The Hungarian

by Victoria Dougherty

  The man rubbed a medicinal balm over his lips and shook his head. “I wasn’t supposed to come at all. I received a message to come here shortly after I got off my plane.”

  “From who?”

  The man put his fingers to his cheek and ran the tips of them over his chin.

  “I would think you’d know that.”

  Lily stepped closer to him—not because she was compelled to, but because she wanted him to know that she wasn’t afraid. “I knew enough to get here, didn’t I?”

  The man laughed in a tender way that was at odds with the cruel character of his fused eyebrows.

  “Tony Geiger was supposed to take the contents of the safe from you,” he enlightened her. “But apparently he couldn’t make it.” The man clutched the bottle of Myer aspirin in his palm and shook his head. “I was hoping to never see this again.”

  Lily squeezed her thighs together and felt the microfilm chafing between them.

  “So, Tony was the one who was supposed to come here?” she asked. “Jesus Christ. Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. I received a message from him before I left my previous destination a couple of days ago. It changed my plans considerably.”

  Lily shrugged and looked at the ground.

  “Tony’s always full of surprises,” she mumbled.

  The dark man smoothed his hair and adjusted his suit jacket in an oval mirror above the telephone table. The contents of the safe were well-disguised under the wool of his jacket and in the soft pillow of his breast.

  “Madam,” he said, before turning to leave.

  “Wait a minute,” Lily called, and the dark man turned his head. She could feel the film slither under the lace trim of her stocking. “Are you staying here? In the Hotel Rude, which is an appropriate enough name?”

  The man shook his head.

  “Rude, in most Slavic languages, means red, not unmannerly,” he informed her without condescension. “It can also mean beautiful.”

  “I know that,” she said, her cheeks burning. “I was trying to make a joke. What’s your name, is what I’m really asking. I mean, shouldn’t I know your name just in case?”

  His voice was tender again when he answered her. “You shouldn’t.”

  The door clicked shut, and Lily waited until his footsteps faded down the corridor before pulling the film out of her stocking. She wound it into a tight coil that fit easily inside her lipstick tube. Lily didn’t know what she was going to do with the film and could’ve kicked herself for having pocketed it in the first place. Damn Tony for sending his contact so soon. She supposed she could have come clean, but that Russian hadn’t exactly seemed like the kind of guy who would understand why the film was under her skirt instead of where it belonged. She needed to think hard about how she was going to get the contents of the Myer aspirin bottle back into the hands of Tony’s Russian before he figured out what she’d done.

  Lily couldn’t stay in her suite right then. Apart from the fact that the place was not growing on her and that she felt like there was always a fly on the wall, Lily was one of those people who needed to move in order to do her best thinking. The sounds of the city—the cars, pounding the pavement, and the ever-present cool wind—would give her a sense of security that her quiet suite of pilfered treasures could not. She grabbed her purse and a wrap and headed to the lobby.

  “Greetings!”

  The concierge smiled a big, disingenuous smile at her as she stepped out of the elevator, and Lily averted her eyes, only to catch Fedot trotting after her.

  “Miss Tassos, I would so like to join you for your day. I promise to make my company of you exquisite.”

  “Thanks, Fedot, but I’d like some time alone today.”

  Fedot bowed his head, still smiling, and held up the newspaper that had been folded under his arm.

  “I’ll go for my jacket. You’ll see good times with me.”

  Lily was about to get emphatic with him when she caught a glimpse of the front page of the Moscow city paper.

  “Fedot, who is that?”

  Fedot looked down at the grainy photograph and then back to Lily.

  “Miss Tassos . . . ”

  “His name. I just need to hear his name.”

  Fedot bit his bottom lip and adjusted his collar.

  “Pasha Tarkhan, of course.”

  Lily repeated the name to herself. It wasn’t at all familiar to her. The man, however, was very familiar. She’d met him not fifteen minutes earlier in her suite when he came for Tony’s dossier.

  “Can you translate the article for me, please?”

  Fedot gave her a Cheshire cat grin and laughed.

  “Fedot . . . ”

  “Forgive me, but the article is awkward, I’m afraid.”

  Lily swallowed, wondering if Fedot had been eavesdropping on her and Tony’s big, dark Russian. Perhaps he understood a great deal more about their simple exchange than she did.

  “Just translate it, Fedot.”

  The slight Russian shrugged and took out a round pair of reading glasses, balancing them on his nose.

  “Pasha Tarkhan, who is . . . uh . . . how you say? Perhaps Under Secretary? He has honored his country when he was made forced to kill the American spy Brenda France of Los Angeles California United States. The American woman breaked into his hotel room in Prague, was trying to steal from him and took gun on him to killed him, but he was able to fight her and forced to unfortunately killed her. The United States Americans have aggressively deny she was spy, but we all know that they are biggest liars in world. Because USSR is greater than they are, the United States Americans are jealous of us and want to know the secrets of our Utopian society. The United States, as we know, is filled with nothing but Capitalist poverty and its people are dying and would wish to come to USSR, so the American government wants to kill us . . . ”

  “That’s quite enough, Fedot. Thank you.”

  The article was funny in its own way, but Lily had a difficult time finding humor in anything at that particular moment—especially as she recalled the sheer size of Pasha Tarkhan, his inscrutable eyes, and his tender laugh. She had no doubt that he was, in fact, capable of murder. She’d heard the same ring of truth when Tony Geiger had first acquainted her with the knowledge that her father was not exactly what he appeared to be. And when her mother told her that she was just like her father.

  “I’ll get my coat,” Fedot reiterated. “We’ll have nice day.”

  “Of course,” Lily told him, but as soon as he reached the front desk, she slipped out the door. She knew he would follow her, as would a half dozen other “employees” of Hotel Rude, but she wanted at least a head start with some time alone. If Pasha Tarkhan was a monster, then he might’ve been the one who killed Tony, which meant Lily had just given him at least some of what Tony was trying to protect. But a monster would’ve had no incentive to leave Lily alive, she deduced, and she could’ve been so easily disposed of in a hotel room—just like Brenda France. Whatever the case, Lily and Pasha Tarkhan had some unfinished business.

  “Miss Tassos!” Fedot cried, as Lily quickened her step. “You have forgotten me, but I catch you!”

  Chapter 7

  Athens, Greece

  Beryx Gulyas champed his stuffed grape leaves until they were the consistency of over-boiled tripe. He was a fast eater—too fast—and was trying to slow himself down in an effort to control his portions. It was a joyless way to consume his favorite Greek dish.

  He looked across the table at his lunch companion and cocked his head, scrutinizing the easy, languorous way in which Etor chewed his food. The Cretan gigolo sat idly in his chair, relishing the hustle and bustle of the Plaka as if the bounty of seafood before him was incidental. It was no wonder he was so trim. He took his time, and treated his lunch like a casual mistress. One whose company he took pleasure in throughout the night, but didn’t need to enjoy his coffee with in the morning.

  Etor. He was not as stupid as Beryx had originally th
ought him to be. He was careless. He was trivial. But he wasn’t an idiot, like Leon Kuntz’s co-pilot had been, as testified by the crude carvings on his forehead.

  “I shouldn’t use so much salt,” Etor reproved, helping himself to a liberal pinch for his baked eel. He had finished explaining to Beryx why he’d chosen to kill Tony Geiger with poison instead of the sniper’s rifle the Hungarian had championed and was now looking forward to digging in to a costly lunch that wouldn’t cost him a thing.

  “What if you hadn’t used enough of the toxin?” Beryx queried.

  Etor shrugged and shook his head in the same manner he had used to dismiss their waiter when the young boy offered them another bottle of Retsina. The noonday sun was beaming into his eyes, but the gigolo wouldn’t squint. It put his wrinkles on display.

  “Then he would have died in three hours instead of three minutes. You only need enough to cover the head of a pin. And there’s no antidote.”

  “Good,” Beryx murmured.

  Throughout the ages, poison had been referred to as “the coward’s weapon,” but the Hungarian assassin disagreed. Poison took knowledge and a strong stomach. It could disfigure, distort and liquefy, forcing the perpetrator to watch an often gruesome process. It wasn’t a coward’s weapon, no, but it was certainly a feminine one.

  “An Arab’s kiss, you called it.”

  “Arab’s kiss, yes. Very potent. Fast acting. It’s cultivated from a type of passionflower that grows in the Middle East. They call it a . . . a . . . I can’t remember, but it’s a nice word. Beautiful. Like a woman’s name—Alehlah.”

  Although Etor relayed all of this with his mouth full, he managed to avoid looking uncouth. He spoke equally with his hands, which moved in sensual, dancing motions and drew attention away from his lips.

  “Alehlah. A very clever poison,” Beryx acknowledged, and Etor smiled.

  “Of course, if I’d used a gun, I would’ve been better prepared for circumstances created out of my control. If something or someone else emerged, I could’ve fired another bullet. The darts are more complicated. They’re difficult to handle, because you don’t want the poison to come in contact with your skin.”

  Etor stuck his fork into a heavily salted yellow potato the size of a walnut and held it up while his tongue fished a piece of eel skin out of his back molar.

  “But,” he continued. “The fact is I’ve never liked blood. It’s ugly and it stains the clothes.”

  Beryx knew how to get a man like Etor going. Initially reticent, the gigolo was growing more forthcoming with every glass of wine. All he needed to be assured of was a sympathetic ear, which would give him permission to bask in the sound of his own voice and boast an expertise in something other than luxury clothing and women’s genitalia.

  “Who could get in the way?” Beryx probed.

  “I don’t know. A lover, perhaps. Someone who wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  Beryx moved closer to Etor, putting his hand on the gigolo’s thigh.

  “A lover?”

  Etor nodded and leaned in to the Hungarian, his lips brushing the curve of his ear. He didn’t desire men sexually—in fact, he preferred the company of women on almost all occasions—but his days of picking and choosing were over, and men like Beryx Gulyas had deep pockets.

  “A very good lover,” he whispered.

  Beryx smiled, showing his teeth, which he didn’t often do. Not out of vanity, although the state of his teeth was nothing to be proud of, but because it felt entirely unnatural to him. Smiling on command was difficult enough, but grinning was so contrary to his character that he looked more like an animal baring its teeth than a happy, amused human being.

  “Then let’s go to your place.”

  Etor pushed his plate away and leaned his elbows on the table.

  “My place is small. I’m not here very often. A couple of months here and there—mostly in the early summer.”

  “I don’t like hotels,” Beryx insisted. “They don’t have kitchens. I must have a kitchen.”

  Etor shrugged, thinking, Suit yourself. His Athens apartment was a depressing concrete matchbox of a place, and unlike Beryx Gulyas, he loved hotels. They were always so clean—the good ones anyway—and everyone did everything for him.

  “We should ask for a carafe of wine to take with us.”

  “Oh, yes,” Beryx agreed. “In a glass carafe. Only a glass carafe will do. Because they’re so pretty.”

  The Hungarian hadn’t struck Etor as the type who cared much about pretty things, but then people often got very particular when it came to sex. And the Cretan didn’t care if the man wanted a glass carafe or a glass giraffe, as long he got paid in American dollars.

  “I’ll make sure to get the prettiest one.”

  Beryx smiled again and waved a hundred drachma note at the waiter. He got up to use the toilet, telling Etor he’d meet him outside. Having not had anything to drink, he didn’t need to go, but he did need to purge himself of the heavy lunch he’d shared with the gigolo. Beryx was planning on having a nice dinner with a girl that night and wanted to save his appetite for his real date. He also wanted to look trim and was depressed that he’d lost only two kilos. This, despite nearly starving himself on a diet of raw vegetables and vomiting every time temptation grew too great and he cheated with a sweet pastry or a sausage. He was sure to build up a good sweat with Etor, though. Maybe once he was finished with the Cretan, his pants would fit just a little bit better around the waist.

  “Are you ready?” Etor cooed, pushing his shoulders back and sucking in his stomach.

  Beryx Gulyas nodded.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Do you have any salt at home, or will we need to stop at a market?”

  “Ah, salt—it’s good for the skin.” Etor nodded, rubbing his palms over his chest.

  “It’s good for so many things,” the Hungarian told him.

  Chapter 8

  Athens, Greece

  Adonia was clearly an invented name, and Beryx imagined that the youngish woman the madam had offered him was born an Agatha or Acacia in some remote Greek fishing village. These thoughts about her were ruining his fantasy, and he swept them away as surely as he’d swept away the salt and broken glass on the floor of Etor’s cramped city apartment. When he hired a woman for the night, he liked to pretend that they had met somewhere other than a brothel—in this case a bus stop—and would instruct the woman to bump into him and look up—or in this case down—into his eyes. She would feel an immediate and uncontrollable passion for him and agree to dinner, knowing full well that he intended to take her afterward. She would love it and be anticipating it all night—frightened, ashamed, titillated.

  “What’s this place called again?” Adonia asked, gazing up at the lighted Acropolis, which sat high above the tiny, outdoor restaurant her customer had chosen. Forgetting to act in his thrall, she recovered quickly by licking her lips and pushing her bust together, while she stroked his calf with her open-toed sandal.

  “Socrates’s Prison. The chicken is good.”

  “I like chicken,” she cooed. “Do you like chicken?”

  “Yes, I like chicken,” Beryx breathed. From his pocket, he removed five stones with properties for bolstering willpower—rose quartz, black onyx, rock crystal, chrysoprase, and tiger’s eye—and lined them up on the table in front of him.

  Adonia was just his type: Black hair, a small bust and soft, rounded hips. She would pucker her lips and whisper when she talked of sex—the way all of them did, the girls for hire. The way Etor had.

  Etor. He’d been an idiot after all.

  Not only had he admitted to leaving his gloves in his hotel room—discouraging him from loading another lethal dart if the need had presented itself—but he acknowledged leaving a witness behind.

  “She’s a harmless girl,” he’d begged. “A tourist. I liked her.”

  He was adamant that she hadn’t seen him and positive that she had nothing to do with Tony Geiger professionally.<
br />
  “They probably m-m-m-met somewh-where and ag-ag-agreed to m-meet for a p-p-private rendezvous,” Etor had insisted. He was stuttering by then, so it took him a considerably long time to say what he needed to say.

  “Then why wouldn’t they meet in a hotel room?” Beryx had snarled. He’d left Etor’s handsome face intact, but carved a Hungarian insult into him whenever the gigolo said anything stupid. Geci (asshole) joined kurva (whore), and puhapōcs (impotent), which were engraved on his buttocks, chest and thigh as Etor hung—arms above his head—from a water pipe in his kitchenette.

  Beryx despised sloppiness in his line of work and took enormous pride in leaving no loose ends. He was particularly contemptuous of assassins like Etor, who took occasional jobs and wanted to get them over with as soon as possible—leaving behind bystanders because they liked them.

  “Where,” he had demanded, “is there room for favoritism in what we do?”

  Etor hadn’t been able to answer, as his throat was filled with nearly a pound of finely milled sea salt. The Hungarian had broken the Cretan’s jaw, prying his fingers behind the man’s teeth and pulling hard until he heard a crackling noise—like splintering wood—that made Etor shriek. It was a sickly sound that Beryx didn’t like, but the gigolo was unable to close his mouth afterward, and it made pouring the salt down his throat a much easier task. Beryx was unclear as to whether the gigolo had died of cerebral edema—the most common outcome of salt poisoning—or asphyxiation, and wrote a note to himself to remember to contact the medical examiner and find out.

  Whatever the case, Etor was gone and Beryx was glad. He was yet another black mark erased from Beryx’s profession.

  “I like the little lights around those poles,” Adonia mused. “They’re like twinkling stars.” She never got to go to restaurants, let alone nice ones where a husband might take his wife.

  “Those aren’t poles,” Beryx explained. “They’re prison bars. For Socrates’s Prison.”

  “Oh.”

  The waiter sauntered by, depositing two plates of chicken, broiled in an oily tomato sauce and accompanied by the small, yellow potatoes that Etor had liked so much. Adonia smiled and bit her lip, digging into the food with her knife and fork, and dripping grease from her lips into the hollow of what would have been her cleavage, if she had any breasts to speak of.