why. She was now preparing to write her telephone number for me, which I didn't take from her hand.  

"Darling Kate, this is far from enough. I don't accept your apology. I don't know and don't care who you are. You accused me of being a murderer, but I note that I haven't been charged formally. I want to find out what, why and how these things are happening to me, why I am being harassed. But I will talk to someone very much higher-up than you," and my obviously angry tirade made her shrink a little. I almost felt sorry for her.  

And I was escorted out, now to a Mercedes limo. I was given a blanket to cover my pyjamas. The doors were opened for me, no rough stuff, only subdued, if somewhat cool, politeness. I was taken home. No words were exchanged during any of this. I wasn't in the mood for talking anyway.  

I couldn't find a logical explanation for this brief arrest\/interrogation\/release. The whole exercise made no sense.  

At home again. There were new questions I needed to answer. Why did this brief episode happen? Why was I let go directly after my outburst? Who ordered this? I needed the answers. 

I also needed to rest before anything else happened. I needed a stiff drink and chose a good cognac, and a strong cup of espresso and just tried to calm down.  

I postponed worrying about Robert. I couldn't save him from here, nor did I want to waste time on him. He was a big boy. But the lesson learned was clear. Don't underestimate the good Colonel. She is a formidable enemy. For sure, she learned where I was and that I was planning her downfall. At the back of my mind was a disturbing idea which I was trying to ignore but it was persistent. It said, get the hell out of here, you got yourself into a mess, escape while you can, get back to your routine, leave the bad people alone, they don't like you.  

The next day I planned to devote to rest and contemplation. A plausible explanation for the last adventure was seeping into my brain. The men who arrested me and the lady who interrogated me worked for the Colonel. The place where they took me wasn't a police station, just a small basement room somewhere. My lungpower scared them all, and the possibility that somebody would hear me and alert the real police made them let me go. I realized that my hypothesis needed corroboration. I didn't leave my apartment until the early evening. 

It was just getting late enough to start finding a suitable restaurant for my next meal. I decided to get back to my cafe. They knew me well there already. I could sit with a cup of tea or coffee, talk to my favourite waitress and contemplate my navel, do a few crosswords, think about the next meal. I put my shoes on, took my laptop and some paper to write my impressions so far and started walking toward the cafe. I was to start carrying a weapon tomorrow. As I approached and reached the cafe, I saw the young lady, Mary, the waitress, my friend and hot-espresso supplier, waving and smiling and I was pleased to be welcomed and I deluded myself that it wasn't just due to the tips. And suddenly her face indicated fear and horror...

CHAPTER 11

I woke up. My vision wasn't the best. Things were hazy in front of me. I had a splitting headache, I was dizzy and I wasn't at all certain if I was alive. I had no idea where I was, how I got there, how long I had been there and I had no recollection of what happened to me. The last thing I vaguely remembered was standing in front of my cafe on Andrassy avenue in Budapest trying to see their cakes and trying to decide if I should eat one more tiramisu before supper. And a cappuccino with it, not tea, and I recalled that I was thinking, I must remember to ask them to make it hot. Then I saw my best waitress waving and, of course, she knew about the hot and needed no reminder. It was summer and I was wearing a light shirt and I was warm, and was inclined to enter the cafe as it was air-conditioned. I watched but saw nobody following me. Then I saw the young waitress' frightened face and suddenly the blow to the back of my head came not so much as shock or pain but as an immense surprise.  

I tried to sit up but found that I couldn't because my hands were bound to the steel edge of a cot. The effort made me even dizzier and I fell back on the mattress. I tried to look around and as my eyes got used to the almost pitch black I saw that I was in a room in a crudely built log cabin, at least that was what the inside looked like. I was cold and I recognized the shirt I had on when the blow came and I also noted that it was torn, filthy and smelly. I stank of sweat, filth, and mud and there was some excrement and blood on the front of my shirt. I also felt that the mattress I was lying on and my trousers were wet, by my own urine, I feared. I must have been in this situation for quite some time. 

I noticed that all I heard was the tinnitus in my ears. I couldn't raise my hands to touch them so I didn't know if my hearing aids were in place. If I had been here for more than a few days, the batteries in them were dead for sure. I tried not to panic and attempted to go through relaxation exercises. I needed Pachelbel's Canon, and this thought almost made me laugh. I must not get hysterical. Wait, take several deep breaths slowly, as I learned in spy school. Someone will enter the room sometime soon. I concluded that I was alive. Whoever struck me and brought me here had an agenda and had further use for me. Otherwise I could have been killed easily, left in front of the cafe, with the perp getting in a car and driving away before anyone noticed that the old geezer simply kicked the bucket and wasn't a random drunk on the street.  

I was slowly getting back my senses. I realized that I was ravenously hungry, totally dried out, so dehydration contributed to my headache and dizziness in a major way. There was a faint light in the upper corner of the room, maybe indicating a boarded-up window, and I was beginning to make out the size of the room. I estimated it to be about 20 feet square. I tried to jiggle my arms and my legs and all four appendages were tied to the frame but not very tightly. I could move my feet and hands a little and luckily my blood circulation hadn't stopped. I could move my head, lift it slightly but it was also tied down, loosely. The rope was around my neck so a sudden sit-up wasn't advised. 

Some of my training as an undercover agent was beginning to seep into my consciousness. I thanked my stars for the discipline that allowed me to keep in shape, not that this helped much in avoiding the last blow. I recalled one of the training exercises, which was just what I was going through now. We were tied down, in total darkness and were told that there was a detonator and a bomb in the room, to go off in 30 minutes. We had that much time to get free, find and defuse the bomb and get out of the room. None of us believed that the bomb would actually go off but we never knew for sure. I managed to get free and do all that was required, defused the bomb in the dark, sawed the door hinge with the broken edge of the cot - and the lighbulb in my head went on. The edge of the cot saved me then, could it do so now? I was then strong enough to break off the edge. Could I do that now? I tried and while I knew it was hopeless, I tried harder and got frustrated when I proved to myself once again that as one aged, one's strength also dropped. Surprise. 

There were several activities that I was to go through before anyone approached. I must get ready for them, whoever they were. I had to think, I had to have a strategy. But first I needed to drink, needed clean clothes, needed to eat, needed to relieve myself, needed to get human again. I tensed as I heard some noise which I recognized as a train, moving slowly, but the noise was different from the usual diesel engines. It reminded me of my youth, it was a steam engine I was suddenly sure, so where I was was the big question. Surely not in North America, not even in Western or Central Europe, so where? Where were steam engines still in use? My brother-in-law, a train enthusiast, would certainly know. 

The door opened and two people entered. Both were wearing facemasks. I couldn't see them well as I was blinded by the sudden sharp light from the open door. I couldn't even recognize the gender of my visitors. Their overalls covered everything. They were silent. All I observed was that one was smaller than the other and there was something vaguely familiar about both of them. I saw one of them, the smaller one, pull out a knife, and I thought, is this it, is it over? But no, he/she/it was proceeding to cut my clothes off while leaving me still tied up and meanwhile the other was just standing at attention but seemed to be the protector of the clothes-cutter-off. Did this mean that they were concerned about me, that they thought I was dangerous enough to attack them? I would have liked to think so. I saw no guns, no weapons of any kind, only the knife so maybe I wasn't to be killed just yet. 

"Where am I? Who are you? What time is it?" I gathered some strength and asked but there was no reply, no recognition that they heard me. My clothes were coming off, gently though, the knife didn't graze my skin. The smaller black-clad person was careful.  

I was lying on the cot, still tied, now totally naked. They brought a hose, and they were washing me gently. The water was warm. They didn't seem to be enjoying themselves. The soap they used wasn't unpleasant. They shampooed my hair and if I hadn't felt so miserable, I might even have begun to feel more like a person. The cleaning was over, they hosed me down, threw a large, warm thick terrycloth towel over me, wrapped me up and left. I didn't hear the lock click. Maybe there was some hope of survival. 

The bath, however elementary, felt good, the thick towel, covering all of me, was warm and soothing. The door opened again and I saw the two masked people coming in with some clothing, food and drink. I was untied and they motioned me to stand which wasn't going to be easy but I tried, wobbled quite a bit, then I was upright, untied, naked still but clean. I touched my ears and found that my hearing aids were gone. The visitors were completely silent. One of them, the guard, was standing in the classic karate pose, ready to kick me in the face or in the head should I attack. Were they serious, had they any clue about how deadly one of my chops could be? Just let's not try it, I didn't want to be disappointed, I wanted to continue to think that I could damage them if I wanted to. It was sadly true that I hadn't tried actual hand-to-hand combat for quite some time. But now I was interested in dressing up and the underwear, socks, shirt and trousers fitted quite well but their cut, make and material were strange and unusual, so I asked the visitors again, "Tell me, please. Where am I? How long have I been here?"  

As before, they remained silent and there was no reply. They were not hostile though, not even the karate-ready guard who just stood ready to jump me and I actually took that as a compliment. I studied karate during my spy-training. I was quite good at it too. We didn't compete so I couldn't claim a belt of any colour, but there were not too many among my fellow agents who could get the better of me. I hadn't actually spied for almost 30 years by now nor had I karated since, so there was a very good chance that I might be a bit rusty if I needed to kick or punch. Would I still be able to kick someone in the lips, in the guts or in the balls? The latter required the least kick-height and for a male they were the most devastating so if needed that was what I was planning to attempt. I trusted I might not have to try, but I strongly suspected otherwise. Aging had several advantages from which speed and physical prowess were excluded. Accumulating experience was an advantage, however, and for me of the giant ego, the certainty - note, not the potential - to be able to outwit anyone was another goody. The first time I was detained I was unprepared and terrified and I was ashamed and didn't want to think about it. The second time my lungpower and fury worked. This time, I was also terrified but not unprepared any longer. There were several things I needed to do. One was, and as I learned from James Bond, this was the most important, always do the unexpected. The toast by the New Mexico atomic scientists, who drank to the confusion of their enemies, was also most appropriate. The other, quite evident, was to show absolutely no fear, and show that you were laughing at them, whoever they were.  

I was now dressed and a small chair and table were set in front of me. A candle was brought in, lighted and a clean, white tablecloth was placed on the table, the food was set down, a cloth napkin and silver cutlery were produced. Still not a word. The candle allowed me to look around, take in the size of the room, the walls and the boarded-up window. But I had to eat and drink first, so I looked at the bowl of soup, it was borscht with several pieces of meat floating in it. The wine bottle, red wine, had Cyrillic lettering on it. A bottle of pure water was also provided and the bottle also had Cyrillic letters. Was I in Russia? If I was to be killed, why fatten me up using silver cutlery? Or, were these to make me less suspicious? Only the future would tell, I thought. The food was tasty, the water was fresh, the wine was rough but excellent and all felt wholesome. My kidnappers needed me for something. 

When the feeding was over, the black-clad robots returned and led me gently out of the room, into the next one, which was furnished much like a Canadian farmhouse would have been a hundred years ago. The furniture was old fashioned, made of solid wood, sturdy and looked comfortable. There were large, padded armchairs, a sofa, a few straight-backed chairs, a table and, unexpectedly, a state-of-the-art wireless computer, telephone, and a large flat-screen television. I was shown to a chair and motioned to be patient and to wait. As if I had a choice. Karate-chop, in the black, facemask still on, took up its position behind me, while I sat in one of the armchairs. 

The door opened and there entered - guess who? - Mrs. Williams, AKA Mrs Hegedus, AKA Colonel Hegedus, dear Martha. I wondered if she was still married to Robert and was thus a bigamist and if Robert was here with her. I wasn't really surprised as the lady had a knack of showing up unexpectedly and under unusual circumstances. So I smiled, stood up and shook her outstretched hand as if nothing unpleasant had happened between us in the past. I squeezed just a little harder to indicate that I wasn't the pushover I might have been, not any longer. And I said, "How pleasant it is to meet the lady of my dreams," and hoped that she would react to the rather overblown sarcasm but she didn't. She was dressed in an ankle length, earth-coloured tweed skirt and a simple, hand embroidered peasant blouse with an evidently pure silk kerchief covering her hair. She had a thick gold necklace and several large gold rings, quite a transformation from the elegant western style appearance of the Colonel or the torn, filthy, bloody clothes, broken bones and dirty hair in my house in Canada. The scars were gone from her face and the broken foot didn't result in any noticeable limp. The steely, unblinking eyes remained but there was a little uncertainty in her eyes now and I planned to take advantage of that in due time. The message was still unmistakable, don't underestimate her. I didn't need the reminder. I knew I was facing a formidable person here so I asked, solicitously, "How are you today, my dear?" and continued smiling as if I was enjoying myself thoroughly.  

The Colonel sat down in the chair, guarded by the black-clad karate person who now moved to stand close behind her. She looked directly into my eyes. Her expression was serious, unwavering but not threatening and I looked back. She didn't blink. I held the smile in my eyes as I said a quiet thanks to my training for the stage. I knew I could hold eye-contact longer than anybody so I just stared back at her, not moving. A strange duel but I decided that this would be the first of many that I was to win. And she stayed with me, surprisingly long, she had stamina, but after four minutes or so, her eyes began watering and she knew she lost the first battle. She looked away, reached for the Kleenex, wiped, blew her nose, took a deep breath and began to talk.  

"Professor, I want to tell you how deeply sorry I am for causing you all that trouble in Budapest. I know I am responsible. I know you were hurt, but please believe me, it was necessary and for a good cause. I would like you to listen to...," she started and she spoke in a normal tone, not aggressively, and it looked like she believed herself completely. I didn't believe one word she said, and I wanted to establish the pecking order here so I interrupted, not rudely but with authority and louder than was permissible in good company in which I wasn't at this time.  

"Where am I? Why did you kidnap me? Why did you knock me senseless? Why am I here? How the fuck do you expect me to believe that all this was for a good cause? Good for who? Pardon the cliche but you interfered with my human rights in a major way. But first of all, where are my hearing aids? If you want to communicate and want me to hear you, you'd better get them or have new ones made." I didn't address her by name, and wanted her to see that politeness between us was gone.  

She was taken aback by my attack, as if she was banking on me being as frightened, co-operative and submissive as I was during our first encounter at the mock-up airport interrogation scam just a little while ago. The flinch was visible to the careful observer, which was me at this point, but it was very small. She regained her composure and started again, obviously to re-establish her position as the leader here. 

"Professor, I wanted...," she said and I interrupted again, a bit more brusquely and still louder.  

"I am going to take a crap," and the dear lady flinched again at my crudeness. She was acting of course, she was no angel, she had heard crude talk and she had practised it on occasion. As I was getting up from my chair I saw that the karate-person stiffened a bit and it looked like it wanted to accompany me to the toilet. I didn't need a witness, so I decided to stop him or her and at the same time I wanted to test if it was really knowledgeable about martial arts. I yelled at the figure, quite loud, "I don't need my hand held as I take a leak," and by this time it was close enough to me, so I tried the old chop to the stomach which as with all other chops, was a matter of leverage and speed. I straightened my fingers and I expected a reaction which should have been immediate from an expert but this black person was a sack of coal or salt or excrement. It didn't react, so I delivered the punch to one millimeter from its middle where I stopped. Conclusion: this was no threat to me. It was no expert. There was no attempt at defence, at evasion or at retaliation, just a little surprise. I was quite pleased with my small experiment. Karate-person didn't follow, still didn't speak just showed the way to the nearest washroom. 

While I was on my way to the toilet I looked around to see as much of the surroundings as possible. There were several windows, all open. There were two sets of doors and one of them, a double-door, appeared to lead to the outside. I was wondering why I was allowed to move around freely. They must have been very sure of themselves that escape was hopeless. I still didn't know where in the universe they brought me. Maybe I was far away from civilization and that made them a bit cocky, not bothering to close the windows. I needed to check if the doors were locked. When I entered the toilet, I saw that the door could be locked from the inside so I locked it, trying to make noise as I did but I didn't hear any scurrying around. They didn't move, so they were sure of themselves or they were complete amateurs. There was an open window in the washroom and I was tempted to climb out but when I looked out all I saw were flat fields of wheat. Perfectly blue sky, no wind, nothing as far as I could see, though there appeared to be a forest, maybe about five kilometers away. I would be caught within 20 seconds of an attempted escape in daylight.  

There was a faint scent, however, which I recognized instantly and with shock as Joy, the perfume my daughter used exclusively. Was it possible that Mrs. Hegedus also used the same? I hadn't detected that on her. A possibility then hit me and left me stunned. Had my daughter also been kidnapped? I assumed yes, she was here and it wasn't my imagination playing tricks on me. The scent felt recent so my daughter must have been here a very short time ago. I had to find out, was it her or someone else? If she was here, where was she? Was it actually possible that she was in the same building? I tried to look out again and since there was no screen and the windows were open, I could lean out quite far and saw that I was on the main floor of a large building. It was four stories high. I looked up and saw balconies and people suntanning, so it was a hotel or at least a holiday place of some kind. As I looked further, there appeared to be rooms on the main floor also so I was probably in one of the suites. I was guessing and hoping that my daughter was in another room of the same suite and that I was using the bathroom that also belonged to her set of rooms. There must, of course, be several toilets in the suite so my chaperone made a mistake in guiding me here. An amateurish mistake, to be remembered. 

I thought that I must leave a sign for her, one that only she would recognize. I recalled one of our games when she was six, a form of treasure hunt and hide-and-seek combination. We left clues, which if interpreted correctly would lead to the hidden object. Once she left one of her baby teeth as the clue, indicating that she was hungry and was hiding in the pantry and I, as the searcher, failed completely to find her. We told the story of the tooth-clue often and we thoroughly enjoyed recalling it. Lucky for me, one of my teeth was loosened by the fall after I was bonked on the head. I loosened it further, removed it and left it on the windowsill. Should she see it, she would make the connection, I was certain. When she did, she would send a message or leave a clue which would look innocent to anyone but me.  

I took a small piece of the soap and held it in my hand for future use as I was developing a plan to confuse my captors. Of course, I also used the facilities for which they were intended and I felt better after the big dump.  

I got back, apprehensive a bit, but I had to discover what the future held for me and I had to know where I was, what happened to me, if my daughter was here and what they wanted of me. 

On my return I walked near the Colonel and inhaled. Joy wasn't her perfume. All I could smell was the scent of crude soap, not unpleasant. So far I hadn't seen any other women and the likelihood that my little girl was here was increasing. This made me tense and relaxed at the same time. Why she was here was the bothersome thought, but her brains, strength, stamina, fearlessness and resourcefulness made me feel a bit more confident that this ordeal might not last for much longer. Just how exactly we would get out of here remained a mystery.  

Mrs. Hegedus handed me my hearing aids and said, in an unusually friendly tone, "Here they are, Professor. They have been cleaned and fresh batteries were installed. We should be able to talk now." I put them in my ears and while I hated the stupid devices because they indicated my fall from perfection, at least now I would hear the mysterious lady well. Why was I still referring to her as a lady? I knew she was a ruthless secret agent who just liked to take advantage of her good looks to appear to be a gentlewoman. Which she wasn't, I knew from firsthand experience. Still, I needed to establish the ground rules once again and the fact that I would no longer be intimidated.  

"My dear lady. Before anything happens and before you can even hope for my co-operation, you will answer my questions, honestly, fully and right now. You heard them before but in case your attention span is not so great, I repeat. How did you find me in Budapest? Where am I? Why was I knocked out? Why was I kidnapped? Why was I kept tied to a bed, in my own filth? Who are you? Not that I care all that much about that. You answer these now, fast and clearly," I said, using a threatening voice, even though I knew that I had nothing to threaten with, and before she opened her mouth I continued. 

"Also, you and your thugs beat me, humiliated me, tortured me, and jailed me in Budapest. Why? How do you think I reacted to that? Do you think I enjoyed it?" Now she was opening her mouth again but I didn't let up. "You realize that the Hungarian authorities are investigating the con - and I and others know it was a con - you pulled at the airport. They co-operate with the RCMP, you know that of course, don't you?" and I paused for breath and I was curious, what if anything she was going to say. 

Mrs. Hegedus appeared truly disturbed by my aggressive questioning and my apparent lack of fear and I was saying silent thanks to my acting teachers again for inside I wasn't so confident of anything. She took a deep breath which appeared more like a nervous gulp and its implication heartened me. She started. 

"Professor, you are correct. I owe you an explanation. I am not at liberty to tell you all, and you must understand that we are all just small cogs in the large scheme of things, and others, much more powerful than us, are in control. Even I am not certain who the controllers and the string-pullers are. You are in Yekaterinburg. We brought you here and you are technically correct in that we arranged for you to be kidnapped. I apologize for our mistake in choosing the personnel for this, as they were under clear instructions to be as humane toward you as possible. You were not to be harmed and you were not to be tied up. You were delivered to us on the bed you woke up in, tied to it and in your filth and for that I also apologize sincerely. As soon as we saw your condition, we cleaned you up and tried to provide you with some basic comforts. Now that you are here, I must tell you that we need you to help us." 

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Was I in Yekaterinburg, near the Urals? Was I needed by kidnappers and torturers? I couldn't imagine what for but I wasn't looking forward to finding out the details. I was the captive audience though and so far I hadn't managed to formulate a plan of escape. How the hell would I get from here to Canada?  

"Some more questions before you continue, my kind abductor. I don't much care whose scheme of idiotic ideas and plans I appear to be stuck in. I don't believe you at all when you say the power lay elsewhere and you are a cog. Actually, you may be a cog and I don't really give a fuck about that, but I am not. You will tell me everything or I will get out of here now. Don't look so smug, I have gotten out of a few scrapes in the past, worse than this, and I can do it again. So. Where is my passport? Where are my credit cards? Where is the cash I had in my wallet? Where is my wallet? Where is my cell phone? Don't forget to answer all my questions, not just some. You remember them of course, or do you need a refresher?" 

"We have all your things, Professor, and you will get them back in due course," continued my opponent. She was showing some signs of impatience which I was going to use against her whenever possible. "But I will tell you first what we want of you and why. You will recall your departure from the jail right after Dr. Brucotti interviewed you. You were picked up in a taxi, driven by an elderly driver. You will go back to Budapest tomorrow morning and kill that driver. The simple reason is that this fits into our plans. You need to know nothing more." 

I didn't much feel like laughing but that's what was needed here to press home the incredibility and the stupidity of the idea. I recalled my training on how to laugh and I managed quite well. A loud, sardonic laugh was the result.  

"Mrs. Hegedus, you are joking, of course, or are you just simply out of your idiotic mind?" I responded, keeping the sarcastic look and indicating that I didn't take this as anything but a stupid joke. I had a feeling, however, that she meant exactly what she said, that she was deadly serious and I was shaken and confused. Kill a man? Even if I hated and detested him that would be difficult or impossible. If he hurt my daughter or my wife, I would kill him with pleasure but it would still be difficult. In spite of being a covert agent for several years, my assignments never included a "wet job", maybe because my controllers didn't think I was capable of snuffing someone. I was sure that I would be capable if necessary but I didn't intend to kill anybody, not now, not ever.  

So I acted as if that request was really just a stupid joke, and continued, "You didn't listen to me very well, my dear lady. I need to know why this whole set of incredible events is happening to me, and you will tell me, now. No more talking beside the point, no mention of cogs, higher powers, which I don't believe at all. You've been lying and it's time to tell me the truth. And further, get this into your stupid head, I am not going to kill anybody."  

"No, Professor, this is no joke. The man must die. I will not tell you why. That is not for you to know. You simply must and will kill him. And you know why you will? Because I say so and because we will hurt your daughter, Tamara, if you don't and that should be sufficient reason as far as you are concerned. She is with us, though she doesn't know that we have you. Up to this point she believes that she won a free holiday in Russia and so far she is enjoying her trip tremendously. She bought a pile of clothes, locally made, and she wears them well. Don't ruin her holiday." 

The shocks kept coming. I intended to retain control at all costs, not let them know how I felt. I felt frightened, more than before if possible. At least now I knew for sure that Tamara was near and that lessened my worries, if only just a little. I knew my daughter and I knew that she could outsmart anyone and that she knew for sure that there was no free lunch, no free trip, ever. She was also fully trained in karate and I had seen her, unarmed, fend off three armed attackers a few years ago in Soho. The assailants strongly regretted the attack and departed in haste. As long as I could connect with her and stay with her, we would be safe. She couldn't know yet, of course, that I was a captive, as well. When she saw the tooth though, she would know. The only plan I had now was to always do the unexpected or outrageous and I stood up and started to shout at the Colonel.  

"Why was I detained in Budapest?" I roared at her. "Answer. Now. Fast!" 

Another surprise. Her immediate reaction was that of a very small mouse, facing the killer cat and she turned pale. Maybe nobody ever spoke to her using a raised voice. Her hands shook and she looked ill. The steely blue eyes were still blue but there was a noticeable loss of certainty. I thought that maybe this was still an act but then she started to speak, so quietly that I had to lean close and had to turn my less-bad ear toward her and I knew that she was rattled. 

"Professor, you are right, I was lying to you. I agree that it's time to be honest and to level with you. I'll tell you everything, be patient." She reached out for a glass of water, brought it to her lips, then put it down, got a bottle of vodka out of the cupboard, poured a large one and gulped it, Russian style. Didn't offer any to me or the others. 

"Here goes, Professor," she said, still pale, and her voice was trembling. "You and most people know, of course, the significance of Yekaterinburg in history. This was where the last Czar and his family were executed by the Bolsheviks. You also know the history that followed, seventy plus years of glorious Communism, the dictatorship of the proletariat. This came to a tragic end not very long ago. My people and I are determined to bring it back. We formed a cell here under the leadership of General Komlos and our unshakable aim is to re-establish the only truly just system, that of Communism, as Stalin and Lenin wanted. Not Marx and Engels since they were middle-class people, economists and theoreticians and they really had no idea how their plan would work in real life. We chose you to help us. You were chosen because you are an independent thinker and an active, serious person. We were convinced that once you fully understood and appreciated our aims, you would help us." She stopped here and looked like a little girl. Her face was now flushed, eager and she was looking at me, waiting for a reply.  

"Mrs. Hegedus, you are totally out of your mind. I am not going to kill anybody. You seem to forget that not very long ago you accused me of cold-blooded murder. As for my daughter, she didn't win a free trip or whatever you told her, but she is in this house. I want to see her, now," I said and I saw the effect on her face, which was total bewilderment. It was now time to do the unexpected, so I began to cough, and forced my face to turn red. I was clutching my head and I was beginning to choke. I put the soap in my mouth and noted that they didn't see the movement of my hand doing this. Then I began to shake and forced some foam to escape from among my teeth. I was faking an epileptic seizure, apparently in a convincing way because they were concerned. They put cold water on my face and a cold towel on my forehead. As I thrashed with my hands, I managed to grab and remove a karate-person's mask. She - and now I knew the gender - managed to replace the mask very fast but I saw enough. The face, now revealed, was that of the blond from the airport, the one who escorted me to the first interrogation. The expression on her face, albeit seen only for a fraction of a second, showed discomfort and it was quite clear that she wanted to be somewhere else. I surmised that she might be here under duress. I recalled the life story of Mrs. Hegedus and the possibility of an illegitimate daughter and the story Dr. Brucotti told me. I assumed that this was Lola. I didn't manage to get such a good look at her face but I was unable to see any resemblance to the incredible hulk in the hospital.  

My captors sounded frightened, afraid that I would check out right here if I didn't get immediate help. I heard them running around. They spoke, even the black ones, and they spoke Russian. I could make out a few words, "doctor," "hospital," "emergency," and "What are we to do?" so I took pity on them and began to slow down the shakes. I began to breathe more normally and I heard them say something like, "He is coming around."  

I opened my eyes and asked, "What happened?" 

The faces around me indicated serious concern and confusion, not knowing how to handle an elderly man with a tendency to seizures. Obviously they didn't realize that I was faking and the knowledge was comforting. They showed themselves to be na\u00efve and gullible, a set of very good attributes as far as I was concerned. They might threaten me or others but when faced with some real danger I suspected they would shrink away fast.  

"You had an epileptic fit, Professor. You passed out, you were foaming at the mouth, you were shaking and only the whites of your eyes were visible," said Mrs. Hegedus. "I suggest that you go to rest now. We will continue the talk about the task I set for you tomorrow."  

I was pleased that this session was now over. I needed to think, needed to plan, needed to make sure that my daughter knew about me. The rest would allow me to do that. I was led to a bedroom with one bed, simple but comfortable with sturdy pine furniture, evidently hand made. There was a small table, a chair, a dresser and a carpet. There was an open window and I could see the fields. I could also see the dense forest in the distance. The thought that my captors were amateurs at the game of political intrigue and kidnapping looked more and more likely. One of the black-clad bodies, the smaller one with her mask back on, the one I identified as possibly Lola, was leading me. She put her hand on my arm in a surprisingly soothing and friendly gesture, bid me goodnight, opened the windows and closed the door behind her but didn't lock it.  

It was late at night, a little past 11 p.m., when I woke. I looked out to see a perfectly cloudless sky, hundreds of stars and the moon, nearly full, so it was quite light outside. The music from a nightclub was audible. There were lights on in several windows. I also saw people moving about.  

I got up slowly and I was pleased not to be dizzy. I was steady on my feet. I started walking quietly toward the bathroom. I needed to see if Tamara was here and to see if she recognized the clue I left for her. Nobody stopped me on my way. The living room was empty. The guards were nowhere to be seen and I trusted that all of my captors were asleep.  

In the bathroom I looked around carefully and I noticed with much relief that my tooth was gone. Tamara was here and with her usual ability to observe, she noticed my presence. She left her message for me on top of the mirrored cabinet, on a simple piece of paper. She was right in thinking that a piece of paper wouldn't be noticed here. The message on the note was written in code, of course, and it said, after a minor effort of decoding, "Meet me outside the bathroom window after midnight." I got back to my bed to wait for the midnight escape.  

It was near midnight and it was time to get moving. As I opened my eyes I saw that someone was in the room, sitting on the floor beside my cot and when I looked a bit closer, I recognized the blond lady. She must have come in while I thought I was awake, but I must have dozed off. She saw that I was awake now and put her finger on her lips, motioning silence.  

She then leaned close to my left ear and whispered, "I am Lola, the Colonel's daughter. I drugged your guards. You can escape now. As you leave through the window, go toward the west, toward the forest. In about five kilometres or so you will see train tracks. Any freight train heading west will take you to Kiev. There is some money in the middle drawer. Take it. Good luck." With that, she hugged me and disappeared in total silence, leaving me wondering just what this was about. Something else that I must figure out later when I had time to think. 

Taking the thick wad of roubles and dollars from the opened drawer qualified as theft only theoretically and legally in my mind. I had no time to count so I had no idea how much money I took. Appropriating the funds could be excused under desperate circumstances, at least in my opinion. Life or death issues, when you want to feed your starving child, or, as in my case, stealing from my inept kidnappers all qualify as acceptable excuses. I also took two bottles of water from the minibar. My conscience didn't trouble me in the slightest.

I climbed through the open window of the bathroom, the bundle and the bottles safely in my pocket, and I wasn't surprised to see Tamara waiting, crouched low. We hugged silently, both of us relieved that at least the first step in getting home was now beginning. There was no time to debrief. That would have to wait until we were safe. We started a slow, measured jog toward the trees. I estimated that we would reach them in about 40 minutes. Once there, we would be able to rest, talk a little and plan the route home.  

We managed to get into the forest without too much exertion. At the rate we jogged, I figured we covered about five kilometres. It was still dark, near one in the morning, the moon was still there and it was bright and it was still several hours until daylight. It was cool, not cold, about 16\u00ba or so. We sat on the ground to rest and drink some water sparingly. We were not quite sure where the bottles would be refilled next. We needed to find a farmhouse, needed information about how to get to a city. We needed to get passports and if we could find a city with a Canadian consulate, good. If not, we must be able to get false passports, to be used only until we were in the west somewhere. It might be easier there to explain why our passports were fakes.  

Good luck was staring us in the face. The train tracks! They ran in a south-west and north-east direction. They looked shiny which indicated that they were in regular use. I put my ear to the tracks but I felt no vibration. It was time to move on. Hopefully our absence hadn't been noticed yet. We started walking toward the south-west, getting further away from the house of our enemies. We were far enough away that talking was possible. Tamara was first and began to recount her story. As always, she was concise and to the point.  

"About a week ago Jake and I went to the park where rides and games were set up by a traveling circus. It was early evening. We spent all day in our offices and we needed to loosen up, to do something silly and childish and the games were just the kind of things we needed. There were places where you could throw tennis balls at a target or where you could throw darts. The game that seemed most interesting to us had a track, curving upward, rising about 10 feet. On the top was a figure, standing but hinged at its feet. At the bottom was a goat. You were supposed to shove the goat so that it would go upward on the tracks and hit the bottom of the hinged figure. If the figure toppled over, you would get a prize. The top prize was a trip for two to Russia for a week and we were determined to get that. Both members of the couple had to get the goat to the top, five times in a row, no rest allowed, no warm-up. Then, both had to answer two skill-testing questions.  

"Well, we did it all, pushed the goat, answered all the questions correctly, and became the first ever winners of the grand prize. Sure enough, two tickets were prepared in our names right there and were handed over. We were sceptical enough to think that they were not quite kosher, but were willing to play along. We were given some advice about travel in Russia, and we were told that on arrival in Moscow's Sheremetyevo airport a guide would wait for us. We were to leave within two days.  

"When we got home, though, a phone message was waiting for Jake. Some of the equipment in his laboratory exploded and he needed to get there as fast as possible. He ascertained that nobody was hurt but his apparatus was damaged and needed fast help, and if given by the expert - and that was Jake - the damage might be minimized. He was worried because his work depended on that piece of machinery and he had no choice but to go. He wasn't certain when he would get back.  

"When he came home early in the morning, he was in a terrible state. His clothes were covered in soot and oil and his shirt was soaking wet from perspiration. There were cuts and bruises on his hands and face. Worst of all, he was nearly crying from frustration as the laboratory he built up in the last few years was almost totally destroyed. Lucky that none his students was there, so there were no injuries to people. He wanted to clean up, change, have a cup of coffee and go straight back. He wanted to start the repairs, check the insurance and be there when the police arrived.  

"I asked if anyone suspected foul play. He said, 'I am afraid, yes. Nobody was supposed to be there and all of us know to keep all doors locked at all times. In fact, the doors are spring-loaded and they shut automatically. There was no way for a major explosion to happen, out of the blue. Someone was there and I must tell the police that it must have been an insider. Nothing else makes sense.' 

"The explosion couldn't have happened without someone who understood the details of the security systems. Every piece of equipment had hidden sensors and there were very few people who knew their exact locations. The sensors were there to indicate increasing temperatures, increasing vibration and increasing levels of toxicity. There were automatic controls to turn off everything and to alert security personnel if the signals rose beyond a certain level. The signals were monitored by the guards, 24/7. No increased signals were noticed, no danger signs were observed, no doors were forced, and what was most intriguing was that the TV monitors, located at all entrances and exits, were blanked out." 

Tamara said that Jake was totally devastated as he related the story. He built the lab, practically from scratch and prior to its destruction it had become the most advanced collection of experimental equipment in his field of physics in the world. The lab would be rebuilt, of course, and the time frame would be short. The events leading to the invasion - Jake was convinced that someone managed to enter the lab, set the timers and the explosives, and exit without detection - must be clarified before rebuilding.  

"Everybody, including the director - and that is my husband - is considered a possible perp at this time," said Tamara.  

She continued. "Of course, Jake had to cancel the Russian visit. He had to go to Washington to be interviewed at length by the FBI. He wanted me to start the trip and he was to join me here if at all possible and we expected no more than a short delay. Even though it wasn't strictly necessary, I thought it wise to inform the appropriate authorities and to ask for permission to take advantage of the win. I was asked to make contact daily with Washington and to report anything suspicious, anything that might remotely be connected to the lab. I became a bit concerned when my Blackberry and my passport were lost and when the only Internet cafe in Yekaterinburg was closed for maintenance. Now it appears quite certain that the trip we won, the explosion and the loss were all connected and the objective was to detain me here." 

I put my left ear to the train tracks again and my heartbeat increased as I detected a faint rumbling. A train was approaching. It wasn't visible yet but we hoped that it would be a freight train and that it would be moving slowly and that it had at least one wagon with its sliding doors open. There were some scenarios to discuss. We would run side-by-side beside the train. When the open-door wagon was beside us, Tamara would jump up first and I would continue to run. When she got a firm hold on something she would extend her free hand, I would jump and she would haul me in. And then I spotted the bright main headlight of the engine and my heartbeat increased some more and we got ready.  

The first piece of good luck was the so-far lack of chasers and the second was the appearance of a slow-moving freight train, slow enough even for me to run comfortably beside it. The third good luck item was the open doors on all the wagons. We now had to do the real thing, no time for dress rehearsals. We did as planned and the first jump was easy, Tamara was on, holding on to the railing with her left hand and her right hand was extended toward me while I was running. I got hold of my daughter's hand and jumped, my feet left the ground and Tamara was lifting and pulling. Thank goodness she was strong and I wasn't heavy. Then I was suddenly on the floor of the wagon, panting but relieved to realize that the second part of our escape had begun.  

Tamara sat down, out of breath. We hugged, and we realized that neither of us had any clue where we were heading. That was important but more important was the fact that we were moving away from our house of captivity, which we could still see. As I looked out, I noticed a few lights being turned on. They must have noticed our departure by now and maybe they also noted their lack of funds. I still didn't feel guilty for stealing their loot, and I couldn't imagine that I ever would. The theft was just a small repayment for the inconvenience they caused us so far. I repeated a resolution, made some time ago and repeated often since. I will exact my revenge.

The sun was coming up behind us, the train was heading westward. Now I bemoaned my lack of knowledge of Russian geography which we all had to learn and memorize in high school, but as a show of resistance we forgot what we learned as soon as possible. I could make out the names of the stations we passed as the train was slow enough to allow me time to decipher the Cyrillic letters. None of the names was familiar. So far the train didn't stop anywhere. 

Tamara's arms stiffened suddenly and I saw she was looking at the far end of the carriage and there was a concerned look on her face. I turned and there were two hoboes looking at us. One of them was holding a revolver, aimed directly at my forehead. Both of them had long, uncombed Russian beards. Both of them were shabby, wearing what appeared to be military tunics and hats. The hand that held the gun shook a little which was a bit of a reassurance. It was light enough to see them, and we both looked at them, and we remained staring at each other for a couple of minutes, trying to make the others look away. They didn't stop so we also didn't stop and I saw them slowly standing up, holding the gun, still pointed at me and I thought that if we were thought of as dangerous, we would already have been dead. Or there were no bullets in the gun.  

We slowly rose and as they began to shuffle toward us, we began to move toward them. Tamara's left arm was raised slightly and I observed that she was getting ready to strike one of her karate chops while her right arm was lightly on my shoulder, no doubt to instruct me which way to jump if needed. No words had been spoken so far. When we were almost within touching distance we all stopped and still stared, no blinking. I knew that Tamara could dislodge the gun and break the arm that was holding it with one blow, but now I felt the pressure of her arm getting lighter on my shoulder and I saw what she must have been seeing. The hobo's finger wasn't on the trigger. Then suddenly the gun dropped, the hoboes started to laugh happily, advanced and hugged us and we weren't sure exactly what was going on. After the hug, a vodka bottle appeared from one of the pockets of a military greatcoat, the cork was pulled, the neck was wiped with a not very clean palm, the bottle was offered and we all took a swig, let hygiene be damned. The vodka felt good, the hoboes suddenly looked friendly, and they began to speak, both at the same time, both in Russian, interrupted by great mirth, laughter and large swigs of the vodka. My Russian wasn't anywhere good enough to understand them. Neither of us spoke, we just smiled at them and as they noticed our lack of words, they slowed down and began to be a little suspicious. It was time to tell them who we were, at least to tell some of the truth. I started. 

"No speak Russky, me Canada," I said and my words, pronounced in bad Russian, caused some silence. Then one of them said, slowly, and in poor but understandable English, "Canada, eh?" and both of them shook again with more laughter. "Mounted Police? Red Coats? Gretzky? Damn Henderson!" he continued and gave us the bottle. "Drink, drink," he said and we drank. Some food would also have been nice by now, in addition to the use of toilets which was beginning to become a major need.  

They must have been reading my mind. They sat, motioned us to sit, and out came a huge loaf of bread, sausage, cheese and a switchblade. One of them gave each of us a thick slice of bread, a hunk of cheese and sausage which Tamara immediately passed to me, so in exchange I gave her my piece of cheese. Breakfast was tasty and it was completed without words, accompanied by copious burps, swallows, and more vodka, not really our choice of breakfast. But we were well fed and the friendliness of the two companions was touching and highly appreciated. We both heard and read a lot of unmatched Russian hospitality but this was our first actual experience and it felt good. After the repast, the two simply lay down, flat on their backs, no more talk, and within a few seconds they both were sleeping peacefully and were snoring loudly. I wanted to ask if they knew where we were going but I had to wait for them to wake up. There wasn't much to do for us either, so we lay down, and attempted to sleep. I was convinced that I wouldn't be able to fall asleep, but when I opened my eyes, the sun was way up there. It was near noon and I felt refreshed and strangely enough, optimistic. Tamara and the others were still sleeping so I had time to contemplate the immediate future.  

A lot would depend on where we were heading. I hoped we could get as far west as Kiev. We might find some help there. Maybe we would find a few Hungarian or English speakers. Maybe we would find somebody who knew where real or false passports could be obtained. We had lots of roubles which I might or might not be able to exchange for dollars. At the last exchange rate, we might end up with a total of about $35000, a calculation in which I included the exorbitant service charges of a street-corner money changer. The sum would have to be sufficient for two passports, clothes, a few days in a hotel to rest and clean up and get to Budapest, probably on a train. I divided the money into smaller sums and stashed the portions in various pockets as insurance against a pickpocket. 

All three sleepers were still out, so there wasn't much to do but to admire the terrain. The sites were similar to what you would see while traveling through the Canadian prairies. There were fields as far as I could see, no hills, no mountains. There was the occasional forest. No villages or towns were visible. It was now well past noon, and in another lucky break for us, it was warm, dry and pleasant. One less thing to worry about.  

One of the hoboes was stirring, yawning, stretching and finally he sat up. He appeared to be a bit surprised when he saw me but then he remembered with a big smile on his face, and he said, "Hello". He beamed proudly for his knowledge of the English greeting. I said hello also, returned his smile and waited. He got up, stretched again and headed toward the rear of the carriage where, it now appeared, there was a toilet, with a door which didn't seem to close very well but provided a little privacy. He entered, reappeared in a few minutes and motioned to me, indicating that I must have similar needs and he was right. The toilet was an ingenious design. It was a short barrel, the bottom of which was removed as was the floor of the carriage so all produce left right away, no smells lingered. There were even pages of Pravda, a leading Russian newspaper, torn into small squares, to be used as we did a long time ago, having no money and having no toilet paper in the stores, either. I found relief and I returned to our living-room. It was time to communicate and to find answers to my many questions. 

I trusted that our companion would understand my practically non-existent Russian. I asked, "Train where?" and he smiled and showed his hand, making it clear that the answer cost. I guessed at the price of the info, handed over $5, and the smile got broader so I probably overpaid. Then I heard the lovely word, "Kiev," and he passed on a water bottle, a most welcome item. By this time Tamara was also awake. I asked another question, "When arrive?" and no more hand shot out. Five dollars bought a lot here. The answer arrived in a show of two fingers which I interpreted as two more days.  

In the daylight I saw that the two guys were quite young and in spite of their appearance and beards, looked quite good. Their hands didn't indicate hard usage. Their fingernails were clean and Tamara and I were curious but there was no way to get their stories. They were also observing us, also curious about the two Canadians. Suddenly one of them spoke, pointing at himself, "Sergey," and pointing at his companion, "Natasha," who, seeing our reaction, laughed and removed the large fake beard and her hat and shook her blond hair. It was our time to be introduced and I stood up to shake hands and told our names, John and Tamara. My daughter's Russian name caused more smiles and surprise. Sergey reached into the pocket of his coat and produced a set of cards and asked, "Gin-rummy? One rouble? OK?" and we started to play with the periodic swigs of the vodka, water, bread, cheese and sausage of which they seemed to have an unlimited supply. The time passed quite well. Each of us won, so the one rouble was changing owners as the winners changed.  

There wasn't much one could do in a cattle wagon, other than play cards. At night Tamara told me about Jake's good friend at the American Embassy in Kiev. She thought that he might be our best chance of getting out of there. But first, the train had to cross the Russian-Ukrainian border and now I saw our companions getting ready for a possible inspection. They indicated that we should do the same. They lay flat on the boards and they covered themselves with the straw. We copied them as I felt the train slowing and Natasha, whose English was marginally better, whispered, "Border, no move, under straw," and showed all 10 fingers. I hoped she meant a 10-minute stop. The train stopped and I heard orders yelled in Russian. I also heard the sound of the hammers hitting the wheels, checking for cracks in the old-fashioned but still the best way. Nobody moved. We had no idea if anybody looked in our carriage but now the train was slowly starting so even if they looked and saw us, they didn't care. Probably many locals used this mode of transportation which was slower but significantly less expensive than the regular train. 

Now we were in the Ukraine. I managed to recall some geography and I was estimating that by next morning we would reach Kiev. We decided to do what our new friends did. If they jumped off before reaching downtown Kiev, we would do the same. If they stayed to the end we would also. We had to decide what to do. Do we go to the us Embassy right away or to a hotel? We had money so a hotel was first, clean up, buy clothes, get normal and then go find Jake's friend, Burt. Neither of us knew if a hotel needed an ID first, but I trusted that a significant sum in an envelope would be an appropriate replacement.  

Natasha and partner climbed out from under the straw. We also emerged, shook off the dust and smiled at each other at successfully entering the country. Natasha appeared to be formulating a question and when it came, I admired her ability to analyze and understand our plight. She asked, "You passport?" and when we confirmed, she took out a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote a note, handed it over and lucky me, I could decipher the Cyrillic alphabet. She wrote an address, the name Vladimir Shukich and the number 200.  

She was looking at me to see if I grasped the gist so I said, in English, "You suggest that we go to see your friend Vladimir and for $200 he will get us passports?" and she was nodding her head fast, several times and was pleased to have been able to communicate. "Thank you," I said and took out two hundred dollar bills and tried to give them to her, but she laughed and showed me a huge bundle of money which appeared to be several times what we had. She didn't need a handout from us. So why did they charge for information?  

She reached to take the slip of paper from me, indicating her head. The address must be memorized, nothing should be written, especially about a fake-passport-provider.  

She said next, "Kiev, soon" and lay down to sleep. Her compatriot was already snoring. It was late now so we went to sleep too.

When we woke we appeared to be going through the industrial suburbs of a city which I trusted to be Kiev. There was no sign of our traveling companions, but a couple of pieces of cheese and a hunk of bread were left so we were not going to starve. The $5 I gave was also there, returned. We were on our own in a city, brand new to both us. Neither of us had ever been here. The train was moving slowly now so this was as good a time as any to get off and off we jumped.  

We looked like two bums after several days without shower, clean clothes, shaving, brushing teeth. We knew we smelled awful. We walked toward the tall buildings which were probably Kiev's downtown. It was seven in the morning. At the end of the street a grimy store front had the sign, "Internet coffee," not cafe, and it was open so in we went, woke up the proprietor who wanted to be paid in advance and in dollars, not roubles, not hryvnias. I paid and it wasn't difficult to locate City Maps Kiev and to find out where we were, where the hotels were and where the U.S. Embassy was located. Tamara also sent an e-mail to her husband, I to my wife, just brief messages to say we were OK, not to worry, a longer message would be sent very soon. On exit, we found that we were on Borshchahivska Street and a short walk would get us to the Domus Hotel on Yaroslavska Street. That was where we were heading and a $100 bill in an envelope, handed over discreetly prior to registration got us a room, no need to show ID, and without asking, a couple of toothbrushes, a razor, brush and soap were also provided.  

There was no time to rest. Shave, shower, shake the straw off our clothes and we began to look like real people. A ride to the us Embassy was next, where Jake's friend, Burt, was located quickly and was happy to see Tamara. They caught up on recent events. On Tamara's request about the need for passports, he said, regretfully, "I could help if you were US citizens." He offered to drive us to the Canadian Consulate and we accepted his offer gratefully. He said, "Let me first take you to a reasonable clothing store. Both of you look a little bohemian and a set of new, clean clothes would help immensely." 

The store where he took us was well stocked so we both underwent a significant transformation. Blue jeans and a well-cut, short sleeve shirt for Tamara, a pair of non-crease cotton pants and a sport shirt for me. Stylish running shoes and purses, male and female, completed the tourist look. We also bought socks and underwear and I didn't even react at seeing the outrageous price. Just paid, anxious to go on to the Consulate.  

The drive to the Consulate was short. Burt pulled up at the gate and the guard, somewhat more heavily armed than his counterpart in Budapest, recognized him. The gates were opened and we drove up to the main entrance. Burt led the way and he appeared to be well known. We got to the passport-office chief, Dr. Gustafsson, right away. Smiles, hand shakes, exchange of stories of the recent achievements of the kids followed. As well and most importantly, we all heard how Burt's current lady friend was doing. All this established a good atmosphere. Next, down to business.  

The official, Gustaffson, said with a smile, "Please call me Walter," turned and typed, "Lederer," into his computer. I was assuming that every embassy's computers were on the same network and I wondered if my recent visit to the Department of Foreign Affairs would come up on Walter's computer. The screen was turned toward him so I couldn't check but in a few seconds I saw his friendly expression change to a decidedly angry one.  

Then he said to me, quietly, but there was an edge to his voice, "Professor Lederer, just get the hell out of here. You were strongly advised to stop your international adventures and you were told not to bother us with any further requests for help. I notice that you hold Hungarian citizenship as well, so my suggestion is, go to them, harass them, get a passport from them."  

While the blast wasn't entirely a surprise, it still came as a bit of a shock. My country was turning its back on me. I wanted to fight back but before I caught my next breath, Gustaffson was addressing Tamara. His attitude was significantly improved. 

"Ms. Lederer, your replacement passport will be issued within the hour. Please go next door where they will take your photo, then come back here. Your father may stay and wait for you in the cafeteria." He gave Tamara a hand-written note and with it she went to get her photo. Gustaffson wasn't looking at me. He picked up his newspaper, turned his back and continued reading the financial pages. I was staying in the seat, not totally comfortable but what the heck, I was a Canadian citizen too, even if I was the original, "persona-non-grata," at least as far as Gustaffson was concerned. 

Sure enough, while he ignored me I waited and ignored him right back, and when Tamara returned, Walter - to her only, not to me, to me he remained Dr. Gustaffson - smiled at her. He gave her a chit for whatever she wanted to eat, looked over my head, shook hands with her but not with me. We were off to the cafeteria. The place was well supplied and since we ate little so far, we were both starving. Juice, cereal, coffee, toast and eggs were available, not buffet style but served at a table covered with a white tablecloth. We both ate well, half-relaxed as Tamara's future was now safe again. Mine wasn't but I didn't lose hope just yet. In about 30 minutes Gustaffson appeared with Tamara's brand new passport, wished her a safe trip home and again, I was ignored. My list of people who would apologize and eat shit was growing steadily. 

Next we were to visit Vladimir. He lived some distance from the Canadian Consulate and since we still had lots of money, we flagged down a taxi. We were ready to accept the scenic, touristy ride that was inevitable and the attendant large fare. The taxi had no meter so the expectation was to negotiate on entry. I showed the cabbie the address and, just as a well-trained tourist driver, he sighed, screwed up his face and said, "Far, far." I showed a fifty-dollar bill to him, waved it in front of his face. He grabbed it and the speed with which he made it disappear indicated vast overpayment. His attitude changed, he suddenly looked friendlier, motioned us to come on board and in spite of his protestations and the large distances he indicated, we arrived at Vladimir's address in less than ten minutes.  

The house in which the fake-passport-provider lived wasn't very impressive. The outside hadn't been painted in several decades. The roof looked like it was ready to cave in. Most of the windows were boarded up. The garden in front was wild, untended and so badly overgrown that the journey to the entrance was hazardous. There was poison ivy everywhere. Whoever lived here was poor or just wanted to create an impression of poverty. As Tamara and I walked up to the main entrance, actually an unpainted, cracked door with a spyhole, a dog, still unseen, began to bark viciously and from the sound of it, the dog was inside the house. So far we didn't need to worry about getting bitten. 

I knocked on the door and there was no response other than the continued barking. I knocked again, and thinking of the possibility of a fellow hard-of-hearing occupant, I banged on the door, loudly and persistently. Several minutes of banging produced no change in the barks and growls. Nothing else happened so we were ready to give up, not knowing where we would find another passport-maker and started to walk away from the door when Tamara heard a murmur from the inside, "What fuck you want?" and when we turned around the door was opened a fraction, just enough to let us see the face of a middle-aged man.  

I said, "We are looking for Vladimir," and again there was no response. The dog continued the noise and the face appeared immobile.  

Then the murmur, which I didn't hear of course, but Tamara did, "Why want Vladimir?"  

It was time to take a risk so I said, "I need a Canadian Passport," and again there was silence.  

Then another murmur, "Who you?" so I introduced myself and my daughter.  

"No passport," was the next message so it was time for a little grease and I managed to fit an envelope containing a $100 bill through the crack. It was grabbed from my hand and the door banged shut in our faces. Bewilderment and some hopelessness followed. 

We decided to wait a few minutes before giving up on Vladimir. In about five more minutes, the door opened, and we entered, finding almost total darkness and nobody in sight. Suddenly the barking stopped and a man appeared in a wheelchair and hissed at us, "No fucking passport today," and the statement implied either that yes the fucking passport was available some other day or more grease was needed so I passed on the next envelope, supplied as before with the bill inside. Suddenly the lights turned on and we were blinded for a few seconds but when our eyes adjusted, we were amazed at the sights. The entrance was spacious, super-modern Italian furniture, pale taupe walls, a beautiful wool runner on the floor, subdued lightning and paintings on the walls. The man who previously was sitting in a wheelchair was now standing up and he was a most patrician looking, elegant but casually dressed middle aged specimen. He was holding out his right hand to shake, and he looked amused at our reaction and the laugh lines in the corner of his eyes crinkled a bit. The transformation from the outside slum to the inside glitter was absolutely unexpected, drastic and dramatic.  

He asked now in fluent English, "You said you wanted a Canadian passport. Why do you think I can supply one? How did you get my name and address?" He wasn't aggressive in his questions. There was an unmistakable air of authority about him though, not exactly threatening but the message was clear. He wasn't a person to be messed with and he appreciated direct and truthful replies.  

At this point there was no reason not to reply directly so I said, while we shook hands, "Vladimir, my name is Lederer. This is my daughter, Tamara. We shared a train ride to Kiev from Yekaterinburg with a lady whose name was Natasha. She understood that we wanted to go to Hungary and we needed new passports. She gave us your name and address. I trust that she was right and that you can help us. By now I am the only one who needs help." 

Vladimir smiled at the mention of Natasha, and the smile implied that their relationship may have been quite intense and personal some time ago. Or, maybe it was continuing as we talked. But he was discreet, didn't kiss and tell. 

"Yes, the lady was correct, you came to the right place. Did she tell you how much my services cost?" 

"Yes, she did," I responded and Vladimir motioned us to enter further into his castle, which was indeed most impressive in its opulence. The fake passport business must have been booming. We entered his studio where the place was set up to take the officially requested pictures, no smile, straight front, a thin strip for signatures. The photo was taken and Vladimir ushered us into his living room, a place that was straight out of Hollywood movies. Light, low, soft leather couches and armchairs, hardwood flooring covered with elegant rugs, wet-bar, cappuccino machine, picture window toward the back where a swimming pool was visible, surrounded by 20-feet tall concrete walls and a set of tall trees outside the walls. The set-up was completely hidden from the streets. 

Vladimir asked, "Can you use a Gaggia?" and I confirmed as it was almost identical to the cappuccino machine in my home. He pointed toward the refrigerator, and said, "Your passport will be ready in about 40 minutes. Please make yourselves at home. Eat, drink as you wish. Make coffee, listen to music. I will be back soon." 

We welcomed the invitation to relax. We appreciated the pleasant surroundings, realizing that once I had the passport and we exited Vladimir's dream palace, we would face unknown enemies again. I made two strong cappuccinos and I found fresh croissants in the breadbasket so we had another breakfast. We found a number of CDs, and among them the Moonlight Sonata appeared to fit the present, possibly temporary peace. We waited for Vladimir.  

He meant the forty minutes and when he returned with an excellent looking passport, we paid his fee and examined the result further. To my eye, it looked perfect. Vladimir warned, though. "Pay attention. This passport is as close to the actual one as humanly possible. There are several important points for you to remember. When you cross the Ukrainian-Hungarian border, place two $100 bills, folded between the last pages. Don't use this beyond Hungary as the computer checks would surely show it to be a fake. Also, I recommend strongly that you take a train to Hungary, crossing at Zahony, the border city. Smile and look confident as you hand over your passport. Tamara should show her real one only after you have shown yours with the funds. And finally, take a train that crosses the border late at night when the guards are less alert." With these warnings, he took his fee, we shook hands and he clearly wished us to leave as soon as possible.  

On the streets again. We had to get the hell out of there, ASAP. All we knew at this point was that there was a Ukrainian-Hungarian border and on the Hungarian side the danger was significantly lower. There at least I could speak and behave like a native. As long as the Colonel or her friends didn't find us we would be OK.  

Tamara was anxious to call Jake and to go home and I was ready to get to my apartment and to relax a little and plan the next move. As we walked toward the main train station, we passed a store selling used cell-phones, called mobiles in Europe, so the easiest way to call Jake just presented itself. In the past the Communists used to monitor all telephone calls to the West. It was very unlikely for that to be happen now but both of us were quite paranoid at this stage. We didn't really know how the post-Communist regimes worked, what was new and what was old. Tamara bought a used Blackberry and called, forgetting that it was still very early where Jake lived. Jake picked up fast, and much-relieved, was very pleased to hear his wife's voice and that she was safe and would soon be on her way home. Tamara then handed me the phone to call my wife who also answered before the first ring was complete and told me that enough was enough, return home, abandon the chase and just forget the whole thing.  

It was the wrong time for a discussion of the future. I asked my wife to be patient a little longer. I promised to make contact again when I reached Budapest where I would have an easier time to consider what to do next.  

A sudden thought entered my brain and I asked her, "Why don't you join me in Budapest? I'll be there soon, I will call again." The response was surprising and reassuring. She agreed and I was looking forward to meeting my lady after this last adventure.  

There were several west-bound trains but the next train to Budapest, the "Tisza" left in the early afternoon and we missed it by a few minutes. We were to be tourists in Kiev for one more day. Under normal circumstances, this would have been great but now, being escapees from kidnappers, thieves of substantial sums, possessors of a fake passport and possibly being chased, made us uncomfortable and the best was to go back to our hotel and stay indoors. Trust our luck that if anyone looked for us in hotels we wouldn't be found. There wasn't much else we could do. We were at the mercy of the clerk at the front desk and maybe a little more funding was needed to secure her goodwill. On our return I passed the young lady another envelope with the now traditional $100 bill, and told her, "Please note that we are not here to anybody." She agreed with a pleasant smile but who knew what would happen when the next bidder's funds would exceed ours. Up we went, to the double room on the first floor for a rest. 

The phone rang and it woke us. It was four in the afternoon. It was the young lady from the desk calling. She was breathless. 

"I just received a phone call from my manager. She needed to respond to a request from Yekaterinburg, asking about any new tourists checking into the hotel in the last few days. I had no choice but to tell about you," and she hung up fast.  

So we were being chased. It was time to move. Passports and toothbrushes came but we left everything else behind. We made it look like we were still using the room. We climbed through the window to the roof of the next building from which it wasn't a big jump to the street below and lucky for us, we were at the back of the hotel. I peeked around the corner, foolish maybe, and saw a large Audi parked in front, with Russian license plates so maybe we were leaving just in time. We didn't run, even though that's what we wanted. We just walked normally, didn't attract attention. We walked toward the famous Kiev Zoo, on Peremogi square, not far from where we were. It was a warm day and we planned to spend the night in the park beside the Zoo, hopefully without attracting police or guards. On the way we stopped to buy a powerful flashlight, bread and cheese and a few bottles of spring water. 

The Zoo was actually beautiful and the natural setting for the animals indicated careful attention to their needs. Also, there were large open spaces so it was possible to watch for potential followers and searchers. The major worry now was the very high possibility that the train stations would also be watched and because one of my last encounters with the Colonel occurred in Budapest, the Kiev-Budapest line might also be monitored very closely.  

There was an internet cafe just outside the entrance to the Zoo and our luck was good. It was possible to reserve train tickets on-line which we did, promising to pay cash for them when we picked them up. We had no credit cards. 

It was getting a bit darker so it was time to find a place for the night. There was a bench at the far end of the zoo, away from the entrance and among large, leafy trees, mostly hidden. We sat there, hoping not to be found by security guards and as the night was getting dark, nobody bothered us. It was warm and it was possible to sleep and we did, worried and tense but we still managed a few hours. We needed the rest badly, mostly because of the nervous tension of the last few days. 

A glorious, warm, sunny day was starting as we woke. Visits to the toilets, a basic clean up, stretching and a fast breakfast on what we managed to buy the evening before were the first items on our agenda. It was then time to walk toward the trains and as we walked, we discussed various strategies, dealing with several possible events we might encounter at the station.  

The least likely scenario was that we would be lucky again, that the kidnappers had given up on us and there would be nobody expecting the fugitives at the station. The worst possibility was if they were waiting for us at the entrance, and actively tried to re-kidnap us. 

Tamara suggested what could well save us. Let's call Burt, maybe he can help. She called, explained the situation and Burt said, "I'll be at the Zoo's entrance in 15 minutes. I will stop just long enough for you to jump in my car. Also, I'll arrange for a few bodyguards to follow in a minivan and they'll take care of you while you buy the tickets and while you get on the train. On the train, though, you will be on your own."  

Excellent, I thought, and I would send a letter, praising the young man to his superior, just as soon as we were safe. His offer got us a few extra minutes. How to deal with the possible presence of enemies on the train remained to be dealt with.  

Burt drove up to the curb in a few minutes and I thanked him profusely for his help. He had an impish smile on his face as he pointed out the van driving just behind us and appeared to enjoy his next question. 

"Can you guess who's in the van?" 

Neither of us was finding this escape much fun. When we looked back, we saw several young people in the van but how could we possibly guess who they were?  

"I give up," I said and Burt chuckled. 

"Four members of the American Embassy's champion karate team who will protect you. We have several hours before we'll bundle you on the train so your next assignment is to take us all for lunch, you pay. Be warned that karate fighters eat a lot."  

Tamara sat in the front passenger seat, I in the back. A Ukrainian newspaper was there and on the front page I noticed a photo of a derelict house. The picture reminded me of Vladimir's place. I couldn't read the title of the article so I asked Burt. 

"Have you read the paper this morning? What was the front page story about?"  

He said, a bit more flippantly than the topic called for, "Just another simple murder of a harmless crook. Apparently he was the master of fake passports and he made a very good living out of it. Hurt nobody, contributed to all political parties, still somebody disapproved. There were signs of some torture but there are no leads, no suspects, no motive. In most instances these crimes remain unsolved". 

It was the wrong time to inform him of our possible connection to the victim. I wasn't certain if the blurred photo was of Vladimir's house but the coincidence of the fake-passport-king, our visit and the people who chased us was chilling. Stiff upper lip was called for. At least for some time, until we boarded the train, we were safe. On the train the story might well change. 

The cost of the lunch was going to be a small price to pay for our safety. I hoped that the skill of the karate people wouldn't be tested but it felt good to have them near. Let them eat what and as much as they wished.  

Burt drove us to a place on Khreshchatyk, renowned for Italian food and frequented by non-natives as only hard currency was accepted. He was known there and he was allowed to park in the place reserved for the owner. A table had been reserved, indicating good judgment on the young man's part. He knew I wouldn't refuse the chance to feed our karate-champion protectors.  

It was actually an interesting event to watch 200-pound athletes eat and it distracted us from the imminent danger. The seriousness as they studied the menu, in English, of course, the discussion of the amount of protein, carbohydrate, sodium and fat of each potential dish, the total calorie content and how their training schedule might be affected was entertaining and their enjoyment was almost catching. Their talk was quite educational and they made me recall my days as a water polo player. We ordered the food and the drinks which included two bottles of red wine and four bottles of spring water. Neither Tamara nor I could forget that our day was going to be long and more danger would come our way for sure. Our appetite was affected. I asked for minestrone soup, she wanted vegetable primavera. We also asked for herbal tea, hoping to get calmed down. 

One of the major attractions of the restaurant was that everything was made fresh and the waiter warned us not to be impatient. Evidently, he had some experience with western customers. We drank and talked and waited but couldn't get rid of the tension. We appeared to be facing killers. I was told that I was to kill the cabbie but they knew I refused and they knew that I meant it. They could easily arrange a contract killing without me. Now I could accuse them of conspiracy to kill, however, but they also knew that this would only be my word against theirs, and they knew further that I wasn't liked by the officials either in Hungary or in Canada and that my clout was non-existent. So why the chase, why the murder? Did Burt have any idea about this? I didn't want to ask. He appeared not to have connected the killing in the paper to us and it was unnecessary to tell him.  

The food arrived, carried by several waiters so all seven of us could start at the same time, a civilized touch and the tip was increasing. The first bite indicated why the restaurant was full and why reservations were absolutely necessary. I was certain that the chef was authentically Italian, trained in one of the 3-star Rome or Milan eateries. The amusement of watching the young people eat eased the tension momentarily once more, as it was evident how seriously they took the process. Tamara and I could only pick at the culinary excellence. Burt ate his ravioli with enjoyment. 

None of us could resist the homemade tiramisu, and as expected, it was outstanding, clearly the king of all tiramisus. Then came the espressos but only five cups, as my daughter and I couldn't face the caffeine. The next surprise was Burt's question, which he asked casually. 

"Tell me. Did you visit a place yesterday to get a fake passport?"  

I didn't intend to lie. Maybe he saw the danger and would allow one of his people to accompany us on the train. "Yes, I did get one. I am afraid that the killing in the morning paper was somehow connected to our visit. Was this what you thought?" and he confirmed, adding that the story shouldn't be mentioned to anybody.  

"I regret that I can't provide protection for you on the train. What I suggest though is that you get a sleeper, keep the door locked and when the tickets are checked, ask the officer for an ID. I have something that could be helpful, just don't make it visible. I am giving you four cans of Mace and four cans of pepper spray. Have you used any of those before?" 

In my time of spying these were not available. I knew about them, of course, but only from manuals. Burt said to have several well-soaked towels handy so if someone must be sprayed in the small space of the cabin, at least we would be OK until the fresh air cleared up the mess. The cans were in the trunk of Burt's car in a small suitcase and he was going to pass them on just before we boarded. 

The lunch was over and the bill was surprisingly low for the amount and quality of the food and drinks we packed away. I tipped the waiter generously. It was about an hour before the train was to leave so it was time to get to the station. Burt drove again and this time we parked several blocks away. The bodyguards passed us when we got out of our car. They parked elsewhere. We ended up walking so that two of them were ahead of us and two followed. We didn't obviously belong together.  

"The coast is clear so far," was the message from one of them. "No evident watchers or followers." On we went. In the station, Burt gave me the suitcase holding the Mace and the pepper spray. I gave him the money and he went to buy the sleeper tickets. He was negotiating at the wicket for some time. He explained. "I wanted your sleeper to be at one end of the carriage, so you couldn't be enveloped on both sides. This took a little convincing and some grease also but you have one of the least vulnerable cabins." Then he drew me aside and gave me a cell phone. He said, quietly, for my ears only, "Only I have the number for this phone, so if it rings, you know it's me. Now I have some business to do. I'll be back in a few minutes. Your guards will take you to your place on the train. I'll see you there, just wait. Don't go away," and off he went, not waiting for my questions. Off we went, while one of the guards stayed on the platform, looking around. The other three walked with us, helped us on, found the right cabin, loaded us in and we waited for Burt. Two of the guards stayed with us while one remained standing in the corridor. We were grateful and I told them.  

Burt returned in a few minutes and motioned me to the far side of the corridor. "I discussed the future with the ticket collector. Some foreign currency also changed hands and he was told that he would get a matching amount when the passengers of cabin 8 leave the train in Budapest alive and healthy. He also promised not to check your tickets, not to knock on your door, unless it was a real emergency. If you see a ticket officer at your door, you can safely assume that you are being attacked. Don't hesitate for a second, just use your Mace instantly and copiously." I couldn't speak but nodded and then he handed me a baseball bat, a couple of handcuffs and some soft wire. 

"Immediately after the Mace use your bat and don't be gentle. You may be dealing with cold blooded killers. Don't worry about killing them, you need a lot of expertise to kill with a baseball bat. If your hit is well aimed, you will only knock him out for a few minutes. You will most likely face him so hit directly at his nose and forehead. But fast. When your enemy is stunned, turn him around, tie his wrists behind him and tie his ankles with this wire. Pull him into your cabin and handcuff him to the seat. Don't even try to sleep tonight and don't remove your clothes in case you suddenly need to jump off the train. If all goes well, give the ticket collector the other half of his fee, $1000." 

I was very grateful to the young man. He was helping us way beyond the call of duty. I hoped that I would be able to hit with enough force to stun but not kill the bad guy. Burt and I shook hands, he and Tamara hugged. Then he said, suddenly, "I almost forgot. We will wait on the platform while the train is pulling out. I'll call if there are any last minute boarders. So far we noticed none but I suspect the people we deal with are skilled and we may have missed them. Also, one more thing. If they attack, it will be before you reach the border, for sure. You have nothing to fear beyond Zahony, on the Hungarian side. If there is a tied-up person in your cabin at that time, throw him out just before the border." With these he handed us another small bag, containing some water and sandwiches. He then left, and now we were truly on our own. I locked the door and we sat, facing each other. Tamara was pale. I also didn't look so good. Waiting for the attack wasn't the best for our nerves. There was nothing to do but wait. Reading, crossword puzzles, board games all require concentration that was impossible right now. I held one Mace can in one hand, and another can was on the seat beside me. Tamara held the wire and two more cans were within her reach, as was the bat. 

The train started slowly. The phone rang. Burt told me that they saw no latecomers, no extra passengers. We said farewell again and he wished us good luck. We were to call him when we arrived safely. If no call came within the next two days he promised to call the Canadian Consulate.  

"We should discuss a strategy. Maybe we should even train a little," said Tamara and she was right. An attack, if it comes, will come in the middle of the night, when we were unlikely to be ready. We had some time. It was going to start getting dark in about three hours.  

"We must get undressed, make the beds and get into them. If our visitor sees that we are dressed and the beds are not made, he will immediately become suspicious. We must appear dazed as he knocks and asks to see our tickets. Of course, we have to hold the spray, the wire and the bat very near and we can't possibly go to sleep." 

She was right again, of course. She also suggested putting our clothes in a bag and to remember to bring them should a fast exit in our underwear be warranted. Since the ticket collector wasn't coming we must figure out where the beds were hidden and after a little search we found them, hidden in the walls. They could be folded down easily and they were already made up with clean, bright sheets. They were on the same wall, one over the other. Tamara had another topic to discuss.  

"Regular ticket collectors have keys to all sleeper cabins and often they don't knock, they just barge in. I see two possibilities here. The bad guys may attack the ticket collector, take his keys and uniform, and barge in while we are expected to be sleeping. Or, they leave the ticket collector alone, just knock, and trust that we don't know better, forget to ask who is knocking and open the door. In either case, all will depend on our speed and aim with the spray and the bat." 

The next activity was to train a little, to make sure that our moves were in place and were fast enough. Tamara would play the intruder. She would enter suddenly and my role was to be ready to spray and swing. I climbed up on the bed.  

Even though I was wide awake and expecting her entry, I was too slow to react when the door opened suddenly. If that was the real attack, and the intruder had pepper spray, we would be out by now. One more try and I learned not to be lying on the bed and also not be on the top bunk, but to remain seated, facing the opening of the door so I could spray instantly as it was opening. Next it was my turn. I entered, fell as if I had just been sprayed and knocked out. Tamara was fast with the wire and with tying the hands and feet. She needed no second attempt. We undressed, packed our clothes, waited and talked. There was no need for any extra effort to stay awake. Sleeping simply wouldn't be possible. We agreed to not check the time. Everything was quiet, the ride was smooth and we just waited.

It was the middle of the night. Suddenly there was a commotion outside, shouting, fighting, running and the train was braking to a stop. There was an announcement, the speaker was excited but the language was Ukrainian, not very helpful to us. We were concerned and ready to pounce on whoever wanted to invade our sanctuary, though maybe this was just a side-show, an interlude, an attempt to flush us out.  

We stayed put and waited. Lucky for us, nobody came to our cabin, nobody knocked on our door. I looked out the window. It was late at night by now but quite clear so I could see that we were in the middle of nowhere. There were a couple of cars and I took them to be unmarked police cars. Their headlights were on. I saw two men, both with their arms up, surrounded by black-clothed people who I assumed to be commandoes. One of the culprits was in his underwear. His face showed signs of a fight. There was some blood under his nose. He looked frightened. The two men and the police were talking but of course, I didn't know what about. There were a few more people there as well and I was guessing that they were officials from the train. They got back on the train and we were relieved when we started again, slowly, but we were definitely moving with increasing speed. So far we had no clue what this was about. I wanted to find out.  

I opened the door slowly while holding the can of Mace and the baseball bat. There was nobody in the corridor but at the end I saw the cubicle of the ticket collector, the one who got a bit richer so he wouldn't disturb us. He noticed me, got up and he was approaching me with a big smile.  

"I comes tell what. You no understand announcement. Two me attack, take cloth, tie hand, foot, cover mouth. Take key. Friend free, pull emergency, two got and arrest. Clothes back." And he continued smiling and he looked pleased with his effort in English and I had to admit that he deserved to be pleased. He was rewarded appropriately. He continued,"No lock door more, no trouble more." 

He might be right or not. Neither he nor we knew how many people were on the train wanting to harm us. We locked the door anyway and continued the vigil, spray, baseball bat, wires in hand, lights off. We were relieved but only a little. The reassuring fact was that now the train people were also on the watch. The bribed ticket-person was asked not to blab. He promised. We hoped that he would keep his word.  

Somebody was knocking on our door and the sudden noise was startling. It was black outside, no more stars. No clue about the time but we must still have been in Ukraine. We didn't pass the border where the train would have to stop for the compulsory customs and passport inspections. So here came the chance to practise what we trained for a few hours ago. Let the knocking continue, let them think we were waking up from deep sleep. I peeked through the spyhole and saw our ticket person, smiling and holding a tray with a few glasses and a bottle of Gorbachov vodka. A decision and a choice had to be made. Believe that the knocker was the legitimate ticket guy, open the door and take a shot of vodka. Or, believe that the ticket officer who explained the previous commotion was in fact the one who loved us not, and that the events were staged to make us less alert.  

Maybe we were being paranoid, but who could blame us? We thought fast and on balance, it seemed safe to open the door. If the visitor was bad, wouldn't he open the door suddenly with his key? If he had a key, that is. I stood behind the door with the bat raised while Tamara opened the door slowly and the ticket person was the real thing, the vodka was real and he was just visiting us because he was happy that all the bad people were apprehended and removed. I didn't wish to dispute his use of the word "all," and took the vodka, like a Russian. Throw it in, and even before we swallowed, the second shot was filled and in it went also. The speed of drinking needed to be slowed, two shots of the 40 proof were more than enough. I thanked our new friend and indicated that we wanted to go back to sleep. We shook hands, kissed on both cheeks, hugged, slapped each other on the back, and we resumed our vigil. We were still tense. We wanted to be through the border.  

Nothing untoward disturbed us for the rest of the trip until happily we reached the town of Zahony on the border. Only the fake passport was a worry and I had the $200 prepared, folded neatly between the last two pages, as suggested by Burt. As he said, I was to show my passport first, followed by Tamara and there was nothing to do but hope and trust in the artistry of the now deceased Ukrainian passport-king. We now lay on our beds, waiting for the knock and still we jumped when it came. Tamara opened the door smiling. The young Hungarian border guard first apologized for having to wake us but, he explained, he needed to comply with the regulations and would we please show our passports. As agreed, I was first and while my heart was pounding I showed the fake with my right hand which I commanded not to shake and passed him the contraband. There was the same, practically unbelievable sight we had seen already in Kiev, as the guard whipped the money into his pocket so fast that I wasn't even certain if the deed had indeed been done. One more smile, my passport was returned, thanks and a hand shake. Tamara's passport got a fraction of a second glance and was also returned with thanks. The young man left, and we closed and locked the door.  

A large part of the battle was over. The next one, and a total unknown now, was whether the guard would report us, alert somebody and whether we would get into trouble as we left the train. We decided to get off the train as soon as possible, at Kelenfold, a suburb of Budapest. We would get there by about 10 in the morning.  

Tamara was now making a reservation using her Ukrainian Blackberry to get on the next plane home. The nearest departure was at noon so she would go to the airport directly from Kelenfold. I would continue to my apartment to plan the next move after a major clean-up and rest. I paid the promised funds to the helpful ticket collector. 

The plans worked as we hoped. The stop at Kelenfold was brief so we got off the train fast which started again just about as I removed my foot from the last step. The unused cans of Mace, pepper spray and the baseball bat stayed in our cabin. I looked back at the train, now moving away slowly and I saw somebody leaning out of a window of the last carriage, waving at us. As it got closer, I saw the face of an elderly man, good looking, elegant, wearing a suit, crisp shirt and a tie, waving and smiling at us, but there was a sharp, chilling edge to his smile. The message I inferred was also chilling. It implied that we weren't finished just yet. I recalled, with some trepidation, the elderly man, threatening James in his taxi with his gun and assumed that this was the same guy. I trusted I could recall his face if needed and tried to remember it, so I ordered my legendary photographic memory not to forget. There was a small, dark mole over his right eye and remembering that was easy. Who he was, what he had to do with us and why were still to be discovered, but his presence on the train wasn't reassuring. Of course, he wanted me to see him. Tamara didn't see the face and I wasn't telling. I wanted her out of harm's way as soon as possible. I gave her half of the money still left and she departed in a taxi, straight to the airport. Just as her cab was ready to pull out, she stopped it, leaned out the window and said, "Dad, I just remembered. You were drugged while you were taken to Yekaterinburg and the effects lasted several days. You must visit a physician and have a few tests to see what it was they put in you, if any of it is still there and if so, you must find out if there is anything you need to do about it."  

I was glad she was looking after me. We both knew that there were strange chemicals in existence that do weird things when they enter your body. The effects might be long delayed. My head hadn't been pain free since I woke up in Yekaterinburg. I promised to go to a doctor as the first item of business and I intended to keep my word. She promised to call when she was boarding. Her taxi left with nobody following it.  

CHAPTER 12

I called for a taxi from a payphone and the cab, as usual, got there in less than five minutes. On to my flat and nirvana but I had to remember in spite of my exhaustion, to check if there was a follower and I could see none. I made a mental note also to see if there was a welcoming committee at my destination, as they must know by now where I lived, whoever "they" were. We arrived and I asked the cabbie to drive slowly around the building and still I saw no follower. Neither was there a watcher. I tried to peek into the cafe across the building's entrance but saw nobody. Maybe the coast was clear. Maybe my ability to identify the enemy was affected by the sleepless nights behind me. Maybe I was going to relax or at least, try. Paid the cabbie, got into the building, took the elevator, got into my apartment, entered my sanctuary and looked longingly at the bed when suddenly the telephone was ringing. Good news. Tamara was about to take off on a British Airways flight to Heathrow. In London she was to connect to the transatlantic portion after about an hour. She asked and was told, once you were on a BA plane, you were in Britain, in safe Britain. My daughter was safe. I called Burt to tell him that both of us were safe and to thank him again.  

I showered, shaving had to wait, put on my pyjamas, jumped into bed and a sleep, like a fainting spell, followed. There was no time for dreams. Tomorrow I was going to contact a physician. 

The next miracle was the quality of sleep I managed, starting at about one in the afternoon. I was probably asleep as soon as I hit the mattress. I woke up past midnight, not having moved even once during the almost 12-hour sleep. Not one visit to the toilet. The amount of liquid leaving my body when I woke was astonishing and one day, when circumstances improve, I will have the time to think about how and where it was stored over the twelve hours of unconsciousness.  

I felt relaxed and rested. I decided not to check for e-mail or phone messages until the morning, six-seven hours away. The next miracle was that I managed to fall asleep again and woke when it was getting light outside. Another shower and finally also a shave and I determined not to feel guilty for running and wasting the hot water over my body for a long time. It was good to be clean. I decided to extend checking for news until after breakfast which I had to eat elsewhere as the fridge was totally empty.  

While I walked to my cafe, the same where I got slugged a little while ago, I checked for watchers and followers and the street was clear. Unless they were lurking in the shadows unseen, I might be allowed to eat and drink in peace. Cappuccino and two croissants felt glorious inside me and I recovered the strength to continue. I regretted that Mary wasn't on duty that morning.  

I returned home and checked messages. I waited for my wife to arrive, to be a tourist with her for just a couple of days. After, I planned to re-start my revenge. But first, go to a doctor, a specialist in poisons, a first for me in Budapest. My wife was to arrive shortly after noon and I trusted that the examination could be finished well in time.  

I called Tibor, assuming that his circle of friends included lots of professionals and that he might be able to direct me to somebody and maybe even request an appointment immediately from a friend, for a friend. He answered fast and I started with the apology that I was in a hurry. 

"Tibor, you recall our earlier discussion and how you introduced me to a lady whose help was invaluable. I continued investigating the reasons for what happened to me and it looks like I might have stepped on a few toes. I think I may have been poisoned as a result and I was knocked out for several days. What I need to find out is what drug they used and if there is any of it left in my bloodstream. Also, I want to know, are there likely to be after-effects. I must go to a specialist who has the equipment to run the necessary tests this morning. Can you help?" 

Tibor said that unfortunately he couldn't help directly but promised to call his family doctor who was also a family friend. He called back in a few minutes to tell me that through his doctor he found someone who could help. There were problems, though.  

"The lady I found for you worked as the primary caregiver to one of the highest officials of the Communist Party, no name given. Her specialty is exactly what you need. The guy she worked for was absolutely paranoid about being poisoned and he had several food tasters in addition to this lady. The tasters were to sample everything several hours before the big man ate. His blood was tested after each meal. The lady who did this is over 80 now but very much alive, healthy and active. She is a physician and a biochemist. The problem is that during the last decade she developed a persecution mania and she suspects everyone who calls or visits her of attempting to kill her. My doctor doesn't know her personally but has her telephone number. He said that other than her mania, she is fully competent, up-to-date and familiar with all of the new stuff. If she is willing to see you, you will get the most professional treatment. Also, he said, if you ask others about her, you might be told otherwise, as many medical people think that she is a complete charlatan. Her name is Kondrachik." 

I thanked Tibor and told him that I had no choice. I needed help and would call the lady right away. He wished me good luck and made me promise that if I needed further help, I would call again.

I called the number Tibor gave me and after about a dozen rings the phone was picked up and a raspy, deep voice yelled, angrily and in a most unfriendly manner. 

"What do you want?" 

Not a good beginning. I decided to try the soft, kind underdog approach and treat the lady politely. I introduced myself. 

"Dr. Kondrachik, my name is Lederer and I need your help. I may have been poisoned and I need you to tell me if this is so, and if it is, by what. I need to know if there is any of the poison left in my system. If there is, I need to get the antidote. I know that you are the best, that only you can help and I trust you and trust nobody else."  

The result was complete silence. I heard her heavy breathing. Then she began to speak, calm though still suspicious.  

"Tell me what you want of me." 

I just did tell her, but I repeated it and again and there was silence, even longer than before. What followed were her address and the cost of her examination and potential therapy. She said to bring $2000 cash with me. Steep but there was no choice. I called a taxi and I was on my way. Lucky to have had the cash on hand. I arrived at the address which was in Rozsadomb, an upscale district on the Buda side of the city. The ride took 20 minutes.  

The biochemist's house was huge, a mansion, in fact, at least from the outside. Three stories, huge old trees in front and back, such that the house was practically in the middle of a forest. The walk from the curb to the main entrance was about 200 meters long, on gravel, well kept. The trees that created a lot of shade and the almost complete silence made the place look a bit haunted. I knocked on the door and expected no response for some time and there was none. I waited for a couple of minutes and repeated the knocks. I banged steadily for a minute and I said, loudly, "Dr. Kondrachik, I am Dr. Lederer."  

Her one-word reply was, "Enter." The door opened. 

I said, using a pleasant, friendly voice, "Good morning, Dr. Kondrachik. I am grateful that you agreed to help me."  

She yelled at me suddenly, "Prove to me that you are not a Communist." 

I wasn't quite certain how to do that and whether she was serious or just having fun at my expense. I decided to play the game and said, in the same friendly tone, "Dr. Kondrachik, I left Communism and this country when I was 19. I asked for and was granted refugee status in Canada. I trust that this proves my total disapproval of Communism and Marxism."  

"You answered correctly," said the lady, suddenly in a gentle, quiet voice. She smiled at me and said, "Forgive the whims of an old woman. I have been inconvenienced many times by both supporters of the former old Communists as well as their enemies. I have been accused of poisoning several of them many times. I received countless death threats. There were attempts to run me over on the streets and to push me under the metro. I must be careful. Would you like a cup of coffee?" I was surprised by the transformation and the offer of coffee and I accepted it gratefully.  

"Please follow me," she said and she led the way, along a hall, to a door at the end. Behind the door was a sight Tamara and I saw in the fake-passport maker's house. Opulence, gleaming modern furniture, expensive carpets.  

"Have a seat, Dr. Lederer," said the lady, "your coffee is on the way," and I saw that the coffeemaker was ready and the coffee she gave me was hot, flavourful and felt excellent as it entered my system. Perhaps she knew of my coffee addiction, but of course, how could she? I noticed that her hand was shaking slightly.  

"Tell me again what you need from me."  

I briefly repeated the story of the kidnapping and told her that I was concerned about potential side effects of whatever it was that put me out for several days. I didn't mention Yekaterinburg, the Communist plot or the attempt to get me to murder a cabbie. I wished to be mostly truthful with her, though, so I also told of my plan to lodge a complaint with the prosecutor's office and a certificate, showing evidence of a drug in my system, would help strengthen my case. Further, if the case got to court, she might be asked to testify about the results.  

"I would have to think about that for a little," she told me. "Let's take your blood, I will do some tests and will think about the future later. Roll up your sleeve while I get the syringes." 

She was very skilled in taking blood. I closed my eyes as the syringe was approaching and tried to tell when the skin was pierced. Good skill causes no pain whatsoever and this lady was among the best. When I opened my eyes, two test-tubes were already filled with my blood, the needle was out and she gave me a piece of gauze to press against the practically invisible hole. There will certainly be no blue mark there. When I told her how smooth the whole procedure was, she blushed with obvious pleasure.  

"The man, the comrade I worked for never praised me," she said somewhat wistfully, and I was curious why she still used the completely discredited word "comrade." I didn't ask, not wanting to distract the lady. 

"I will test your blood for the presence of poisons, just wait here. If I find what I think you were given, it will be just a few minutes," and the biochemist left with her face beaming. I saw that there hadn't been much need for her expertise recently and she was looking forward to a demonstration of her skills.  

True enough, she was back in about 15 minutes, and her face was still radiant, indicating that she must have been a stunning beauty in her youth.  

"I found it," she said, smiling at me. "You were injected, most likely into your spine, with sodium thiopental. You would have become unconscious in less then 10 seconds. You must have been given a huge dose to keep you out for a few days and you are a very lucky man to be still alive."  

While I wasn't surprised that I was drugged and not just knocked on the head, the news still came as a shock. They almost killed me.  

The lady continued. "Please take off your shirt. I would like to see if there are signs of the injection," and I obeyed, turned my back and she examined me minutely, using a powerful magnifying glass.  

"I was right. There are several punctures, still quite visible, all along your spine. I am making a fairly educated guess that your kidnappers were amateurs. They didn't know where exactly to put the syringe into you so they poked you everywhere. I can't get over how lucky you are to be here, talking, moving, being alive."  

I wondered if there was anything I should take as an antidote or if there were longer term side effects. Dr. Kondrachik said that there were indeed dangerous side effects. The large dose might affect the central nervous system in addition to causing arrhythmia. She asked how I felt and I told her that other than a few headaches, I felt good, healthy and strong. She listened to my heartbeat for a long time. She pronounced me side effect free but, just for safety, she gave me Intralipid. Take it if you become nauseous only, she said. 

I was most grateful for the lady's help and I didn't begrudge the high fee, which I passed on to her in an envelope. She took the money cheerfully and told me, "Young man, you made my day. I don't get many visitors these days and I get even fewer requests for analysis."  

It was good bye time now when she added, "I would be most pleased and even anxious to testify on your behalf. I would say that while the objective might not have been to kill you, the bad peoples' idiotic ignorance could have done just that. They should have known the dangers they subjected you to." She gave me her card which detailed her profession. She obtained both her degrees from Harvard. Also, her cell-phone number was on the card and she told me to call anytime, day or night, as she slept very little these days.  

I reached out to shake her hand as we parted, but she came close and hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. There were tears in her eyes and I realized that when I left, she would go back to her loneliness. I asked her, a sudden whim, "Dr. Kondrachik, would you accept an invitation for supper with me and my wife one of these evenings?" The result wasn't really surprising as she accepted the invitation right away and with obvious pleasure.  

When in no hurry, I prefer to take the metro and a bus to the airport. The trip takes about an hour. Once I am on the bus, I am a captive in the system and have no choice but to observe the surroundings, the small family houses and the small plots of vegetables. The changes over the last couple of decades were astonishing. Twenty years ago there were practically no cars parked at the houses. There were no electrical wires, no hydro cables and very little plumbing. There were outhouses, no bathrooms. There were horse-drawn carriages in many places. There was the occasional TV antenna but they were not numerous and they were the exception. A complete change was visible now. Cars were everywhere. I couldn't see a house without electricity. Satellite dishes were on most roofs. No wells in the backyards and no outdoor toilets. These would be missed on a fast ride in a taxi, but in the slow bus they provided proof of increasing living standards. 

I arrived at the airport well in time. My wife's plane was on schedule and she was through luggage pick-up, customs and the passport check fast. Twenty minutes after landing we hugged and I felt that peace was slowly returning to my life.  

Heather said that she was able to sleep some on the plane so after a brief rest, clean-up and unpacking she would welcome being a tourist. Her preferred cafe wasn't far and that's where the first debriefing was to happen. I was anxious to tell my story to a sympathetic audience.  

I described the events, starting with the blow on the back of my head and finishing with the trip back from Yekaterinburg. The story took over three hours and to my wife's credit, she listened carefully, didn't interrupt but on occasion she took notes of questions, to ask later.  

My wife and I visited the usual tourist places. The Parliament Building in all its splendour and majesty was one of them. The small cafe, known and frequented by the locals on a nearby street where the cappuccino was the best and the cakes were always fresh, was next. We discussed whether to walk on the island, in the castle district or on Vaci utca, the main shopping location and we made a plan. Shopping was first but both of us would have to buy something utterly frivolous. This would be followed by exploring Halaszbastya, a centuries old fortification on the Buda side of the Danube, for probably the 100th time, from where the view of the Danube and Pest was magnificent. By mutual agreement, we would discuss only superficial topics. Serious items were on the agenda for tomorrow.  

Supper would be next and we had another discussion about its location, nature, quality and type. The choices were overwhelming. Each of us presented a wish. Heather preferred meat, I preferred fish. We agreed that we wanted local tastes and if music was available, that would be a plus. We decided and made a reservation. The place was within walking distance, 10 minutes at most, and we set out toward it. We enjoyed the dinner and chalked up another success. The food was excellent and plentiful, very tasty if maybe a bit too salty, just a bit. The service was polite and efficient. The music was both soothing and exciting, there was decaf espresso and a walk home, slower than the earlier walk. We realized that it would burn up only a very small portion of the ingested calories. So far, though, all things worked out well that day.  

Next morning we prepared a to-do list.

* Call the Canadian Consulate and ask for someone high enough on the totem pole to pull strings for a passport to be issued, fast. Let them know that speed was essential;

* Call the office of Foreign Affairs in Ottawa and speak to Dr. Howther. Explain that I was in deep doodoo, wait patiently until he blows off steam and reminds me of his old advice to stay out of trouble and not to call his office again. When he stops for air, interrupt and bring him up-to-date concerning the latest adventures and the still incomplete proof that my first story was real. This might calm him a bit, allowing me to request that he and his Minister stay in touch with their Hungarian counterparts while I face my enemies in court. Be ready to counter his attempt to convince me to abandon the whole project;

* Get a substantial amount of cash, in case grease is needed;

* Get ready for a large amount of frustration and get used to the slow movement of the application of justice. 

 We set out for the Canadian Consulate and I wasn't quite sure if I would be welcomed there with open arms. We both planned to go, which was good because my wife spoke the language without a foreign accent and she might be treated more seriously. We dressed properly, with the casual elegance that wealthy, confident travelers exhibit. We realized that dressing in a too elegant manner could cause as much distrust as being too shabby. We were not con-persons and wanted nobody to think of us that way.  

I had to call them first. I was ready to go through the excruciating steps of "press one, if,"...but to my surprise, an actual, live person picked up the phone, appeared to know who I was and sounded as if she was familiar with the events of the past. I was pleased that I didn't need to start with Adam and Eve, and this allowed me to retain my polite, low keyed manner of talking. I asked my wife to continue the conversation and to request a time when we could get there for my new passport. Another surprise: come right away, we will issue the new one within an hour of a simple chat. I appreciated that the lady didn't use the term "interview," and didn't imply that I might still be considered to be of dubious character and mentality.  

The passport project turned into another miraculous event. The lady was true to her promise and while we chatted about my Yekaterinburg and Kiev adventures, my passport was being printed and in less than an hour, I became the proud owner of a brand new Canadian passport. The escape route, if needed, was becoming a bit more realistic.  

The next step was the call to Dr. Howther. I wasn't looking forward to this but it had to be done. I needed him to agree to cooperate with me in a possible court case and to request the cooperation of the Department of Foreign Affairs, responsible for the safety of visitors abroad. If cooperation was impossible, as it might turn out to be, at the very least someone should monitor that I wasn't arrested again. We needed to go back to the apartment to use a land-line. A connection from a cell-phone might produce static and my ability to understand exactly what Dr. Howther told me would be in jeopardy. We went home, I prepared mentally for the call, got a pad of paper and pencil, took a deep breath and dialled.  

This time the "press this if you want to speak to that" was unavoidable, without any consideration of the cost to me of the long-distance call. I listened carefully for the function of each button and I was relieved at the end to hear, "press zero to talk to a person." So I pressed and waited and waited until a man finally picked up the receiver and barked not too kindly, "Who do you wish to speak to." At least "wish" and not "want" was the word used.  

I responded kindly, however, and said what usually gets an instant reaction, "This is Dr. Lederer. Let me speak to Dr. Howther." 

My experience indicated that as long as I said this without hesitation and with some authority, no secretary would question what I was doctor of and usually the connection would be made right away since potential health matters were not games. Not here though. The young man at the other end was a bit more savvy, must have heard quite a few attempts to get his boss on the line and wanted to know what the topic was.  

"Private and confidential," I replied tersely, and he blinked first. He didn't want to be responsible for anything, so he buzzed his boss. My heartbeat increased when I recognized the voice of my potential helper. He didn't even wait until the usual polite inquiries about health and well-being were completed, he was hot and impatient and started at a higher volume than was really necessary and said, "Professor Lederer, do you recall my last request? You were asked not to bother us and now you attempt to masquerade as my physician, you've got a nerve to...,"  

I interrupted.  

"Don't hang up Dr. Howther, listen to the story of my second and third adventures and the Communist conspiracy behind it," and the scathing laugh this statement caused would have chilled the blood of somebody less determined.  

"This better be good, Professor, I need a funny story for tonight's supper party," he sneered. Green light was on, even if the message implied that not much of what I said was to be taken very seriously.  

"This is no time for storytelling, Dr. Howther. This is real. There is corroboration of everything that happened to me. There are several sources that you can check. The first is Burt - I don't have his family name - in the U.S. Embassy in Kiev. The second is the Canadian Consulate in Budapest. Both of them know that I have been poisoned, nearly killed and assaulted in Budapest, kidnapped and taken to Yekaterinburg. They know that I was in a coma for several days. They know that my daughter was also kidnapped. They know how we escaped and managed to enter Hungary using a fake passport. They know how we were stalked in Kiev and on the train to Budapest. They know of the murder of the man who gave me a fake passport. They also know that I was arrested and beaten by hoods, posing as Hungarian detectives, shortly before I was taken to Yekaterinburg. They know that I was released fast with abject apologies. Please confirm these to your satisfaction. When done and I am in your good books again, I wish to discuss my plans with you and they will likely include legal action, maybe against the Hungarian Government, for allowing these events to take place." 

Credit was due to the good doctor. While he didn't say so, he admitted defeat and he didn't complain. He agreed to get in touch with the U.S. Embassy in Kiev and the Canadian Consulate in Budapest. If everything checked out, he would help as best as he could. He asked for a few hours and promised to call me the next day.  

On to the next item on our list. This was easy. A bank machine would cooperate. I was lucky to have my wife here, as all my credit and debit cards were in Yekaterinburg. The amateurishness of my kidnappers was demonstrated once again. They must have noticed the missing cash and they must have associated the loss with our escape but didn't clear out my bank account and didn't buy expensive items with my credit cards. Or, was it possible that they were idealists and didn't care about money? Were there still people like that? We took out the maximum allowed and while it wasn't wise to carry that much cash, we had to in order to have it instantly handy when needed. You didn't get extra help or information on credit. Also, at Heather's suggestion, we then cancelled all my cards. The rest of the day was devoted to tourism again.  

Maybe Dr. Howther was my friend after all. He knew the 6-hour time difference between Canada and Hungary and he was efficient and wanted to prove that he looked after Canadian citizens in distress. He called when he was ready and it was 11 p.m. where we were, in bed, asleep or at the least, trying. He didn't apologize for his earlier brusqueness which was also to his credit as he did what he thought was the most appropriate action at the time. His attitude was quite different now. He told me, and after I woke up fully I actually heard and understood him, that all of my adventures checked out, as I related them.  

Burt - whose family name was Taylor, not that this mattered - confirmed our arrival in Kiev, described how we looked after the ride in the freight train, described how he helped us and told the story of how we boarded the Kiev-Budapest train. He also mentioned the still unsolved murder of the passport maker. 

Howther's next call to the Canadian Consulate in Budapest produced even better results. He asked to speak to two people, first to the lady who was helpful to me the first time, Christina Sackam. She confirmed that I was at the Consulate, and I didn't look too hot. He also talked to the lady who helped me get a new Canadian passport.  

The last call produced the most interesting result. Howther asked the Foreign Minister's permission to call her Hungarian counterpart, the one whose earlier investigation showed no signs of my mistreatment. Permission was given but the call was to be initiated by the Minister, in order to follow the appropriate protocol, which, as before, included the mandatory inquiries about the health and happiness of the respective families. Dr. Howther then took over. He told the Hungarian Minister what happened to me in Yekaterinburg and that the aim of my captors was to re-establish Communist control in Hungary and later in all of the previously Communist states. As Howther told me, this claim caused an audible intake of breath first, followed by a lengthy silence and the termination of the call, hanging up the receiver with a bang. He said that he was shocked and didn't know what to do next when, in a few seconds, his phone rang and the caller was the Minister from Budapest. Abject apologies for hanging up were followed by the assurance that now the line was secure. And then came the bombshell and a request. The new Hungarian Secret Service was aware of the efforts of Mrs. Hegedus and her gang. The Service's operatives had been following her group's activities, well before my first arrest. And the request: would Dr. Howther please please keep this in absolute confidence as the investigations were continuing and were not to be jeopardized.  

I promised Howther that I would do my best but I also said that my needs had priority now and I would reveal all if that served my interests. I said that I felt justified in this, as so far, I had been left totally alone by everyone. Neither the Canadian officials nor the Hungarians took me seriously so he shouldn't be surprised that I looked after #1 from now on. 

Howther then said something else, leading into it very quietly, hesitatingly, and in a surprisingly low-keyed, careful manner. The Hungarian Minister asked him to ask me to consider plastic surgery to change my appearance and to infiltrate the group led by Hegedus. At this point I found it hard to not start laughing hysterically, and barely managed to reply in a civil manner. This was, of course, absolutely out of the question. What I wanted to ask but I didn't because I wanted to cause no offence was, were they out of their minds? Did they think that I was a total idiot? 

Dr. Howther said he understood and agreed with me and that he only asked the question because he promised he would. He asked what I was going to do next and I told him what my wife and I were mulling this over. We might go to court and claim compensation, both for psychological damage and punitive, for the way I was treated. Also, that I was kidnapped twice, once in clear daylight, on a busy street with lots of witnesses with law enforcement agents doing zilch, noticing zilch, helping zilch. I told Howther that I would have to talk to a reliable lawyer first to determine whether to start legal action. I also said that his and the Hungarian Minister's cooperation would be helpful but not absolutely essential and also, their respective parts would certainly be made public.

We needed a brain-storming session now and Heather and I planned to follow the basic, well-known approach in which all ideas about what to do next are put forth without criticism. List them all, as we suggest them, but don't discuss them. After that, explain them and finally use formal decision theory to establish their relative importance to us. Then suggest activities that might best satisfy our objectives, realizing that most likely not all of our wishes can be fulfilled completely and a best compromise would have to be chosen. 

My objective - and I was just beginning to say that it was the most important for me, then I recalled the rules, no ranking at this stage - was that my arrests, unfounded murder charges, humiliation and torture be acknowledged. An apology and public humiliation of the perps might well be sufficient. Financial compensation would be welcome but wasn't essential. Another possible objective was simply to do nothing. Accept that shit happens and leave it at that. We finished the first step in the brain storming session with the two objectives: do nothing or get revenge and compensation. 

Which one of these would leave us with fewer regrets? Both of us agreed that doing nothing wasn't a real option here. We would talk of nothing else for a very long time. We would agonize over why we didn't exact revenge and the damage to my ego would be too large and probably irreparable. We took the first option. Get the buggers, get revenge, get a public acknowledgement. 

Next question. OK, acknowledgement, but go also for financial compensation, simple revenge or just apologies? Revenge could mean hiring mercenaries and let them loose on Hegedus' gang, come what may. The events, however they might turn out, must not be connected to us in any way. Some people might die, some might be badly injured. We agreed that this wasn't for us and revenge might have to be taken in some other way. At this point the only remaining option was to go to court. I must prove that I was a patsy. I was used to further the aims of the General and the Colonel to overthrow the Hungarian government and to re-establish the Communist dictatorship. Why was I not protected? Why all the denials?  

While it was easy to decide to go to court, the reality on the ground made us aware of what we knew of the Hungarian justice system which at this point was absolutely nothing. It might be that we needed to sue the Hungarian Government but was that possible? I read the local papers daily and I saw that everybody was suing everybody, politicians and individuals alike. They sued each other and they sued various organizations at an impressive and ever growing frequency. Could I go to court on my own? Must I have a lawyer? Which office or department of the Government was I to sue? Was I to do this as a Hungarian citizen or as a Canadian? Was I correct in thinking that there was a Government office which was responsible for my safety in Budapest? If the Government's responsibility lies elsewhere and I was responsible to protect myself, I must deal with the group that made my life miserable on my own. Who were they? How do I sue an unknown group?  

I was too impatient to go to a library to read up on the details. There was the Internet though and the document, "World Factbook of Criminal Justice Systems; Hungary," included interesting and relevant information. The first thing I noted while reading the document was that the Courts and the Prosecution were independent of the government and the political process, as they should be. A case could be heard by a Judge or by a judicial panel as there was no jury system in Hungary. There were three levels of criminal courts: local, county and the Supreme Court. There were extradition treaties with several countries but it was unclear from the document if Canada was included among them. Another website clarified the point: Canada and Hungary entered into mutual extradition treaties in 1874. I hoped it was still in force. 

It appeared inevitable that I would have to hire a lawyer. I needed to be told how to start the whole process. Maybe the first thing was to make a complaint to the Hungarian police, the office of the prosecutor, convince them that several crimes were committed, that I was the victim and that they should bring charges against the perps. I could name some of them but not all, though I wasn't at all certain what the actual names were. I recalled Mrs. Williams, AKA Colonel Hegedus although I couldn't tell which of these was her real, official name. Her husband's name, Williams, might also be a total fabrication. Then there was the unknown, the elderly gentleman, the one who threatened James, the one with the black mole over his right eye. There were the people who chased us in Kiev. There were the people on the train. There was the person who bonked me over the head, the people who drugged me, almost killed me and transported me to Yekaterinburg. As I thought about the next step, the idea of getting the local police to investigate and lay charges was getting better and better. Of course, I must be accompanied by my lawyer when I visit the police.  

Heather and I discussed these possibilities at length and agreed that the most promising avenue was to convince the Hungarian Prosecutor's office to initiate charges against those that I could name and potentially other "person or persons unknown." Heather suggested that we should involve the Canadian Consulate in whatever steps we took. They must have lawyers familiar with local procedures and as long as we pay the costs, there should be no difficulty in getting one of them to work for us. Since a Canadian citizen was inconvenienced, maybe the Consulate would be helpful.  

She was correct and it was worth a try. We needed to go to the Consulate. I checked the Internet before the visit and I found a surprise. We needed to deal with the Canadian Embassy, not the Canadian Consulate and the bad news was that they didn't have a department dealing with the legal issues of tourists. They had a list of lawyers, though, but they didn't give recommendations as they wouldn't want to assume any liability for their lack of competence. 

But we planned to visit, just to inform them of what was going on with us and that if we did get to court, we had information that might well be embarrassing to Hungarian officials. I realized that I had to make an appointment and I thought of Christina Sackam, the lady who helped me when I arrived at the Canadian Consulate straight from my first detention. She had been transferred to work in the Embassy as the chief assistant to the Ambassador.  

I called first, in order to secure an appointment with someone fairly high up and asked to speak to Ms. Sackam. She was available, not on holidays, not on a coffee break and sounded reasonably pleased to hear from me. We went through the essential openers and the how are you's. She was familiar with the gist of my recent adventures but asked me for details. I described the past events and that I needed to tell somebody at the Embassy what was to happen in the next little while. This was to include a potentially embarrassing spectacle of a Canadian citizen in court, who was inconvenienced with nobody taking notice and nobody offering help. I asked, as diplomatically as possible, if she was the person, high enough on the totem pole to be told of my plans and she assured me that not only was she high enough, she was most sympathetic and was most anxious to help. She also told me that she was willing to testify on my behalf, should the need arise. Come as soon as you can, she said as she ended the call.  

Off we went in a taxi.

Ms. Sackam was kind enough to alert the guards at the main gate that the Lederers were coming and we were ushered in right away. She came to greet us and after I introduced Heather, she led us directly to a well-appointed conference room. We gratefully accepted the offer of coffee and mineral water and she asked one of her assistants to provide the refreshments. Also, she said that the ambassador would make a brief appearance while we talked. So far so good.  

"I was informed of your arrest after you arrived in Budapest and of the kidnapping to Yekaterinburg. I understand your anger and your wanting to know why these things happened to you, why nobody helped you. You want to bring your tormentors to justice. Please tell me your current plans. I want to know how the Embassy can assist you," started the lady.  

I wanted revenge. I wanted to see the Colonel sweat, I wanted to see her lose her cool and I wanted to see her expression when she was carted off to jail in handcuffs.  

Instead though I told Ms. Sackam, "The Embassy's web-site indicates that you have no legal department but that you maintain a list of lawyers. My wife and I know nothing about how the Hungarian justice system works and the assistance of a local lawyer is absolutely essential. I also understand that you can't recommend anyone from your list. Did you ever have any satisfactory or poor experience with any of them?" 

She smiled and took the list from the folder she brought, scanned it and said, "Dr. Maria Lengyel assisted me when I was accused of being a double agent during the mid 1980's and she managed to get all charges dropped. She was very competent and totally fearless. Remember that in the 80's going against the state was still not too healthy. You will find her name on the list. If you call, you may wish to mention my name. She is not inexpensive, though, so be warned. You may well be asked to pay in us dollars, probably cash, lots of it."  

I thanked her and I took the lady's telephone number. At that moment, the door opened and in walked the ambassador himself. I was pleasantly surprised by the man. He was middle aged, average height, casually dressed, wearing a pair of sandals without socks and gave the general impression that he was very confident. He smiled at us and when Ms. Sackam went through the ritual of introductions, I noted the firm handshake and the eye contact. He said that he had been informed of my plight quite some time ago by the Minister. He also said that he and his staff were involved in the subsequent investigation, as requested by the Minister, and he reminded me that no corroborating evidence of my detention at the airport was located. That seemed to sum up his knowledge which, in my opinion, was totally outdated. 

I didn't really want to argue with or to contradict the gentleman but I still found that I had to correct some of his information. "Mr. Ambassador, permit me to add to what you have just told us. Of course, I have been told of the lack of evidence of my first detention at the airport and I have been called either a barefaced liar or an old idiot by officials of the Department of Foreign Affairs of Canada. I returned to Budapest to find the missing evidence and I have found sufficient clues to prove, at least to me, that those events were not the product of my imagination and the attention seeking of an old man."  

Credit to the Ambassador, he listened attentively and without interruption. Then he continued and I concluded that he still might not have all the information he should have. "I hear you, Professor. I have also been informed that you claim to have some evidence of a Communist cell whose aim is to re-establish the dictatorship of the proletariat. I must tell you that your claim is completely wrong. There is no cell, and there has never been any such group. Communism is gone forever, thank God."  

I noticed Sackam's sideways look and a slight shake of her head. She meant that this was no time for an argument and I agreed. I also believed that I might never be able to change the man's thinking or at least, his public statements. He might have some difficulty admitting that he wasn't fully familiar with what the Minister told Dr. Howther. Also, he might not have been told that I was actually asked to go undercover to help expose the cell whose existence he was questioning. I suspected that there might be a stupid "need-to-know" rule operating here and the left and the right hands didn't know of each other's activities.  

"Mr. Ambassador, as soon as we leave here, my wife and I are going to engage a lawyer with whom we are going to the police to register a complaint. I am going to name as many officials as necessary to be my witnesses. I hope that you will follow how my potential court case evolves." 

There was no response other than a pleasant smile from the Ambassador. Friendly and civil handshakes followed, calling cards were exchanged, with the Ambassador first and Ms. Sackam next. She glanced at me again and I saw that she knew things the Ambassador didn't know or didn't want to admit, and she said, "Keep in touch," and gave me her card with her cell-phone number. As we left and got out of sight, I turned over her card and saw the message, "I will call you later tonight."

CHAPTER 13

We were looking forward to spending an interesting evening with an interesting lady, Dr. Kondrachik, the biochemist/physician who identified the poison in my body. Maybe she would talk about her past, much of which she spent in close contact with Communist bigwigs. Maybe she would recall things not generally known and would talk about them. Maybe she wouldn't reveal anything personal. Even in the refusal there might be something of interest, especially if she told us why she preferred to remain silent. 

I reserved in Gundel, where the quality of the food matched the magnitude of the cost. Gundel, often mentioned as one of Europe's best, had a dress-code, posted in several languages, an unusual requirement in our sloppy-is-OK-everywhere century. Gentlemen must wear jackets. 

We dressed accordingly, not wishing to appear to be foreign tourists who couldn't read and who showed up in sockless sandals, shorts and sweaty T-shirts. The trusty taxi arrived within a few minutes as always, and we went to pick up the lady. 

She was ready, radiant, made-up and dressed beautifully, looked 20 years younger and was in a good mood. I made the introductions and she kissed Heather twice, hugged me, and said, in practically accentless English, with a tint of New England drawl, "I am starving. Where are you taking me?" and was visibly pleased when I named the restaurant. "Lets go, lets go," she said and nudged the driver, telling him in Hungarian, "Extra tip if you get us there fast," her sly smirk indicating that, of course, I would be the tipper. We went fast, most likely not because of the extra tip but because the cabbie wanted to please the old lady, who, I must say, looked most charming. 

A uniformed doorman opened the car-doors and didn't hold out his hand for a tip, indicating proper training. Either the management frowned on explicit greediness or it was simply good manners, which most Hungarians managed to retain during their 40 years of Russian domination. In any case, I was prepared like a good boyscout and the doorman was happy with my tip. The words, "to insure promptness," the tip, has a different literal meaning in Hungarian. It means "for your wine." Wine wasn't very expensive and my contribution was sufficient for at least two glasses. I trusted it might be consumed for our health.  

At the main entrance the smiling maitre-d' was waiting for us and was ready to take us to our table. I noticed that as he looked at Dr. Kondrachik, his smile turned a bit sour and forced, and she noticed it also. Nevertheless he was leading us, pulled the chairs out for the ladies, the older one first, welcomed us to the restaurant and gave us the menus and the wine list, in English to Heather, Hungarian to the lady and me. Also, he asked if we cared to start with a glass of champagne, on the house, and his sour face was beginning to brighten up a little when all of us smiled at the offer and accepted it. I noted that he said champagne and not sparkling wine.  

The restaurant was beautifully decorated as always, maintaining its old world charm. The effects of a recent renovation were clearly evident. The chairs and the tables were original antiques, refinished by experts. There was sufficient space between the neighbouring tables so conversations could remain reasonably private. The curtains were heavy brocade, dark red. The white linen table clothes were crisp and demanded careful handling of the food as nobody wanted to be responsible for embarrassing food stains. The noise level was low, and the general atmosphere was that of quiet elegance. 

Reading the menu here was also part of the entertainment. Appetizers and entr\u00e9es were described in detail. Ingredients were listed as were preparation methods. The names of the chefs, their training histories and their international awards were given. The most appropriate wines for each course were indicated and here I actually believed the recommendations. Dr. Kondrachik chose a green salad and smoked sturgeon with caviar sauce, which was in fact an appetizer, as her main course, and didn't feel the need to explain that she eats little. Heather and I both ordered Caesar salads, followed by tournados Liszt Ferenc for her and the fresh fish of the day, baked fogash, better known as pike-perch, for me. Freshness here meant that the doomed fish was still alive and would be executed for my pleasure exclusively, in the next few minutes. All of us asked for mineral water. Heather took the menu's recommendation of the wine for her steak, a red wine, a Simon Cabernet Sauvignon from Eger. Dr. Kondrachik and I shared a bottle of Debroi Harslevelu, a slightly sweet white wine, from the town of Debro. We asked for the wine to be served with the main course. 

The meal proceeded at a relaxed pace and while we waited for the salads and the breadbasket, the gypsy orchestra played in the background. It was possible to forget whatever was lurking outside, whatever misery and dangers tomorrow might bring. One of my objectives tonight was to discover Dr. Kondrachik's history. She was supposed to have been responsible for the health of one of the last big cheeses, possibly even the #1, and I was curious how she got there, why she was found trustworthy enough, how and for how long she managed to survive the cutthroat atmosphere at the top of the Communist Party. I was also curious if she was willing to talk and just how much she was ready to reveal. I would have liked to get to a first-name basis with her but following old-world etiquette, the older person must initiate the change from the formal to the informal way of speech. I had to wait. 

We sipped the chilled champagne and I wanted to start my questions but Dr. Kondrachik was faster. "Dear young people, I must tell you, it has been a very long time since I was taken to Gundel. You can't imagine how pleased I am to be here with you. I was looking forward to the food here and the companionship. I was trying to recall my last time here and it was at least 30 years ago. You may have noticed how the smile of that waiter changed when he saw me. He recognized me from my last visit. I was accompanying some of VIPs of the time, not the most loved ones."  

I told her about the first time Heather and I visited here on our honeymoon. "My wife and I had lunch in the garden here during our first visit to Budapest in the late 60s. We were served by an elderly, dignified waiter. I was guessing that he may have been well over 80. We imagined that he was the one who served the Prince of Wales in the 30s."  

My recollection started the old lady's stories. She was almost finished with her champagne. There was only one sip left. She raised her glass and said, "I am Nina, lets not be formal any longer. You are Heather and John," and we clinked glasses and drank gratefully to our new relationship. 

"Nina, the physician who gave me your name said that you were a very close associate of one of the top Communists. He told me that you checked his blood for poisons several times a day. Is this true?" I asked the lady and couldn't predict if the question would make her leave the restaurant in anger at my prying or if she would respond, welcoming an opportunity to talk about her past. She looked wistfully toward the orchestra and was silent for several minutes.  

"I was born in Lwow, a small city in Ukraine, very long ago, in 1922. My parents died when I was six years old. I ended up in an orphanage and from that age I worked from dawn until sundown every day. No school, no play. The Communists were in power already, but I didn't care. I paid no attention to politics. I had enough by the time I turned 16, and ran away with a young man of the same age. For some time we lived off the land. We walked toward the west and were not even aware of crossing into Hungary. By that time our clothes were in very poor condition and we were near total starvation. We were beginning to think of going back, at least we had plenty to eat in Lwow. While sitting on the roadside, a middle aged man stopped and spoke to us. He spoke Hungarian which we didn't understand so we just stared at him. He simply motioned us to follow him. We did and that was the luckiest move of my life."  

She stopped here suddenly, she was looking at us and asked, "Why would you be interested in my life story?" and my reply was postponed because our salads arrived and the waiter was serving, using the correct approach over the left shoulder, never crossing the air in front of the guests.  

"I have always been fascinated how highly educated, intelligent people managed to survive and flourish in a dictatorial regime but have rarely had the opportunity to meet them. I admit that I was trying to satisfy my curiosity in listening to you. I also had some experience with the Communist regime. I matured during the early 1950's. I knew what was happening. My wife has heard my stories but has not had the chance to hear others. We are fascinated by what you are telling us. I hope you will continue," I responded.  

The salads were now in front of us and the waiter was out of sight. I was happy to see that my response pleased Nina and if anything, she was more radiant than ever. Her eyes shone, her face was flushed slightly and the slight, barely noticeable tremor of her hands disappeared completely. She seemed excited at the opportunity to talk about herself.  

She went on. "The man took us to a farm nearby, probably his, led us directly to the stable of horses, showed us to a corner and indicated that we should sit there and that he would return momentarily. He came back in about 10 minutes, carrying used but clean clothes for both of us, and a tray of food. Bread, cheese, milk and fresh fruit, things we hadn't seen in a few weeks. He took out his ancient pocket watch and showed that he would be back in a few hours and that we should sleep. Also, there was a well just outside the stable, where we could clean up." She stopped here, ate a bit of her salad, took a sip of the mineral water and appeared to be thinking of the past, seeming to forget about us. There were tears in her eyes. Heather and I also ate, now in silence, and in a few minutes, I said, "Nina, please continue. I see that the memories made you sad." 

"Yes, sad. We went to sleep and when I woke up, I saw that my first and only love died in his sleep. He was just a few months over his 16th birthday. I tried to wake him but his body was already cold and getting rigid. My crying and sobs brought the farmer from his house but he was also unable to help. I was left completely alone. We buried him just outside the stables, and the only memory I have of him is this little star he carved for me. He always said I was his only star."  

She reached into her purse and brought out a tiny wooden star, about an inch across, finely carved of oak, the work of a highly skilled craftsman. She showed it but didn't let go. All of us now needed a tissue, but Nina suddenly smiled and continued with her story. By this time, the salads were finished, the table was cleared and the main courses were coming, carried by two waiters, making certain that all of us got our food at the same time. Also, the sommelier brought the wines, allowing us to taste and approve.  

"The farmer took me to his house. The room we entered was furnished simply and what was most unexpected was the number of books on the shelves. I was, at this time, totally illiterate. He began to talk in what I took to be Hungarian, sounding kind, calm and relaxed and while I didn't understand him, his tone helped me to accept the finality of death. He told me that his name was Tom. He took me to a small room and made me understand that I could stay with him as long as I wished. He seemed to appreciate that what I needed was solitude and he left. I lay on the bed and remained there for most of the day and the night, sleeping a little and thinking of my past, present and future."  

A break as she ate small piece of the sturgeon, took a sip of the wine and continued. 

"Next morning the farmer began to teach me Hungarian. Reading, writing and the beginnings of numbers were among the first lessons and I was grateful, eager, and a fast learner. The lessons continued while we worked in the stables and the fields, from dawn to dusk. There were no other labourers and there was a lot of work, supporting the two horses and a dozen sheep in addition to tending the vegetable garden. There was a small radio in the house and at night we listened. Over time I managed to communicate reasonably well with Tom. I also began to understand the news from the radio about Hitler's Germany, his increasingly angry demands for more space for his people and country, the increasing threats of war. I was 17. It was 1939 by now. I was reading more and more and Tom slowly began to explain the ideas of capitalism, exploitation, profits, and the emergence of a beautiful, utopian system in the Soviet Union, called Communism. Like a sponge, I absorbed it all, swallowed it all and while I had lots of questions, Tom answered them all. He was a Communist, he told me, and he had been one since well before the formation of the Soviet Union. He wanted this kept exclusively among us. Admiral Horthy, on the far right of the political spectrum, was the boss in Hungary. It was strictly forbidden to be a Communist at the time."  

Nina appeared both exhilarated and exhausted by her recollections and stopped to catch her breath. She returned to the present. We ate silently, sipped the wine and waited. I saw her need for a rest, and while I wanted to know more, I trusted that she would recover and would continue. I found her story, the journey from the illiterate slave to the budding Communist, physician and biochemist absolutely fascinating.  

"How do you feel now?" I asked.  

"I feel light, refreshed and relieved. I have never recounted my life to anybody before. Nobody ever showed any interest. You two are the first. I would like to go on but you must forgive me, I need to continue this evening by myself. Allow me to invite you to dinner tomorrow evening at my house and if you are still interested, I will be very pleased to tell you the rest."  

At this point she simply stood up, kissed Heather, hugged me, no further explanation, no apology, and she departed. She didn't wave, didn't turn back, didn't wait for our acceptance of her invitation. We looked at each other, not quite comprehending what just happened. We completed our food, drank the wine, listened to the orchestra and accepted that we met a most unusual person, somebody who didn't feel constrained by conventional etiquette. Of course, we would be with her the next evening. 

My seat faced a large picture window, overlooking the street just outside the restaurant. I observed the view and pointed it out to Heather who had to turn around to see. Nina was just getting into a waiting limo, with a uniformed chauffeur holding the door open for her. There was another man, large, sitting in the front passenger seat. As they pulled away from the curb, I noticed another car leaving in the same direction and I wondered if it was a coincidence or a follower? Or, had I got an overflow of conspiracy theories on the brain? I called her on her cell phone to point out the potential follower. She answered and when I told her what I saw, she burst out laughing.  

"Don't worry about me, I have two very large armed young men in my car. They can protect me. The follower is also there for my protection." She was still laughing when she ended the brief call. OK, but I did worry and would worry until I saw her the next evening still in one piece.  

Heather and I stayed to linger over coffee and dessert and to play the "what if" game. Decaf espresso came piping hot and raspberry sorbet followed. Heather started with the questions. 

"Nina was, or she still is, a devout Communist. What if she is part of the conspiracy to bring back the old days?" 

A good question. I noted that she didn't ask questions when I told her of my kidnapping adventure. Maybe she wasn't curious by nature or maybe she knew all about it. If she was part of Hegedus' group, she knew, of course.  

Heather continued, thinking aloud. "It is true that she simply agreed to your request to check you for poisons. Most people would have asked you for more details. Maybe her work with her boss taught her never to ask questions, as curiosity in the old days must have been dangerous. Maybe she is old enough not to care. She was paid and that's enough. Or, maybe she was setting us a trap and we'll find the whole gang at her house tomorrow."  

All of these were possible. We needed to set up a strategy to deal with whatever would face us the next night. We had to have a backup plan and an escape route. We discussed the possibilities. Should I contact the Embassy where the big cheese refused to entertain the possibility of the Communist conspiracy? I forgot to mention to Heather my feeling about Sackam's role at the Embassy. There seemed to be a disconnect between the Ambassador's attitude and hers. She helped me in the past and now she seemed to believe me, giving me the impression that in some ways she was separate from and better informed than the Ambassador.  

I told Heather and she said that we should inform Sackam of our concerns and of the dinner invitation. Would she offer some form of protection? Sackam said she would call that night but so far she hadn't so I took out her card and dialled. She answered on the second ring and recognized my voice. She spoke slowly and clearly. She must have noticed my hearing aids and realized the need for clear speech. I had no trouble understanding her. I told her about the potential danger we might face and she agreed that we needed to be careful. She couldn't give us bodyguards but told me to call when the dinner was about half-way done and again when we were on our way home. If she received no calls by midnight a few of her trusted people would visit Dr. Kondrachik's house to look for us. Then she gave me a totally unexpected warning, "Don't tell this to the Ambassador." She continued further, "Don't ask me why. Everything will be clarified in due course."  

One problem was potentially solved. But Heather raised the possibility of another. "What if your return to Budapest is already known to the bad people, and we are under surveillance?"  

There seemed to be nothing we could do about watchers and followers, but be on the alert. Be on the lookout, check as we walk, turn and look back suddenly as it wasn't too difficult to spot a leech. My impression in Yekaterinburg was that I dealt with amateurs and if those that watched us were indeed amateurs, they would stick out on the streets. The best thing to do with someone who followed us was to approach the stalker in a non-threatening way, say where we were headed and just continue on. I couldn't guess what a blown observer would do, continue following or ask for a replacement? Or just give up and disappear? There was nobody visible outside the restaurant. 

On to Heather's next question. "What if Sackam is part of the conspiracy and that is why she is operating apart from the Ambassador and wants us not to mention anything to him?" 

There was really no way of being certain who Sackam was, who or what she represented and who she was working for. There were usually spy-types in every Embassy and she could be one of them. But if so, spy for whom? For what reason? How could we find out when she joined the Consulate and the Embassy staff? She was old enough to have been there pre-regime change and it was possible that she knew my tormentors. She mentioned a case when she was accused of being a double-agent. True, she was found not guilty and was completely exonerated but was this due only to the skill and spin of an excellent defence lawyer? It was possible that she had an old grudge against former Communists - good for me - or against present capitalists - bad. We needed answers and short of hiring another private detective, there was no way to get them. We could watch for possible signs as we talk. It was true that my spy education might well be as obsolete as last year's computer and that Sackam was too well trained for me to notice if anything was amiss. Or, actually she might be on the level and she could be trusted. We needed to talk to Sackam, under relaxed circumstances and ask the questions we wanted answers to. I planned to call her in the morning and invite her to another, expensive, fancy lunch. Maybe food and wine would loosen her. I would see if truth really resides in the fermented grape juice.  

"Who was the elderly gentleman you mentioned?" asked Heather next. "You said he threatened your private detective and was successful in scaring him away. You saw him when your train arrived from Kiev. Is there a way to flush him out? Is he working with Hegedus? Is he possibly the leader, the main culprit?" 

Again, there was no answer here. He was scary, he looked scary and I wouldn't want to face him in a dark alley. Was he ready to kill? If not, why did he carry a gun or was it only for show? If he worked with my captors, why would they need me to kill the cabbie? Wasn't he good enough? If he was the boss, he might not want to be involved in the dirty work. I recalled his face and his wolf-look when Tamara and I got off the train and I described him to Heather. She should watch her back too. I proposed the next question. 

"What if we are unable to get Hegedus and company to court? How are we going to convince the local police to bring charges?" It was only a competent lawyer that could give us answers here. I needed to call the lady recommended by Sackam, but not before we tried hard to flush out Sackam's real motives.  

It was getting well past midnight and we were the only ones left in the restaurant. It was time to go. Rest up for tomorrow, digest what we discussed and make some decisions on how we would spend the next day, at least until the dinner with the biochemist.  

I paid the bill, asked the maitre'd to call us a cab, went home, watched for followers, opened the apartment door slowly, and since nothing untoward or unexpected happened, went to bed. The cell phone rang suddenly and Tamara was calling, just to find out how the aged parents were doing and what was going on with our current state of affairs. We debriefed and the talk with our daughter was relaxing, knowing that her love was with us. She said that when this case went to court, she would take an unpaid leave of absence and join us. Her presence would be a major boost to our confidence.  

The rest was beneficial. Both of us were rejuvenated and refreshed. Breakfast and newspapers preceded decision making. The first item of business was to invite Ms. Sackam to lunch. We needed to talk further and I wanted to be convinced that she was truly on our side. I called and she answered her cell phone in the middle of the first ring. She was eager to talk and to meet and suggested a small, out-of-the-way place for an early lunch. This would leave the afternoon free. I then called Dr. Lengyel, the lawyer recommended by Sackam. The call was easy, the lady answered her phone, removing the need to go through a secretary. I told Dr. Lengyel how I got her name and what I needed and we fixed an appointment for that afternoon. Her office wasn't far. There wasn't much to do until the lunch with Sackam. We had a couple of free hours so I suggested to Heather that we go to the House of Terror, the museum devoted to the victims of the Communists and before them, the Nazis, not for entertainment but to demonstrate to her how the Communists ruled and managed to keep a country in total and absolute fear. I had been through the place several times but she hadn't.  

The museum was both fascinating and nightmarish. There was an elevator ride during which a voice calmly explained how people were executed by hanging. There were the damp, windowless rooms where the inmates were held and tortured. There were photos on the walls of the cells, identifying the occupants. The most disturbing place, at least for me, was the last room just before the exit, on the wall of which pictures of the staff were exhibited. Names, ranks, dates of birth and deaths were indicated. Many of these people were still alive. I always took some time there, looking at the faces and marvelling how ordinary they looked. They smiled at the camera. You might meet them on the street and take them for regular, run-of-the-mill people. You couldn't even imagine that their job was to inflict pain, to tear off fingernails, to squash a penis or to rape a young woman with a truncheon. I always slept poorly after a visit but felt obliged to pay homage to the victims by looking in the eyes of the officers.  

I did it this time again and as I saw one of the photos my heart missed a beat, then raced, and I felt the blood rushing to my face. Heather saw the transformation and was concerned and I couldn't even speak, just pointed to the face with my hand which shook uncontrollably. It took a minute to regain my voice. The photo showed a man, and it was the face of the elderly gentleman who seemed to haunt us. He was the man who looked at Tamara and I when we got out of the train from Kiev. There was the small dark mole over his right eye. His date of birth indicated that he was the right age, about 75 years old. He was a general in the Secret Service. His name was also there, General Komlos. So now I knew, I was certain that one piece of the puzzle had just been solved. To have such a rank he must have been a senior member of the Party of high standing. He was the one who scared James away. 

The visit was over and we both needed to cool off. Then I remembered that I should also have checked for Hegedus' photo which might also be there on the wall. Next visit. For the next activity, what better than a cappuccino and a cake? And the cafe was right there, another one with fresh, beautiful calorie-laden goodies but that was just what we needed.  

It was time to take a taxi to meet Ms. Sackam. Heather wanted to walk a bit by herself and to think. I was to meet the lady on my own.  

The place she mentioned was in a small side street, and if you didn't know that there was a restaurant, you would have missed it. A steep set of stairs led down and the lack of air conditioning created a stuffiness and warmth which I didn't enjoy. The decor wasn't great either and the clientele was made up of working people, in their work-clothes. Most of them drank huge mugs of beer only, no food. Sackam was sitting at a corner table and was waving to me. We shook hands, I sat down and a young waiter was already telling us what we could eat. The fare was simple and unusual in this city. Sandwiches, salads and soups were available, all freshly made and there was no need to have a three-course, heavy meal served at most restaurants. I asked for a toasted tomato sandwich and a latte. Sackam asked for mushroom soup. 

After inquiries on our respective well-being, I was just about ready to start questioning the lady but she was faster. "Professor Lederer, I understand your misgivings about me, about the consulate and about the embassy, not to mention the ambassador. I need to start by giving you some background and some clarification."  

She stopped here because the soup, steaming hot, and my sandwich arrived and I was pleased to see that both looked appetizing.  

"I understand your concerns about who to trust and I assure you that I am the person you need here. I learned about your first detention about an hour after you were taken captive by Hegedus. Further, the guard house received an anonymous phone call alerting us that you were on your way when you got free. The call was recorded, of course, and all it said was that Professor Lederer was on his way after escaping from custody. You can listen to the recording, of course, if you wish." 

"Ms. Sackam, why didn't you notify the Foreign Affairs officials in Ottawa that a Canadian citizen was jailed here and not allowed to request the Consulate's help?" 

The reply was another surprise. "Of course, I notified them. I called as soon as I learned that you were detained. Also, I called a few minutes after your jet left the runway on your way to Canada. Both times I spoke to Dr. Howther's secretary. I was assured that my messages would be passed on as soon as possible and I believed the assurance. Now I regret not to have followed up, because I suspect my messages were not passed on to Howther. I'll have to check with him, and admittedly, I should have done that already." 

There were now several mysteries to be solved. Knowing where I was, why I was allowed to be beaten, questioned, and tortured by Hegedus? Were Ms. Sackam's messages passed on to Howther? If yes, why didn't he acknowledge that he knew about me? Or, why weren't Sackam's messages passed on to him? Was it an oversight or somehow intentional? Could this be just plain incompetence? The same might have happened to my wife's calls. I had to find out.  

The sandwich, which was excellent, was lying practically untouched on my plate as I now found it impossible to eat. The new information was disturbing. There were nagging uncertainties here. I needed to ask something, even if the question wasn't too diplomatic. 

"Ms. Sackam, why should I believe you?" 

The lady evidently expected the question and seemed not to be offended by it. "Because I am telling you the truth as it happened," she said. "You can believe what you like but there is more. There is in fact, a Communist cell, based in Budapest and in Yekaterinburg, whose aim is, as you said, to re-establish Communism," and here she spat on the floor.  

"The cell had been under surveillance well before you appeared at the Consulate. The building where you were held was also being watched while you were inside. We didn't know and couldn't imagine that you were being mistreated. The place was abandoned by the time the investigators got there, but it was obvious that a few hours prior a number of people were inside. For the time being please keep this to yourself." 

If true, this news meant that I was told a bunch of lies by several people. Maybe the objective was to suppress the threat of the Communist conspiracy. Maybe publicity would have jeopardized a continuing covert operation. Coming to my rescue may have done the same. 

"Ms. Sackam, you understand that I will make public what happened to me and all the rest of this information. You must also realize that you and others may have to testify in open court. Knowing about the conspiracy, letting it continue, the denials and the secrecy will all be exposed, and the story will be in most newspapers fairly soon." 

"That is exactly what I want done, Professor. I want the whole sorry affair cleared up, want the people who keep inconvenient events secret gone, and I and my staff will assist you to the best of our knowledge and ability. You can call me anytime, day or night. As well, I would appreciate being debriefed regularly, in person or by a call. And just one more thing. The Ambassador hasn't been made aware of the cell's existence. There was no need for him to know about it."  

I felt better now. I finished my sandwich. The food was good and fresh, and we left a good tip for the young waiter. She insisted on paying for the lunch. Fine with me.

 It was about time to meet the lady lawyer, Dr. Lengyel, so I called my usual taxi company. They identified the caller from their call-display, and the dispatcher said, "How can we be of service, Mr. Lederer?" giving me a sense of belonging. I called Heather and she was to meet me at the lawyer's office. 

The office was in one of the new buildings in downtown Budapest and the furnishings were as impressive as one would find anywhere in the West. Low keyed, tasteful sofas, armchairs, a wood-paneled conference room and state-of-the-art communication equipment. Dr. Lengyel was middle aged, quietly elegant, and gave a good first impression. Heather and I were cautiously optimistic that we came to the right person. After she led us to the conference room, she asked if we would like refreshment and we both asked for tea with lemon. Then we got down to business and I liked that also, no time wasted on small talk. Dr. Lengyel asked why we came and when I mentioned that I wanted revenge for what I was put through, she wanted to know about the situation in detail but first, just a brief summary. As she explained, this would allow her to decide if she could be helpful to us. There was to be no charge if she turned us down. I liked that also.  

I described my adventures many times already so a summary was now quite easy and took no more than ten minutes. I concluded by stating my objectives. I wanted the conspiracy exposed. I wanted my part in it, as a dupe, exposed. I wanted my enemies punished. As I talked, both Heather and I studied the lawyer, trying to spot if she had the competence to help us. 

The lady took no notes while I delivered my narrative. At the end she recounted the major points correctly, so her ability to concentrate and absorb was impressive, a very good sign. Then she said, "Professor, I may be able to help. In fact, I am looking forward to being part of your team and part of the battle. I must make it crystal clear at the start, however, that my help doesn't come cheap. I request $500/day plus expenses. I wish to be paid in dollars. I will bill you at the beginning of each week. For that, you can expect my help, to the best of my ability."  

We were lucky that this wasn't happening in the western world where a hot-shot lawyer would charge much more. We accepted Dr. Lengyel's offer and engaged her and while the $500 daily wasn't too bad, we hoped that the preparation and the trial, should there be one, wouldn't last long.  

Dr. Lengyel explained what we had to do. First we would to file a complaint with the police. We had to prepare all the information and documentation, clearly, completely and briefly, and it was vital to be able to present them to someone high-up enough so that the case wouldn't languish on somebody's desk. The police would then investigate the complaint. If they found it valid, they would pass the case to the prosecutor's office which, after further study and examination, might decide to bring charges. It was this office that would determine what the charges were to be and it was highly advisable to be able to affect their decision-making process. A powerful, well-connected lawyer could arrange to be involved in this and, she added, she was both powerful and well-connected. If charges are warranted, the prosecutor would then assemble a team of lawyers. Dr. Lengyel said that she would want to be in that team and would try hard to convince the prosecutor to include her, hopefully as the lead lawyer. She also added with a little twinkle in her eye, that she was acknowledged to be quite intimidating when dealing with opponents. So far so good.  

My assignment for the next meeting was to prepare a detailed description of events, their timing and a list of people involved. The lawyer would review and edit before they were submitted to the police. She gave me a week to work on this. She intended to be efficient and I happily agreed. I felt just a little guilty that I didn't trust her 100% but suspicion was unavoidable. When I wrote down everything and gave it to her, was I giving it to my enemies, as well? Was I letting them know what I was planning and what the future might hold? Was I giving them time to prepare? I realized that my trust in people had been shaken very badly. 

I had two potential allies here and I planned to courier the written material to both Detective Holloway and Dr. Howther.  

The description of events, from my first detention to the last, was easy by now. I was brief and to the point. No padding, no extreme adjectives, no sensationalism, just the facts to the best of my recollection. I made it clear that my arrests were unjust but made the strongest case for two items, the attempt to re-establish Communism and the attempt to get me to murder an innocent man. I also described what Howther and the Hungarian Minister wanted to keep quiet, that the plans for a Communist take-over were well known by the authorities. As well, that I was asked to go undercover to help crack the case, and that I refused.  

I could name some of the people involved in these events but there were still many unknowns, nevertheless. Of those that harmed me I could identify Colonel Hegedus (AKA Mrs. Williams), and the General in the former Hungarian Secret Service, the well-dressed elderly person with the mole over his right eye, likely General Komlos. Lola, Mrs. Williams' daughter and Mr. Williams, the large oaf, might have to be called to testify. While they didn't harm me, their testimony might be needed to detail some of the background. Lola was most helpful in Yekaterinburg and that might also be important. There were the men, my accusers from the foundry whose names I never knew. There was the other black-clad guard in Yekaterinburg. There was Dr. Brucotti. There were the jailers and the inmates in the first jail. Also, it would be good to have input from some of the students at my university, those who harassed me. 

There were many who could corroborate my story. The first was the taxi driver, Tamas Kossuth. He picked me up when I got free and he could testify about my condition at the time. The next was Ms. Sackam from the Canadian Embassy. Then there were the Canadian detectives who were involved with Colonel Hegedus' travails in Waterloo and her sudden flight. There was also the testimonial from the physician who examined me after arrival in Waterloo.  

I also needed testimony from Robert, and his involvement and possibly his marriage to the Colonel. She could be guilty of bigamy, a crime also in Hungary. I would have to get Jay Clay to the stand. He would testify to have been involved in locating the actors and the location where I was held. 

One of the unreachables might be James, my first and last private detective. Where was he? If found, he could give evidence about the General and his threats with a gun.  

I needed the help of the officials of the U.S. Embassy from Kiev, Burt and his people. I needed the conductors on the train between Kiev and Budapest. They could corroborate the events on the train, though they might not want to be involved. I needed Dr. Kondrachik. 

I saw no need to disturb the two old ladies, Tibor's protege, Mrs. Avner, and the humanitarian, Madge Taylor. They could give evidence about the past only, and that might not be needed.  

At this point, however, I was the only one who could testify about both my mistreatment and the conspiracy. 

I compiled this information and wrote it up. The total came to 16 pages, single spaced. Heather proofread them carefully. There were some minor grammatical and spelling errors, corrected fast, and the documents were ready for submission to my lawyer. The meeting was to be held in the same impressive office, next day.  

At the same time, in a separate document, I described my ordeals in as much detail as possible and lucky for my foresight, I had a copy of the tape I gave Dr. Howther. Reviewing it was helpful. The expanded version wasn't needed just now but might be useful later on. It was morning by the time all were completed. I took a hot, then a cold shower and I was almost as good as new. Rest was a luxury these days. I would sleep more when the case was finished. In fact, Heather and I agreed, when all was finished we would find a luxurious spa and splurge a little, or a lot, just looking after ourselves.  

I sent the documents and the tape to the lawyer and the longer versions to Holloway and Howther by courier. I waited for Dr. Lengyel's call. She wanted to read everything before the next session. The call came shortly after lunch and she asked if we could be there within 30 minutes. And off we went to the next and possibly critical meeting where the lawyer was to decide if she wanted to be involved. 

We were on time, she was ready, and she took us to the conference room where espressos were served. Mineral water was on the table. My package was there and I saw several pages of notes and questions. Dr. Lengyel started by complimenting me on the thoroughness and clarity of the descriptions, and then we got to her questions, which indicated a very careful reading and understanding of the material. Her questions mostly dealt with the "person or persons unknown". How were we to reach them? How were we to secure their testimony? Then she offered her conclusions. 

"Professor, you had been through a lot. If only some of these events can be proven, convictions are practically certain. I have no doubt that the police will be very interested in pursuing the matter further and if they are diligent and serious, they will find the missing information and will attempt to identify the unknown people. I will set up a preliminary meeting with the decision maker. He and I cooperated well in the past and starting with him should ease future steps. A good thing about him, he is totally and absolutely honest, straightforward and trustworthy and interested only in proper law-enforcement. He has been offered bribes in the past and the bribers regretted the action and wouldn't try again. I'll call as soon as I can schedule the meet."  

And with that we said farewell. We were pleased with the meeting and with our lucky choice of lawyer. Maybe good things were starting to happen to me again. Crossed my fingers, you never know if that really works but for sure it couldn't hurt.  

Meetings like that, where important things were discussed and decided and some control was passed to assumed-to-be reliable and competent hands, were exhausting. Maybe executives and CEOs could take the attendant pressures but probably as they age, more in-between recovery time was needed. We needed a break again, and lucky us, we could revert to being tourists within seconds. Today's rest was to be spent on Margitsziget, ("Margaret Island" as it appears in guide books for tourists), walking, sitting, reading, eating but not thinking about courts, Communists and criminals. We decided to continue the serious work the next day. A meeting with the police was to be set up, and we needed to wait for that to be arranged. Meanwhile I planned to inform the people I named in my deposition that I would need their help. Also, I wanted to get more information from my university's registrar on the students who were following me. Unfortunately, I didn't recall their names but I might be able to identify some of them from their photos, which were in their admission files. I recalled that many of them showed an interest in socialism and Communism, theoretical or applied.  

I also called Detective Holloway in Waterloo. He was at his desk. I brought him up-to-date and he sounded pleased that I decided to fight. He knew about the House of Terror and heard about the photos of the interrogators. A picture of the young Mrs. Williams would allow me to check if she was working there. I asked him to try to get one. He agreed to check with his contact, the one who supplied the lady's life story. He said that he would send me an e-mail attachment, if successful. I decided to get a serious gift for Holloway. He was very helpful, all the time.

Dr. Lengyel called and confirmed that her police contact, the Chief of Detectives, Mr. Rakossy, would see us first thing next morning. We were to meet first in her office to discuss strategies. The discussion on how to approach the Chief and how to present the collected information was simple and efficient and it was evident that our lawyer had done this several times. I was to make the presentation. Dr. Lengyel told me that the time was short and while the Chief was busy, he would listen carefully. I wasn't to waste time on anything that wasn't strictly relevant. Distinguish between items for which there was proof and point out those that were suppositions, hypotheses and theories, possibly true but so far, uncorroborated. Also, indicate that the whole of my ordeal was orchestrated to further the General's and Colonel Hegedus' efforts to bring about a Communist take-over. I was also to refer to the fact that there were Hungarian officials, so far unidentified, who certainly knew about this. I was warned to be ready to answer searching questions and not to expect an instant decision. The Chief would decide how to proceed when he was ready. His decision was final, there was no possibility of an appeal. I wasn't to ask when he would make up his mind.  

I obeyed Dr. Lengyel, partly because I didn't know what else to do and mostly because her instructions made a lot of sense. I was prepared and ready and realized how much depended on the next step. We went to the Chief's office and to be efficient, we took a taxi. The guard at the main entrance was ready, examined our ID's carefully and summoned an aide to escort us to the Chief. The Chief and my lawyer hugged and kissed and it was obvious that their past official encounters had been pleasant. I thought for a moment that their hug may have taken a fraction longer than absolutely necessary and I noticed Heather's glance at me so she must have been thinking the same. There was more between the lady and the cop than a simple official contact. If, however, that was needed to move my case forward, who was I to care? Introductions followed and we got down to my presentation.  

The Chief appeared to be an interesting character. About 50 years old, he was short, just about 5 feet tall. He was totally bald, shaved clean. He was dressed like a man half his age, wearing a red, much too tight T-shirt and blue jeans, running shoes. His desk was the opposite: well ordered, no mess, only a notepad and a pencil, in addition to a computer and three telephones.  

As the lawyer suggested, I presented my case concisely and I was grateful for the last several decades of experience in presenting new ideas to my students. I was pleased to see the Chief's attention. His eyes left my face only when he made notes. I emphasized what were the known, irrefutable portions of my story, pointed out what could be ascertained and what needed further detective work. My talk lasted just a little over an hour. I was ready for the questions. In my previous, technical presentations at conferences I judged success to be high when a lively discussion followed. I hoped that would be the case here, not a dismissal out-of-hand.  

The Chief thanked me and said, "That was quite a story, Professor. You understand that I will not make a decision on whether to recommend anything to the prosecutor's office until I read and study all the material you provided. This will take a few days. If I conclude that only half of your narrative can be proven in court, this is going to become an international hot item. We are talking about possible crimes committed in three countries and two continents. I will want to be very sure of myself here." 

Dr. Lengyel piped up when the Chief stopped to take a breath. "The Chief is much too modest. I don't wish to embarrass him but it is a fact that all of his recommendations to proceed to the courts have been successful. Several people, now in jail, rue the day when their cases were vetted by him."  

The Chief now said, "Please come back in two days and I will have a list of questions. Have as much corroboration and documentation with you as possible. My secretary will arrange the time." With that the meeting was over. We thanked him, and left. The next meeting was to take place in two days. 

Maybe I was too optimistic but I had a good feeling about what was happening and the people involved. Chief Ra1kossy appeared to be a serious, no-nonsense official. Dr. Lengyel seemed to be most competent, efficient and very intelligent. I preferred to think of both as being on my side. 

I wanted to gather as much information as possible before the next meeting. First I had to locate the Colonel, as knowledge of her present whereabouts was essential. I decided to try Robert, the stud, her second husband. I still had his e-mail address and his last message in which he happily announced his impending marriage. I sent him a note and I described, very briefly, my all-expenses-paid trip to Yekaterinburg, the attempt to make me a murderer and my escape and return to Budapest. I needed to wait for his response. 

Robert's answer came within a minute of my request. He wrote that his lady threw him out shortly after their wedding night. Still, he was love struck and blind to anything that showed her as the devil and told me essentially to bugger off. Which I wouldn't do, so I sent one more message to the poor guy. This one was just a little bit threatening and I described that I was in contact with the Hungarian police and we were building a case to take to the prosecutor's office. I mentioned that the lady in question was to be one of the prime accused and that he, by association, might also be involved. I suggested that it might be time to bail out, to join the good guys. It wasn't too late. He responded, again by return e-mail, and asked for some time to decide what to do. I suspected that he wanted to contact his wife and wanted her to take him back. Poor guy. I hoped, actually, that he would be unsuccessful and that he would want his revenge and would agree to be on my side.  

It was time to use the cell-phone locator. I connected it to my laptop, turned it on and called Robert. He answered fast and I saw that the locator was working well and I was grateful for our foresight in getting it, even if the cost was exorbitant.  

"Robert, don't hang up, its me, again, Lederer. I just wanted to confirm, in a personal call, not e-mail, that Colonel Hegedus used you in a very disagreeable way, leading you on while she found you sexy, young, exciting and attractive and dropping you when she had enough. I understand that this is hard to accept but take the unasked advice of an older, experienced man. Cut your losses and don't let anyone humiliate you. Don't beg." 

As I talked I saw on the monitor that Robert was in his office located beside the Parliament buildings. Good news, he wasn't home, moping, licking his wounded pride. He was on the line and I took it as a good sign that he didn't hang up on me.  

"I hear you, Lederer," responded Robert and I felt sorry for the dejected tone, that of the lover who lost and was unwilling to accept it. "But I will call her. I have her number and I want her and I love her and she'll take me back, I am sure of it." 

"Do you know where she is?" I asked. 

"No, I don't," was the reply and this led to my next entreaty. 

"Listen, young man. Come here and call from here, using my phone. My device will tell you where she is after she picks up the phone. You can then decide if you want to see her in person." 

There was silence on the line and I imagined the dashing about of the excited neurons in Robert's brain as he was thinking, and in half a minute he found the temptation overwhelming and he said, "On my way," and hung up.

He showed up within an hour. I recalled a very good looking, absolutely super-self-confident, virile young man, a self-declared stud and what I saw now was a broken shell. The cheerful, slightly mocking glint from his eyes, one of the first attributes I noticed, was gone. His clothes were dirty, his hair was unkempt, his fingernails were cracked. His destroyer, the Colonel, must be a remarkable person, as if I hadn't experienced it personally. He flopped into the only armchair and was reluctant to look at me. Maybe the fatherly soft-shoulder was needed here. 

"Robert, I know it was an awful shock you experienced. Don't let anyone tell you that they understand your pain, that it is a stage all of us go through some time in life, that time heals all. Look at it this way. Who did she think you were to treat you this way? Should you meet again, don't let her pity you. Don't let her see your dejection. Let her see that you enjoy life to the full without her and in spite of her. Take a shower, shave, put your hair in order, fix your fingernails. I'll wash and dry your clothes meanwhile and I guarantee that you'll feel better." 

A bit of a surprise when he listened and without a word went to the bathroom to do as told. I took his clothes, not really happy to touch the grime. All of his things were washable, wash-and-dry, so when the shower\/shave\/manicure were over, he dressed and said, "I do feel better." He took the single malt I prepared and sipped it and I was relieved to see some form of self-control returning. He didn't swallow the shot in one gulp. Maybe there was hope here.  

"Robert, you need to listen to my story about the lady who tortured you. Be patient, this will take a few minutes." I recounted my adventures very briefly. I didn't lose his attention, and he listened carefully. I ended the story with my hypothesis that the Colonel was in fact an interrogator\/torturer, carefully pointing out that while I had no incontrovertible proof of this, I might be able to produce some soon. As the story continued and he appeared to absorb his amour's nature, I saw that he was getting restless and very angry. He was turning red in the face and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead. Even his voice was angry as he sneered and whispered.  

"It's true that she looked at me as a plaything and threw me out when she had enough and had more important things to do." He stopped here and appeared to absorb the gist of my story. The lady was a bitch and worse. What seemed to have upset him the most, other than his own misery, was her attempt to get me to murder an innocent man. Re-establishment of Communism sounded to him like a poor joke. He couldn't take that seriously, he was too young.  

"Professor, I know you want revenge. So do I, now" he said finally. "What should we do next?" 

"My suggestion is to let the police do the work here. You and I aren't tough enough and there are too few of us." I told Robert that I was completing the information for the Chief of Detectives and one of the items was the Colonel's location and that a simple phone call on my cell-phone would get her address. Robert placed the call which I put on the speakers, and both of us were surprised that the devious and shrewd conspirator didn't change her number. She picked up the receiver and was listening to Robert's tearful entreaties. My lovely locator reacted again as expected and the lady was located. The call ended when she hung up without saying another word. If possible, Robert was angrier than ever. 

"What's next?" he asked.  

"I'll give the data to the police. The Chief has a very impressive reputation and he'll act as we think he should. Our role is temporarily finished. If there is a court case, we'll have to testify. You too," I added and I saw that he didn't relish the idea of appearing to be the discarded lover, not too long ago considering himself to be the king of the studs. I relaxed when he agreed. 

"I want to see the bitch in the dock. I want to see her cringe when she's found guilty. I want to see her led off to jail in handcuffs. I want to see her cry." 

Robert left and promised to stay in touch. The documents I was preparing were now as complete as possible. The missing part was the Colonel's connection to the Secret Service and her job as an interrogator. I needed to wait for Detective Holloway's messages and I had faith in him. As soon as he had something, he would send it.

My laptop pinged. Holloway was sending a message, as I was certain he would. He was able to locate the Colonel's photo as a 16-year old from the composite, still exhibited in her high school in Saskatoon. The picture was here as an attachment. I was anxious to print it at once and check if a photo similar to this one was on the wall of the House of Terror. Alas, it was now evening and I might not be able to sleep but there was no choice, I wasn't VIP enough to get the museum open after regular hours. I tried to sleep, took a glass of the 18-year old single malt. A large glass.  

Next morning, still groggy from a too large dose of the excellent whisky, I was the first to enter the museum and much to the annoyance of the guards who I ignored, I raced through the exhibits and on to the last room and the wall of photos. I was lucky to have my glasses but there was some trouble fitting them to my face as my hands were unsteady. When I got to the room with the pictures, my heartbeat was up dangerously. Even in the poor light there was an unmistakable similarity in the two photos, one of a Major Markus and the one sent by the Detective. Any court would agree that Ms. Williams, Mrs. Williams, Colonel Hegedus and Major Markus were the same person at various stages of her life. It was a pity that the picture on the wall was in black and white and the tell-tale icy blue eyes looked only watery grey. When the guard was out of the room I took several photos of Markus. At home I printed large copies.  

The file was now complete. I made five copies. One was to be deposited with Dr. Lengyel, to be kept in her safe. One was for her to have as the case was proceeding. One was for the Chief of Detectives and one was for Detective Holloway, which I would courier as soon as I was near a Post Office. The last one was mine. 

For Heather and I it was time to visit Dr. Kondrachik. I asked the taxi driver to stop at a flower shop and bought a dozen roses for the old lady. Recalling how she savoured the champagne, I also got a bottle of Veuve Clicqout 1996, not inexpensive, but I wanted to please her and I was reasonably certain of the pleasure the bottle would give. It was chilled already. 

The house was brightly lit when we arrived. A butler/doorman opened the car doors for us and I wondered where he was during my previous visit. Or was he here now only for show? I checked but didn't detect the underarm bulge so if the young man was an armed guard, the artillery was well hidden. And his suit was well tailored. 

Dr. Kondrachik was as radiant as the last time we saw her. She wore a simple evening gown, navy blue, and her still youthful figure was well and tastefully displayed. She hugged and kissed both of us, our cheeks, and not the air right beside. Her makeup, if she wore any, was able to withstand the contact. I gave her the flowers and she placed the roses in a vase on her own, didn't call the butler for help. She gave us another hug when she saw the champagne. She asked her man to bring an ice bucket and three champagne glasses. We were led into her living room and sat in the armchairs that faced a log-fire. She poured the champagne, and we sipped and smiled.  

"I am pleased to welcome you to my house. It is not often that I get visitors," said the lady. "Maybe later you would like to have a tour. The house was built in 1890, and you may recognize the architect, Hauszmann. He designed it as a special favour for my grandfather who was helpful to him while he was a bricklayer's apprentice." She turned to me to say, "You saw my laboratory already." 

Hauszmann was a professor, in the late 19th century, at the Technical University of Budapest from where he obtained his first degree. He studied further in Germany. One of his designs was the King's Castle and another was the former Palace of Justice, both in Budapest. Both of us were interested in seeing old mansions. Heather told the lady, "Yes, we would like that very much." 

"OK, the tour will start soon, but we will eat first and I am anxious to introduce the results of this afternoon's labours. What you are going to eat was prepared under my extremely close supervision.  

"Let me tell you the menu for tonight. We will start with a green salad with a minimum of olive oil, bit of vinegar and a little black pepper. This will be followed by a small, grilled filet of pike-perch with white asparagus, bok-choy and a grilled tomato. I have selected a chilled Riesling to go with this course. Then, if you wish, a small cup of sorbet will be available, and a short break to rest the palate. Don't worry, the portions will be small so there will be plenty of space for what follows, which will be guinea fowl, also grilled and a side dish of mixed, baked vegetables. I have an old bottle of an obscure Italian red wine, my favourite, imported directly from Italy and this will accompany the last course. 

"You will have a choice of desserts, all of which I made personally, with no help from my chef. There will be tiramisu, chestnut puree and "madartej", better known as floating islands, ile flottant, or translated from the Hungarian as the milk of a bird. Espresso, decaf of course, and cognac will follow and with my apologies, neither cigars nor cigarettes." 

"What do you think?" closed the lady and we were somewhat overwhelmed. One of the scourges of old age was the limited capacity of the stomach and the difficulty we faced was a choice between major gut-pain or offence to our hostess. Or, maybe as she said, the portions would be small and no harm would be caused.  

Nina was amused by the lack of a swift, "How wonderful, lets start," comment. She appeared to understand what caused the delay so she repeated her comment. 

"Don't worry, I know about the limits here. You will have no trouble in eating everything, I assure you," said the lady and we had no choice here, come what may, we were in it. We were now at the second glass of champagne and it was time to hear the rest of her life-story. Nina must have been psychic because she said, "Let me continue with my adventures where I left off the other evening." A sip of the champagne, a deep breath and she started, evidently enjoying our interest and taking pleasure in her narration.  

"As a result of my host's teaching, our conversations and my readings, I became a dedicated and somewhat idealistic and theoretical Communist. Tom's kindness toward me and to other members of the nearby village, his humanity and his readiness to help everybody contributed. Everyone considered him to be their informal leader, and he gave advice freely. The Communist Party was a strictly underground entity at the time but I joined it, glad to belong. There were meetings, in secret of course, and we talked about how our lives would improve, how we would own land and how we would become respected members of society.  

"You know what followed. War broke out, destruction and death were everywhere. All the young men were taken away into the army and we were terrified each day when the post arrived, that a black-bordered card might in the mail. We followed the movements of the armies, we listened to all broadcasts, including the BBC. That was when my understanding of English grew, even though I couldn't speak a word yet.  

"None of us understood or agreed with the USSR-Germany pact. Tom was unable to explain it and even my belief in Communism was shaken, but not for long. When the German armies attacked the Soviets and the two-front war began in earnest, we continued to take part in the activities of the Communist Party and both Tom and I cheered the liberation of Hungary by the soldiers of the Red Army in 1945.  

"By the time the first Communist government of Hungary was established I was better read and better educated than most young people of my age. Tom was appointed first assistant to the Hungarian ambassador to the U.S. and he asked me to go with him. He in fact adopted me and took me with him as his daughter." 

Nina indicated now that the simple green salad should be served. It arrived, we ate and enjoyed and waited for the next instalment.  

"The time I spent in the USA was one of the most enjoyable of my life. I learned to speak English properly, got my degrees in biochemistry and medicine at Harvard, met several wonderful friends and when Tom's tenure was over and we returned home, I was anxious to take part in the development of Communism here.  

"Then two things happened. This was the time of the terror days. Tom was arrested, accused of having been a double agent in the pay of the American government and he was executed, in secret, without a trial. I still don't know why I was spared and why I was offered the job of looking after the health of one of the big guys. Sorry, but I swore that I would never reveal his name. By this time the cruelty of the regime was quite clear and my idealism was long gone. I only pretended to hold my political beliefs as I wanted to survive. I did survive. This house, my grandfather's, was taken away by the state in 1948. It was given back to me. I was paid enough to ensure that I could live the rest of my life in full comfort. I became the lover of my boss and remained so until the regime changed."  

Suddenly Nina looked drained and tired. She appeared to have forgotten about us. The long affair with her superior, who she didn't love, seemed to preoccupy her thoughts and we didn't disturb her. She took a drink now and then and she was off in her recollections. Minutes passed and I noticed that her butler was approaching and in what looked to me like a deliberate act to end the reverie, he knocked into the side-table, making a little noise. He may have done this in the past and sure enough, the lady stirred, looked up, and without an apology, she asked for the fish-course to be served. The plates of the grilled filet were decorated tastefully. We sampled the wine and of course, none of us would say anything if it wasn't good but it was, a slightly sweet, gentle wine.  

It was time to call Ms. Sackam. I excused myself to go to the washroom and called from there, telling her that everything was in order.  

"Your story is fascinating," Heather told Nina. "It must have been fascinating to live among the Communist elite. Was it?" 

"There is no easy answer. The longer I lived near them the more disillusioned I became. At the start, after we came back from the U.S., everything was rosy. We were invited to describe what life in the West was like and maybe this caused Tom's troubles. He loved living in New York and Boston and he loved the parties at the Embassy. He was always told how terrible the working people's lives' were in the U.S. He saw the opposite. He saw how well the locals lived. He wanted to convince the post-McCarthy Americans that the Communists were not a threat to them, that peaceful coexistence was their true aim. In hindsight, maybe this was his major crime. In conversations at home he described the American way of life in a favourable way and in several newspaper articles he also wrote about it at length. 

"I began to see things differently after his execution. I was told to never refer to him, to the only father I ever really knew, to the man who brought me up and who I loved. I was told to toe the line, to behave and that I would stay alive and well.  

"So, yes, it was a fascinating life. It was both spellbinding and repellent to be near the top. I most likely wouldn't want to do it again. I might instead choose to have a husband, three children, a small apartment, not a mansion, and live among people who love me, not among those to whom I was just a slave." 

She continued to eat, in small portions with small sips of the wine. There was a little more silence which I broke. "Nina, when we entered Gundel the other evening, the waiter's face turned sour when he saw you. What is the story there?" 

Nina smiled and said, "Many of the parties I attended, as the food taster of my boss, were held at the Gundel and the man we saw was often there. Some of those evenings ended in major drunkenness and he was associating me with all that. On occasion the serving staff were annoyed, humiliated, ordered about. Maybe I should have explained to him that my presence was never voluntary and maybe he wouldn't have believed me. When my memoirs are published, in about a couple of years, he will forgive me." 

"You mentioned that there had been several attempts at your life. Have you any inkling who and why?" I asked.  

"No, not really. I am guessing my former employers think that I know too much about them. They are actually correct, I do. I know about their cheating, about their corruption, about their double-dealing, back stabbing and they might well think that I am writing about them. They would be right, I do know their dirt and I will tell all. What they might not know is that each page I write is immediately and automatically deposited in a Swiss lawyer's office. Also, I have a publisher, and an agreement to publish everything, whether finished or not, whether I am alive or not. No proof, but my attempted murderers were the former bigwigs or at least their current slaves." The roast fowl was now approaching us, and again, the presentation was superb, reinforcing my belief that the appearance of food is as important as its taste. The butler poured the red wine, we ate and Heather, who was quiet so far, complimented the lady for her efforts. The food was exceptional and the wines were exceptional. So was the company. Heather also said how enthralling she found Nina's story.  

"Now you see the need for the body-guards. The two young men were the sons of a former colleague whose life I saved. My guards would give their lives for me. I feel safe with them. They are with me all the time."  

"Is that story for sharing?" I asked, itching to get the details of how and why she saved the life of someone. Did she save several people? She thought a minute, and smiled a little. 

"No names will be mentioned here but the story is one of the chapters in my book. The colleague was the masseur, my friend, the only one allowed to touch the big guys. He was happily married and had two sons, my guards. You must have had massages in your life and you know that on occasion, parts that should not be touched, might be touched by accident, embarrassing the masseurs and masseuses. A dignified foreign visitor, a Communist also, was offered a massage by his host. At first he balked at having to appear naked in the massage room. He became enraged when his rear end was being massaged. He denounced my friend who was in turn accused of embarrassing the People's Republic and of being a homosexual. He was to be executed. I talked to his accuser in private and offered a night of pleasure in exchange for my friend's life. The offer was accepted. My friend retired in dignity. I gained two dedicated bodyguards." 

By this time we were at the desserts. Heather chose the floating islands, her favourite. I was torn because both tiramisu and chestnut pur\u00e9e were on offer and I loved them both equally. I chose tiramisu, not wishing to make the butler wait while I considered the pros and cons of each. Nina passed but asked for espressos for all of us, along with glasses of cognac. Lucky for us, the portions were truly not excessive and as she predicted, there was space for all. We would have enlarged stomachs as a result, but not to an unacceptable degree. I trusted that my clothes would still fit in the morning. Everything was delicious so the damage would be worth it in any case. 

I decided to try something here, a long shot, a very long shot. I asked the old lady, "Did you ever come across a Major Markus, a Secret Service officer, while you were the food taster?" She looked at me and turned pale. I saw the gears turning before she responded, and her tone was a bit sharp and tight. 

"Why?" 

"I suspect that she was responsible for all that I was put through, here in Budapest and in Yekaterinburg. I know her now as Colonel Hegedus or Mrs. Williams. She told me, while she was trying to force me to commit murder, that she and her colleagues were going to re-establish the Communist dictatorship here." 

"Yes, I know the bitch. I hated her and still do. She used to boast about her technique in getting confessions. She used to laugh her head off as she related the reactions of her victims to pain. I overheard a conversation about her a long time ago, which I probably wasn't meant to hear. Her mental stability was questioned by one of her superiors. There was to be an investigation and as part of it, she was to be subjected to a set of tests, mostly to find out if she was deranged. I didn't know if the tests were ever administered and if they were, I have no idea what they found. She remained at her post and she continued to enjoy her job." 

I pushed my luck a little further.  

"Have you ever met a General Komlos?" 

Her whole expression changed now and she was looking at me, unblinking for a whole minute. She was suddenly wary and still white. A few minutes passed and the colour didn't return to her face and I noted that her hands were again trembling a little. She took a sip of the cognac which she was very careful not to spill when replacing the snifter on the table.  

Then she said, still pale, "Yes, why not continue. Yes, I know him. He was in charge of all Secret Service interrogators, so in fact he was Major Markus's superior. He wasn't a kind man. As far as I know, he is still around, not in hiding. There have been several attempts on his life, none successful as he is most capable of defending himself. He carries two loaded revolvers at all times. I avoided being in the same room with him, if I could. I was terrified of him. Still am. I don't want to talk about him any more." 

"Nina, forgive me but I must ask you something else. You know my story, you know about the kidnapping, poisoning, torture and the planned Communist takeover. Both the Major, or as I know her, Colonel Hegedus or Mrs. Williams and the General were deeply involved in all of this. I am taking the case to the police for submission to the prosecutors, and potentially to court. Since you are familiar with both individuals, you may have to be involved. I am asking your permission to disclose your familiarity with these people in my submission to the police. What do you think?" I told my hostess with a bit of regret because I didn't want to cause any trouble for her. She looked at me now, again saying nothing and I couldn't interpret her expression, I didn't know if permission would be given or not. The silence was growing.  

I saw that there was more here and that her memories about the General were not pleasant. I was curious but it would have been unfair to press her further. I also saw that she was suddenly exhausted. Heather and I exchanged the "time to leave" glance. We thanked her, praised the food and the company, and asked permission to keep in touch. She gave permission and her eagerness to stay in touch implied that her social life wasn't excessive. The tour of the house was postponed, hopefully not cancelled. She was a unique person with a unique history and we looked forward to our next meeting. Hugs and kisses followed and we departed in a taxi called by the butler. As we left in the cab, I looked around but saw nothing suspicious or disturbing. I kept checking as we drove home, but saw nobody following us. When home, I checked the motion detectors and found that nobody had entered the apartment. I called Ms. Sackam again, as agreed, apologized for waking her up and told her that all was in order. We could sleep at ease. Dr. Kondrachik agreed to testify about the poison in my system earlier. Her unwillingness to respond directly to my request about testifying regarding the General and the Colonel was bothersome, though.

CHAPTER 14

Dr. Lengyel arranged for the next visit to the Chief of Detectives. The objective was to convince him to submit my documents to the prosecutor and to recommend that legal action be initiated. The meeting was set and all three of us were to go, the lawyer, Heather and I. I was pleased to have the extra brains and ears, and during the debriefing, the extra impressions, as well. Detective Rakossy welcomed us with warm handshakes and his body language indicated that he read the submission and was favourably disposed to continue with us. The atmosphere was pleasant, welcoming, hot espresso was served, cool water was available.  

The Chief said, "Professor, your submission was well done. I read your documents twice and I agree that crimes may have been committed. Your allegations should be examined and evaluated more carefully by professionals. You anticipated my questions and addressed them well. I am prepared to recommend to the Office of the Prosecutor that formal proceedings should start as soon as possible and that the two main participants, General Komlos and Colonel Hegedus be located, questioned, potentially arrested and charged. At this point the charges could include kidnapping, incitement to murder and conspiracy against the state. The charges will, of course, have to be substantiated in open court. I trust that more detailed investigation will uncover enough evidence to convince a fair minded prosecutor to recommend going to court." 

I was pleased and I felt good. Maybe I would be avenged. Maybe this ordeal would end by exonerating me, acknowledging that I am still sane. Also, the process might inconvenience my enemies. The Chief continued. 

"I sent your documents to the prosecutor yesterday and I asked that this case be given priority, mostly in light of the possible international repercussions. I asked for a meeting within a week and the prosecutor agreed. Your lawyer, you and your wife were asked to be present, as well. My only request: in the next little while, when you are out late at night, don't walk in deserted streets and please always take taxis." 

We already knew that we weren't loved by the Colonel and her associates. Actually, the curious thing was why we hadn't been hurt already, why we hadn't been followed, contacted and threatened. Maybe they didn't know what we were doing. Or, as I already thought in Yekaterinburg, it was possible that they were truly only amateurs. They might be unable to imagine that the majority don't think as they do, and would never again accept a bloody dictatorship. Or, were they so blind and arrogant and so certain of their aims that others just simply didn't matter? Probably I would never know the answers and they actually didn't matter very much either. 

A message was waiting at home. We were to meet the prosecutor, in her office, in two days, sooner than expected. Be ready for more questions. The decision whether to go ahead or not would be made then and there. The excitement was growing. I called to bring my Canadian journalist contact up-to-date.

Dr. Lengyel and I anticipated that my good luck would continue and the prosecutor would agree to pursue the case. We began detailed preparations for the trial which could start soon. Efficiency was a must. A strategy had to be developed. A list of witnesses needed to be assembled. All of them needed to be contacted and they needed to be informed of the timetable. All important witnesses had to be interviewed prior to the case. Some needed to be prepared carefully, especially the older ones, those whose lives were spent mostly under Communism when the courts were not independent of the Communist Party. They might well be afraid to speak freely. Some, who valued their total independence and wished to present their testimony as they saw fit and didn't want interference from lawyers, might not agree to a pre-trial discussion at all. We needed to use our judgment very carefully with the latter group, considering how valuable or damaging their unedited words might turn out.  

The prosecution witnesses were many. Some of their addresses were known but some were not. The unknowns needed to be located and this would require some serious digging. We assembled a list, to be submitted to the court on the first day, to indicate how long our case might take. Lucky us, we had the right to add new witnesses as long as we explained their importance and why we hadn't included them in the first submission. We had to anticipate that the defence would object to them all and we needed to be ready to counter their objections.

The list of our witnesses:

* Alessandra Brucotti, consultant to the Minister of Internal Security; she will tell how she let me go from my first detention;

* Jay Clay, theatrical agent; he will talk about the video shoot, arranged by a Canadian gentleman;

* John Lederer;

* The three men, steel workers, who accused me of murder during the first interrogation by the Colonel; they would describe their role;

* Dr. Howther, the official at Foreign Affairs, Canada; he will tell how I fell through the cracks; 

* Ms. Christina Sackam, the official at the Canadian Consulate and Embassy; she will tell of my arrival at the Canadian Consulate and that she arranged for my flight home to Waterloo;

* Detective Holloway, the Canadian detective; he will talk of the Colonel's visit to Waterloo and her departure to Cuba;

* Tamas Kossuth, my saviour, the taxi driver; he will describe how he picked me up and drove me to the Canadian Consulate;

* Robert Verne, the stud, alleged husband of the Colonel; he will tell about his marriage to the Colonel;

* Mary Taylor, the friendly waitress in my favourite cafe; she will relate how she watched as I was knocked out and kidnapped in front of her cafe;

* Lola; she will describe her activities in Yekaterinburg and why she helped my daughter and I to escape;

* Dr. Nina Kondrachik, the biochemist\/physician; she will tell about the poison she identified in my system. If she agrees, she will mention the General and the Colonel and how she got to know them.

We were on time to see the prosecutor. Chief Rakossy, Dr. Lengyel, and the two of us were ready and anticipated a brief but efficient meeting. On the way Dr. Lengyel told me that the prosecutor was, just like Chief Rakossy, one of the good guys wearing the white hat. If she believed that serious crimes had been committed, nothing would stop her. 

The office we entered was in an old, venerable building and the surprise was the date of the last renovation. It was very long ago, surely well before Communism expired. The place was clean but the paint was peeling, the elevator doors squeaked in dire need of lubrication, and the furniture needed new upholstery badly. The next surprise, actually a shock, was the appearance of the prosecutor. We were introduced to a very tall, skin-and-bone lady, pale, almost chalk white. Her name was Woronsky, indicating a possible Polish or Ukrainian background. She wasn't smiling. In fact she looked highly disturbed. She was perspiring, grim and preoccupied, and I saw Chief Rakossy's reaction. He looked alarmed.  

We stood in Woronsky's office waiting to be asked to sit down but instead, devastating news was delivered, in a loud voice that betrayed the prosecutor's major inner turmoil.  

"Just get the hell out of my office. Now. Move and make it fast. This case will not go any further. There will be no investigation, there will be no court case. There were no crimes committed, no conspiracy, no torture, no poisoning. Get the fuck out of here, all of you and don't come back, don't call, forget all this fucking garbage."  

We stood in shock. Chief akossy was the first to move. He was, in fact, pushing us toward the door and Woronsky was staring into space and appeared not to see us. She was highly distressed and was holding on to the edge of her desk, trembling, barely able to stand. 

"Just move fast please, we'll talk outside," said the Chief. There wasn't much to do but go and hope that things would be clarified in the future somehow. As we exited, Rakossy stepped out on the sidewalk first and indicated to us to wait a second. All of us were bewildered a bit, not knowing what was going on. R\u00e1kossy's driver pulled up and he motioned us to get in. The car, a limo actually, wasn't large and we were a bit crushed, still speechless. We were driving toward the Chief's office. He was silent as we all were, trying to absorb what had just happened.  

Once in his conference room Rakossy said, "I have never seen Woronsky in a state like that. She has always been a rock, unflappable, strong, solid. Something very disturbing must have happened to her. She'll let me know. Neither I nor anyone else has ever heard her use profanity and I take that as a distress call. She needs our help. She knows to turn to me first. Just wait here, her message will not be long." As he spoke, I saw one of his secretaries slamming down the receiver of his phone and rushing toward us. He was pale, barged in without knocking and yelled, almost out of control. 

"Prosecutor Woronsky has been taken to a hospital. She collapsed in her office and appears to have suffered a major stroke. She is unconscious, in intensive care. The paramedic in the ambulance said that before she lost consciousness she mumbled your name." 

"I want a 24-hour police guard at her hospital room, starting an hour ago," said Rakossy. "Also, I want her room, her office and her telephones checked for bugs, ASAP. I want the names of all people who called her or contacted her in any manner in the last four weeks, at her office and at home. I want a 24-hour guard at her home as well, also starting an hour ago. Go to see her husband and ask to see any mail received during the last four weeks. Bring them all to me. Go now," he told his secretary. The young man understood the urgency, moved fast and was on the phone within 30 seconds, issuing instructions.  

"I must go to the hospital," said the Chief. "I want to be the first person she sees when she wakes up. If she wakes up. I will be in touch." As he rushed out, he turned back and said, "Check your apartment for bugs. Don't use your telephone, use a public telephone if you must call." He was leaving us. We were still in shock. Something important happened, and we were not in the loop. We could be in some danger. Dr. Lengyel was trying hard to remain calm but she was also rattled. When she left I realized that we hadn't discussed how we would keep in contact.

 At home we waited, not quite knowing what to make of recent events. Had they begun the counterattack? Had they chosen the prosecutor as the weakest link? I checked everything in the apartment for bugs, used the electronic sweeper which James and I bought, thank goodness for our foresight. I found no bugs. The motion detectors indicated no entry. The phone looked untouched, so unless the line outside had been tampered with, my phone was clear and secure. The cell-phone was digital and it came with the strongest guarantees that it couldn't be tapped. It cost enough so it should be OK to use. Still, wait for Rakossy.  

His knock at the door came late at night. We were still awake. Sleep and rest were impossible. He entered and didn't speak but his eyes indicated a question and I reassured him. No bugs had been located. Still no sound out of him as he pulled out his own sweeper, walked around and smiled a little when he confirmed my results.  

"When I left the hospital, Woronsky was still out. I went to talk to her husband and I found him hysterical. Their three-year old daughter was kidnapped this morning. The little girl was in her kindergarten when a woman simply walked in and before anybody noticed what was going on, she picked up Klara and walked out. The staff ran after her but by then she was driving away. Nobody noticed the license number but she was driving a brand new silver Mercedes. Of course, the police were notified right away. So far there are no clues, no notes, no calls, no request for ransom. Mr. Woronsky called his wife immediately. She received the news just as we were arriving at her office." 

"Is there a description of the woman?" I asked. 

"Yes, one of the nurses gave a fairly good description and based on that I assumed with some certainty that the kidnapper was Colonel Hegedus." He paused, took my offer of a drink, sipped it, got impatient, threw it back in one gulp and continued.  

"Now I think it is open war. Of course, we can't do anything that endangers the little girl. We must get her back and I ordered all cases to be dropped and all leaves cancelled. All detectives are to work full time, no breaks, no time off, until the girl is safe." 

"Chief Rakossy, you might not have noticed but on the last page of my report there is the Colonel's address which I found a little while ago. I suggest going there now, just you and I, without the cavalry. I am sure that we will find the little girl there," I told the Chief.  

He said simply, "Let's go," but then stopped and said, "Just a minute here. How qualified are you to go on a police mission?" 

"I don't intend to carry a gun," I told the Chief. Briefly I assured him though that my background as a covert operator might well be sufficient here. The news about that part of my past came as a major surprise to the detective and I was sure he would ask for details later. Right now there was only one objective, rescue the child.  

"You park some distance away from her house. I will approach on foot, openly, and knock on the door. It's late so she will not be expecting anybody. She's not a professional kidnapper and I think she might be desperate after my daughter and I escaped from Yekaterinburg and got back here. I also suspect that she is not very shrewd. She will answer my knock and will open the door. I might have to play it by ear from then on.  

"Please keep your ears open. If you hear shots or yelling, come to my rescue." I saw with some surprise that the Chief approved but that was what I hoped for. We got into his car, not the official limo but a small Skoda and off we went. Driving was easy, it was late evening and there wasn't much traffic on the streets. We arrived at the Colonel's apartment house and the Chief parked so that his car wasn't visible from any of the windows. I got out and saw the silver Mercedes parked by the curb, so the Chief's hunch was correct. The Colonel was the kidnapper. The building's main door was wedged open so I could enter. I got to the lady's flat on the first floor. I knocked on her door, as violently as she did when she wanted entry to my house in Waterloo. There was no spy-hole on the door. She opened up in a few seconds. She apparently was in bed already, she was wearing her pyjamas and didn't even bother to put on a housecoat. She must have been expecting somebody else. Someone she knew well and intimately. It was evident that she felt safe and couldn't even imagine that anybody would catch up with her so soon. Her actress-training deserted her when she saw me and she couldn't hide her shock. I didn't wait for her to recover, pushed the door open without a word and when it was closed behind me I said, calm and quiet, "Now I need your help, Colonel."  

The reaction was unexpected and I should have learned by now not to anticipate this lady's actions. She punched me hard in the chest, I staggered a bit, and she simply turned and ran, bolted through the balcony door, jumped over the railing and was out of sight instantly. She was fast and I didn't intend to follow as my only objective was to rescue the prosecutor's daughter. Luck was with me again as I found her sleeping peacefully in the Colonel's bed. There was a crude ransom note, unfinished, made up of letters cut from various newspapers. All it said was, "No police or your daughter will...," and there were several more letters cut out and waiting to be glued. I left the note, the letters and the pair of scissors for the investigators. 

Knowing that little Klara's father would be desperate, I called him immediately on my cell-phone. He responded before the first ring ended and when I told him the good news he couldn't stop crying. I told him that his most important person was safe, unharmed and would be home in the next 30 minutes.  

The little girl didn't even wake when I took her gently in my arms and walked with her fast toward the Chief's car. I didn't wish to meet whoever the Colonel might have been expecting. I hoped not to be interrupted by anybody. I also hoped that the Colonel was running away in the opposite direction.  

I noticed that when the Chief saw me with the girl, he was picking up his phone and by the time I got to his car, he was talking to the overnight nurse. The prosecutor was still not out of coma but she was responding more and more and the physicians were now quite certain of recovery with minimal or no lasting damage.  

I told Rakossy that the lady opened her door very fast, and that she was probably expecting somebody else, that she ran, almost in a panic when I confronted her. She appeared not to carry her phone so most likely whoever was coming to visit hadn't been warned yet. The Chief called and ordered two police cars to watch the lady's house, front and back. The cars were to be unmarked.  

We drove to deliver the child home and since she was still sleeping, the whole episode might become just a bad dream for her. She would wake up in her father's arms. He called while we were on our way to say that his wife was slowly waking up. He asked us to drive the baby to the hospital. He wanted his wife to see the little girl when she opened her eyes. Of course, the Chief obliged.  

The Chief told me, "I will drive you home directly. Come to my office first thing tomorrow. We need to talk and I need your opinion on how to proceed." I had one more item for tonight though, while I was with Chief R\u00e1kossy.  

"Just one more thing, Chief. Let me call Robert, the spurned and discarded lover of the Colonel. I am guessing that she is running to him as we speak. If I am right, she will be there in about 30 minutes, as Robert lives downtown in Pest. She was wearing her pyjamas so she would run on dark side streets." The Chief agreed and actually thought this was a good idea.  

I placed the call, woke the poor guy up, and told him possibly to expect a visitor. I told him about the kidnapping and I warned him that the lady needed him for temporary shelter only and when he was not needed any longer, he should expect to be discarded again. Not to fall for the lady in distress, which I predicted she would play out superbly. I asked Robert to ring my cell phone once and hang up if and when the Colonel arrived. I told him that she was now a fugitive and the police wouldn't look kindly on anyone sheltering and hiding her. 

He agreed and promised to call but I couldn't tell if he fully believed me or that he grasped the danger of not cooperating. There wasn't much to do but wait.  

Meanwhile the Chief sent a message to all cruisers to watch out for a woman, in her pyjamas, running and probably hiding if she were to see the lights of a car. Not to apprehend but watch and follow, on foot or in the car, as appropriate.  

The Chief drove me home, where Heather was still up. Debriefing took a little while. My wife went back to sleep. I was waiting for Robert's call. Not wishing to disturb my lady's sleep, I sat in the living room and closed the door to the bedroom. 

I fell asleep. I woke suddenly to someone banging violently on the front door and when I staggered, barely awake, to the spyhole I saw the furious face of the General who was still banging. I heard him swearing viciously. I grabbed the baseball bat and swung the door open as fast as I could but I underestimated the man. The speed of his reflexes was remarkable. He was in the room fast, impressive for a man of his age, as he was considerably older than I was. The gun in his hand was aimed directly at the middle of my forehead. Dropping the bat appeared to be good policy at this point. I dropped it at the closed bedroom door. It fell with a bang. The intruder's face still showed anger but there was the beginning of a smirk, as well, growing when he saw me give up my weapon. He was coming toward me slowly and I was backing away, toward one of the arm chairs, and now his back was toward the bedroom door which he seemed not to have noticed. I sat in the chair. He was standing over me and he still hadn't said a word. The extended arm and the gun were steady, and the smirk was now fully formed. He seemed to be enjoying himself. I had guns pointed at me in the past but then I was considerably younger and managed, so far, not to be shot. If you don't panic, there are really only two ways to face a man with a gun. Fight back and risk getting hurt or show how frightened you are and let him be the boss. The latter approach usually gets the potential victim some time and possibly a greater chance of escape. I didn't know what the General wanted, but if he wanted me dead, he would have shot me already. I decided to play scared and I saw that he was used to that. He must have executed people in his heyday, many of them, so the present situation wasn't new to him.  

I needed to defuse the situation just to live a little longer so I asked, "General, I know you will kill me. But before you do, tell me, why me? Why did your compatriots subject me to all the misery? Why the scam at the airport? Why try to make me into a killer? Why chase us from Kiev? Why kill the guy who gave me a fake passport?" 

The General looked so smug that my earlier thoughts came back. He and his people were amateurs. They really had no clue what they got themselves into. They had neither a plan, nor a strategy.  

"Yes, Professor, you are going to die. You know too much and you are causing us trouble. I will shoot you with pleasure. You can see that there is a silencer at the end of the barrel. Nobody will hear the shot and I will simply walk out of here. But I grant you your last wish, so nobody can ever say that I am a cruel person. You were chosen first, because three totally reliable, Communist witnesses identified you as the bastard that pushed Comrade Lomonoszov into the hot steel, almost half a century ago. He was the uncle of Colonel Hegedus and she wanted to exact her revenge. You were to be put on trial for your crime and hanged.  

"The plan changed when you escaped. We know that Brucotti helped you, and don't for a moment think that she is going to get away with that. You were going to kill an innocent cab driver, and as the citizen of a western capitalist country, you as the brutal murderer were to ignite the now-suppressed visceral hatred of the west. A revolution would turf out the current corrupt and totally incompetent far right wing, capitalist, imperialist, fascist government. That was to be the time for my people to overrun the Parliament building and for me to be named President of the country." 

He was totally crazy, of course. I had never in my life heard of such an idiotic plan. Did he not know how the citizens hated and despised the Communist regime? He positively glowed now in expectation of the kill and he was raising his gun when the bedroom door was opening slowly and silently behind him. He was so involved with his revolver and thinking of the enjoyment the next few moments would bring that he didn't hear Heather moving behind him. Heather was raising a brass candlestick and hit him over his left ear, then picked up the baseball bat and swung it at the poor guy's knees, which cracked loudly, and were probably broken. He was now on the floor, writhing, screaming and blood was pouring from his ear. He was clutching his head, he dropped his gun to the floor which I now picked up and the danger was past. It was time to call Chief Rakossy, get the guy arrested, charged, interrogated, and removed from among those who wanted to harm the Lederers. After a major hug we breathed easier, our heartbeats slowed and our blood pressures dropped. We couldn't, of course, drop our vigilance just yet, though I looked forward to the time when we could have a good restful sleep. If and when this was over maybe even Jake and Tamara would join us in our plans to visit an often-thought-about high-class spa. Rest, massage, mud-packs, facials, manicures, pedicures, hairdos, healthful foods and sunshine for all of us.  

I made the call, the detectives arrived along with a couple of paramedics, gave first aid to the now totally disabled and demoralized General and carted him away. No need for handcuffs, the guy was destroyed, physically and mentally. Nothing like this had ever happened to him and he seemed not quite to comprehend just what went on here. The smirk was gone. We threw out the bloody carpet. We didn't want to see it or touch it again.  

Robert called me early next morning to describe the Colonel's visit. He was grateful for my call which gave him some time to prepare. He predicted what she would do as soon as she arrived. She knew that a public claim of having been raped would scare most men and that was exactly what he expected her to do. Screaming "rape" loud enough would be sufficient. He was ready to hear the screams. He got fully dressed and went to wait by the window. He rang my cell-phone as agreed and called the police, just in time, as soon as he saw the pyjama-clad runner turn the corner on his street.  

He didn't open the door when the banging started and instead watched the lady through his spy-hole as she was undoing the top three buttons of her pyjamas. Opening the door was like opening the flood-gates. The Colonel burst in, sobbing, panting, arms outstretched to hug him, one breast almost completely uncovered, and barely managed not to fall when Robert backed away. 

She recovered fast and gasped, out of breath, "I know I hurt you, my dear, my angel, my love forever, let me explain. I need your help desperately, I have nobody to turn to, please I beg you, help me, hide me, love me," and as Robert confided to me, he was lucky to have called the police. He thought of how exciting "just one more quickie" would have been, for old-times sake. The police arrived and knocked just at that time. 

His prediction was, of course, correct. The police officers identified themselves through the door as they knocked and the Colonel threw off her top immediately and started screaming "rape", her lung power undiminished, the neighbours be damned. Lucky for him, he was dressed. The officers, probably out of male solidarity, chose to ignore his perfectly visible glandular reaction to the semi-naked lady. The Colonel was asked to put on her top, which she did a little reluctantly, and was arrested and taken away.

I was going to be in Chief Rakossy's office first thing next morning. Instead of sleep I turned on some music, and using the headphones I blasted Beethoven's 5th through my brain to block out all other thoughts and not wake up Heather. I accompanied the music with a snifter of cognac, and fell asleep during the second movement but woke up for the thunderous finale.

Once at his office in the morning, the Chief motioned me to enter and I was pleased a little when I saw that the dark patches under his eyes matched mine. His face was lined and appeared tired but his eyes indicated good news. While he was on the phone he was writing me a note, bringing me up-to-date on the kidnapping and the return of the prosecutor's little girl. He wrote that the prosecutor was awake, she was hugging her little princess at this time, no lasting damage had occurred and my case was going to trial for sure. The kidnapping was the last straw. The prosecutor was to be discharged that afternoon and was going straight to her office, under guard of course, along with her whole family, including her son, now studying at a British university. She decided on the charges the General and the Colonel will face. These include the plan to overthrow the Hungarian Government. As well, kidnapping and incitement to murder may be added. 

"I have further good news for you, Professor," said the Chief, beaming, when the call was over. He was confirming what I already heard from Robert. 

"You will be pleased to know that Colonel Hegedus was apprehended and is now in custody. Naturally, I informed the Canadian Consulate immediately but all they asked was to be kept abreast of the situation." I was pleased indeed, but was I safe? The two leaders were in jail but the General's people, his soldiers, were still roaming free and they could still cause me some inconvenience. The Chief continued. 

"As you said, the lady ran to Robert's apartment. One of my cruisers located her a few blocks from there, followed her, watched her enter and waited a few minutes during which Robert's call was received. He called the emergency number when he saw the woman approaching. The two detectives then moved toward the apartment, knocked and at that point the door was flung open. The Colonel attempted to dash out, wearing only her pyjama bottoms, screaming on the top of her voice, 'He attacked me, help, rape!' with Robert standing there, fully dressed and looking a little bit dazed and confused. She was stopped, her top was put on and she was arrested after being informed of the charge, kidnapping the prosecutor's daughter.  

"She became quite calm and asked to be driven home to get dressed. She took several sets of clothing, a suitcase of make-up, soap, shampoo, apparently thinking, quite correctly, that she would spend some time away from home. She was then driven to the central jail and fingerprinted, searched and booked. She is there now. I left strict instructions with the wardens that she is to be treated well as a lady, which she may or may not be. She is to be allowed to clean up, apply make-up, exercise, as she wishes. Later today she will face me for the first interrogation."

I recalled the warning of Detective Holloway about using the information on the Colonel's past. He told me at the time, quite correctly, that his informal channels were never to be publicized. Here and now, however, was the need for the details of her life.  

I excused myself and from the Police Department's cafeteria I called Detective Holloway to relate the current state of affairs and my needs. He reminded me that his information about the Colonel wasn't obtained through legal channels and mustn't be used. I needed to heed his caution, not wishing to jeopardize a possible conviction. He advised me to suggest to Rakossy to approach Interpol to get the information. He was right, of course.  

Back to the Chief's office where he was standing by the fax machine, which was spewing out pages and pages, quite fast, much faster than the machines I was used to. He waved to me but didn't turn. When the sheaf of papers was out and the machine stopped whirring, he turned. 

"Give me a few minutes, Professor. I must read these pages before I begin questioning the Colonel." He pointed to a chair by the window and gave me a copy of this morning's Budapest Sun, an English language publication, aimed at tourists. Also, he asked for an espresso to be brought to me, and I was grateful for his attention to my addiction to caffeine.  

I read and waited and sipped, the Chief read and I saw that he was a speed-reader, something I was never able to learn. He finished reading and went back to the first page to start again. His face was relaxed and he looked satisfied with the information he read. When finished, he turned toward me and I was just about ready to mention Interpol. 

"Guess what I just read. No, I will tell you before you guess. I just read the details of the Colonel's life, or at least, most of it. The information came from Interpol, and I am grateful for their speed as I only requested the file at about midnight. Our Colonel had quite a past. Let me give you the main points." 

Maybe I underestimated R\u00e1kossy. Of course, I couldn't tell him that I knew, I had to let him tell me and he proceeded. The information was exactly the same as I was given by the Canadian detective. I was quite sure these two would get along famously.  

Chief Rakossy allowed me to watch the session with the Colonel from behind a one-way mirror. Probably wisely, he didn't agree to allow me to question the lady. He said with a smirk that he thought I might be biased. I commandeered a comfortable chair, asked a sergeant to bring me a bottle of water - it seemed that the officers accepted me as an almost colleague - and sat and waited on the other side. The room wasn't what I was used to from TV shows. It was well and tastefully furnished, not just a bare table and two wooden chairs. Two large, comfortably padded armchairs were placed around a low coffee table. Tasteful carpets on the floor and modern paintings on the wall gave the impression of a private club. Fresh flowers were on the table. There had to be listening and video-recording devices, but they weren't visible. It was evidently designed to put the accused at ease. I recalled the room I was in when first detained by the Colonel. That was also furnished tastefully. 

I wasn't surprised when Hegedus walked in to see her dress-to-kill appearance. She wasn't handcuffed. She was wearing her navy power suit, perfectly ironed, the quiet, authoritative elegance was there and she appeared to be outraged at her predicament. She was led to one of the armchairs where she sat down and was even more annoyed when she noticed that she was there alone and was made to wait.  

Chief Rakossy arrived in 20 minutes, carrying a thick set of files. He smiled at her in greeting and extended his hand for a shake. The lady didn't move and didn't accept the extended hand which stayed in the air for a few seconds. The Chief seemed unperturbed by this, continued to smile and sat down in the other armchair. The lady now began to speak in a slow, quiet, threatening manner. Her steely eyes were flashing. Her voice was furious. The Chief listened politely and attentively. 

"I am Mrs. Williams, a Canadian citizen. You harassed me. You arrested me when it was clear that I was assaulted and raped and your goons ignored my request for help. I was handcuffed, fingerprinted, body searched and humiliated. How do you dare do this to me? I demand that you let me leave immediately!" 

The Chief of Detectives didn't respond. His face was impassive. It was clear that he heard the tirade but now he picked up his files, opened the one on the top and began to read, ignoring the Colonel completely.  

Silence was on, but in a few seconds the Colonel suddenly bellowed, "Have you heard me?" and the Chief continued to read the files. He frowned at one of the pages saying, "Oh Oh," then reread it once more. Then he said, quietly, clearly enjoying the moment, "Pardon, my dear, what did you say?" 

It was quite obvious that his objective was to cause disequilibrium and he was succeeding. He understood, of course, that the lady was innocent until proven guilty. He also knew that the theory and the practice often differed. If I was treated this way I would also be upset and would claim justly that the theory was being ignored. When I saw it applied to Williams\/Hegedus, I rejoiced.  

The Colonel now roared, her fury at full tilt, eroding the lady-image, "You know fucking well what I said. I am not your dear. Get me out of here, now, immediately. Get off your ass and do it!"  

Here, the Chief used the age-old put down and said quietly, "I love your perfume," and the result was shouting and yelling that almost frightened me on the safe side of the mirror. Rakossy now put down the files and began to speak, still quietly, even while the Colonel was shouting. 

"In this first interview I need to establish your real identity. I need to know your exact name, marital status, names and addresses of family members, your address and citizenship. I very much hope to get these out of the way in a civilized manner. You are free to have your lawyer here. You may ask to postpone this discussion until you arrange for a counsellor. You may call for one. For your information, I contacted the Canadian Consulate and informed them of your arrest. They asked to be kept informed. I am asking you now to please cooperate." 

The Colonel wished not to cooperate and let it be known by another string of invectives, profanities, shouting and table thumping. She refused the offer of a lawyer, roaring that she wasn't a criminal. The Chief ignored all these and I was amazed at his total control. He didn't interrupt the tirade. 

"Are you Mrs. Williams or Colonel Hegedus?" and when there was no answer just a cold stare, he said, "I will call you Mrs. Williams as I couldn't establish which organization you claim to be a Colonel of. Unless, of course, you want to clarify this point," and the first miracle of the day was about to be witnessed.  

The lady sat up straight and spoke, calmly and quietly, "I am Colonel Hegedus, of the Hungarian Secret Service. You will address me as Colonel. You will show me the respect my rank demands."  

The Chief looked amused for a second but quickly regained his poker face and said, "Mrs. Williams, the Secret Service you were part of has been disbanded. You may have been a Colonel in the old service and if I were you, I wouldn't be so proud of having belonged to that organization. You are lucky not to have been indicted for some of the very-well documented cases in which you were involved. It is well known that you were not gentle with your charges. You are well advised to become and to remain Mrs. Williams. With these warnings, do you accept being Mrs. Williams?" 

"No, I most certainly do not. I am Colonel Hegedus. I don't negotiate my existence, my rank or my name," said the lady and looked defiantly at her interrogator. The muscles under her left eye began to show a slight tremor.  

The Chief shrugged his shoulders and said, "Please recall that as you entered this room, you identified yourself as Mrs. Williams, a Canadian citizen. You remember this, of course," and the lady stared back at the Chief, her expression totally blank.  

"Maybe you wish to clarify a possible mistaken identity now. On the wall of photos in the House of Terror there is a picture of a Major Markus who looks very much like you. Is that your photo? Were you ever called by that name?" There was a long silence and another blank stare. Then came the response. 

"I officially changed my name to Hegedus in 1989." 

"All right, Mrs. Williams, when this is over you may thank me for calling you by your married name. By the way when and where exactly were you married to Mr. Williams? How old were you? Have you children?" 

It was beginning to be clear to the former Colonel that cooperation was easier. Chalk one up for the Chief. She appeared ready to answer some of his questions.  

"I married Winer in Saskatoon, Canada, when I was 16. I am still married to him. He took my name, Williams. He lives in that city now. I have a daughter, Lola, and she also lives in Saskatoon. She is working for a Children's Aid Society as a social worker. She is not married. She has no children." The Colonel unexpectedly produced a photo of herself and Williams, just married, standing side-by-side in front of a farmhouse and showed it proudly to the Chief. I was surprised that Lola was supposed to be in Saskatoon. The lady was mistaken about that as Lola was most certainly working at the airport in Budapest. 

"Thank you, madam," said the Chief, taking the photo and clearly appreciating the slightly easier, if not any warmer, atmosphere. "Where do you live now?"  

"You know the address very well, there is no need to ask stupid questions and waste my time," and the hostility had returned. Her voice was louder. The cease-fire was short-lived. Maybe the lady wanted to shake the Chief's calm, although I didn't think she would be successful. He continued in a matter-of-fact voice, calmly, ignoring the Colonel's protestations. 

"I have been re-reading your file, Colonel Hegedus or Mrs. Williams and I have some disturbing information. You were arrested and charged with kidnapping. What I was reading just now said that there are other, much more serious charges that will be brought against you, including some that involve other countries, international crimes. Do you know Professor Lederer?" 

"I am not a criminal, I am an officer of the Hungarian Secret Service, I am a Canadian citizen, you have no right to question me, to arrest me or to handcuff me. Release me immediately." Her voice was thunderous again and she was starting to stand up when the Chief suddenly shouted, at a volume that I would have been proud of in my heyday to settle an unruly class, "Sit the fuck down," and meekly and surprisingly the lady did as told. The tremor under her eye was now quite pronounced. The Chief noticed the quiver, of course. Periodically she looked up at one of the corners of the room, as if expecting some help from there. The detective continued, quietly now. 

"What did you want to achieve by kidnapping prosecutor Woronsky's daughter?" 

"What?" barked the Colonel. 

"Did you forget? The little girl that was found sleeping in your bed. Why was she there?" 

"What little girl? What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"What did you expect of Robert Verne?" 

"Who the hell is Robert Verne?" and the Colonel managed to convey that all this, the kidnapping, the run, Robert and her arrest simply didn't happen. She was calm now. It was possible that she was acting but I was beginning to suspect some mental imbalance. She kept looking up at the corner. The eye was twitching. The Chief now decided to switch the topic. He continued the questioning. 

"In addition to kidnapping, you are charged with leading a Communist cell whose intention was to re-establish the dictatorship of the proletariat. Do you admit that for the last several years that was the aim of your life?" 

The lady was now quiet for a few minutes, contemplating her fashionable shoes. Then she said, calm and quiet once again, and the Chief looked surprised at the unexpected turn of events, "Yes." 

"Do you know Professor Lederer?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you detain, interrogate, accuse, beat and humiliate Professor Lederer?" 

"No." 

"Did you have him poisoned and taken to Yekaterinburg?" 

"No." 

"Did you entice his daughter to Yekaterinburg, under patently false pretences?" 

"No." 

"Did you threaten him and his daughter with harm unless he killed a taxi driver?" 

"No." 

"Do you know General Komlos?" 

"Yes." 

"Did you conspire with him to engineer a return to Communism?" 

There were a few minutes of silence at this question. The Chief waited and looked directly at the lady, non-blinking. Then came the interesting reply.  

"I strongly object to the use of the word 'conspire'." 

"OK, I remove the word. Did you agree with the General to work toward the return of the Communist dictatorship?" 

"I strongly object to the use of the word 'dictatorship'." 

"OK, no dictatorship, just bring back Communism. Is this a better description of your activities with the General?" 

"Yes." 

"Where is the General now?" 

"Even if I knew I wouldn't tell you," was her defiant answer, said while the Colonel was avoiding eye contact and the message was that she knew very well where her colleague could be found. She couldn't know that her leader had been arrested the night before and was in a cell, very near where she was kept. She started banging the table with her fists, kicked her chair back, stood, and the deafening roar was back, along with a few flecks of saliva, some of which hit the Chief who, much to his credit, didn't flinch. 

"I order you motherfucker to let me out now, this fucking instant. You have no bloody right to hold me, to question me. I will smash your...," and the fury was over. The lady collapsed on the floor, but by the time the Chief was around the table to help her up, she stood, straightened her hair and sat down, as if nothing had happened.  

Was she schizophrenic? Had she bi-polar disorder? The sudden mood changes could be symptoms. The Chief continued. 

"Mrs. Williams, any cooperation on your part might work very well in your favour. It will have an effect on the judge, and if you are convicted, might well result in a reduced sentence. I strongly suggest that you tell us where General Komlos is now. I know that you know. We will find him, of course, with or without you. So pray, tell."  

All this was delivered by the Chief in the same soft, matter-of-fact voice as before, implying that he was really not concerned whether or not the lady delivered and that he was sure of finding his quarry in any case. A response from the lady would be more helpful to her than to him. The objective, of course, was to locate more of the General's army, some of whom might be where the General was holed up before his arrest. The Colonel stared into the air again, toward the ceiling and now I was unable to interpret her response. Was she thinking of telling or was she being defiant and ready to take the fall for her friend? Her face was turning pink. Sweat stains appeared under her arms and her forehead glistened. Maybe she was thinking of number 1, the survivor, maybe she wanted to continue to remain a survivor and spend less time in jail. Suddenly the ice broke and she said very softly, looking at her hands, "Four Seasons Hotel, Room 420."  

"Does he carry a weapon?" and the question caused the usual blank stare. No response.  

The Chief intended to finish the interview now and said, not unkindly, "Thank you. Your help will be acknowledged at the appropriate time. Further, I trust that you understand that even though you were explicitly warned and the presence of a lawyer was offered, that no lawyer was present and everything you said here has been recorded and may be used against you at your trial."  

The defiance and the anger flared up again, the threats and the snarl in her voice were back. "I don't give a fuck. But you are first on my list. We will meet again when our aims succeed. You won't have to wait long." 

Here the Chief closed the question and answer session, thanked the lady and extended his hand which was ignored again, as expected. He stood up and walked out and left the door open. Colonel Hegedus also stood and as she walked toward the door, a police officer entered and asked her to follow, back to detention. The lady wasn't pleased. I disappeared from my perch. Chief Rakossy caught me on his way to his office and suggested that the Colonel's daughter might well add some important information. He asked my help in locating her.

CHAPTER 15

During my visit in the pub a little while ago with the young people working at the airport, they told me that Lola was employed as a cleaner there, so I didn't expect any difficulty locating her. There were several items with which she might be very helpful. I needed to know how exactly she managed to be in the passport control booth when I arrived. As well, I needed to find out if she played any other part in my detention there. Her appearance in Yekaterinburg also needed an explanation. I had the impression, both at the airport and in Russia, that she was acting under some form of duress, and while this may have been in my imagination only, I needed to ascertain if I was right. Her help in our escape showed quite convincingly though that she was forced to play a role. 

The trip to the airport was easy and fast and a cooperative person with a mop in the Arrival's lounge told me where to find the lady. She was taking a break in the cleaners' canteen. The directions were clear, there was no need to go through doors marked "for authorized personnel only," and I found the canteen fast. It was a fairly large, bright room, with a picture window looking directly at the runways, always an impressive sight. There were a few ladies at one of the tables and I recognized Lola immediately. She looked up as I entered and I could tell that she recognized me, as well. She didn't look frightened or uncomfortable and after a few seconds, as I approached the table, the beginnings of a smile were visible on her face.  

She said a few words to her companions, stood up and motioned me to another table, far enough so we would be out of their hearing range. She greeted me like an old friend and hugged me. We sat down. She poured a cup of tea for me, brought me a few slices of lemon, sugar, spoon and a napkin. So far no words were spoken. She was still smiling, she looked welcoming and I was pleased and expected the discussion to be friendly and productive.  

"Good to see you again. It looks like your escape from Russia was successful. Let me guess why you are here, Professor and let me tell you that I expected you to come to see me for some time. I know that you looked for me before. I know that you had my photo and that my young colleagues recognized me. But before we go on, I repeat that I am pleased to see you here, in one piece and healthy. I see that you haven't been seriously damaged by your much too brief visit to Yekaterinburg." There was an impish smile on her face now but no regrets, no apology, and I saw a lady who was comfortable with herself, at peace and one with a good sense of humour. She continued. 

"I expect you might want to ask me what I was doing in the passport booth, why I interrogated you while wearing a mask, what I was doing in Yekaterinburg, what I think of the trial of the lady who claims to be my mother. Am I correct?" 

"Yes, you are, on all counts," I responded. The phrase "claims to be my mother" came as a surprise and I was looking forward to an explanation. Lola smiled and started her story directly.  

"Please be patient. This might take a little of your time. I'll begin with some background here which I think is necessary to explain my actions.  

"I was born when my mother, now Colonel Hegedus, was 14 years old. She wasn't married at the time. My father might have been a man called George Winer but that is just a guess, not even an educated guess. I was told that within a few days of my birth, my mother left me in a public toilet in Saskatoon and she disappeared. Luckily, I had powerful lungs and cried loud, and was saved by an unknown, a Good Samaritan, who I have never been able to find, though I tried and will continue to keep trying. I was placed in foster care where I was until I turned 12. I was told that I was a difficult child and that while there were potential adoptive families, after hearing of my rebellions and fights, nobody wanted me. I escaped from the foster home and lived on the streets. I worked as a young prostitute. I found a steady job when I turned 14. I looked much older by then, so nobody harassed me to go to school. I became a housekeeper in the mansion of a Hungarian couple. I learned to read and write properly and to speak Hungarian, as well. I worked there for almost 20 years and I loved my employers who adopted me and became my real parents. Through them I obtained Hungarian citizenship. They were kind, loving, thoughtful and helpful and when I gave birth to a little boy they were wonderful to me. They treated him as their genuine grandson. 

"They also tried to help me find my biological mother. Their search, however, yielded nothing. Advertisements in all Canadian and Hungarian newspapers, describing as much as was known about my birth, led nowhere. My foster parents didn't even know if I was born in a hospital or in a home. I finally got used to not knowing my background.  

"When my foster parents died, within a couple of days of each other, I was devastated. They had no other living relatives and in their will they left me their house and a considerable amount of money. I continued to live in the house and brought up a wonderful, loving son. He is now studying philosophy at a university. 

"Shortly after, I received a message from a woman who identified herself as my mother, gave her name as Mrs. Williams, and wanted to meet me. I was curious enough to agree. At the meeting I asked for proof and she provided it in the form of a photo of the bottom of the left foot of a baby which showed a tattooed five-pointed star. I had one of those tattoos. I chose not to tell this to the lady whose approach, soon after I came into some money, seemed very suspicious to me.  

"The lady wanted to re-establish the usual mother-daughter relationship, wanted hugs and kisses and took it very unkindly when I refused and said that my real mother, the one who brought me up with love, not the one who left me to die, just passed away and that I was an orphan.  

"She then wanted to explain why she left me several decades ago and was even more unhappy when I told her that I didn't care and didn't want to hear her stories and wanted nothing more to do with her. I told her that I didn't believe that she was my mother and asked her leave.  

"She became furious. Her face showed pure hate and her eyes looked cold and threatening. She told me, 'You have a son. You care about him. You would be upset if he met a serious accident. Well, I offered to be good to you. I offered to be your mother which I am actually. You rejected me. I am leaving but you will hear from me very soon. I will tell you what I will want you to do. You will do as I want. If not, your son will die.' She had a way of talking and looking at me that frightened me thoroughly. I tried to escape, and moved to Budapest. I became employed as a cleaner at the airport. I didn't know that the woman also lived in Budapest.  

"You know the rest. She found me. I was commanded to be in the passport booth. I was ordered to be in Yekaterinburg, wearing an idiotic karate costume. I was ordered to take part in your abduction. My son is now living in peace, at a secret location. That is my story." 

And quite a story it was. I was exhausted just from listening to her. We sipped the tea in silence for a few minutes.  

Then she said with a smile, "I am anticipating your next request. I would gladly testify against Mrs. Williams. She is an evil person. I and my son will feel truly safe only when she is in jail for a long time." 

I stayed to finish the tea with Lola, who proved herself to be a remarkable lady, courageous and helpful. I couldn't wait to tell the story to Dr. Lengyel and Chief Rakossy. Lola agreed to a meeting with the lawyer who I called right away. She answered her cell-phone on the second ring and was free to meet us next morning. When I suggested to Lola that she should also meet the Chief of Detectives, she appeared uncomfortable, waffled a bit and said that she would rather not meet him. I decided to leave it at that, not wanting to press my luck.  

In the morning we were on time for the meeting with the lawyer. Lola simply repeated her story while Dr. Lengyel listened spellbound. She was elated.  

"I'm sure that we have an ace here. True, while your narrative doesn't prove the existence of the Communist conspiracy, it still shows the true nature of the Colonel. There were comments you must have overheard about the conspiracy. These might well be inadmissible in open court as hearsay but they are still very useful as background." 

Lola added that she had, in fact, clearly heard the Colonel ordering me to kill the taxi driver and threatening my daughter if I refused. This, in some jurisdictions, was just as bad as the killing itself. Lola also heard the discussions about the Communist takeover.  

Dr. Lengyel asked if Lola was willing to confront her mother in court or during an interrogation session. The plan was for her to walk into the room unannounced as the Colonel was giving her testimony. Lola agreed and I informed Chief Rakossy. He also agreed that we had a winner.  

After the end of the Colonel's first interrogation, the Chief was on the phone immediately, ordering two cruisers to meet him behind the Four Seasons Hotel. He was quite certain that the General's hired guns were there, waiting for their chief to show and to be told of their next assignment. They had no idea that the General was in detention, already. The plan at the hotel was the usual scam: knock on the door, say they are there to fix the telephone, and when the door opens, simply pull guns and make the arrest. None of us could predict how the underlings would react. They might be relieved or they might fight. If they cooperated with the law, they might well be treated a bit more leniently for it. We didn't know if they were armed but we had to assume that they were. Should pepper spray meet whoever was opening the door?  

Perhaps wisely, I wasn't allowed to be part of the team, though I would really have liked to be there. The Chief told me later how the raid happened. He was the first at the door, he knocked and as planned and expected, the door opened to let the phone repair people in. The arrest of the four people in the room was easy. Nobody was armed and nobody resisted. Nobody asked where the General was. Nobody contested the arrests. They all identified themselves openly, using valid Hungarian passports. They accompanied the officers peacefully. They were to be questioned and possibly charged later.  

The Chief told me, "I know two of them well. One was a janitor in the Secret Service headquarters. The other was the physician at the same place, Dr. Mater, the one who administered lethal drugs to anybody, on a whim or on special request by an interrogator. Most of the time he was working with the General and did his bidding. He was disbarred from general practice when he went too far and overdosed someone whose testimony was needed. He was to be executed but the General intervened and the two had been together ever since. Unsubstantiated rumours about their love affair abounded. No proof existed, nor was it necessary. 

"They will be kept in administrative custody for the time being. They may be asked to give testimony for the prosecution. I am sure that a plea arrangement would be helpful here. I will talk to Woronsky."

Chief Rakossy welcomed the Colonel next morning, who entered, again dressed elegantly, her hair and her face artfully prepared, her nails manicured and her shoes shined. It was evident that she wasn't treated too badly in jail. Her freshly pressed clothes and the effort her appearance must have required implied full cooperation by the jail's personnel, probably for significant amounts of cash and promises of more to come on her release. 

Again, I was allowed to watch the proceedings through the one-way mirror. 

Rakossy's questions about the lady's wellbeing, her treatment by the guards and his extended hand were ignored totally. The antagonism was tangible. The lady sat down, remained quiet and looked at the upper corner of the room. She sat motionless, holding her back straight. Her eye was twitching. The Chief started the session, attempting to re-establish the previous day's rapport.  

"Mrs. Williams, you recall that you gave me the location of the General's people. You will be pleased to know that four men have been arrested without incident."  

The response was surprising. "What?" barked the Colonel, gruff, angry, and hostile. 

"Room 420, the Four Seasons Hotel, remember?" 

"I don't know what you're talking about," retorted the Colonel and for a millisecond only the Chief looked confused. He followed the momentary hiccup by silently turning on the recorder and replaying the Colonel's comments and when she heard her own voice, the icy control was lost, she jumped up, upending her chair. She was shouting, the walls were shaking, her voice was suddenly hoarse and furious, her face was distorted. 

"This is a trick, I want that tape checked by acoustics experts, you fucking miserable scum, you spliced it together, that's not even my voice. You are trying to upset me, I am not a rat, I am a Colonel in the Secret Service, how dare ...," and as suddenly as the tirade began, it was over. She slumped on the floor and was sobbing, uncontrollably.  

Rakossy bent to help her but the lady shook off his hand and yelled, "Don't you touch me," and stood up. Miraculously, her make-up suffered no damage at all.  

The Chief watched silently but I noticed that his finger was under the table top, and it looked like he was ready to ring for help but the tirade and the yelling ended as suddenly as they began. His hand appeared on the top of the table again. He started his questions once more, calm, low keyed. 

"Dear lady, just to clarify, do you recall that you gave me the information on those people?" 

"I never did any such thing. I never gave you any information. I would never give you any information. I would never betray anybody. I would never betray people who trust me. I would never give them up," said the Colonel, now calm. 

"Who would you never give up?" asked the Chief, not really expecting a reply and he wasn't getting any, other than another rigid stare. The icy-blues were now focused at the same corner of the room again.  

"I would like you to meet somebody," said Rakossy. The door opened and in walked Lola. She appeared relaxed and collected, even cheerful, but she must have felt some apprehension. She wouldn't be human if she didn't. The Colonel looked up, saw her, and her mouth was literally stuck open. She was lost for words, a rare event. Lola simply walked to the other side of the table, and sat in the chair directly facing her mother. The two locked eyes. Lola was smiling a little, the Colonel was grim and her lips trembled. The Chief spoke first. 

"Mrs. Williams, is this the daughter you left to die in a toilet when she was two days old?" There was no response. The Colonel was now white as a sheet and I was beginning to wonder if the meeting was becoming too stressful.  

"Do you claim that this lady is the mother of your grandson whose life you threatened?" And still there was no response. Suddenly, the Colonel stood, her chair fell to the ground behind her again, and she was having another tantrum. Yelling, swearing, thumping the table, spittle on her chin, her face soaked with perspiration. The bout went on for a couple of minutes. There was foam on her lips. The words came fast and were totally impossible to understand. At the end the lady collapsed on the floor. She was convulsing. A minute went by and the tremors stopped. The Chief got her a glass of water and helped her back on her chair. She clutched her face and appeared to be howling uncontrollably, breathless. Her daughter watched silently. As the Colonel's sobs began to subside, Chief Rakossy started asking a few more questions, accepting the lack of a response to his previous inquiry. He spoke calmly, at a normal volume, as before. 

"Mrs. Williams, is it true that you used threats to coerce your daughter to be in the passport booth at the airport and to bring Professor Lederer to you for interrogation?" The reply wasn't really surprising. 

"No, this is absolutely not true." 

"Is it true that you kidnapped your grandson and held him and threatened to maim and kill him unless your daughter did as she was told?"  

"No, this is absolutely not true." 

"Is it true that you sent one of the severed fingers of your grandson to your daughter, by courier, and threatened to cut off all unless she went with you to Yekaterinburg?" 

"No, this is absolutely not true." 

"Is it true that you released your grandson as soon as your daughter complied with your wishes?" 

"No, this is absolutely not true." 

The Chief now produced a photo from the file. He showed it to Colonel Hegedus who looked at it for a fraction of a second and started to cry again. The Chief now talked into the tape recorder. 

"For the record, the photograph shows a severed forefinger. Also, it shows a hand from which the forefinger had been severed. As well, it shows a certificate signed by two surgeons, identifying the hand as belonging to the son of this lady and that the finger had been removed from his hand." Then he continued the questioning.  

"Mrs. Williams, do you recognize the hand and the finger in this photo?" The lady was sobbing again, completely out of control. She wasn't looking at the photo. She stood up, trying to leave. She was unsteady on her feet and a warden entered, holding her hand and leading her away.  

Lola watched the display quietly but she was also highly distressed. I was sure she was relieved that the confrontation was over.  

The Chief told me on the way out, "I didn't feel sorry for the Colonel. I have a feeling though that she is not completely sane. I will request the presence of a trained psychiatrist in the court during the trial. There will be a need for one, I am certain." 

The next person to be questioned by the Chief was General Komlos. I was again allowed to watch. The master interrogator was to be squared off against the brains of the conspiracy. If the General wasn't my sworn enemy, I might even have enjoyed the battle of the masters. Now I just hoped that Rakossy was equal to the task and I immediately felt a bit guilty for possibly underestimating the detective.  

As with the Colonel, the General was led into the empty room. His handcuffs were removed and his guard indicated the armchair for him. The guard left. The room was clean, a new bunch of fresh flowers was on the table, and the guard returned carrying a tray with a cup of hot espresso and a glass of water. The General, who looked angry and apprehensive on entry, appeared to appreciate the coffee, sipped it with obvious pleasure, relaxed, and the anger disappeared from his face.  

The damage inflicted in my apartment was still visible, of course. There was a thick bandage on his ear and he was leaning on a cane when standing and walking, the result of Heather's accurate use of the baseball bat. His face showed that he was in pain as he stepped on his bad leg but, as an old soldier, he tried to hide his discomfort. 

He was dressed well. He was elegant, his suit, shirt, tie and shoes matched as before and it was evident that he was also allowed to go to his home to collect his clothes. 

He sat down and in a few minutes he checked his watch and signs of impatience appeared as he began to drum on the table. More minutes passed and he stood up and started pacing, six steps forward and six steps back. He kept looking at his watch.  

The Chief entered after a bit, carrying a set of files. He wasn't looking at the General and seemed not even to be aware of the other person in the room. He sat down and began to read the documents, just as he did with the Colonel. He knew that being ignored was hard on the accused. I watched the General's reaction and it was one of incomprehension. I could imagine what he thought. The sheer nerve of a mere detective who dared to ignore his presence, ignore his importance and stature was beyond his comprehension. He stood and continued pacing, up and down.  

A few more minutes passed in silence. The Chief then looked up and pretended to be surprised to see that he wasn't alone. He stood up and was extending his hand to the General. 

"You must be General Komlos, Sir. I am Detective Rakossy. It is a pleasure and an honour to meet you. I'm very pleased to welcome you here. Please have a seat." 

Both the General and I were surprised. Was the good cop - bad cop routine starting or was this Rakossy's new game? The General looked unsure of himself and in a hesitant manner he reached out to shake the detective's hand. Then he sat down and attempted to gather his wits and to establish the pecking order. He donned a stern, scowling expression, and looked at Rakossy. 

"Detective Rakossy, why have I been arrested? Why am I here? What am I charged with and on whose authority? Why was I handcuffed? Why did I have to be jailed like a common criminal?" 

Chief Rakossy smiled and said, using a warm, friendly tone, "General, I hope and trust that what happened to you was just a minor misunderstanding. I'm sure that everything will be cleared up and you'll leave here with our sincere apologies. I also hope that you were treated politely after you were arrested. I see that you received sufficient medical assistance and that you were provided with a cane. I hope you don't feel uncomfortable. 

"I must ask for your patience for a little longer. I have a few questions the answers to which are needed before you can go home. They won't take long. I ask for your cooperation. You may, of course, have your lawyer present and if you wish. We could postpone this meeting while we wait." 

I believed that the General fell for the Chief's game. 

"There is no need for a lawyer. I am not a criminal and I can defend myself, if necessary. Please ask your questions and let me out of here." 

"First, I must inform you of the charges against you. The most significant of these is that you initiated a conspiracy to topple the current democratic government of the country and that you intended to install yourself as the president of a Communist dictatorship. I know that this sounds crazy but I would appreciate your repudiation of the charge."  

"What you just said, Detective, is completely idiotic. Wouldn't you agree that the current government of this country is on the far right of the political spectrum, a fascist, corrupt, atheist bunch of criminals, interested exclusively in enriching themselves, caring nothing for the welfare of the proletariat, caring nothing for a future in which criticism and self-criticism point the way?" 

"Please Sir, just answer my question. Remember, conspiracy? Communists?" 

"Yes, of course, I will bring back Communism. I am convinced that this is the fervent hope of the overwhelming majority of the country. This is not a crime. Rather, it is the best I can do to give meaning to my lifelong struggle." As these words were spoken the General looked proud of himself. The Chief continued with his questions. 

"General, with due respect, did you arrange, with Colonel Hegedus, for the detention, questioning, beating, kidnapping, poisoning and threatening of Professor Lederer and his daughter?" 

"Yes, of course, I did. I thought these acts were well known by now and are fully justified in support of our aims. Wouldn't you agree?" Rakossy seemed to have had enough. His expression changed from a benevolent friend to that of a disgusted accuser. 

"My dear Sir, what you had done is against the laws of this country, as you must understand. I have just one more question, though. Did you arrange for the murder of Vladimir Shukich, the person who provided a passport for the Professor?" 

"Yes, of course, I did. He was guilty of a major crime, he deserved to die," said the General now, again looking proud of his actions. 

The General implicated himself sufficiently. There was no need to go on. Chief Rakossy decided to close the session. 

"General, the crimes you committed are very serious. During Communist times, if found guilty, you would have been executed already. Lucky you, there is no death penalty now. But you face a long time in prison, most likely for the rest of your life. You understand, of course, that you admitted to have committed the crimes you are accused of. Back to jail you go." The Chief now picked up another of his files, began to read and ignored the General who was now standing, with his mouth open. Total incomprehension was visible on his face once again. The door opened, a guard walked in and placed the handcuffs on the General's hands who was too surprised to resist. He was escorted out of the room.

CHAPTER 16

 There were three scruffy looking, elderly characters in the room while I was being damaged during my first detention. They were standing behind me but I managed to get a brief look at them as they entered and I was shocked to recognize one of them at the time, a huge man with large hands. I also remembered that I might have crossed paths with the two others but my memory was a bit hazy. During my hypnosis by Dr. Brucotti I recalled seeing all three before. They were all working in the foundry where I was alleged to have murdered the poor Minister, back in the fall of 1956. They accused me of shoving the Minister into the hot steel. They told Colonel Hegedus how I ran out of the foundry right after. They were hostile. I needed their testimony here and now, however. They all lied and I should know because I killed nobody but actually saw one of them doing the killing. They had to be made to tell why and how they lied. Was anybody - maybe the Colonel or the General? - threatening them or bribing them? I had to locate them. They all must have retired by now. I saw four of them accompanying the Minister so where was the fourth? Was he dead or alive? Would the personnel department have a record of their whereabouts? Would they tell me? Maybe there was an organization for retired steel people. Maybe there were records somewhere though I would have to be very lucky to find them, if they existed at all. Which I doubted. 

I checked the Internet which yielded nothing.  

I had always been surprised by the contents of the Yellow Pages, a variant of which was available in Budapest. There was, in fact, an obscure listing, entitled "Ironworkers Anonymous," along with an address and a telephone number. I decided to visit in person. 

The organization's office consisted of one windowless room in a dilapidated part of the city, in a century old, crumbling building, very much in danger of being declared uninhabitable. The door was open. I knocked and walked in. There was an elderly lady in the room, poorly dressed, sitting by a battered desk on which there was an ancient telephone and nothing else. She put down the magazine she was reading and I noticed it to be one dealing with Hollywood stars. I introduced myself and she told me her name and we shook hands. She gave me a friendly smile which was encouraging. She appeared pleased to have a visitor and a chance to talk a little and appeared to want to help. 

I told the lady that my request wasn't so simple and that I was looking for workers from the former Rakosi Matyas Muvek, the factory where we all worked almost half a century ago. All of them must have retired by now. I didn't know their names but I knew that they worked in the foundry. There were no computers in the office but several large filing cabinets and if she agreed to help, the search through the files would be lengthy. 

My questions didn't faze her.  

"I have been working here for well over half a century. This office was established by the Communist Party in 1951, to keep tabs on everybody who worked there. You were too young at the time to remember the official paranoia about who was with us and who was against us. Detailed files were kept on everybody, even after retirement. I knew most of the retired workers well, quite probably all, by name. On retirement they were all expected to come here to register with me. I had little to do so we usually sat and chatted for some time. My memory is good. I recall the people. I know the details in the files, also," and she pointed to the filing cabinets which must have contained thousands of names. She said that she would help. She asked for no ID.  

"Give me a few clues. Something might trigger my memory," she said. 

"You might recall a tragic event, almost 50 years ago in the foundry, during the visit of a cabinet Minister and his entourage. The Minister fell into the hot steel and died in agony. The four people I look for were all working in the foundry and were all standing right by the doomed man. They must have been interrogated right after." 

"Yes, of course, I remember," said the lady. "I was an apprentice at the time, working in one of the machine shops, adjacent to the foundry. I heard the scream. Nobody could forget something like that." 

"The four men were not supposed to be in the VIP Party. Is there a way to tell who was to be with the Minister and who wasn't?" I asked. 

"Yes, there is. However, there were rumours that all files relating to that incident were destroyed by the Secret Service. Don't look worried, I'll check my files. I don't recall a visit by the police so maybe my collection was overlooked. I recall many things, some good, some not so good. You may be interested to know, for example, that the officer who was in charge of the investigation of the Minister's death died quite young, a few years after the tragedy. His wife is alive though and she might know more than she ever admitted in public. The assistant investigator disappeared from view a little while ago and I have no clue where he is now though he may well be alive. His name is Komlos, he was Major Komlos at the time." 

I was trying to hide my surprise. I experienced one of the many shocks that had been coming my way during the last few months. General Komlos, the elderly man with the mole over his right eye, the one who scared James, my detective, must be the same guy, the assistant investigator. While the name, Komlos, is fairly common, the coincidence was too strong. I was going to tell Dr. Lengyel as soon as possible. Maybe things were beginning to converge. Maybe some sense would emerge to clarify everything that happened.  

"Why are you so sure?" I asked. 

"He was an interesting character and I knew him well. In the late 40's he was an assistant machinist. He had a reputation for being a dogmatic Communist. He joined the Secret Service after a couple of years in the machine shop. He and I even dated a few times. Maybe I was more interested in him then he was in me, so I followed his career. He rose through the ranks fast and was promoted to General quite some time ago. I lost track of him after the Communists disintegrated." 

"Can you give me the name of the dead officer's wife?" I asked and sure enough, the kind woman dug into her files and in a few minutes she gave me her name and the address.  

I thanked the lady, said farewell and asked her permission to return for more if necessary. She agreed. I extended my hand for a shake but she stood up to come around her desk to hug me.  

The visit to the widow of the interrogator had to wait for next morning. The lady had no telephone so I had to go there in person. She was aged so I needed to be gentle and non-threatening. She lived in the green belt of Buda, on the fashionable, wealthy side of the Danube. The address was of a private house, old but well kept, behind huge, ancient trees. No barking dog greeted me and I was grateful for that. I rang the bell. 

A spry little woman opened the door and on hearing the purpose of my visit - a few questions about her husband's past interrogations - slammed the door in my face and screamed from behind, "Get out of here before I call the police!" Not so successful or informative, I concluded, and cleared out fast. If her husband was General Komlos' boss, and if the old grapevine was still active, she might know of his arrest by now. She might also know who I was, and what I was put through. Her hostility wasn't at all surprising.  

Back to the lady-of-the-steelworker-files. I was hoping that she would remain co-operative and I wasn't disappointed. She smiled and seemed pleased to see me and to have something to do, someone to talk to.  

She said, pleasantly and helpfully, "I think I found what you want. It took no more than a couple of hours of digging but here is the name of one of the people you are looking for: Igor Benchuk. He lives with his seriously ill son who is in dire need of expensive medication. If you ever met him, you wouldn't forget him. He is a giant, with the largest hands I have ever seen. He was interrogated by Major Komlos shortly after the Minister's death."  

I remembered the giant. I recalled the large hands. He took part in my first detention by the Colonel. I got the address and before I went there, I needed to find a gift the little woman. She was helpful and pleasant. A box of elegant chocolates was what she needed - where did I read the statistics that 95% of people love chocolates? Or, was it 99%? She was pleased to get the box, opened it right away and offered me a few pieces. We ate them together and chatted, recalling the old times.  

I called my lawyer and suggested that we go together in search of Benchuk. She agreed and we found his home, a one-room apartment. Dr. Lengyel thought that maybe I should stay in the background or at least not be in sight right away. My presence might frighten Benchuk. She was right, of course.  

Dr. Lengyel's knock on the door was ignored for several minutes and we were almost ready to leave when it opened a crack but a chain, visible, wasn't removed. A raspy, gruff voice, whose owner was hiding, said, "Go to hell."  

Dr. Lengyel didn't flinch, introduced herself, and said that she was looking for Igor Benchuk. The door suddenly and violently slammed shut. She began to bang on the door, and didn't stop until Benchuk opened it again, still just a crack, still hiding. He started a stream of invective at the top of his voice. My lawyer decided to fight back and surprisingly matched the volume of the guy behind the door with ease. As they yelled at the same time, neither set of comments could be understood. The neighbours' windows were opening, curious heads were appearing and not all of them seemed upset that the hullabaloo was at the Benchuk place.  

The noise from Benchuk's room was dying down. I could make out Dr. Lengyel's words.  

"You will certainly receive a summons, no later than tomorrow, to be at the trial. You have the choice of being a witness in support of Colonel Hegedus and General Komlos or being on the side of the prosecution but you are to choose now." 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" was the response, still from behind the door.  

"Please Mr. Benchuk. Open the door and let us in. We need to talk. We mean no harm. You might be able to help us. We might be able to ease your life and that of your son," said the lawyer, now using a friendly voice which appeared to work. The chain was off the door, which opened slowly to reveal Benchuk, still holding the doorknob, ready to bang it shut again. He was a huge man, old but still powerful looking with broad shoulders, muscular arms and surprisingly large hands. He stopped when he saw me and I admitted that I was also a bit disturbed to recognize him, to see him there. I was unable to forget his presence at my misery, not such a long time ago. True, he was the only one of the three who remained silent. What I saw in his face now, though, was fear, mortal fear and suddenly he didn't look so large. For a while he just stared, but finally the door was wide open and we entered the one room, his home. He was obviously not well off. His room, or a better word for it, his hovel, contained two beds, a table with two chairs, a stand with a hot plate, an old fashioned cast iron sink and a water tap. No bathroom, no kitchen, no space for storage, no television, no telephone. There was no window and the air was putrid. There was a bottle of cheap brandy on the table, half full, no glasses. Neither bed was made. The bedding was filthy. The three of us stood there silently. His son, who must have been in his late forties, wasn't there. 

Benchuk broke the silence. He invited us to sit down. He remained standing as there were only two chairs in the room.  

"Explain to me just what you said a second ago," he said, and it was quite evident that he was no reader of newspapers and had no clue about the trial which was just about to get under way. The lawyer explained briefly the arrest and the charges against the Colonel and the General. She described my detention and when he heard, Igor nodded excitedly, "Yes, I was there," he said. At the end of the story, Benchuk was silent. He was looking over our heads and I couldn't read his face. The gears were turning in his head, slowly. We had no choice. We waited. 

"Are you telling me that the fucking bitch is in jail?"  

"Yes, she is," answered Dr. Lengyel. 

"Are you telling me that the General, the motherfucker, is also in jail?" 

"Yes." 

"Are they going to hang them?" and he was deadly serious. The question emphasized the large man's lack of understanding of what had been happening in Hungary following the demise of the Communists. Dr. Lengyel replied, saying that now there was no death penalty. I wasn't sure if he believed this but his questions continued. 

"Are they, at least, going to rot in jail for a long time?" 

"Yes, but we need help, including your help, to make sure that they are convicted and sentenced," and the big guy took his time to absorb the news. A few more minutes passed in silence. I saw the fear clearing off his face and he appeared more relaxed. He was walking up and down, three steps each way. His hands twitched as he was thinking.  

"Look here. I am a nobody and I have always been a nobody. I am not too proud of my past. I have done awful things, hurt people and denounced innocents to stay alive and to remain in the good graces of the Party. How can I help now to make sure those buggers stay in jail?" said Igor finally.  

"Just tell your story. All of it, no prettying up anything. What did you do in the foundry on that day in 1956 when the minister died? What did you do afterwards? Why did you appear while Professor Lederer was interrogated recently by Colonel Hegedus? Why did you stand by when your colleagues accused him of murder?" The questions were probably fired too fast for Igor. He stared and he thought and twitched and walked up and down again, and sweated profusely. More time passed and we waited in silence.  

"My son has MD. I needed money for his treatment. About two years ago General Komlos visited me. I remembered him. He was one of the interrogating officers in 1956 after the incident with the Minister and the hot steel. I remember that he wasn't gentle. He slapped me a bit, kicked me a bit, threatened me with his revolver and put me through a mock execution. He made me stood against the wall, aimed at my forehead and had his finger on the trigger. I was scared and I am still frightened of him. He gave me quite a bit of money, in cash, and an introduction to the best private physician to treat my son. He asked for nothing but said, "One good deed deserves another," winked at me and walked out. Didn't indicate that we had met before.  

"Of course, I contacted the doctor, a well-known specialist, used the money to pay for his services and my son was getting noticeably better. I knew that there was no free lunch and waited. There was no need to wait for long. 

"About a year ago, Colonel Hegedus came to see me. She said, without any introduction, 'This is what you will do. From March 1 on, you will come to the airport by noon every day. You will go to the Arrival's section, sit down and wait until midnight. One day a lady, named Lola, will come to take you to a room, where you will wait. When I call you in you will see a man, sitting in front of my desk. You will abuse him, spit at him and yell how you hate him.' At this, she began to walk toward the door, where she turned around, handed me a wad of bills and said, 'I earnestly hope that your son's treatment can continue without interruption.' She spat on the floor, and left. 

"I did as I was told. Shortly after we took part in the Professor's interrogation at the airport the money stopped coming and my son was unable to continue the treatments he needed. He is in very poor shape now, not expected to live for more than a few months. The sudden interruption of treatment contributed to his deterioration. I had no way of finding either the General or the Colonel and couldn't ask for help. Once I wasn't needed, me and my son's health became unimportant. I blame them." He appeared exhausted and I gave him my seat which he took gratefully. He was breathing hard. He took a swig of his brandy which seemed to steady his shaking hands.  

"Is this of any use to you?" he asked.  

My lawyer assured him of the importance of his story, saying that it indicates the character of the General and the Colonel. Benchuk looked pleased.  

Dr. Lengyel now decided to dig a little deeper. She asked, "Would you tell us what actually happened on that day in the foundry?" 

The large man simply stared at her and as before, his hands began to shake and his forehead was sweaty. Another swig of the brandy seemed not to help. We waited and I was feeling sorry for him. His life hadn't been easy so far and we were not making it much easier.  

"Maybe it is better off my chest. Four of us were behind the Minister, me, Aladar, Michael and Joe. The Minister was standing right at the edge of the catwalk, just over the hot steel. His bodyguards were nowhere, must have been behind us. Michael just gave him a slight poke and in he fell. The scream never left me, I hear it every night. I hear it now. We agreed to report Lederer as the killer. We said we saw him push." 

He now looked at me and he truly appeared relieved. His face was clear for the first time since we entered his home.  

"I am sorry. I apologize." he said simply.  

"Where is Michael now?" asked Lengyel and Igor said, sadly, "He is dead, died about a month after we were forced to meet the Professor at the airport." 

I wasn't sure if it was the right time to question the veracity of Benchuk's story. He was saying that the now dead Michael was the killer. My recollection was that the arm that pushed was bent backward at the elbow. I decided not to ask if Michael's arm had ever been broken. I needed to tell my lawyer, though, and soon, as this might be one of the ways to identify the actual killer, should that become necessary. Benchuk might be able to help us find the others, his former friends and colleagues.  

Dr. Lengyel continued.  

"Mr. Benchuk, the testimony of your friends, the ones that were with you at the foundry on that day in 1956, might also be very helpful. They were most certainly also bribed or threatened by the two accused. Do you know where we could find them?" 

Benchuk appeared disturbed again. He was silent and his face betrayed his difficulties. A few minutes passed and then he said, "Yes, I know where they are. One of them, Aladar, doesn't live in this country any more. He wanted nothing more to do with the Colonel. The third, Joe Takacs, lives in Budapest, but no, I will not tell you where he is. But give me your phone number. I will talk to him and if he agrees to be involved, he can make contact on his own." 

This was a fairly satisfactory response. We took our leave and while Dr. Lengyel's back was turned, I passed some money to the big man, hoping that he wouldn't refuse it. I didn't want to be accused of bribing a potential witness. I was sure that Igor understood that the money was never to be mentioned. He looked grateful.  

Benchuk did what he promised. Dr. Lengyel received a phone call late at night. Benchuk's friend, Joe Takacs called, identified himself as one of the people in the foundry on that fateful day and offered to testify for the prosecution. The lawyer set up a meeting with the man for the afternoon, next day. She suggested that I be present. 

Mr. Takacs arrived exactly on time. Now I remembered him clearly. He was one of the three bum-like, filthy, smelly characters who appeared while I was being beaten to a pulp. He was one of those who accused me of being a murderer.  

He looked different now. The beer-belly was mostly gone. The hair from his ears was gone. His monkey-like, slob-like appearance must have been created for my sake. Obviously poor, he was clean and neatly dressed, in a well worn but well-patched suit, clean shirt. As we shook hands he avoided looking me in the eye and instead he was looking at his feet. And he muttered, barely audibly, clearly ashamed, "Professor, I apologize." 

Dr. Lengyel offered him a choice of refreshments, coffee, tea, water, fruit juice and he asked for an espresso. When it came, he savoured it silently, closing his eyes as he sipped. When he replaced the empty cup on the table, I noticed his arm and the alarm bells rang. His arm bent slightly backwards at the elbow. My nightmare was back suddenly. I again saw the bent arm as it reached out, shoving the poor guy, the scream was in my head again and I surfaced when he said, "Thank you. I haven't had real coffee for a few years." 

The lawyer then asked if his friend, Igor, explained the current situation. When Mr. Takacs confirmed that he was fully informed, he was asked to tell his side of the story. He thought a few minutes and then he started. 

"First, I must say that I am not a hero. I am a poor man, always have been. You know the story, you heard it many times. In the old days the way to keep your job, your salary, your life, was to be a Communist. Sometimes this involved denouncing friends, accusing others of conspiring against the paradise of the proletariat, and I did my share of that. I am not proud of my deeds and I am not proud of having accused the Professor of shoving the Minister into the hot steel. I apologize. 

"There were four of us in the foundry. All of us depended on the Communist Party for our lives and jobs. We agreed that we would accuse Lederer of the killing, suspecting that he had already left the country. 

"I was interrogated the day after the tragedy by Major Komlos, the man who is now a General. He poured boiling water on my genitals, causing permanent damage. The torture stopped when I accused Lederer of the murder." 

Maybe I shouldn't have but I interrupted. 

"Mr. Takacs, who actually shoved the Minister?" The question generated a threatening look from my lawyer, and I knew, of course, that what I did was a major no-no, no interruption, ever. There was silence now. The old man was looking straight at me but his eyes were blank, he was somewhere else. His eyes were filling with tears. He whispered, "I did. He raped my wife. He made me watch. She killed herself and our two-year old daughter the next day."  

None of us could speak. It was the lawyer who regained her composure first. She said, "Mr. Takacs, I promise that I will never bring up this topic when I question you in court. I will object strenuously if the defence touches on the subject."  

The man appeared relieved. The tension in his shoulders was gone. He asked for another espresso. He drank it, then stood up suddenly and was out the door without good-bye, without handshakes, before either of us reacted. This was when Dr. Lengyel said, looking stupid and angry, "I forgot to get his address."

Chief Rakossy debriefed me about the questioning of the four men arrested in the Four Seasons Hotel. All four were recruited by the General, offered a princely sum per day, a suite in the hotel, and asked to respond to a simple request, "You do as I tell you." Each of the four men had prior experience as mercenaries so the assignments were not onerous. They cheerfully listed their accomplishments, having done similar things many times in the past. These included tailing me, and when the order came, bonking me over the head, drugging me and transporting me in a coffin to Yekaterinburg. Further, two of them were assigned the job of finding Tamara and me after we escaped and reached Kiev. They denied having killed the fake passport maker but they admitted attempting to attack us on the train. Just as cheerfully, they offered to identify their boss as the General, but in exchange, they wanted their passports back, one-way tickets to Vienna and a promise not to prosecute them. The Chief agreed that he was going to consider their offer. The search of their rooms yielded no incriminating evidence.

I couldn't understand why I forgot about Mary, my friendly waitress whose face was the last I saw before the Yekaterinburg adventure. I recalled her when the Chief gave me the photos of the four comrades of the General and asked if I had seen any of them before. I recalled two of them as the fake policemen who arrested me in my apartment. Then Mary's frightened face came back and I mentioned her to Rakossy and he strongly suggested letting her see the photos of the four men. If she was scared and wanted protection, offer it in his name. He could assign a lady officer to stay with her for as long as necessary. 

I hadn't been to my favourite cafe lately, mostly because I associated it with the big whack on the head. I set out, got there, Mary was there, she hugged me and without asking, brought me one of the hottest, strongest and best coffees of my life and whispered into my ear, "I am so glad to see you back here," and of course, she made my day. 

Sipping the coffee carefully to avoid burns allowed me to enjoy the moment, no thoughts of what else was going on in my life, free of worries for just a bit. Then it was time to ask Mary for help and when I reminded her of the last time she saw me, she looked fearful. I asked if she could recall who hit me and who drugged me. She said she wanted no part of anything that might make her a witness to an assault. I saw her speak a few words to the head waiter, I saw him nod, and she put on her jacket and hurried out of the cafe without looking at me.  

My coffee was unfinished and suddenly its taste was gone along with the young lady. I paid, stood up and then I saw that she was waiting outside. As soon as she saw me, she was signalling me to follow her. She wasn't a suspicious person, obviously. If she expected to be watched and wanted her meeting with me not to be noticed, she wasn't doing a great job. I followed and when she turned into another cafe, I also entered and sat down beside her. She was crying and looked very frightened. Then she said, "I saw who hit you. I saw another man who injected something into your shoulder and into your back. I saw you collapse. The two men saw me watching and their faces scared me. I am sure I could identify them. Can you protect me?" 

"Mary, the two ring leaders who orchestrated the attack have been arrested. There are four men also in custody and I suspect one or maybe two were involved in knocking me out. You might not know it, but a court case is starting very soon and if you could identify some of those four, a conviction would be very much more likely.  

"I can't personally protect you but the Chief of Detectives, Rakossy, can and will. I am here with his knowledge and approval and he offered protection if you want it. A lady officer is now waiting in her car around the corner and will stay with you while the case is proceeding and for some time after. Looking at a few photos and seeing if you can recall any of the faces would be all you need to do." 

Mary agreed. It was necessary for another witness to be present when she was examining the photos so I asked if I could come back that evening with Dr. Lengyel. Mary was to be in the cafe and the meeting was arranged for 7 p.m.  

The actual identification was a bit anticlimactic. My lawyer and I had about 100 pictures with us, including the four in custody, placed in the pack in random locations. Mary looked at them twice, took about a minute for each, and decisively identified two faces. One of them was my attacker and the other, the one who poisoned me. No doubt at all, none, she said. As we left, after profuse thanks, I noticed a lady in the cafe, one I had seen before in R\u00e1kossy's office, so Mary's guardian angel was in place. I hoped that there would be no need for her, no attack on my favourite waitress. 

I took the two photos to Rakossy.  

A simple phone call to the Ministry by Dr. Lengyel led directly to Ms. Brucotti. She said that she had anticipated our call eagerly and was anxious to meet us. She was aware of the case, as she had been informed by her Minister. She was happily willing to testify. Dr. Howther from Ottawa also agreed but said that he might have nothing to add other than to describe his Minister's calls to her Hungarian counterpart. He suggested that a formal, sworn deposition might be sufficient from him but if not, he would be willing to attend the sessions as long as his expenses were covered. Detective Holloway also told us of his willingness to be involved as did Ms. Sackam, Detective Rakossy and Prosecutor Woronsky. Dr. Kondrachik also indicated her willingness to take part in the case. 

My cabbie, Tamas Kossuth agreed to tell the story of the pick-up at the alleged jail and the ride to the Canadian Consulate, but he wanted no mention of the good Samaritans. He said that the group didn't disband and there might still be need for their services. They wanted no publicity.  

We made contact with one of the steel workers, Igor Benchuk. We might have to do some legwork to find Joe Takacs, the other one.  

We had been unable to locate George Winer/Williams, the alleged first husband of the Colonel. Detective Holloway was also involved in the attempt to find him but even he, through his contacts, produced no trace of the large, red-faced person.  

Ms. Brucotti, the consultant to the Minister of Internal Security, was the first to be invited by Dr. Lengyel for a pre-trial discussion. She arrived on time and my recollection of her as a classy lady was correct. She was dressed in her casually elegant manner, she was relaxed and calm. As before, her handshake was firm, her hands were dry and we were off to a promising start.  

Her story was a shocker. She told us that while her status as a consultant to the Minister and her profession as a clinical psychiatrist and a hypnotist were ongoing, most of the time she was also working as an undercover agent, the leader of a team, having infiltrated Colonel Hegedus' cell of former Communists. She asked that the members of her team not be identified. She further said that the Colonel's plans to overthrow the Hungarian Government and re-install the former Communists were well known to the Hungarian authorities for quite some time. The final straw was my detention. Charges and arrest warrants were already being prepared when I went to present my information to the prosecutor. 

She narrated the story of my detention and how she hypnotized me and how she sent me on my way, saving me from further misery.  

Dr. Brucotti promised to bring the video of the deposition I completed while hypnotized, understanding that we might well choose not to use it in court. She was also to testify to the signs of beatings on my body and to the rooms where I was held, made up as a modern jail, staffed by actors who were told that a documentary was being prepared with their participation.  

Dr. Lengyel had one more question. "How was the conspiracy uncovered?"  

"I informed my superiors of the first contact in Italy by Colonel Hegedus. They, in turn, notified their Hungarian counterparts. The Colonel was placed under surveillance and the arrest of the Professor was known from the time he was identified at the airport.  

"A decision was made to claim ignorance of his plight but to monitor the events. The identities of the agents were not to be compromised. 

"As well, an anonymous, poorly written letter was sent to the Minister of Security a little while ago, leading us to infer that the execution of the take-over plans may have accelerated. The writer identified himself only as a former steel worker but didn't give his name. He was at that time living in a seniors' home, and I assumed he still was there. He wrote the letter because he was frightened. He recounted a visit one day by an elderly gentleman. He was asked if he recalled an accident in the foundry where he worked, half a century ago. He remembered the events but didn't want to be involved with anything connected to it so he blamed his poor memory and denied everything.  

"The older officials at the Ministry recalled the event, the death of the visiting Minister in the foundry, and recalled the rumours. The cause, accident or murder, was never clarified. It was acknowledged that at that time connecting the letter, the visit of the former steel worker and the conspiracy was a bit tenuous."  

"It wasn't too difficult to find the old worker. His letter was postmarked from Budapest. There were not too many seniors' homes there and a little pavement pounding found him: Joe Takacs. He readily admitted to being the author of the letter." 

My lawyer and I exchanged looks. Now we might know where Takacs was located. 

"He positively recognized the man who visited him. He was the Secret Service officer who questioned and tortured him the day after the foundry incident. From the photos that are now on display in the House of Terror, he identified General Komlos. It was well known that the General was living in comfortable retirement. He had a reputation as a feared interrogator and he had been accused and charged with extreme cruelty. Once, during Communism, he was even brought to trial but was acquitted for lack of corroborating witnesses or evidence. Nobody was willing to accuse him to his face." 

"What was it that he wanted of Mr. Takacs?"  

"Of course, you would have to ask the man himself," said Dr. Brucotti. "But as he told me, he was to be present at the airport at specific times. He was to look slovenly, unwashed, dirty and unshaved. He was to carry his cell phone and when he said he hadn't got one, he was given one. He was to wait for a call at the Arrivals section at the airport. He was to be told to go to a room at a specific location. He was told that when he entered the room, there would be a man whom he was to accuse of murder. He was to slap him hard from behind when told. He was reminded of an earlier interrogation and was told that more of that would follow if he disobeyed. On successful cooperation he was to be paid a tidy sum. I didn't ask how much and I didn't ask if in fact he was paid."  

The answer to Dr. Lengyel's next question was important.  

"Did you at any time hear the Colonel and the General discuss their plans for a Communist take-over?"  

"Yes, many times. They were plotting the uprising which was to start from the time the Professor was revealed as the killer of an innocent taxi driver. They formed their cabinet. They identified the buildings, the ministries, the post office and the banks that needed to be occupied. They worked out the number of armed supporters to be positioned at each important place." 

The lady's poise, elegance and most importantly her story made it imperative that she be one of our witnesses.

Jay Clay, the movie producer, was quite reluctant to take an active part in the case, explaining that his involvement in something that implied any connection to Communists, conspiracies, former secret agents, however remote, as well as the attendant notoriety wouldn't be good for his business. He agreed only after Chief Rakossy assured him that his innocence would be emphasized and would be made quite clear but that his testimony was absolutely essential. As well, the Chief talked a little about the illegality of making porno movies using underage girls and boys, mentioned the penalties and Jay said, of course, he would be happy to assist us.  

Clay confirmed that he arranged for about 40 actors to take part in a documentary about the condition of jails, both in the Communist and the current capitalist systems. He spoke about the man who came to discuss the details and the payment. He said that he could describe the man's appearance accurately and when he did, George Winer/Williams emerged. He correctly picked the photo of the man from among 30 random pictures.  

Rakossy reassured Jay that his testimony would be used with discretion. Also, it could well be necessary to identify the man who arranged for the documentary. 

Jay also gave the names, addresses, telephone numbers and e-mail addresses of two of the actors who were to take part in the documentary, Sophia Toth and Judith Martin. He said that he had no clue where the rest of them could be found. The Chief decided not to press further just yet. He would wait and see what the two ladies could tell us and if that was sufficient, we would leave Jay alone. We needed to find the two ladies and hopefully they would identify me as the man they held.

Dr. Lengyel gave me my homework for the evening. I was to contact the two ladies, meet them and find out if their stories might be of any use to us. She cautioned me to treat them gently and if they would rather meet in a cafe and not in the lawyer's office, to accommodate their wishes. I made the call. I was pleased that they remembered me, and in fact Sophia was the one who was most helpful when I appeared to be hurt or beaten. She told me that in the video her name was Julie and I recalled her, of course. I also recalled the time when she, as Julie, attempted to warn me about something but that she was removed, harshly and roughly from my cell before she could finish her warning. I might get a chance to find out what happened there. Judith recalled the English lessons and told me that she continued to study and would be proud to display her current expertise. They were happy to talk about their acting and when I suggested meeting for a nice supper, they agreed cheerfully. We were to meet in the restaurant and I remembered to make a reservation, without which there would be no free table, for sure.  

The two girls were on time. They were cheerful and young and I remembered them well, though my impressions as they played their roles being the serious jail guards in uniform were quite different from what I was seeing now. I got the message that they were eager to talk about acting and that no other topic was of interest to them. We exchanged the usual pleasantries, commented on how good we each looked, which in their case was very true and in my case it still felt good to hear. We ordered, and I started the conversation by telling them the real nature of the video they took part in. I described the objectives of the two main characters, now in jail, and mentioned that their trial was just about ready to start. The girls listened carefully. They were not interested in politics. Both of them were born after the change of regimes. To them Communism and Communists were history. Their interest was in acting. Nothing else mattered and they were not in the least ashamed to tell me.  

They laughed at the notion that there were still people who were willing to conspire to re-create Communism. True, they saw demonstrations on the streets of elderly, not too well dressed people, carrying red flags but they found them funny and archaic.  

I continued my story. They turned serious when I told them that my wounds, my blood, my tortured body were not faked. I told them how I was beaten and I could detect their scepticism. I told them of the kidnapping to Russia, the demand that I kill an innocent man, the murder of a Ukrainian and our escape. Their attitude changed on hearing my story and I was pleased to hear the question, "How could we help?"  

I asked them to describe how their role in the jail-documentary was explained to them. They told about Jay Clay's agency and his offer to cast them in a video, asking for a small fee for himself. They told about their surprise when the instructions they were given were so superficial that they doubted the competence of their director. They got paid promptly so there were no complaints. I still had a question though to Julie/Sophie. I wanted to know what she wanted to warn me about. Her response was surprising.  

"I overheard somebody planning to subject you to a faked, public torture session. One of your arms was to be broken, of course not really, only to frighten you. I wanted to tell you not to worry, your arm wasn't going to be hurt. After they dragged me away, I was warned not to talk to you ever again. I wasn't told why and I was afraid to go to your cell. There was a general meeting with the director after that and we were told to ignore you for a few days."

The next discussion was with Ms. Sackam. She confirmed that she knew of my arrest. Also, she told us of an anonymous phone call, telling her that I was released. She said that she was now free to identify the caller as Dr. Brucotti. She confirmed that she informed Dr. Howther's office of my detention and my release. She also said that all knowledge of my adventures was denied, not wanting to jeopardize the ongoing covert operation concerning the Communist conspiracy.  

A conference call was organized to ask Howther if he received my wife's phone calls and Sackam's messages. He was horrified to learn that his secretary didn't pass on any of them. He put on his speakerphone and we did the same. He asked us to listen to his secretary's comments. The young man was asked about the calls. He claimed to have had no recollection of the messages from my wife or the calls and an e-mail, which were sent by Sackam.  

We heard the steps when Howther walked to the poor guy's desk. We heard the noise of papers being shuffled. We heard Howther's bellow, "What the hell are these?" We heard him yell, incredulously, "Your INBOX clearly shows receipt of Sackam's e-mail. The log of your phone calls shows that you received her and Mrs. Lederer's calls. Why didn't you inform me?" We heard Howther's snarling voice and his barely suppressed rage, telling the poor incompetent to clear out of the building, as of that minute, fired with cause. We heard sobbing and apologies but the loud bang we heard must have been the slamming of the door of Howther's office. He was breathing hard and he was apologizing, up and down. Call me hard-hearted but I didn't feel much sympathy for him or for his ex-secretary. The possibility to make money out of this event, suing the daylight out of the guy crossed my mind but would have to be dealt with later, if at all. Dr. Howther promised to send a submission to describe how my case fell through a major crack. It might be unnecessary to the current court case but the document would form partial proof of my sanity.

The trial was set to start in two days. We were ready. All our witnesses were in town. A couple of them - Howther, Holloway - from overseas would arrive in good time if necessary. Their hotel rooms had been reserved and they were told to go there directly from the airport. Each room was to have a "welcome basket," fruit, water, champagne and fresh flowers. 

Dr. Lengyel called to deliver the good news. The prosecutor decided that there was no need for a team and appointed her to be the assistant prosecutor and the only lawyer facing the defendants in the court.  

My daughter, Tamara, took an unpaid leave of absence from her job and she understood that having my family with me while the case was proceeding increased my self-confidence tremendously. Heather and I were there to welcome her at the airport. Tamara was tired after the overnight trip and we took her back to the apartment for a shower and rest. Talking and debriefing were postponed. When rested, Tamara brought us up-to-date on the break-in at her husband's laboratory. So far, no arrests had been made but there were two "persons of interest." Both were students, both transferred from my university fairly recently, both were borderline, near failing, both ignored assignments, and, most importantly, both disappeared shortly after the break-in. Neither had been located. Jake wanted to remain there while the investigation was continuing. 

Dr. Lengyel suggested, probably unnecessarily, that we discuss how the trial would be conducted. We needed a strategy that would drive the whole process. We needed to know when to object, what to expect, how to react. We needed to anticipate the defence's moves, comments and objections.  

There were two issues involved here, of course. What was done to me and why, including the conspiracy, were the central concerns of the current case. There was, however, the accusation that I killed a man almost half a century ago and at least in the eyes of the defendants, that prompted their actions against me. The question was: what should we do if that topic was brought up? Object or let it enter the case? 

If Dr. Lengyel didn't clamp down the first time this was mentioned and allowed it to go on the record, the proceedings would get much more complex. On the other hand, it might allow me to mention, for the first time in public, that I actually saw who pushed the unfortunate victim, make my accusation and then see where this might lead us. This step, however, would result in accusing the old steel worker, Joe Takacs, of first degree murder. I wasn't charged with the offence in this case, though, so if the defence brought up the defendants' claim, an opportunity would open up for me to sue them for slander, a case I would win for sure. We couldn't imagine that they would be stupid enough to accuse me of murder in public. We assumed that their lawyer would have some brains and would advise them carefully to stay away from anything that might get them off in the wrong direction.  

The other issue was the reason they involved me in this whole thing. We had an understanding of the defendants' wish to bring back Communism. We needed to prove this without a doubt and this might not be possible. We needed a smoking gun or we needed a clear, unequivocal admission. The admission might be the easier of the two possibilities. The Colonel and the General appeared to be highly unstable. Both might be vulnerable and might break down when subjected to some hard questioning. Why did they choose me? The General already told me their idiotic idea that a murder committed by a Canadian-Hungarian would start an anti-Western revolution. We couldn't imagine their lawyer to be so stupid as to bring this into the open. 

Dr. Lengyel thought that the second approach - hard, relentless questioning, demanding answers, direct accusations, calling them liars - was likely to work better for us. There was the danger of causing a mental breakdown, though. Were we ready to accept an acquittal on the basis of mental incompetence? We might not have too many choices here. In fact, an indefinite stay in a mental hospital was probably better than a definite term in jail, at least for me. I reminded my lawyer that Chief R\u00e1kossy requested the presence of a clinical psychiatrist to be in the courtroom, ready to deal with mental issues. 

The order in which the witnesses were to be called was important. Dr. Lengyel suggested that I should go first and that she would lead me to describe the full set of events. This should start with my detentions and kidnapping, followed by the demand that I murder an innocent cabbie leading to the overthrow of the government.  

Dr. Brucotti, the undercover agent, would be next. She would describe her role in my first detention. Jay Clay would describe how he arranged for a video to be prepared of the jail, where I was held. The cabbie, Kossuth, would tell how he drove me to the Canadian Consulate. Igor Benchuk would follow. The rest of the witnesses would then add their bits and pieces, substantiating various parts of my story. Lola would be the last to testify. Her enforced participation in and knowledge of all events would be essential to the conviction of the defendants. If necessary, I would be called to the stand again to strengthen some of the evidence. We hoped that Dr. Kondrachik would be willing to take part in all of this.

CHAPTER 17

The trial was to start at 9 a.m. Dr. Lengyel, Heather, Tamara and I arrived 30 minutes early. Prosecutor Woronsky was there already. There were two tables, one for the defence and one for the prosecution, on the left. We took our seats at the table, on wooden chairs. We were all dressed for the occasion, suits and ties for the men, skirts and jackets for the ladies, showing appropriate respect for the court. Heather and Tamara sat in the first row, directly behind us. 

The courtroom wasn't very impressive. It wasn't large and it needed a new coat of paint quite badly. Chairs and benches, all without padding or pillows, suggested that sitting too long on them might disagree with a few buttocks. The room wasn't air-conditioned and lucky for us, it was early fall, so the extreme heat of August was over. The windows were open and a pleasant breeze felt good. There were only about 10 rows for the spectators. The second row was reserved for reporters. I counted a total of four and I found the lack of interest in a public trial about the potential return of the dictatorship of the proletariat somewhat disturbing. The papers indicated the time and place of the trial along with the names of the accused, their objectives and the possible charges. Was this news not taken too seriously? I wondered what an opinion poll would indicate: bring back the reds or not? An enterprising poll-taker might consider this a worthy effort.  

The judge's bench was raised slightly. The armchair there was the most impressive piece of furniture in the room. It was a high-back leather chair, soft and very comfortable looking. The chair for the witnesses was on the judge's left, a bit lower and a bit less comfortable. Obviously plastic, not leather. There was a small table in front of the witness' chair. There was a banister between the judge, the witness box and the tables for the defence and the prosecution.  

One sleepy spectator was there, in the last row, unidentified and appearing thoroughly bored. I guessed that he was the psychiatrist, whose presence was requested by Chief Rakossy. Nobody paid him any attention and I hoped that in spite of his obvious lack of interest, he would stay alert.  

I was pleased to see that serious concern had been paid to security. All of us had to pass through metal detectors and all briefcases and purses were opened, all items removed and inspected. 

It was now three minutes to take-off and I saw the defence team and the defendants arrive and this was one of the sights I wanted to see for a long time. The Colonel and the General marched in first and their astonishment as they were stopped to pass through the metal detectors was almost enough to make my day. Both got patted down and their hurt pride and their obvious displeasure at the humiliation caused me significant happiness. The General made the machine ping so he was asked to remove his belt and walk through the contraption once more and he wasn't pleased, never having been ordered about in his previous life. Good of him not to have tried to come armed. He actually looked embarrassed at having to do a partial striptease. Neither one looked at me. 

They all sat at their table not more than four feet from ours. Both of them stared straight ahead, not turning toward me, even though I was ready to greet them with a pleasant smile. I intended to keep looking toward them. They would have to turn to avoid neck and shoulder cramps, and I would smile and wave to them. Both indicated their outrage at their current predicament.  

The judge, Justice Strausz, and her clerk entered exactly on the dot. We all stood and sat when she said, "Please take your seats." At that point I saw that Chief Rakossy entered quietly and sat in the last row. The defence team appeared not to have noticed. 

Following local practice, neither we nor the defence knew in advance which judge, of about forty available, would preside here. This made preparing specifically for the judge impossible. It would have been good though to know if we got a hanging judge or the opposite.  

I wasn't sure if I should rejoice or despair at the judge's age. She was about 45 - 50 years old, so all her law-training was probably received while the proletariat ruled. I must have looked a bit bewildered and when Dr. Lengyel saw my face, she understood my discomfort and she whispered, "Don't worry, luck is with us. She has degrees from Columbia Law School in addition to the training she received here. She also worked in Austria for some time, as a prosecutor. She is well known for fairness and thoroughness. A very sharp mind, and a no-nonsense approach." 

I checked with the enemy on my right and saw their disappointed faces, so I chalked one up for us, though not wishing to hex all, I also knocked on wood. Three times, upward. Lucky me, solid oak furniture was all around us. 

Justice Strausz introduced herself and welcomed all the lawyers, both them and us, with smiles. Dr. Lengyel stood up and asked the court's permission to speak. Permission was given and she proceeded to introduce me as her assistant. She asked permission for me to participate and to ask questions of the witnesses. The judge was a bit surprised and addressed me directly. 

"Professor Lederer, you are a witness here. Have you any legal experience that might qualify you to take an official part?" 

Of course, I had no such thing and said so but I added, "Justice Strausz, during the previous several months I had been subjected to a large number of miserable events. I was beaten, humiliated, jailed, poisoned and kidnapped. My name and character have been defamed. I thought that it would be appropriate for me to face my adversaries directly. I hope you will allow me to do so." 

"While this might set a precedent and might lead to successful appeals, I have no objection. You may not, however, ask questions directly. All your questions will be asked by Dr. Lengyel. Is revenge part of your motivation?" and I chose to be truthful and said, yes, that was a major part of it. I was surprised that the defence didn't object and maybe they thought that I would mess up and make a fool of myself, giving them the advantage.  

The judge then addressed the defendants. "Colonel Hegedus, General Komlos. The charges against you, which I will read in a moment, are very serious. You will be tried fairly. You will always tell the truth. You know the consequences for not following this simple rule." 

The defence lawyer was on her feet, red in the face, even before the judge was finished with her admonishment. She was talking at a higher volume than necessary. 

"Your Honour, with due respect I object, it was totally unnecessary to imply that my defendants would ever say anything but the truth...," and the judge interrupted, firmly but without matching the volume. 

"Sit down, Ms. Taber. I decide here what is necessary and what is not. Right now I need to read the charges against the defendants." 

Ms. Taber, still flushed, resented what happened and while she was a bit reluctant to sit down, did so eventually. The judge noticed her behaviour. She continued. 

"Colonel Hegedus. You are charged with kidnapping, torture, conspiracy to topple the Hungarian Government and coercion to murder. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?" 

"Not guilty," said my nemesis, proudly and loud. She remained sitting, showing some disrespect to Justice Strausz, who, credit to her, seemed to notice but took no offence. Then she said, calmly, "It is the practice in my court that when I address a person, defendant, accuser, plaintiff, lawyer or clerk, that person will stand and will respond standing. I assume, Colonel, that while you should have known this, you didn't, and that replying to me while sitting is not a sign of disrespect. Next time you will stand, of course." 

Then she turned to the next defendant. 

"General Komlos. You are charged with conspiracy to overthrow the Hungarian Government. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?" 

Here came the first surprise of the day. The General stood ramrod straight, and said in a booming, loud voice, "Guilty with cause, your Honour."  

The judge was as surprised as everybody. 

"There is no such thing here as "with cause", so I remove that from your plea. Then, did I hear you correctly General, did you plead guilty to the charges? Do you know that the penalty is life imprisonment, no chance for parole? Do you wish to change your plea?" 

"No, your honour. I am guilty as charged according to your capitalist book of crimes and other idiotic and insulting nonsense. In my opinion I committed no crimes, however. In spite of what you just pronounced, I had an excellent reason to do as I did. I am sick and tired of being hunted as an animal. I am, always was, and will remain a Communist and the sooner...," and the judge interrupted, firmly but not unkindly. 

"That's enough General, no speeches are required." 

The man stopped in the middle of his sentence and looked like he was hit by lightning. He opened his mouth, wanted to talk but no sound came out. He was red in the face, just like his lawyer was a minute ago. He may never have experienced how it felt to be told to shut up. Probably he didn't quite understand that he was a defendant here and while innocent till proven otherwise, a valid, legal process might in fact jail him. He might not actually believe that Communism was dead and gone. Further, either his lawyer hadn't told him how to behave in court or he didn't care but the outrage at being interrupted was clear on his face and was observed by the judge. She said nothing, just looked at him for a bit longer than necessary. He sat down. He banged the table, threw his notes to his lawyer, crossed his arms on his chest and glared straight back at the judge, in an exquisite show of defiance. 

"General Komlos. You pleaded guilty but I refuse to accept your plea. You will participate in this trial as a defendant. I will allow you to change your guilty plea up to the last minute," announced the judge and Dr. Lengyel was on her feet, objecting strongly and implying - but cleverly not stating it in words - that there was a bias here toward the defendants. The judge picked it up, of course. 

"Not to worry, Dr. Lengyel. There is no bias toward anything but the truth," and Lengyel had the presence of mind to accept the rebuke and to sit down.  

The next step in the proceedings was quite a surprise and a major difference from the usual Western style process. The defence was to present the list of witnesses to be called. The prosecution wasn't obliged to be so open. Our list needed to be given to the judge only. In my limited Canadian court experience as a character witness I was supposed to sit outside the room while others were testifying. When it was my turn, I was called in to make my statement. Here witnesses were allowed to sit in the room and listen to all statements.  

The defence's list was surprisingly short.

* Colonel Hegedus

* General Komlos

The prosecution's list was considerably longer. They included thirteen names. Most of the people had been located and they had agreed to testify. Joe Takacs, one of the steel workers, vanished and all our efforts to find him failed so far.  

The judge reserved her right to terminate and dismiss a witness in the middle of questioning if she concluded that the testimony was irrelevant. While a decision like this would be final, it often formed the basis of an appeal. She also had the power to interrupt the questioning and to ask her own questions anytime.  

The judge now explained how we would proceed. We would start each day at 8 a.m. sharp. There would be a ten-minute break at 10 and a one-hour break for lunch at 1 p.m. One more break at 3, and we would stop at 4:30. No latecomers were to enter until the next break. The doors would be locked. There was to be an armed guard outside the door and two unarmed guards, sitting directly behind the defence and the prosecution, respectively. Everyone would pass through the weapon-detectors. No cell phones, no laptops were allowed in the courtroom, except for the lawyers. The wireless connections, however, were to be off. The penalty for not following these "no communication with the outside" instructions was instant banishment from the proceedings and a charge of contempt, punishable by time in secure custody.  

Prosecutor Woronsky was to take the floor first, explaining the charges. This was to be followed by Dr. Lengyel, appointed to be the assistant prosecutor. The chief defence lawyer, Ms. Taber was to be the last. All three were limited to 10 minutes, each. The witnesses for the prosecution were to be first, followed by the witnesses for the defence. Each witness could be questioned by both the defence and the prosecution. The judge could interrupt at any time to ask questions. When all witnesses were finished, both defence and prosecution could recall any of them for further questions and clarifications. There would be closing arguments, first by the prosecution and then by the defence. The judge would then estimate how long she needed to arrive at a judgment and would set a date for its announcement. If she found the defendants guilty, she would announce the penalty at the same time. One appeal, to be filed within two weeks, was allowed by either side. Nothing further was allowed so the case would not drag on for years.  

It was now 10 in the morning and we took a break, made space for the next sips of water and relaxed a little. Woronsky re-read her presentation and we all got ready for the long haul. The judge returned precisely in ten minutes, called us to order and asked the prosecutor why the charges had been brought. Woronsky began and my first impression was good. Her public voice was impressive and she sounded sure of herself. She was fluent, the "aah-s" and the "ooh-s" were absent and she gave the impression of being in complete charge. 

In her speech, made without notes, she recounted the basic events that happened to me and she introduced the alleged perpetrators. She said that the police investigation, started after I made the allegations of mistreatment at the hands of the defendants, uncovered compelling indications that a public trial was warranted. The charges included illegal detention, beatings, threats, kidnapping, coercion to murder and conspiracy to overthrow the government. She concluded by stating that she had full confidence that the trial would be fair and its findings would be just. None of the effects of her recent stroke was evident. The judge thanked her for her comments.  

While I would have liked to hear a harder-hitting presentation, it was quite clear that the prosecutor didn't wish to be very specific and that she was right in not implying guilt or innocence, only stating that there were allegations that needed to be clarified.  

It was Dr. Lengyel's turn now to make the detailed case for the prosecution. I had heard her opening speech before when she practised. It was to be specific and clear. She spoke without notes. 

"This case will concentrate on the obsession and the activities of a few individuals, namely Colonel Hegedus and General Komlos, whose exalted status as honoured interrogators for the Secret Service took a nosedive when Communism collapsed. They conspired to re-establish the 'good old days,' to bring back the Communist dictatorship. In describing the details of their efforts, we will show that they didn't shy away from conspiracy, torture, illegal confinement, kidnapping, harassment, and incitement to murder. We will demonstrate their widespread international connections as well as their attempts to use innocent dupes that were set-up to promote their idea fixee.  

"The witnesses for the prosecution will prove, without the possibility of any doubt that Professor Lederer and his daughter, Tamara Lederer, both dual Canadian-Hungarian citizens, were specifically picked to be unwitting tools in furthering their schemes. The prosecution will show without any possible doubt that the two defendants are guilty as charged."  

I watched the faces of the two accused while Dr. Lengyel was speaking. Both were looking up to the ceiling and their unmoving stone-faces indicated utter contempt for the whole set of proceedings. Then the General began to read a newspaper. The Colonel started reading a paperback novel. I also noticed that Justice Strausz glanced in their direction several times.  

The lawyer for the defence, Ms. Taber, was next. She was a middle-aged lady, well and expensively dressed, a bit showy. She looked very serious, frowning. So far she hadn't smiled. She took notes while the prosecutor and her assistant, Dr. Lengyel, spoke. She now stood, took out her notes and began, mostly reading from her papers. Of course, what mattered was what she said but I was pleased to draw my own conclusions here, imagining that maybe she wasn't so well prepared, having to read her notes. Maybe she was not so adept at thinking on her feet. She also talked in generalities. She mentioned that the charges against her clients were serious but that Colonal Hegedus was totally and completely innocent and the guilty plea by the General needed to be explained. I saw the judge's look harden as she heard these words. As soon as Ms. Taber said, "What the General meant ...," she interrupted. 

"Ms. Taber, the General is a highly intelligent man and he understands the seriousness of these proceedings and what he faces if he is convicted. He knows very well what he said and we know equally well what he meant. This is not the time for you to put a spin on what he meant as it was quite clear to all of us. When you question him, you may lead him to clarify his plea, even though "guilty" means "guilty". You will also recall that I didn't accept his guilty plea."  

The lawyer accepted the admonishment but showed her displeasure again, and the judge noticed that. Ms. Taber ended her presentation by stating that the innocence of the defendants would be shown, clearly and absolutely, without any possible doubt.  

It was time for our first lunch break. 

 Four of us met in the courthouse cafeteria. The selection of food was surprisingly fresh and appetizing. There were salads, fruit, quiche, bread, and all kinds of freshly prepared hot items, including a very good looking green pea soup. None of us was hungry so a simple salad, a slice of bread with butter and club soda were sufficient. A small espresso to finish. Of more interest was what Dr. Lengyel thought of the morning's proceedings and I saw that she was anxious to tell. 

"My first impressions are very good. We got a good judge. She has a reputation for even-handedness which I hoped for. I am familiar with how she handled her past cases and I am satisfied that she will not have favourites. Tonight I will review several of her trials in more detail. None of her cases has been reversed on appeal, a distinction which is double-edged, of course. We will have to be on our toes." The lawyer continued.  

"It was more the defence's apparent lack of thoroughness that cheered me on. Ms. Taber, while she is a well-acknowledged defence lawyer, appeared to be not so well prepared. You noticed, of course, that she read her opening presentation. Also, she seemed to have some trouble in controlling her two defendants or she failed to coach them on courtroom behaviour. 

"There are three points of interest so far. The first was the guilty plea of the General which I don't understand. I can't make out his objective. 'Guilty with cause' is not an acceptable plea in this country. The second is the complete contradiction of their claims. Why did one of them plead guilty, the other did not? The third concerns their disturbing behaviour while sitting at the defence's table. Their obvious anger and their attempts to disparage this court were expected but they were much too close to the surface. This indicates either very careful preparation, its exact opposite, or some possible mental imbalance. We'll have to watch them closely. It's possible that subtle signs between them were guiding their comments. It is possible that they are not mentally competent and they don't understand the traditional difference between right and wrong. If so, we can capitalize on these. They might well fall apart under tough questioning." 

There was little to add to Dr. Lengyel's summation. All three of us agreed. Lunch was over. Back to the courtroom.

The actual proceedings were to get under way at this time. It was our turn and Dr. Lengyel called me to the stand as the first witness for the prosecution. Swearing to tell the truth, identification and personal details were followed by questions that allowed me to tell why I was there. I was careful to answer clearly but as briefly as possible. I knew not to say anything more than absolutely necessary. Dr. Lengyel started. 

"Professor Lederer, when you arrived in Budapest in May, 2002, you were detained at the airport and were interrogated at length by Colonel Hegedus. Is that correct?" 

"Yes, that is correct." 

"Were you mistreated during that interrogation?" 

"Yes, I was. I was beaten." 

"When the session was over, were you taken to a jail cell?" 

"Yes, I was." 

"Were you mistreated while you were incarcerated?" 

"Yes, I was beaten daily." 

"How did you manage to leave the jail?" 

"Dr. Brucotti, a consultant to the Ministry of Internal Security, visited me in my cell. When I described what happened to me, she simply directed me to a door, opened it and pushed me on the street. A taxi then took me to the Canadian Consulate and they arranged for me to go home to Canada." 

"Did Colonel Hegedus visit your home in Canada during that winter and did she appear to have been badly beaten?" 

"Yes, that is correct. She was badly beaten. I called an ambulance, had her taken to a hospital. She left the hospital next morning with her husband." 

"Did you then decide to return to Budapest in order to find out why you were inconvenienced in your earlier visit?" 

"Yes, I did. After a few days of investigation, I was knocked out, poisoned and taken to Yekaterinburg." 

"Did you see the Colonel in Yekaterinburg?" 

"Yes, I did. She told me that her objective was to re-establish the Communist system in Hungary. She demanded that I return to Budapest and kill the taxi driver that took me from my jail to the Canadian Consulate. She told me that if I refused to kill, she would harm my daughter, who was also in Yekaterinburg. We escaped and managed to get back to Budapest." 

"Did you receive a visitor in your apartment shortly after you managed to get back to Budapest?" 

"Yes, I did." 

"Is the person who visited you in this courtroom?" 

"Yes, he is. He is one of the defendants, General Komlos." 

"Did he threaten you?" 

"Yes, he did. He had a gun pointed at my forehead. He told me that he was going to kill me because I knew too much. My wife subdued him and he was arrested." 

Dr. Lengyel ended her questions at thus time. 

Ms. Taber was smiling as her turn was approaching. Her smile looked like that of the cat ready to jump on the canary, the canary now being myself. I expected that she would try to get me angry, she would insult me and she hoped to make me say contradictory things. I was glad to have gone through the training by my lawyer, who abused and goaded me mercilessly, saying that worse would come, for sure. I was nervous but tried not to show it. This was where the real battle started. 

Ms. Taber walked toward me, still smiling. She looked at me for a few seconds before the interrogation. When she began, her tone was scathing. 

"Professor. You told your account to the Canadian officials in the Department of Foreign Affairs some time ago. The officials contacted their Hungarian counterparts. The Hungarians conducted a search to confirm that you were, in fact, detained at the airport in May, 2002. Is it not true that they were unable to find any clues to corroborate your story?" 

"No, Ms. Taber, this is completely untrue," I said, and I hoped she would give me a chance to elaborate. My hopes were rewarded when Ms. Taber continued, more scathing than ever. 

"You are a bare-faced liar, Professor, shame on you. You were told that no evidence was found. You were told that your imagination went into overdrive. You were told not to bother the Canadian officials ever again. Is this not correct? Pray tell, tell the truth as you promised you would." 

"Yes, Ms. Taber, all of the points in your last pronouncement are correct. It is true that I was told that no clues were found. I wasn't told though that they were unable to find any. At that time an exploration into the activities of a Commu...," and here Ms. Taber interrupted, realizing that she fell into some excrement. She was yelling at me, loud and excited, to stop. I did, but now the judge got into the fray and asked me to continue. So I went on and I told of the covert investigation by the Hungarian authorities of the activities of the Colonel and the General and their conspiracy to bring back Communism. I was told that confirmation of my story at that time would have jeopardized the operations of the authorities.  

Ms. Taber had enough. She stopped and she wasn't a good loser. She looked unhappy. She was pouting and was near crying.  

Justice Strausz ended the day's proceedings. Just as we were ready to leave, Ms. Taber was on her feet and asked permission to speak. She addressed the judge, deferentially for the first time. 

"Justice Strausz, I respectfully ask that the defendants be allowed to go home at the end of each session. They should not be taken back to their jail cells." 

Before Dr. Lengyel was halfway up from her seat, the judge denied the request, saying that both defendants posed flight-risks, both were able to get false passports, and that they were much safer when in custody.  

At this point we all left. The General and the Colonel were led back to their cells. Both looked furious. I was cheered. 

Next morning Dr. Lengyel called on Dr. Brucotti. I noticed that both Colonel Hegedus and the General looked very surprised, uncomfortable and suddenly their smirks disappeared, as the lady took the stand. The first question was direct, straight to the point. 

"Dr. Brucotti, is it correct to say that in addition to your duties as a consultant to the Minister, you were an undercover agent of the Ministry of Internal Security?" 

"Yes, that is correct," was the answer, delivered with quiet assurance.  

"As an agent, was it your primary duty to infiltrate a cell of former Communists whose aim was to re-establish the old, discredited regime?" 

"Yes, it was." 

I watched the defendants and I saw their shock. Their trusted co-conspirator and fellow red was a mole and she was reporting on their activities to their sworn enemies.  

"Dr. Brucotti, please tell the court how you managed to become a trusted member of the cell." 

"When I was 17, I joined the Italian Red Brigades. I quit in disgust when Aldo Moro, the 39th Prime Minister of Italy, was murdered by the Brigades in 1978. I informed the Italian Police of my membership and that I quit. I was taken to court, charged with being a member of a terrorist organization and given a suspended sentence of two years. My slate was to be wiped clean after that.  

"About four years ago, while I was working in Milan as a clinical psychiatrist, I was contacted by an official of the Foreign Ministry of Hungary. I was chosen because of my connection to Hungary through my Hungarian-born parents. I was first sworn to absolute secrecy on whatever I would be told. I was curious, took the oath and was released from my promise only yesterday, so I could testify truthfully in this trial. I was told that there were credible rumours, received from a few still secret sources, of the existence of possibly several Communist cells active in Hungary.  

"About a week before that call, a message was received in the Hungarian Foreign Ministry from Interpol, forwarded to them from the CIA. It concerned Hungary and it was intercepted as a result of the CIA's efforts in data mining all e-mail communication to and from North America. This was a message from CH to W, from Budapest to Saskatoon, Canada. The initials CH had been assumed to indicate Colonel Hegedus. The sender's location was identified through the e-mail and the server. It came from the address of an apartment in Budapest, the owner of which was Colonel Hegedus.  

"I was told that she was known to be a fanatical Communist and that she was a feared former interrogator of the Hungarian Secret Service. I was told that she also worked at the airport in Budapest for a little while, even after the change of the regimes. Following that she disappeared from sight. The Hungarian authorities had been looking for her ever since. The e-mail indicated that she re-surfaced and that she had begun or was continuing her activity, the nature of which was still unknown. I was to find out, covertly, what that activity might be. W was thought to indicate her alleged husband, Williams. The message wasn't in code and it said: 'I need Lola, now'."  

Dr. Lengyel looked at me and moved her lips soundlessly, relying on my ability to lip-read, "The Colonel didn't know that Lola worked at the airport." 

The questions continued. 

"Please tell the court how you had become personally acquainted with Colonel Hegedus?"  

"I began to frequent bars and cafes in Milan, known to be the watering places of Italian Communists and socialists. I made new friends and many of the older people recognized me from my previous activities. I managed to re-establish my image as a devout socialist. 

"Probably as a result, I received a call from a lady who identified herself as the cultural attache of the Hungarian Consulate. When I checked with the Consulate, I was told that no such person existed. It was, in fact, the Colonel who met me in a cafe. We chatted for a while and then she told me the purpose of our rendezvous. 

"She wanted the assistance of the Red Brigades to bring back the Communist dictatorship in Hungary."  

Dr. Brucotti stopped here for a sip of water. We all waited for the rest of her story. There was total silence in the court. The defendants looked dejected. The lady continued. 

"Actually, I couldn't believe my ears when I heard the Colonel's request. I was to re-establish contact with one of the Red Brigade members who was very near being released from jail. The two of us were to ensure that when the Hungarian group of conspirators was organized, we would repeat the same in Italy, establish a Communist government there. We were offered financing through a numbered Swiss account and relocation to a place of our choice and a new identity if we failed. 

"I reported all these to an Italian magistrate. He arranged for me to be hired by the Italian Ministry of Internal Affairs as a consultant. Shortly after, I was re-assigned to Hungary as a consultant to their Ministry of Internal Security. Colonel Hegedus maintained contact with me during these times and I appointed her as one of my assistants. She invited me to the meetings of her group where I met the General, as well. I had become their trusted colleague. I attended all meetings. I contributed to their planning of the overthrow of the Government. I was reporting to the Minister of Internal Security daily." 

The lady then went on to discuss the events connected with my first detention. She completed her story with the description of how she bloodied my face and shoved me out of the jail into the street. She believed that she might have saved my life. She also mentioned her call to Ms. Sackam. She had been living under protective security ever since and she couldn't wait to return to her practice in Milan. 

Ms. Taber wisely declined her chance to shake Dr. Brucotti's testimony.  

It was Jay Clay's turn next. He told how he was engaged by a large redheaded English speaking man who called himself Williams to hire about 40 actors and actresses to act in a video about jails. He also gave the details of how he found a location for the filming in an abandoned warehouse. His role ended here as he wasn't involved any further.  

Dr. Lengyel and I discussed how Clay ended our contact and how my last call to him reached a disconnected phone. It was now time to find out what happened and why. 

"Mr. Clay, you recall your discussions with Professor Lederer about the video Mr. Williams wanted to make. You also recall the last phone call from the Professor which you ended with the cryptic statement, 'Now you are on your own.' You clearly indicated that you wanted no more contact with him. Why?" 

Jay looked at the General and I saw fear in his eyes. He took a deep breath, thought a few seconds and the judge reminded him that it was time to respond. 

"That afternoon I received a visitor. He told me to stop dealing with Professor Lederer. I asked why and his answer scared me. He said if I stopped I would live longer. I agreed to stop. As soon as he left, I packed a suitcase, had my phone disconnected and moved in with my brother." 

"Do you see the man who visited you in this room?" 

Jay pointed at the General. The lawyer for the defence had no questions for the young agent. Dr. Lengyel had one more, though. 

"Are you still afraid of the General?" 

"Yes, I am." said Jay. "I hope he'll rot in jail." 

The defence lawyer asked no questions of Jay, realizing that his evidence didn't relate to the charges of kidnapping or conspiracy. Jay stepped off the stand and left. The two defendants looked at him as he walked by and if Jay saw their looks, he would have become even more insecure and uncomfortable.

Tamas Kossuth, the cabbie, was to go on the stand next. He was to tell his story, but we agreed that no mention of his network of saviours was to be made. He recalled how he stopped when I jumped in front of his taxi and how he drove me to the Canadian Consulate. He mentioned that while we were riding along, a car gave us chase and he shook off the chaser. He was unable to say who followed us or why. At the end he turned to the judge and asked permission to place a document among the evidence. He explained that he agreed to describe my rescue when he and I met last. The judge said, however, that what he just said under oath was sufficient. There was no need for a written version.  

He gave the address where he picked me up. It was the address of the warehouse already mentioned by Jay Clay. It was the place where I found clues to indicate that I was held there.  

Ms. Taber was going to try her luck with the driver and I didn't see why. I couldn't imagine what was there to be gained.  

"Mr. Kossuth, is it not true that the Professor was just another fare for you and you are trying to help convict two innocent people?" 

"No, Ms. Taber, that's not true. When I picked up and drove Lederer to the Consulate his face was bloody. He was wearing a prison uniform with which I was very familiar. The uniform was torn and the scars of beatings were clearly visible. The man needed help. I accepted no money from him."  

The defence lawyer was out of luck. She was unable to make a point that would indicate her clients' innocence. She was on a fishing expedition, hoping that something would turn up. Her clients were getting increasingly restless but there wasn't much they could do. She asked nothing further from the cabbie who stepped down and walked straight out of the courtroom.

There was a sudden, noisy commotion outside the courtroom's main entry door. I couldn't make out what was being said. When the judge sent one of the guards to investigate, the door was opened and I saw the lost steel worker, Joe Takacs, arguing with the sentry. He was calm but looked determined and I could read his lips. He was telling the man there that he had significant information, relevant to what was going on inside and that he wanted to tell his story. I also saw that the guard was reluctant to permit him to enter. I was pleased when my lawyer recognized the man, grasped the potential importance of the issue and was on her feet, asking for a recess and permission to approach the bench. Permission was granted, and both lawyers went to speak with Justice Strausz, in whispers. I didn't, of course, hear the words, and couldn't lip-read since all backs were turned toward me. I saw the colour change on the back of Ms. Taber's neck so I was cautiously optimistic. Permission was given to the old man to enter and he walked in slowly, with dignity. I liked the guy. I hoped that he would repeat what he told us a few days ago. I also trusted that he wouldn't indicate who pushed the Minister. 

The judge explained that a new witness for the prosecution had shown up unexpectedly, and she was giving her permission to hear his testimony.

Dr. Lengyel now formally called our next witness, Mr. Joe Takacs. He appeared relaxed. He looked his age. He was dressed quite well again, the same get-up he wore at the lawyer's office, the well worn, old fashioned but clean suit, a white shirt, slightly frayed at the collar and a tie. He moved with some difficulty, but lucky for us, his mind was sharp and his memory was good. No Alzheimer's here, no senility. His hands and fingernails were clean but they indicated the hard work he performed in the steel mill all his life.  

Dr. Lengyel began the questioning. She recalled that there were discussions with the man in her office and asked him what happened when he suddenly left. The answer was simple. He was frightened.  

After he suddenly walked out of the lawyer's office, he decided to disappear completely. He was determined not to be found. He told the judge that he ultimately changed his mind, returned and was ready to take part in the process because the enormity of the charge of conspiracy to bring back the old regime became clear to him.  

Dr. Lengyel asked for the judge's permission to deviate from the current line of questions in order to substantiate the prosecution's charges. She understood the danger. I thought I knew what might happen next. The basic reason for my adventures, the murder charge against me, might well be brought into the open. There were, as always, two possibilities. Either the ridiculousness of the accusation would become apparent, or I would face a whole new set of problems. My lawyer's skill here in asking the right questions and getting the right answers was going to be critical. 

"Mr. Takacs, please tell the court your background."  

The elderly man's voice was loud, rasping a bit, but steady. His hands were resting on the arms of his chair, no shaking. 

"I joined the Communist Party when I was 16 years old. I believed that as long as we could live in peace, eliminate greed and treat everyone fairly and equally, life would be great. The Communists told us about their ideals. We were to build a community where these would be realized. I believed them.  

"I started working at the foundry as an apprentice. By 1956 I was a qualified steel worker and had a steady and satisfactory income. I was asked to join the workers' militia, which I did, proudly. I hoped to become a card-carrying member of the Communist Party eventually." 

He stopped here, obviously thinking that the introduction was sufficient. Dr. Lengyel prompted him. 

"Were you present in the foundry in late October, 1956, when a group of VIP visitors were escorted through your workplace?" 

"Yes, I was."  

"Would you please tell the court what you saw during that visit." 

"I was there with my three friends, working on pouring the hot steel into the containers. We noticed a group of visitors, and noticed that among them was the Minister of Industry. There were several bodyguards with him, following him from behind, not surrounding him as the practice used to be. The four of us joined the group and nobody stopped us. We were also directly behind the Minister and none of the guards told us to move away. 

"We heard a very loud, sharp noise, almost as if something exploded behind us. Most of us turned but there was no clue where the sound came from. Next I heard a bloodcurdling scream and when I turned, I saw the Minister falling into the hot steel." 

"Did you see what made him fall?" 

"No, as I said most of us turned toward the source of the sudden noise. By the time I turned back, the poor man was falling." 

"Did you see anybody trying to stop his fall? Did any of his bodyguards attempt to help?" 

"No, I didn't. None of them moved. None of us moved. We let him fall." 

It was the next set of questions that might cause trouble for me. The plan here was to ask what Mr. Takacs saw, did he see me, did he see my actions, did he see others' activities. We already knew that he saw more, but what he saw might or might not be revealed. The decision would be made only after Ms. Taber's cross-examination. Dr. Lengyel continued, after taking a sip of water. She appeared cool and calm.  

"Mr. Takacs, on that day in the foundry did you see anyone who is now present here, in this courtroom?" 

"Yes, I did," and the man pointed straight at me. "I saw Professor Lederer among the crowd with the visitors. Of course, he was a bit younger at the time, he was a machinist then, not a professor," and I heard a few chuckles from the audience.  

"What did the young Mr. Lederer do?" 

"He was standing at the edge of the crowd. When the loud bang was heard, he turned as we all did, maybe a little bit slower, though. When we heard the scream, he simply ran toward the exit and disappeared. I didn't see him during the interrogations and didn't see him in the shop when we returned to work. I learned not to ask questions about people who vanished and I didn't ask about him, nor did I care." 

The judge interrupted here. 

"Mr. Takacs, are you a Communist now?" and I saw Ms. Taber jumping to her feet, objecting.  

"Judge, I object, I don't see the...."  

The judge said, a bit impatiently, "Ms. Taber, sit. This is surely not your first time as a defence lawyer. You know very well that I don't need your permission to ask what I deem appropriate, nor do I appreciate your interruption." As the defence lawyer hesitated, the judge raised her voice and shouted, "SIT DOWN!" and she looked at the witness and said, calm again, "Please ignore the spat. Answer my question, Sir." 

"No, I am not a Communist. The moment I learned that the Secret Service men were shooting and killing their fellow citizens at the order of the state, I realized the truth of what others already knew for quite some time. The dictatorship of the proletariat had become a dictatorship, interested only in preserving its role. This was a tragic situation for me, a life-long Communist. Up to that point I devoted my life to serving the Party and asked no questions. I accepted that the Party couldn't be wrong. I was devastated." 

"Were you questioned by the Secret Service after the tragedy in the foundry?" 

"Yes, I was," said Takacs and for the first time, he looked uncomfortable.  

"Were you mistreated during that interrogation?" 

"Yes, I was. Boiling water was poured on my genitals." 

"Were you asked if you saw anyone pushing the Minister into the hot steel?" 

"Yes, I was. I lied. I was afraid of more torture. I accused Mr. Lederer of the murder. I regret that and will regret it as long as I live. I apologize. I am sorry. After the accusation I was allowed to go for medical help." He was looking at me now, into my eyes, unblinking.  

"Did you continue to be a member of the worker's militia?" 

"Yes, I am ashamed to admit. I needed my job, I needed to earn a living. I played along, continued to toe the line, as distasteful as that was. I became an opportunist and a liar. I survived."  

At this point Justice Strausz indicated that she was finished for the time being and that Dr. Lengyel was to continue. The lawyer whispered to me, "I need to know why Takacs showed up unexpectedly. He has more to tell, I am sure. I'll dig a little." As her next question indicated, she decided to start a fishing expedition, a most dangerous tack.  

"Mr. Takacs, is there anything of importance that you wish to share with us? Anything that you deem relevant to this case?" 

"Yes, there is. I want to relate an incident that happened some time ago. I was getting off a bus and a small car knocked me down." 

Dr. Lengyel looked triumphant and continued, "Please tell the court what happened next." 

"I lost consciousness when the car hit me, so I can only say what happened when I woke up. I was in a bed, in a clean, bright room. I was wearing pyjamas that didn't quite fit me but they were clean. While the room looked like a hospital room, it wasn't. It was much too well furnished. There was a large, modern television, a telephone, colourful curtains and fresh flowers.  

"My right arm was broken a long time ago and it never healed properly. When I straightened my arm, it bent backwards at the elbow. It appeared that it was broken again. It was in a cast. A lady was standing beside my bed, smiling at me and telling me how pleased she was that I regained consciousness." 

"Do you see this lady in the court today?" 

"Yes, I do," and the steelworker pointed directly at the Colonel, who turned red in the face again, an unfortunate reaction by the trained actress. How come she was unable to control the colour of her face? 

"Please continue with your recollections."  

"I asked where I was and what happened to me. The lady introduced herself as Nurse Williams and told me that I was in a private hospital. She told me about the car that hit me, that it didn't stop and that the police were now searching for the hit-and-run driver. She told me that my right arm was broken at the elbow. She told me that I was brought here by an ambulance. My arm was set and in about a week or ten days I could leave. She asked if there was anyone they could notify and she appeared relieved when I said that I had no living relatives. 

"She was very pleasant, spoke politely, and was helpful to me. She shaved me, bathed me, helped me drink, brought me food and in a very short while we became friends, or at least that was what I imagined." 

"What changed your mind?" 

"In a few days my cast was to be changed. I hoped that the damage of the old fracture would be corrected and that my arm would be straight. When the cast was off however, I noticed that my arm still bent backwards at the elbow. I asked why and Nurse Williams roughly told me to shut my mouth. I asked to see the doctor and was again told, this time a little louder, to shut up. I asked a third time and without another word, the nurse simply hit my exposed broken elbow, causing excruciating pain. She said then, quietly, almost in a whisper, with an angelic smile on her face, but ice in her blue eyes, "I told you to shut up twice already, didn't I? Just shut your mouth, pop. Or do you want out of here with your fucking arm hanging loose?" 

"I was frightened and shut up. I didn't know what else to do. The cast was reapplied and as you can see, when I straighten my arm, it bends beyond straight, as it did before the car hit me." Mr. Takacs demonstrated as the lawyers and the audience gasped. 

"She was no longer kind to me. No more help, no more bathing, no more shaving. In about five more days I was handed the torn and filthy clothes I wore when struck down, and was told to get out of there. I did, still in considerable pain, and went home. I wasn't given a bill for the medical care." 

The lawyer for the defence was surprisingly silent. The judge, who until this point was patiently listening to the testimony, interrupted again.  

"Is this the end of your story? How does it fit in with the current case?" 

"There is more, judge. I had an unexpected visitor. A young lady visited me in the old folks' home where I lived, shortly after I was told to leave the hospital." 

"Please tell the court what transpired." 

"She told me that she was the cleaning lady at the place where I was treated. She told me that when I was brought in, after the car hit me, neither of my arms was broken. She told me that she overheard a doctor and Nurse Williams talking about me. She said...," and, of course, Ms. Taber was on her feet, objecting to the hearsay - why now, why not sooner? - and the judge interrupted her and asked Mr. Takacs to continue.  

"The lady told me what she heard. The two discussed which of my arms was to be broken, and reset to be straight. She saw them examining my arms, observing the right arm which bent in the wrong way, as a result of an old fracture. She saw when the nurse held my right arm and the doctor simply broke it, using a hammer. She heard the bones crack." These comments caused quite a stir and murmur among the observers. Neither Williams\/Hegedus nor the General looked at the witness. The judge continued.  

"Have you any idea why your arm was to be set straight?" 

"No, none at all." 

"Have you any idea why your arm ended up still bent slightly, as it was?" 

"The cleaning lady said that the doctor vanished during the first time the cast was put on. The process was finished by the nurse. I am guessing that she wasn't an expert and the cast wasn't put on right." 

"Did the cleaning lady tell you how she found you?" 

"Yes, she did. When I was kicked out of the hospital, she followed me. She was concerned that I might be subjected to further harm." 

I heard some noise from the back and when we all looked, Chief Rakossy was walking toward the front and asked permission to approach the bench for a brief discussion. Ms. Taber was objecting immediately and even the judge looked ready to ask the Chief to sit down but by then he was standing directly in front of her and was whispering to her. I saw the judge nod and the Chief handed her several photographs. The judge asked the two lawyers to approach, showed them the photos and I saw Dr. Lengyel nodding vigorously and Ms. Taber shaking her head, just as vigorously. It seemed that the prosecution won once again and the judge handed the photos to Takacs, asking him if he could identify any of the people in them. The man looked at the pictures, slowly one by one, picked one and handed it to the judge. He said and his voice shook a little, "This man was the doctor who broke and didn't finish setting my arm." 

The judge said now, "For the record, the witness identified Dr. Mater, one of the four men, recently arrested and identified as having been hired by General Komlos to do his bidding. Dr. Mater lost his medical license quite some time ago." The judge then asked the prosecution to continue.  

"Do you recall where this so-called private hospital was?" continued Dr. Lengyel, and when the address was supplied, she requested the judge to send a team of crime-scene investigators there. There was the expected, instant objection from the defence. 

"Surely, judge, you won't spend money on a dubious claim by an ancient witness with possible dementia and certainly very poor memory?"  

I was pleased to hear the judge saying that yes, she would, and she would take the responsibility for her order. The investigators were asked to report the next day.  

Mr. Takacs was excused. The judge thanked him and asked him to stay in the room in case he was needed again. The old guy looked pleased. He was walking tall. He knew that his evidence demonstrated very clearly the nature of the two defendants. 

Dr. Lengyel now called Igor to the stand. I saw Ms. Taber bending close to the Colonel's ear and I could make out the question, "Who's the giant?" and the response, "No clue". The bare-faced lie was excellent news, showing that there was no trust among my enemies. I passed a note to Dr. Lengyel, who also noted the exchange but, of course, couldn't decipher the words.  

Dr. Lengyel started.  

"Mr. Benchuk, you were approached by General Komlos some time ago. You were given money and an introduction to his physician who agreed to treat your son's muscular dystrophy. What were you to do in exchange?" 

"I was to be at the airport. I was to accuse a man of murder." 

"Is that man in the court today?"  

Without a word, Igor pointed at me.  

"Where you threatened?" 

"Yes. If I didn't do as commanded, the money to pay for my son's treatment was to be stopped." 

"What happened after the events at the airport?" 

"No more funds were provided. My son is now near death." 

Ms. Taber was writing furiously, evidently planning to use the last set of items to show that the big guy's motivation was revenge.  

When Ms. Taber's turn arrived, she looked like a panther on the attack. She evidently believed that breaking Igor's story would exonerate her clients and she started the questioning aggressively, in a manner that was typically used to treat hostile witnesses. Igor looked concerned and we hoped that he wouldn't collapse. The first question was designed to upset the man, a well-known technique as an angry witness was always vulnerable.  

"Isn't it true that your son's condition deteriorated when you simply refused to take care of him?" 

Igor took a deep breath and I saw his clenched fists. He took a few seconds before he responded. He was calm but there was a threatening edge to his voice. 

"No, Ms. Taber, that is not true. My son suffered a relapse when the treatments, performed by the General's physician, were abruptly interrupted. I took him to our local health clinic where the attending doctor confirmed the inapplicability of the treatment he was given earlier. That treatment was in the starting phase of testing on rats. My son was used as the first human, way before the effectiveness of the treatment was proven." 

"Did you decide to have your revenge on Colonel Hegedus and General Komlos and testify against them when they refused to give you any more money?" was the next question and I was amazed to see Ms. Taber digging herself and her clients in deeper and deeper, once more. She should have realized the dangers here.  

"No, Ms. Taber, I love my son and I would do anything to ease his affliction. I admit that I lied to get money to help him. I accused an innocent man of murder when I knew full well who the actual murderer was. I don't much care about the defendants. They can rot in hell as far as I am concerned." 

The uproar was suddenly deafening. I didn't turn around for some time and didn't notice that the room was almost full. Now I saw elderly people, mostly men, behind me. Their faces were lined and their hands showed the effects of hard, manual labour. Igor's face softened when he looked at them so I gathered that his old friends came to offer support. They were shouting, obviously in full agreement with the witness' last statement. The judge was banging her gavel, demanding silence, threatening to empty the room.  

As Ms. Taber manoeuvred to get away from the dangerous new topic, the judge leaned forward to interrupt. 

"What are you talking about, Mr. Benchuk? What murderer?"  

"Judge, the story goes back to 1956. Joe just told you the essential points. A colleague, now dead, pushed a visiting Minister to his death in the foundry. I stood beside him and clearly saw the killing. I am ashamed to admit that my friends and I agreed to accuse a young man of the crime, knowing that he was innocent. This man sits at the desk of the prosecutor," and he pointed at me. He suddenly looked at ease and he continued. 

"I am not proud of what we did. As my colleague already said, the older people will remember how most of us behaved during those times. We were not heroes. We wanted to stay in the good graces of the Communist Party. We wanted to remain friends. I wish I could have done different. Thanks for letting me get this off my chest." 

Ms. Taber saw an opportunity here to discredit the witness and she was gearing up for another attack, straight for the jugular again, scathing in tone. 

"Mr. Benchuk, you admit that you lied. You accused an innocent boy of murder. Later on, you repeated your accusation. You accepted money for your lies. How can you expect us to believe you now? Would you explain to this court, if you please." 

Dr. Lengyel prepared Igor well. He was told to expect hard questions, ridicule, being called an opportunist, being told of having a low moral standard. Igor looked saddened but not angry or upset at Taber's questions.  

"Madame, you may believe what you want. I am old enough not to care. My son is ill and will die soon. That is what I care about. That bitch and that bastard, sitting beside you, could have helped, but no, they just wanted something, and when they got it, they dropped my son and me. Fuck them. They are guilty. They are bad people. And if you want to see proof, let them go free. I wouldn't last a day."  

"Any more questions?" asked the judge and when both lawyers indicated that they were finished, the old steel worker stood up slowly and left. As he walked toward the exit, his old colleagues stood, shook his hand, slapped his shoulders and some hugged him. Igor stopped at the door for a moment, opened it and when through, slammed it shut violently. The glass shattered. There was silence in the court. Then the judge said, "Please call your next witness, Dr. Lengyel."

Robert was the next witness. I was watching the young man and saw that as the trial was proceeding his dejection was slowly changing to anger and I detected a determination to exact his revenge. I hoped he would be able to keep his cool and hide his wish for getting even when subjected to Ms. Taber's scathing questions. Dr. Lengyel started the questioning first. 

On the stand he recounted how he worked as a stud, how I recruited him to seduce the Colonel, how they met, how he fell in love with her, how they got married and how she dropped him in a few days when she had enough of his charms. I was pleased to see that he remained calm. He wasn't defensive about his activities, and explained that his objective was simply to give pleasure to each of his partners, exploited none of them, and was careful not to cause unhappiness. He claimed to have remained on friendly terms with many of his conquests. 

Dr. Lengyel asked Robert about details of his marriage to the Colonel. When she was told that they married in Vienna, she asked if Robert was familiar with the laws of civil marriage in Austria and, not surprisingly, he answered no, he hadn't the foggiest. Was there a marriage certificate? Yes, and Robert, ready for the question, removed a sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to the lawyer, saying proudly, "Here, look," and Dr. Lengyel looked, read and looked back at Robert with some pity. 

"Mr. Verne, do you speak or read German?" and Robert, looking a little sheepish and defensive said, "No, I don't speak German. Is there a problem with the license?"  

Instead of replying, Dr. Lengyel took the paper to the judge and asked it to be kept as a piece of evidence. Robert became a bit agitated and turned deathly pale when the judge told him, "Young man, you have been fooled. You have been played for an idiot. This paper is an old mortgage. It is not a marriage certificate. I see your signature here at the bottom but who else signed it?" 

Robert found it difficult to speak. He was embarrassed, confused and very angry. There was a slight tremor in his voice. 

"I can't tell which signature is which. One of them was the priest, whoever he might have been. There were two witnesses and they also signed. One of the signatures was of a lady who I haven't seen before or since. Yes, I was fooled, big time." 

The judge continued her questions.  

"I understand that you didn't know the witnesses. However, do you see any of them now in this courtroom?" 

Robert silently pointed at the General and when asked to speak, he confirmed that Komlos was one of the witnesses and that one of the signatures was his.  

I kept looking at Hegedus as Robert dealt with the questions. She sat rigid, looked at her hands and it was quite obvious to me that she cared little for causing him pain but cared a lot for having created an enemy. I wondered if the judge read her body language as well as I did. I hoped she did. The General was smirking again and if I was his lawyer, I would kick him hard in the shin, tell him to stop. His smirk worked well for us, though.  

The next question was designed to add to the evidence of the conspiracy. Dr. Lengyel asked whether Robert was aware of any discussion of plans for a Communist take-over. He said that he overheard a late-night telephone call, between the Colonel and somebody else who she referred to as "My comrade General." The Colonel sounded more and more agitated as the call progressed and kept asking, "What do we do then?" He couldn't tell who the Colonel was talking to. He heard her comment, though "When successful, and we have occupied the Parliament, you will appoint me your vice-president." She didn't return to bed for several hours and when she did, she reeked of cognac and refused his advances. He was kicked out the next day. 

Dr. Lengyel stopped Robert's examination here. No actual proof was offered at this time, but I trusted that a handwriting expert would be asked to examine the signatures on the marriage certificate\/mortgage. Sure enough, the judge instructed the clerk to contact an expert and to have a report identifying the signatures by next afternoon. 

She closed the day's events and told Robert that his examination would continue, first thing next morning.  

When we got home, Tamara called Jake and was saddened by his message, indicating that he was still in Washington. The break-in at his lab hadn't been fully resolved yet and the high-secret investigation was continuing.  

Next morning, Justice Strausz opened the session with a short speech, directed at Robert. She said that she understood that the questions might be causing him embarrassment but she expected him to continue to speak directly and truthfully. She then asked Dr. Lengyel to go on with her questioning.  

"Mr. Verne, when you asked the Colonel to marry you, did she accept happily, willingly and right away?" 

"Yes, Dr. Lengyel."  

"Did she tell you that she loved you?" 

"Yes, Dr. Lengyel, several times, passionately." 

"In light of what happened, why do you think she agreed to marry you?" 

Robert hesitated a second and his cheeks were turning a little bit pink but then he replied proudly. He was looking at the Colonel. 

"I am very good with the ladies in bed. I can make them very happy, even ecstatic. They don't need to fake an orgasm. The real thing happens when I put my mind and other items to it. I would like to think that that was the major reason she agreed, realizing that her love-life prior to meeting me was unsatisfactory or practically non-existent. Please ask her the question: did I manage to make her happy and satisfied? Or, if that's beside the point, what was her plan for me, how was I to be used?" 

The lawyer ignored the suggestion as did Ms. Taber, who didn't object as much as I would have expected. The Colonel was still looking at her shoes, knowing that she could also expect a few more embarrassing questions.  

"How did the lady in question end the marriage?" 

"The afternoon, after the phone-call I mentioned yesterday, when I got back to her apartment, I found all my clothes shoved into a suitcase. There was a note, addressed to me. It said, "I had enough. Leave." 

"Have you seen her since?" 

"I saw her only when she arrived at my apartment in her pyjamas a few days ago." And here the first set of questions to the young man ended.  

It wasn't too late to debrief with my pundit. She was getting more and more excited as the trial continued.

 The biochemist, Dr. Kondrachik, agreed to testify for us when we spoke last. As time passed, she was getting less and less enthusiastic and I was getting worried. I happily received a surprise phone call from her the night before. She promised to be in the court next morning and she was there, on time.  

I must admit that I admired the old lady. She had class. She was elegant, wearing most fashionable, expensive items, beautifully tailored. She looked tanned, and as before, nowhere near her actual age. She held herself ramrod straight. She gave her name, professional qualifications and sat down. She wasn't leaning against the back of the chair. Dr. Lengyel started the questions. 

"Dr. Kondrachik, can you explain how you met Professor Lederer and why?" In reply the lady detailed my visit to her, my request to check for the possibility that I was poisoned and that there might be some residue of the poison left in my body. She also gave the results of her tests and her conclusions that I was indeed injected with toxic substances.  

"Is it correct to say that the poison you identified in the Professor's body, sodium thiopental, is available only in a very few, select locations?"  

The lady confirmed this and added, much to the annoyance of the defence, that she was familiar with each outlet, knew all the people who worked there and just to satisfy her curiosity, she checked with each of them to find out if anyone tried to obtain the stuff and when.  

"Did you find out who wanted to buy the serum?" 

"Yes, I did. The pharmacy identified Dr. Mater as the buyer." 

"Do you know who Dr. Mater is?" 

"Yes, I do. He has been working closely with General Komlos for several decades." 

It was now Ms. Taber's turn. She started aggressively, not a good idea against the lady who I was sure could hold her own in any situation.  

"Dr. Kondrachik, are you a Communist?" This must have been a question asked often and the biochemist simply smiled.  

"No," evidently determined to speak as little as possible.  

"Have you ever been a Communist?" was the follow up and the answer was now equally brief. 

"Yes." 

"What changed your mind?" This was another question that betrayed the defence lawyer's lack of courtroom experience. She didn't know the answer which wasn't long in coming. The witness hesitated only a second but then spoke loud and clear. 

"I observed the interrogation methods of the officers of the former Secret Service. They took obvious pleasure in inflicting excruciating pain on their victims. I was unable to support a regime that encouraged and condoned this."  

Dr. Lengyel was on her feet, ready to capitalize on the current situation and on the inept defence lawyer. "Dr. Kondrachik, do you see some of the officers whose torture methods disgusted you, in this courtroom?" 

The biochemist identified the two defendants. 

"These two were among the worst. I don't believe that it is a crime to be a Communist, as some people now believe. It is a crime to be a criminal, though, and these people were not even human." Again, Ms. Taber's objection and her demand to strike this comment from the record were overruled. She asked permission to interrupt the prosecution here. She was surprised when permission was granted and she obviously believed that her next question would score one for the defence. 

"Could you testify that the sodium thiopental you found in the Professor's blood was administered by either of the defendants?" 

"No," and the lawyer looked triumphant, for the first time. 

The court adjourned now and was to resume in the morning. Dr. Lengyel indicated that she wanted to recall Dr. Kondrachik. 

Heather, Tamara and I needed a rest, both mental and physical. The agreed rule was to mention nothing connected to the case, solemnly agreed, on pain of having to pay for supper, including drinks for all three of us. It was now 5 p.m., and we were not hungry yet, so we thought the best way to spend the evening would be with some music which we all love. We stopped at the opera to check the programme and we were in luck. The Barber of Seville was on, and after a brief negotiation and the exchange of some extra funds three good seats were secured. There wasn't much time left to clean up and change, and I hoped my suit was well pressed. A brief supper would follow the music, most likely in the restaurant right beside the opera house, where the waiters sing as they deliver the food. Their reputation for good singing was high, often favourably compared to their competitors on the stage. 

Both the music and the dinner were superbly successful, as expected. The food was tasty, elegantly served and the musical waiters were highly entertaining. We were restored. There was further good news. There was a message from Jake, telling us that he was at home, the break-in was history and he would be able to join us in a couple of days. Tamara called him back immediately in spite of the certainty that she would wake him, but no, he was waiting for her call. They talked privately. He was to be with us in two days.  

After a good sleep we would be ready for the rest of the battle. The restfulness of the sleep was assured, knowing that my family would be all together soon and that our enemies were under lock and key. Thinking about their potential allies, roaming free and probably with bad intentions toward us, was prohibited. The baseball bat was ready at the door, though.  

Next morning the mood was good, the sun was shining, the shower was refreshing, the coffee was hot and the croissants melted in the mouth, all clearly indicating that a successful day would follow.

Dr. Lengyel wanted to clarify a few points with Dr. Kondrachik, who was now back on the witness stand. The lawyer asked the clerk to read a comment the biochemist made the day before concerning the brutality of the two defendants while interrogating the prisoners: "I observed the interrogation methods of the officers of the former Secret Service. They took obvious pleasure in inflicting excruciating pain on their victims."  

Dr. Lengyel asked, "Did you observe the two defendants often while they were dealing with the prisoners?" 

Before the biochemist replied, the judge interrupted. "In what way is this relevant to the present case? How does this prove the communist conspiracy?" she asked. 

Dr. Lengyel was careful in her answer. "No, judge, it doesn't prove that. It, however, shows the character of the defendants. It shows how cruel they were and it indicates how cruel they are at present. I hope you will allow Dr. Kondrachik to reply." 

Justice Strausz agreed.  

Dr. Kondrachik replied. "Yes, I did. I was forced to be there, on pain of losing my job. I was to report on how the prisoners reacted to pain."  

Ms. Taber was on her feet, interrupting the prosecution's questions, yelling over the judge who was banging her gavel. "But you couldn't prove what you said, this was simply your opinion, you had no evidence, I demand ...," and by now the judge had also raised her voice. 

"SIT DOWN! YOU DEMAND NOTHING!" Then only just a little bit quieter, "Ms. Taber, you will report to my chambers at the end of the day. We must have a serious talk concerning your courtroom behaviour." The defence lawyer was still breathing hard and was wiping her forehead but remained silent.  

In the sudden silence that followed the outbursts, Dr. Kondrachik said simply, "Some of their actions and torture techniques have been recorded. These were used to train the recently recruited interrogators. I have a copy of one of their films." The shocker produced an audible intake of breath in the court. The two defendants exchanged furtive looks and I noticed their fear and concern. Nobody knew of the existence of documentation. Everybody assumed that by now all records, especially of torture, had been destroyed.  

Dr. Lengyel, as surprised as everyone, asked, "Why have you not mentioned this before?" 

"Nobody asked," was the answer.  

Dr. Lengyel requested the judge's permission to approach the bench. The judge indicated that Ms. Taber should also join. Permission granted, the lawyers approached and the microphones were turned off. Dr. Kondrachik was asked to join the group. I also started to walk toward the gathering of legal people but the judge just waved me away. Lawyers and the witness only. 

The discussion lasted a long time. We watched in silence and I tried to understand what was transpiring at the judge's bench from the lawyers' body language. I failed miserably. I was impatient to know the details. Time was passing. I began to believe that the judge forgot about us but then she declared the end of the morning session and we were free to leave. Would the film be allowed as evidence or not? The legal people adjourned to the judge's chambers. Dr. Lengyel knew where to find us when the negotiations ended. She would join us to debrief. There were about ten minutes left of the break when she appeared and her face was beaming, indicating that possibly good things happened, worth the missed lunch. She said that we must hurry back and she talked as we walked toward the courtroom. 

"Justice Strausz asked the biochemist what the film shows. Apparently a complete torture session is on it and the defendants are the main performers. They are demonstrating several techniques to the new interrogators, on a poor man, who is masked, muzzled but otherwise completely naked. It appeared that at the end he was left to die. The scenes were disturbing as were the faces of the torturers, who enjoyed the events thoroughly, completely at ease and laughing several times. I asked permission to show the film in court." 

"Ms. Taber objected of course, claiming that the film had no relevance to the charges now. I pointed out that the character of the defendants was indicated by their behaviour and that their capabilities to inflict damage on you were also demonstrated. 

"The judge decided to watch the film by herself. She was to determine if it was admissible evidence." 

The judge entered on the dot as usual and informed us briefly that she would watch the film before deciding to show it in the courtroom. She then closed the session. We were to reconvene next morning. I trusted that Dr. Lengyel would call later if there was a decision or at least an indication of how the film would be handled.  

It was early in the afternoon so we went home to relax and as usual, played some music, had coffee, and a little cognac. The Post Office Museum was near so we walked there and were truly amazed to find a fully functional phone exchange, the first in the world, an invention of Tivadar Puskas, a Hungarian engineer, living in the 19th century. The working exchange was joyously demonstrated by a guide, who indicated that not many people came to see the exhibits these days. A walk and a light supper ended the day. A message from Dr. Lengyel: there was no decision yet. The judge watched the film which was shocking and gruesome. She was now thinking about the next step. We went to sleep early, hoping not to dream about torture. 

The good news for the prosecution was evident when we entered the court next morning. A 16 mm projector and a portable screen had been set up. The judge was on time and just as she told us to sit down, Ms. Taber was on her feet and was talking even before the judge noticed her. 

"Justice Strausz, I want to go on record that I object to the showing of Dr. Kondrachik's film most strongly. Whatever events the film shows, gruesome as they may be, they have no bearing whatsoever on the current case. I repeat my objections and I indicate that they will form the basis of an appeal, should my clients be found guilty." 

The judge said simply, "Noted," and she gave the signal to the technician to start the projection. The blinds were lowered and the film began and I couldn't watch beyond the first couple of minutes. The scenes were truly awful. The obvious joy of the Colonel and the General, both young and eager, was also clear. I turned and saw that most people had covered their faces. Both defendants looked at their hands. Neither was watching the screen. In about 20 minutes, the projector stopped, the blinds were raised and I saw pale and shocked faces around me. Several people in the audience were crying.  

The screen and the projector were removed and the judge ordered the film to be kept as evidence. She ordered a guard to make a copy and lock the two in separate locations, in two safes. Someone was to stay with the safes 24 hours a day until the end of the case and the possible appeals. She gave us a 20-minute recess. All stood and were leaving for the break except the two defendants. They sat hunched and motionless.

Dr. Lengyel's next witness was Lola Winer. She came to the witness box exuding strength and solidity. She was dressed in a simple, sober manner. She was serious and composed. She looked straight ahead as she walked to the front, ignoring the defendants and I was amazed at her self-control. The woman who attempted very hard to make her and her son's life miserable was sitting there. I was watching the Colonel who was watching Lola and a study of the expression on her face would have provided employment for a number of psychologists for quite some time. I interpreted it as a combination of pure hate and apprehension but mostly fear. She evidently gave up trying to hide her emotions. The usual identification and swearing to tell the truth was followed by an unusual question from the prosecution and the immediate objection of Ms. Taber, fast overruled by the judge. 

"Ms. Winer, please tell the court who your parents are." 

"There is a lady in court now, the defendant, who told me not very long ago that she was my mother. I don't know who my father is," answered Lola and she was looking straight at the Colonel. Dr. Lengyel then prompted her to tell what she knew about her birth, the abandonment, the foster homes, the couple who loved her, her inheritance and the visit by a woman who claimed to be her actual mother. Lola told her story and at the end she pointed straight at the Colonel, identifying her as the one who threatened to kill her son.  

One of the procedural changes that Justice Strausz introduced at the start was the chance to interrupt the testimony of a witness, call someone else briefly to establish or re-establish a fact, and then continue the questioning. Dr. Lengyel was taking advantage of that possibility and requested the judge's permission to ask a few questions of Colonel Hegedus who was reminded that she was still under oath.  

"Colonel Hegedus, do you claim that this lady, Lola Winer, is your daughter?  

This question, when asked during the preliminary interrogation, caused one of the Colonel's hysterical outbursts. Now she stared at her lawyer, at Lola, at the judge and at the General in turn. Nobody was offering help. Time passed and the judge, getting impatient, told the Colonel that she must respond. Very quietly, she whispered, "Yes, Lola is my daughter. I gave birth to her. I abandoned her. I didn't want her to die. I was sure somebody would save her. It turns out that I was right."  

Dr. Lengyel turned back to Lola. "Ms. Winer, tell the court how you came to be involved with the defendants in this case."  

Lola said that she was ordered to be in the passport check kiosk at the airport and that when she refused, her son was kidnapped and one of his severed fingers was sent to her in an envelope. She then agreed to do as commanded. She was taken to Yekaterinburg, as well. When she had proof that her son was freed and was recovering in a hospital, she finally had enough and helped my daughter and me to escape.  

"While in Yekaterinburg, did you hear how the Colonel and the General planned to re-establish the former Communists as the new Hungarian government?" 

"Yes, I did. The Colonel explained to the Professor how this was to be accomplished. She also demanded that he return to Budapest and kill a taxi driver." 

Ms. Taber's cross-examination was next and she seemed to be totally confused and demoralized. Her clients lied to her, hid from her a large number of critical items, and in the process left her unable to defend them properly. She bravely soldiered on now, attempting to discredit Lola's story. Her voice was scathing. She was trying to force Lola to admit to wanting her revenge. 

"Ms. Winer, isn't it true that your motive to testify against your mother is to exact your revenge?" 

"Yes, Ms. Taber, I want my revenge. The knowledge that my mother left me to die is not easy to live with. You are only partially correct, however. I also want justice. I'd like to show you and the court something, which will explain very clearly why I'm here." She took a padded envelope from her purse and at the same time Dr. Lengyel, who anticipated the severed finger, was on her feet, asking the judge for a brief conference. Both she and Ms. Taber approached and the judge turned off the microphone and asked Lola to show them the contents of the envelope.  

I could see the judge's face from my place. I saw her consternation and horror so it must have been her son's finger Lola had in the envelope.  

The judge said now, "For the record, Ms. Winer has in her possession a severed finger which she claims to be one of her son's fingers." Then she asked Lola, "Have you any proof that this finger once belonged to your son?" 

Lola now produced a letter, which she showed the judge who read it carefully and said, "For the record again, this letter is a sworn affidavit from a surgeon who states that this was indeed one of the fingers of Ms. Winer's son." 

Ms. Taber, trying to overcome her shock, was continuing with her questions. She hadn't learned her lesson and she still asked when she clearly didn't know what answer to expect. The scathing tone was back, of course. 

"Ms.Winer, do you expect us to believe that a grandmother would do this to her grandson?" 

Instead of words, Lola produced another letter, which she silently passed on to the judge, who read it into the record. 

"This letter is another notarized, sworn affidavit, now from Ms. Winer's son, Albert. This was dictated to a lawyer. A judge was also present at this event. The young man said that he clearly recognized the photo of the Colonel as the person who kidnapped him and was holding his hand while an older man cut off the middle finger on his left hand. He also clearly identified the General as the person who did the cutting. No painkiller was used either during the cut or after. The names of the lawyer and the judge were not to be released to protect them." 

Ms. Taber wisely ended her cross-examination. Her questions caused more harm to her clients than anything else. The defendants sat through this last event totally motionless, showing absolutely no reaction. Dr. Lengyel said that Lola was the last witness for the prosecution. The judge adjourned the proceedings. 

CHAPTER 18 

 It was time for the defence to start. The chief of the defence team, Ms. Taber, called the first witness and it was Colonel Hegedus, and I saw that they intended to start with a bang. OK, we were ready. The questions started after the usual identification. The lady stated that she was Colonel Hegedus, a dual Hungarian-Canadian citizen and she gave her profession as a self-employed entrepreneur. She gave her address where the kidnapped daughter of the prosecutor was found. She had a choice to swear to tell the truth on her honour or on the Bible and she chose the first option.  

"Colonel Hegedus, did you conspire with General Komlos to re-establish Communism, the dictatorship of the proletariat, in Hungary?" was the first question and I liked the idea of getting to the centre of it all directly, as soon as possible. The response wasn't unexpected. 

"No, I did not."  

"Colonel Hegedus, did you detain, interrogate and torture Professor Lederer in May, 2002, at Ferihegy airport?" 

"No, I did not."  

"Colonel Hegedus, did you arrange to poison and kidnap Professor Lederer and have him spirited to Yekaterinburg where you demanded that he kill a taxi driver in Budapest, and if he refused you would harm his daughter?" 

"No, I did not." 

"Colonel Hegedus, after the Professor and his daughter claim that they escaped, did you arrange for them to be followed to Kiev and did you arrange for the murder of one Vladimir Shukich?"  

"No, I did not." 

"Colonel Hegedus, do you know Robert Verne?" 

"Who the hell is Robert Verne?" 

Ms. Taber asked the judge's permission to interrupt the Colonel's testimony and to recall Robert. She wanted to embarrass the young man and wanted to show him to be a liar. The judge gave permission and when Robert took the witness stand, the judge reminded him that he was still under oath.  

"Mr. Verne, my client testified that she has never met you, that she doesn't have a clue who you are. You testified that you were even married to her. Can you explain?" 

"Yes, Madam, I can. Kindly ask your client to stand up, right here and now. Ask her to remove her panties and let us all examine her left buttock. You would observe four brown moles there."  

Ms. Taber stared at Robert first, the Colonel second and at the judge next. She was lost for words. More interesting, however, was the Colonel, who smirked, by now her automatic response to almost anything. She was clearly unbalanced, though. Ms. Taber put on her scathing tone to say, "Come now, Mr. Verne. It should be sufficient to see the lady in her bathing suit to see moles on her buttocks."  

Robert waited a second before responding. 

"No, dear lady, you are wrong. These moles would be covered even by the briefest bikini." 

The judge interrupted now. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, we can settle here very easily who is lying, who is telling the truth. Colonel Hegedus, Ms. Taber, Dr. Lengyel, please follow me to my chambers. We will take a look at the evidence. The court clerk will also come with us as will a nurse." She motioned to one of the guards who was on his way already to summon a nurse. I didn't know that there was always one in the courthouse, ready to deal with emergencies.  

"There will be a short recess here." 

The defence lawyer was just about ready to explode. She was panting and shouting. 

"Judge, with due respect, you can't turn this case into a farce, I object most strongly to this peepshow....." 

The judge simply said, "Relax, Ms. Taber. What I said goes. We could argue about who knows who for an eternity. We will soon know which witness, Mr. Verne or Colonel Hegedus, was lying. I trust you agree that knowledge of the moles implies intimate relations. Just come with me, don't argue." The poor lawyer shut up. The possibility that her client didn't tell her everything was dawning on her.  

The ladies left and we waited. They returned in about ten minutes. The Colonel was deeply flushed, the colour of a tomato. I rejoiced again. She was finding out what humiliation felt like. Her lawyer looked confused. Justice Strausz spoke first. 

"For the record, Mr. Verne's claim to have had intimate relations with Colonel Hegedus appears to be correct."  

Ms. Taber wasn't giving up. She was still trying to discredit Robert.  

"Mr. Verne, you showed us an old mortgage which you identified as your marriage certificate. Are you really that stupid not to know the difference?"  

The buttock examination made Robert quite a bit more confident. Maybe he shouldn't have gloated so much but he now said, "Dear lady, I already mentioned that I don't speak, read or write German. I also said that I was in love with the Colonel. Maybe you don't know but when you love someone who also makes you believe that she loves you, you don't question her sincerity. Falling in love is something you should try, I highly recommend it. Yes, I was that stupid. Yes, I was taken to be an idiot. Yes, I regret it. Yes, I am ashamed and embarrassed. Similar things could happen to you too, just be careful. I'm free tonight." The last few comments earned a disapproving glance from the judge, as they should have, even though I was pleased that they were said.  

"No more questions," said Ms. Taber wisely and she sat down and I suspected that she didn't feel too good about the case. 

The clerk now handed a folder to the judge. She removed a letter, gave copies to each lawyer and asked for our attention. She then read from the original. The letter was a testimonial from a handwriting specialist, who confirmed that one of the witness's signatures on the alleged marriage certificate was, in fact, the General's. The other signatures were those of Robert and the Colonel, even though her signature appeared to have been written by her left hand. The writer of the fourth signature remained unidentified.  

Robert's testimony showed conclusively that the Colonel was a barefaced liar, not him. He was excused and he returned to his seat. 

The Colonel now returned to the witness stand and Ms. Taber, much subdued, continued with her questions. 

"From your answers am I to conclude that you had not been involved in any of the activities that this court is charging you with?" 

"Yes, that is true. I have been arrested, charged, incarcerated, humiliated and badgered by the officials of this court whose authority I don't acknowledge and which I deem to be a kangaroo court and...," 

This was where Dr. Lengyel chose to stand up and object vigorously, and I agreed. It had been wise to first let the Colonel speak a little, as she was in fact digging her own grave. The judge was also letting her continue her diatribe. At this point however, she agreed that enough was enough and spoke before Dr. Lengyel opened her mouth, loud because the Colonel hadn't stopped her monologue.  

"I must ask you, Colonel, to avoid making speeches. Your role here is to answer questions. Further, the comparison to a kangaroo court is not appreciated and should you repeat it you will be charged with contempt of court." 

The Colonel finally stopped. Her face was flushed and she appeared ready to run to the judge and strangle her, but she retained enough self-control to remain rigid and motionless in the witness stand.  

"That is all for this witness," said Ms. Taber, wisely not wishing to cause any more outbursts. It was now Dr. Lengyel's turn and, as we discussed, she chose to postpone the cross, intending to wait for the testimony of all of the defence witnesses and hoping to capitalize on potential contradictions.  

The next witness was the General. He was immaculate, dressed as he was when interrogated by Chief Rakossy. He was wearing the same navy blue suit, pale blue shirt and a silk tie, which, even from a distance, appeared to be extremely expensive. His maroon shoes were buffed to a high shine. A small bandage was still on his ear. He limped a little but didn't need his cane any longer. The only disconcerting aspect was his expression which showed anger and hate, pure hate. He sat down and didn't lean back. He wouldn't or couldn't remove the expression of hate from his face. Ms. Taber repeated her questions, unchanged.  

"General Komlos, did you conspire with Colonel Hegedus to re-establish Communism in Hungary?"  

"Yes, I did."  

"General Komlos, did you conspire to detain, interrogate and torture Professor Lederer in May, 2002, at Ferihegy airport with Colonel Hegedus?" 

"Yes, I did. I wish to add that I formulated and suggested the whole scheme to the Colonel."  

"General Komlos, did you conspire with Colonel Hegedus to poison and kidnap Professor Lederer and to spirit him to Yekaterinburg where she - on your explicit orders - demanded that he kill a taxi driver in Budapest, and if he refused you would harm his daughter?" 

"Yes, I did." 

"General Komlos, after the Professor and his daughter claim that they escaped, did you arrange for them to be followed to Kiev and did you arrange for the execution of Vladimir Shukich?"  

"Yes, I did." 

"From your answers am I to conclude that you have been the major driving force behind all the activities that this court is now considering?" 

"Yes, that is true. However, I claim, as my colleague has claimed, that this kangaroo court has no legitimate authority over me and I deplore and detest...," 

Justice Strausz and Dr. Lengyel were interrupting him at the same time. The judge won, of course, and quite angrily and not very diplomatically told the General to shut up. She repeated her threat of the contempt citation.  

I was looking at the Colonel's face and wanted to know how she reacted to her mentor's repudiation of everything she said. She smirked during the whole time so I suspected that this show was a charade, set-up in advance. The list of topics to talk about during lunch break was growing. Ms. Taber said that her examination of the two defendants was complete for the time being and the judge excused the General. As before, Dr. Lengyel asked no questions.

Jake's plane arrived late in the evening. Tamara wanted to greet him by herself so we waited to hug him when they got back to the apartment. I hoped he wouldn't be too tired to debrief. Next morning would be busy for us with no time for talk. Of course, we waited for them. Jake was exhausted but he wanted to tell his story. We talked until 4 a.m.  

The research projects conducted in Jake's lab were all designated "top secret". Students were allowed to participate but only after a detailed examination of their background and a personal interview by the FBI. The lab doors were always automatically locked, with the most sophisticated, palm-print and eye-print security locks. The supplier guaranteed that they couldn't be misused. The doors couldn't be wedged open as the alarms would alert the guards within two seconds. The investigators concluded correctly that the break-in was an inside job and suspicion fell immediately on two transfer students. There was some blood on one of the damaged computers and there was a recent cut on the left palm of one of the students. They were detained at gunpoint and they surrendered while laughing. No arrests were possible because both produced Russian diplomatic passports. They cheerfully admitted that they were the culprits and that the whole event - the break-in and the thrashing of the lab - was requested as a favour by a lady who identified herself speaking fluent Russian, as a Colonel in the former KGB, promising a significant amount of money which was in fact deposited for them in a numbered Swiss account. They didn't ask and were not told why they were to do what they did. They also said that they expected to be kicked out of the U.S. which they were. The agents, who interviewed the fake students before permission to work in the lab was granted, were disciplined. 

We still had a few hours of sleep before the next court session was to start. 

The atmosphere in the courtroom on possibly the last day of the trial was different. Publication of the sensational news of the existence of the torture-film created a lot of excitement. The late editions of several newspapers carried a summary of the trial. They implied that today might well be the last day and that two former members of the hated former Secret Service would be on the witness stand. One of the papers identified the accused as two of the most feared interrogators of the service, and published two photos of the Colonel, side-by-side, one from the wall of the House of Terror and one snapped as she was being taken back to jail at the end of a court session the day before. As well, a photo of the General was there, on page 1.  

There was a brief account of the charges, mostly accurate. Several paragraphs were devoted to the Communist conspiracy. Surprisingly and thankfully I hadn't been identified by name, beyond the comment, "a Canadian-Hungarian professor of engineering was the chief witness for the prosecution".  

There was standing room only. The seats reserved for the press were full. I looked at the audience and I saw most of those I had seen earlier, Benchuk's friends and colleagues. I saw a few older people and I saw that most of them were damaged. I saw a few mangled hands, a missing ear, a smashed nose and several eye-patches. The handiwork of the Colonel? 

Jake, Tamara and Heather were sitting in the first row, directly behind me. 

There was a TV crew, just outside the courtroom. Our entrance was filmed. It looked like no live coverage of the trial was permitted. There would be no need to perform for the cameras. 

The judge called the room to order.  

Dr. Lengyel asked to recall first the General and then the Colonel for cross-examination. The timing was right, the two were at their most vulnerable. The judge reminded the General that he was still under oath. The man shuffled to the witness box. He was pale, his forehead was moist and the swagger was mostly gone. He looked apprehensive and confused.  

Dr. Lengyel started. Her objective was as before, to make him angry, to make him lose his temper. 

"Mr. Komlos, why did you conspire with Mrs. Williams to bring back the Communist regime?" 

As the lawyer hoped, the General was instantly furious. He started to talk, fast and loud. 

"How dare you ignore my rank when you address me! I am and will always be General Komlos and you will address me as such."  

Dr. Lengyel ignored the outburst which she had created of course, and said quietly, "Please answer the question, Sir." 

"The only just government is one based on the dictatorship of the proletariat. I realize that a few stupid, short-sighted idiots don't have the vision to understand that. Those are our enemies and we will eliminate all our enemies. All who don't agree with us are enemies of the workers and all should be jailed, killed, exiled, whatever, ruthlessly. Everything is to be planned and executed by the only political party, the Communist Party. People who don't see this are our intellectual inferiors, our sworn enemies in the pay of the West. Nothing else is acceptable." He was talking faster and louder as the monologue was proceeding, shouting the last sentence at the top of his voice.  

"So you admit that you and the Colonel discussed, planned and were preparing to topple the current Hungarian government and to install your own, with you as the President?"  

The General responded in a normal voice again, and he sounded like a teacher, explaining something very obvious.  

"Yes, of course, I admit it. I am proud that at last we started a movement toward our just aims, a movement that couldn't be stopped by sniveling, lousy, frightened worms like you." 

"Mr. Komlos, do you admit that you planned to force Professor Lederer to murder an innocent taxi driver? 

 "No, Mrs. Lawyer, I don't admit to wanting an innocent cabbie killed. I admit, though, of wanting a miserable bastard of a taxi driver eliminated and I am proud of that, majorly proud." 

"Mr Komlos, do you realize that what you were planning to do was against the laws of this country?" 

"What laws?" 

"The laws of the Democratic Republic of Hungary, of which you are a citizen. The laws that don't allow you to conspire to overthrow the legitimate, elected government. The laws that don't allow you to detain a person. The laws that don't allow you to poison, to kidnap or to murder anybody. Are you familiar with these laws, Sir?" 

"Mrs. Lawyer, you don't have a fucking clue what you are talking about," said the General, almost as if he was enjoying himself. 

Dr. Lengyel repeated the question, and I was sure she was curious why the judge didn't interrupt. The General took a deep breath and started what I expected to be another lecture. 

"Mrs. Lawyer. Listen to me. I have long experience with the laws. In fact, I was a senior advisor to the judges and the lawyers who compiled the laws that I recognize. These are the laws that govern your behaviour, that govern this court, that govern this judge. These are the just laws of the proletariat." 

"General, please tell us, when were you an advisor to judges and lawyers?" 

The answer indicated a time-shift in the General's brain. "I was first involved in setting the laws of this country in 1952. I have been consulted ever since."  

Dr. Lengyel appeared to be incredulous. Was the man totally crazy? 

"General, do you realize that Hungary is now a democracy, with a multi-party system, an independent judiciary and a completely revised criminal code in line with the laws of the European Union? 

The General simply looked at the lawyer. He seemed to be thinking of a reply when Dr. Lengyel continued, "Mr. Komlos, I don't think you are quite normal. I think you are a delusional, mentally disturbed person. You badly need psychiatric help. You belong in a mental hospital, under close supervision so you won't be able to harm anybody." 

Why didn't the defence lawyer object? Why was she completely silent? She didn't even appear to be listening.  

Suddenly the General stopped moving. He stared at Dr. Lengyel and remained totally rigid. The judge, who surprisingly allowed the line of questioning, was observing the scene and in about 30 seconds she interrupted and asked, "Are you unwell, Sir?" 

The General turned toward the judge but still didn't talk. He began to tilt his head to his left and his ear almost touched his shoulder. The position must have been painful but he held it in total silence while nobody seemed to know what to do. His head now began to twitch. A little foam appeared on his lips. Still no sound, no other body movement. His hands gripped the edge of his chair and his knuckles were white. His breathing was shallow and rasping. The judge reacted first, announced a recess and asked the psychiatrist to examine the General. A stretcher was brought in by two guards and the General, still completely rigid, silent and motionless, was carried out with the doctor walking beside the stretcher. The Colonel, who observed all this, appeared frozen and frightened. Her protector was gone. 

Justice Strausz cancelled the afternoon session. We were to continue in the morning. On the way out I asked Dr. Lengyel what could possibly happen to the trial of the General now. She didn't know, never having been in a similar situation and she was a bit ashamed of her lack of knowledge. She promised to contact one of her senior colleagues for advice.  

I called my journalist to debrief. After that an English-speaking movie with Hungarian subtitles was our destination, followed by the now usual visit to one of the local restaurants. Home cooking wasn't an option yet, the trial was most distracting. Jake was excited by the abundant choice of restaurants so he was to make the choice tonight. We also needed to catch up on the missed sleep of the night before. 

 Next morning, as soon as she was seated, Justice Strausz informed us of the General's state. The poor guy suffered a major stroke. He knew that he had high blood pressure most of his life, but not having trusted physicians, he received no treatment. His prognosis wasn't good. He was in a coma. He was breathing on his own but he wasn't responding to stimuli. Two neurosurgeons were deciding if the risks associated with an operation to relieve the pressure on his brain would outweigh the possible success. As soon as a decision was reached, the hospital would inform the judge. The expectation though was that the General would not regain consciousness.  

The judge meanwhile had further information. The address where Joe Takacs was held with his broken arm was identified as the Colonels' apartment. The judge now called the day's session to order, indicating that the prosecution could call its next witness.

 Dr. Lengyel recalled the Colonel to the stand. The Colonel was slow to stand up, appearing to be in some pain and the judge was just about to ask if she needed help when she started to move toward the witness stand. She walked slowly and she was dragging her left foot, seemingly unable to lift it off the floor. She gave the impression of being dazed, of not quite realizing where she was or what actually was going on. I knew her age and I always marvelled at how much younger she looked. She appeared to have aged overnight, and looked much older, well beyond her actual age. The judge also looked concerned and called a guard to approach. I managed to lip-read her request and it was for another physician and a nurse to be in attendance. She was expecting trouble. The Colonel reached her chair in the stand, stopped, looked at it and I got the feeling again that she was somewhere else. She almost missed the chair when she sat down. The questioning started. The first surprise of the day was when the lady identified herself as Mrs. Williams, and followed it up immediately with a correction, saying, "I misspoke, I am Colonel Hegedus. Be kind enough to address me using my rank." 

Dr. Lengyel was smiling at the Colonel, asked her if she was comfortable and if she wanted a glass of cold water. The response was a glare but no words.  

"Colonel Hegedus, are you the niece of Mr. Nikolai Lomonoszov, the former Minister who died in an unfortunate accident in 1956?" 

"There are major factual errors in your question, Dr. Lengyel," replied the Colonel, seeming to assert herself, sitting up straight and looking defiant. "Yes, I am the niece of Comrade Lomonoszov, the man who was murdered in 1956 when he was pushed into a vat of hot steel by that miserable, slimy, capitalist, imperialist bastard who sits at that table," and she was pointing directly at me. 

The judge looked alarmed. I was pleased that my lawyer ignored what the Colonel said.  

Dr. Lengyel resumed her questions. She turned to the Colonel and asked, "Is it true Colonel, that you negotiated with the authorities that if found guilty you would be treated and sentenced with some leniency?" 

The Colonel said now with all the dignity that she could summon, "No, dear lady. I didn't negotiate. I am not guilty. I will not be found guilty." 

Dr. Lengyel turned to the judge now and asked for permission to interrupt the Colonel's questioning and to call Chief Rakossy to the stand. The Chief confirmed that there was an agreement with the Colonel and as long as she co-operated with the court, answered promptly, fully and told the truth, he would ask that she should be treated with compassion and if necessary, sentenced with her co-operation taken into account. The judge was surprised but said nothing about not being informed of the agreement. The Colonel returned to the stand and seemed not to be disturbed at all by the Chief's statement which directly contradicted her comments. The judge didn't mention that there could be penalties for lying. Dr. Lengyel also didn't ask why the lady lied. She continued. 

"In May, 2002, with the assistance of your daughter Lola and a group of others you arrested, interrogated, humiliated and tortured Professor Lederer. Why?" 

"He killed my uncle. I wanted revenge. I wanted to use him in our plan to bring back the Communists. I wanted to be a leader in my country." 

Again, both the judge and Dr. Lengyel ignored the accusation and that was good for me. I noted, however, that the reporters were writing furiously and I wondered what would appear in tomorrow's newspapers.  

Dr. Lengyel now said, "Let the record show that the Colonel admitted having a plan to arrange for the re-establishment of the Communist dictatorship."  

The Colonel suddenly bellowed. 

"I admitted to no such plan." Dr. Lengyel asked the clerk to read the Colonel's previous comments. The Colonel sat through the reading, showing no emotion and no reaction.  

More questions followed. 

"In the winter of 2002 you were in Waterloo, Canada and you attempted to convince a group of students to kill Professor Lederer. Why?" 

"What?" was the Colonel's response. Dr. Lengyel requested an answer but all she got was a blank look. The judge still didn't interfere.  

"You went to the Professor's house that winter and you appeared to having been badly beaten. You spent a night in the local hospital but next day you suddenly departed, taking a small plane to Cuba. If my information is correct, please tell us, why did you go to Cuba, Colonel?" 

"The answer is obvious, my dear lady. Communism thrives in Cuba. They welcomed us and treated us well. We spent some time at a resort. The Cuban doctors fixed my injuries. They accepted no payment. The officials of the Communist Party of Cuba paid for my trip to Russia. They paid for my husband's trip back to Canada. Cuba is truly the paradise for the proletariat. I have seen it and experienced it myself." 

"When the Professor was kidnapped and transported to Yekaterinburg, why did you try to force him to kill an innocent man?" 

"No man is innocent." 

"Colonel Hegedus. Please answer my next question clearly. Please don't talk beside the point. Did you severe one of the fingers of your grandson and send it to your daughter to ensure her participation in your contacts with Professor Lederer?" 

The Colonel suddenly looked a little less sure of herself. She hesitated and was silent and neither the judge nor Dr. Lengyel pressed her, understanding the grandmother's difficulty here. I suspected that the difficulty didn't concern what she did but had something to do with admitting it in public. A couple of minutes passed in total silence. A few drops of perspiration appeared on the lady's forehead. She looked up and whispered, "Yes." 

The noise level in the room increased, people were shocked and the judge banged her gavel, asking for silence. The next question was designed to clear up the broken arm of the steel worker, Takacs. 

"Colonel. You heard the testimony of Mr. Takacs. You masqueraded as a nurse. Why was it necessary to break Mr. Takacs' arm and why was it necessary to re-set it so it should become straight? 

The Colonel suddenly looked like she wanted to talk. She looked almost proud when she replied. 

"There were three reliable witnesses, three long time Communists, to my uncle's murder in 1956. They told the interrogator, Major Komlos, now a General, my hero, that the arm of the person who pushed my uncle was bent backwards at the elbow. Mr. Takacs' arm bent that way. I knew that the real killer wasn't him, however, because the three men clearly and unequivocally identified Lederer as the killer, that bastard over there, sitting calmly. We were going to straighten Takacs' arm and break the bastard's arm so there should be clear evidence, not just my conviction, for what I had always known for certain. There is the cold blooded killer, charge him, hang him, burn his body....," The Colonel spoke faster and the judge interrupted now, coming to my defence, trying to stop the Colonel who kept on shouting. Gavel banging continued frantically, the Colonel continued her ranting and then stopped suddenly.  

The judge now said, "Colonel, one more outburst like this and a citation for contempt of court will follow immediately." The Colonel didn't respond so the judge said, "Do you understand?" and there was still no response.  

Justice Strausz motioned Dr. Lengyel to continue.  

"Colonel, why did you send two Russian citizens to destroy the laboratory of the Professor's son-in-law?" 

"The answer is obvious, dear lady. I wanted to separate the Professor's daughter from her husband. This was essential. I succeeded to lure her to Yekaterinburg by herself." 

"Colonel Hegedus, do you realize that Hungary is a democratic country now and not a dictatorship of the proletariat?" The Colonel reacted like if she was hit in the face. She recoiled, her eyes bulged and said, "What?" 

The lawyer repeated the question. A few drops of blood appeared under the Colonel's nose. She seemed not to notice but the judge did and she was motioning to the nurse to approach. 

The Colonel wasn't responding to Dr. Lengyel's last question and she was ignoring the prompting of the judge. She was staring at me directly and her eyes were alive with hate. She was deathly pale. Her lips trembled. The judge was beginning to look concerned. The nurse was walking toward the Colonel. Just as nurse appeared ready to touch her, the lady suddenly jumped up, vaulted over the banister and was racing toward me. She knocked over the nurse. The spectators roared and I heard them shout, "Stop her!" but nobody moved. There were only a few steps to take and she was lightning fast, she was at the table where I sat, reaching toward me. I froze and suddenly the Colonel was grabbing my throat, squeezing hard, her eyes bulging and she was yelling, "You bastard, you killed my uncle, it is your turn to die," and I was choking and I knew it was time to react, time to get her hands off my windpipe, but I couldn't. I felt that I was turning blue, needed some air badly and soon. The lady's hands were like steel. My hands didn't move and miraculously I had time to think, where were my hard-learned lightning fast reflexes, my knowledge of hand-to-hand combat, my speed of reaction? I saw the guards racing toward me. Chasing them were several police officers and I saw Jake and Tamara coming to my defence from the row behind. The guards appeared to be blocking the police. Jake's flying tackle toppled the guards. I was beginning to lose consciousness. Blackness was coming, closing in fast. Then Tamara reached me. She poked the Colonel in the eye and her hands were suddenly off my throat, the air began to get to my lungs and I was very pleased to realize that I was still alive. The Colonel was being dragged off me by the police with some difficulty. She was resisting and fighting, scratching, hitting, kicking, biting, spitting. She hadn't stopped shouting. It took three large men to subdue her and hold her while she was being handcuffed. The two guards were on their stomachs flat on the ground, also in handcuffs.  

The judge was banging her gavel while the attack was on, but she was also caught by surprise.  

The Colonel was now stock still, her hands cuffed behind her back. She stood erect and appeared proud of her actions. Her clothes were rumpled and torn, her make-up was smudged and her hair was messed up. Blood was pouring from her nose. She was still looking at me with pure hate and was mouthing the words, "I will get you, never fear." The police now were leading her out of the courtroom. The two guards were also on their feet and were also being led away.  

The judge regained her composure and asked for silence, in a slightly tremulous voice. The session was adjourned.  

"The court will resume tomorrow morning as usual. I will make a decision on how we will proceed."

The next morning I noticed several more reporters in the second row. The Colonel's attack must have made it to the news. The defence team was there but no defendants were present. The judge entered, called for the start of the session and was ready to make her announcements. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, while I regret it very much, I have no choice at this point but to stop the trial and to continue if and when the defendants regain their health. One of the defendants, General Komlos, is now in a coma. His neurosurgeons recommend against surgery. They believe that the coma is irreversible and that the General will not regain consciousness. His main organs are beginning to deteriorate and are shutting down. Colonel Hegedus attempted to commit suicide last night in spite of the 24-hour suicide watch I ordered and of course, there will be an investigation. The Colonel is alive, but she is in the intensive care department of the local hospital. She lost a tremendous amount of blood and her recovery will take a long time. There is the possibility that her memory has also been affected by the loss of blood. Serious brain damage might have been sustained which would preclude another trial. She has been given a blood transfusion, of course. On the advice of the court-psychiatrist she will be transferred to a mental institution." 

The judge stopped for a sip of water. There was silence in the room. The reporters were writing furiously. The judge continued. 

"Ms. Taber, Dr. Lengyel. Thank you for your participation. As I mentioned, I regret the lack of a clear resolution of the case, of the charges and counter charges. I am aware of several unanswered questions. I will reconvene this court session if at all possible but from what I have seen so far, the likelihood is low." 

The judge then banged her gavel and said, "This case is now closed. It will likely never be re-opened." 

Justice Strausz turned to me and said, "Professor Lederer, please follow me to my chambers. Your family should also come as should the lawyers for the defence and the prosecution."  

In her office, she discarded her robe and explained, "When I wear this robe, I am a judge, an official. When I take it off, I am a private person, and I can speak my mind." Then she continued. "Based on the evidence presented, I have no hesitation to conclude that you had been unjustly and unfairly hurt. Your rights have been abused. Based on my conversation with the Minister of Justice and in her name, I am empowered to offer you the sincere apologies of the Hungarian Government. She regrets that she couldn't be here in person this morning. She is asking that you call her office and arrange to visit her at your convenience. 

"As well, I conclude that there was a conspiracy between the General and the Colonel, the aim of which was to re-establish the Communist terror. Thanks to you, Professor, the danger is now gone. 

"At this point, however, neither defendant's testimony is complete. I lean strongly toward the belief that they were guilty as charged. I can't pronounce a sentence for two fairly obvious reasons. The incomplete testimonies are one of the reasons. The other is more practical. Both defendants are totally incapacitated, their conditions are not expected to change and neither is a danger to society any longer. 

"Professor, a few more words. I understand very well that this trial may not be totally satisfactory to you. The following may help. It is my considered opinion and conviction actually, that if the defendants' testimonies were to be completed and if they continued to be mentally fully capable of providing truthful answers, you would had been vindicated. The defendants would most likely have been found guilty."  

Justice Strausz stopped here, reached for her briefcase and was extracting an envelope. She removed a certificate from the envelope. The judge asked me to approach and when I reached her desk, she handed me the certificate. It was a beautifully prepared document, thanking me for starting and the participating in the court case and offering, in writing, the apologies of the government. It was signed by the Minister of Justice. 

I was exhausted. We went home and just wanted to sit comfortably and wanted not to talk. Each of us was holding a glass with our favourite forms of alcohol. Chilled white wine for Heather, sherry for Jake and Tamara, cognac for me. My feelings changed from being satisfied that my adversaries were physically and mentally disabled to being disappointed that they hadn't now been found guilty and sentenced to long terms in prison. I wanted them to experience being deprived of freedom, as they had done to others.  

As I sipped the cognac I realized that they couldn't harm me any longer. They were where they belonged. Out of use. Just great. Really. I won. 

All four of us spoke up, almost at the same time, "Let's go home."

EPILOGUE

About a year has passed since we left Budapest at the end of the trial. My reporter's article appeared in one of the newspapers and I wasn't disappointed when it generated little interest. I didn't want calls or interviews. I just wanted to be left alone. She decided against writing a book and I was further relieved. Quite deliberately I haven't read Hungarian papers during the past year and didn't want to learn how my adversaries fared. For some time I was quite happy not knowing whether they were dead or alive. Recently, however, I was beginning to be curious. Was the General alive? Was he in a coma? Was the Colonel still in the mental institution? Was she still unbalanced? A phone call to Chief Rakossy clarified some unknowns. The General was still in a vegetative state, kept alive by machines. He was brain dead. The physicians were getting closer to a decision to pull the plug. The Colonel was in a secure forensic unit for the dangerously mentally disturbed even though she appeared to be totally harmless. She was very happy and was organizing stage productions with fellow inmates as the actors. Each morning as she woke she let out a ferocious yell, "Lederer!" The resident psychiatrist couldn't tell if she was faking her illness or if it was real. Her behaviour appeared to be independent of medication.  

When the lack of further information began to affect my sleep, I made an appointment to visit the Colonel. I booked a flight and was on my way to Budapest as I was many times in the past. 

I was anxious to speak yet again to the Colonel. I asked for her at the information desk just inside the very impressive entrance to the institution, located on equally impressive, nicely tended grounds. A bit of surprise when the young man at the desk didn't know anyone by the name of Colonel Hegedus. When I asked for Martha Williams, he said, yes, Martha, and he was on the phone right away. He said that she would be in the visitor's room in about 10 minutes and directed me there. 

I sat and waited. The room was large, well furnished and bright. It was organized so that you could sit with your group relatively undisturbed and in almost complete privacy. There was nobody else there. Then I saw a male nurse, a young man, good looking, walking toward me and greeting me politely.  

"May I speak to you for a minute, Professor?" he asked and sat down only when I invited him to. 

"I am Martha's nurse. I have looked after her since the time she was brought here, shortly after the court case ended. She was just coming around from her attempted suicide. She was hysterical and was put on 24-hour watch for about a month. She has calmed down since then and for the last several months she has been in a happy, carefree, playful mood. I will escort her from her room to you in a short while.  

"I must ask you beforehand though, what you want to talk to her about. I take it that you are no relative nor are you a friend. Please don't take this as an intrusion of your privacy but in what capacity have you met Martha in the past?"  

I feared that this might not lead to where I wished but I didn't want to mislead the earnest young gentleman. His aim was to protect his ward and I respected him for that.  

"I was the main witness for the prosecution in that court case you were referring to," I told the nurse and saw him stiffen a bit and sit up. 

"I don't intend to upset her. You might know that the trial was interrupted and effectively ended when Martha - she called herself Colonel Hegedus then - had a breakdown, attacked me and later, when back in her cell, attempted suicide. There were several issues that didn't get cleared up. They don't matter any longer, of course, but I still want to get answers that only she can give." 

The young man still looked undecided. 

"Martha has never referred to the trial. When she is asked about her suicide in the therapy sessions she claims to have no memory of it. She refuses to be hypnotized. Maybe a quiet discussion about her past would be good for her. On one condition. I stay and sit beside her. If I deem it necessary to end your visit, please cooperate and leave quietly." 

"Agreed," I said.  

"May I ask a few questions before you bring the lady?" and when the nurse agreed, I asked if the Colonel - I couldn't get used to calling her Martha - had any visitors since she came here. The answer was something I expected. A young man comes once a week, brings flowers and Martha's room is closed while he is there. Also, a middle aged lady came once. The ladies sat in the visiting room, not talking, for about 15 minutes. The visitor then left and never showed again. 

The guardian left and in a few minutes he was escorting Martha who was holding on to his arm. She put on quite a bit of weight since I last saw her. She was wearing no make-up and she had a plain jogging suit on with simple running shoes, no laces. The most remarkable change was her eyes. The ice, the look that scared grown men, had vanished. She looked relaxed. As they approached, she was giggling and was trying to tickle her nurse. He patiently moved her hand but then she began to nibble on his ear. He was smiling and was trying to get his head out of her way.  

Then they reached the chair where I was sitting. I stood up. Martha suddenly stopped, looked at me and kept on looking for some time. Her expression was serious. She didn't appear to be frightened or concerned. None of us moved.  

Then she said, "You look familiar. Who are you?"  

"I am Lederer, Colonel. I am the guy who you inconvenienced some time ago." 

She was still looking and trying to place me in her scheme of things. The gears were turning. In a few minutes, she began to smile, her face lit up and she came close to hug me. Held on for a little while and then let go. 

"I remember now. You are the Professor. I had some fun and games with you. Call me Martha. Will you ever forgive me?" and she giggled.  

"This is not about forgiveness, Martha. I came to visit to ask you a few questions, those that didn't get clarified during your trial. May I ask?" and her expression didn't change, her smile remained and her attitude remained unexpectedly friendly. She and her nurse sat on the couch opposite me. She was holding the nurse's hand in her lap. As in the past, I wondered if she was acting. 

"You remember the trial, of course. Do you?"  

The lady didn't appear to be disturbed at all. She started to laugh happily.  

"That was great, wasn't it?" 

"Do you recall a young man, working at the airport, the one who called you while you were in Vienna, telling you that I was asking questions about you?" and the question resulted in some more laughter. I was referring to the young man in the pub, near the airport, meeting his fellow workers, not very long ago. He blushed when I showed him the Colonel's photo. He placed a call on his cell phone and James, my detective, determined that the call was to Vienna, to the place where the Colonel lived.  

"He was some guy, that little fellow. Not so little in places where it counted. We had great times together. Where is he now? He should visit, we could do what we did, several more times, tell him to come." Martha's memory was not affected by her mental problems. She appeared to recall deflowering the young virgin in one of the rooms at the airport very clearly. 

"Martha, there was an unfinished TV interview concerning the death of your uncle, shortly after the end of the Communism. You recall that the lights went out in the middle and the show never got finished. Did you have anything to do with that?" No reply this time but I got a hard look, no smiles. Neither of us moved for some time. Then Martha said as her smile was slowly coming back, "Next question." 

Another unknown, not mentioned at the trial was how the Colonel got to use the airport facilities. How she managed to get Lola into one of the passport kiosks. How she secured the room where I was interrogated. How that room was cleaned up, how nobody knew about it. I posed the question and Martha said, with a straight face, a little smirk in her eyes. 

"Did you see the movie Erin Brokovich? I loved when Julia Roberts said how she managed to collect her information. 'I granted six hundred sexual favours' she said. I learned a lot from that lady. Just don't start looking for who permitted what. Many of the airport officials would be forced to deny lots of things." And she started laughing again.  

The young nurse was beginning to send me messages, trying to get me to stop. I saw that the lady was tiring and her friendliness might end, so I thanked her, wished her well and began to stand up. She also stood up, let go of the hand of her nurse, came to hug me again, tight, and as I felt her mouth close to my good ear, I heard her whisper, "Take me with you, you won't regret it, please, please." I left. Just go home fast. Come to Hungary again, lots of times, but only as a tourist.