The Corpse with the Ruby Lips

by Cathy Ace

  I checked my own phone again for a signal; the Örsis had assured me there was none in the area, and Zsófia had even giggled the night before about how proud they were they didn’t even know what Wi-Fi or cellphone signals were. Even so, I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to check. I walked around the entire house holding the phone up, down, and sideways. Not a single bar.

  The car wasn’t in front of the house where it had been parked the night before. It was almost eight in the morning, and Zsófia hadn’t returned. I had no way to get in touch with anyone. At all. Anywhere. I felt completely cut off from humanity, but I had a responsibility to deliver a lecture at ten o’clock at the HUB, so I knew I had to make a choice: wait, or walk.

  I hate the snow. Luckily for me, living in the southwest corner of British Columbia, I don’t have to contend with it often, and even when it does fall it usually clears up pretty quickly. So setting out to walk who knew how far, in shoes not made for the job, wasn’t something I decided to do lightly. I found an old umbrella inside the front door that I hoped would shield me from the still-falling snow, and left a note pinned next to the one Zsófia had written, telling whoever might find it what I was doing. I allowed the door to lock behind me, reasoning the Örsis must have their keys with them, and set off.

  I only had one useful glove, the other being in tatters after the events of the previous day, so I pushed my messed-up right hand into my pocket. It seemed my left arm wasn’t equal to the task of keeping the umbrella over my head. The wind buffeted it, making it all but useless.

  I headed back the way we’d driven the night before, toward what I hoped would be a proper road, rather than the slushy track that led to the house. Although it was cold and the snow slippery, the ground wasn’t frozen, which was good. I was about halfway along the track from the house when my tummy clenched at the sound of an almost unearthly howl. When a shot rang out moments later, my entire body flinched. A flock of screaming birds scattered from the trees where they’d been roosting. They wheeled and reformed in the grey skies above the blackness of the forest. I put my head down and kept going, checking my phone in case I could finally get some sort of reception.

  It took about fifteen minutes before I reached the paved road, during which time I mentally sifted through the previous night’s conversations, and my wakeful dreaming session. The hill I was walking down fell away pretty steeply, and I stuck to the snow-covered grass shoulder, which I hoped would be less treacherous than the slippery asphalt. The sky was leaden, the sleety snow icy on my exposed skin. It didn’t look as though it was going to stop anytime soon, so I hunched and hoped to spot a passing vehicle. In the near-distance a pitiful howl sliced through the silence again. This time I told myself firmly it must be a local dog, but I picked up my pace. The snow suffocated any sounds around me. That was probably why I didn’t hear it—or maybe they really are as stealthy as people say.

  Finally, I saw it. I knew right away what it was, even though a part of me didn’t want to believe I could be seeing it. It was a wolf. It looked huge, and it saw me just as I saw it, though I suspected it had smelled me long before and had probably been stalking me. I didn’t blink, I just ran . . . heading for what, I didn’t know. I was simply running away.

  I suspected the wolf would be quicker than me, because my short legs weren’t built for running, but I resisted the absurd temptation to look back as I ran—I hate it when they do that in movies. Just run, you idiot, just run, pounded in my head as my heart thumped in my chest. I saw trees ahead of me. I can’t climb a tree! I thought. You’ll have to try, I told myself.

  The sleet stung my face, and the air I was sucking in was so bitterly cold it hurt my lungs. They say your life flashes before your eyes when you’re dying, but no one tells you what goes through your mind when you’re running for your life. It’s nothing, I discovered. The ground was extremely slippery, and I lost my footing as I ran downhill. I was so close I could almost reach out and touch the tree. But no, instead of trying to climb out of harm’s way, I was skidding and losing my balance, and it was all I could do to remain upright.

  As I finally fell, several things happened almost simultaneously: I saw I was tumbling toward a rocky ditch, and suddenly realized why Valentin had written about the king lifting a dead body from a river, as well as who’d killed Ilona Seszták; I also spotted a rifle and a shooter. It looked to me as though the barrel and scope were pointing right at me. My body I hit the ground, my hands sprawling and my head turning to try to save my face from smashing into it. A whizzing, popping noise rang out, then I heard a pitiful howl and a whimper behind me.

  From my prone position I lifted my head to see my savior in the distance. I pushed myself up with my arms, wiped the snow from my face, and stared at the redness it contained. Was I bleeding? No, it was the red of the lipstick I had borrowed from Zsófia. Thank goodness. Then I looked at the person holding the rifle. All I could make out was a camouflage-patterned hood and jacket, with dark gloves holding a camouflaged rifle. Then I saw the shooter was reloading and taking aim at . . . What? Me?

  This time the howl came from my own body, as I screamed “No!” I pushed myself to my feet and ran back the way I’d come. I spotted the writhing, bloodied body of the wolf in the ditch as I sped past. Something inside me—a recollection I couldn’t quite grasp—told me to duck, zig, and zag as I ran. All the better to escape a bullet.

  My gloved and ungloved hands flashed across my line of sight as they pumped. I noticed my right hand was bleeding again—this time to such an extent that a spray of blood flew into the air every time that hand helped propel me forward. Each crunch of my footfalls seemed to be sucked into the sound-muffling snow.

  I must have run for about a minute. Such a short amount of time, but so many racing thoughts. Bud’s face appeared in my mind’s eye as I labored up the slippery hill, then I felt as though I’d been kicked in the back. I didn’t feel any greater pain, so I told myself to keep moving. Pretty soon, though, my legs stopped wanting to work.

  I fell to the ground onto my back, wondering at the beauty of the snowflakes I could see so clearly against the dark skies above me.

  Different Person, Different Voice

  THE UNIFORMED GUARD LOOKED UNBLINKINGLY at the man’s passport photo, then at his face. Glancing at the console in front of him he said, “And the purpose of your trip?”

  “I’m here to spend some time with my wife. She’s been teaching at one of your universities and now I get to join her for a while.”

  The official’s expression remained unchanged. Handing the document back to the man, he said flatly, “Welcome to Hungary, Mr. Anderson. Enjoy your stay.”

  The white-haired man moved urgently along the winding, carpeted corridors, which finally delivered him to the area where haggard passengers were being met by gleeful greeters. He scanned faces as he stood his ground, his eyes steely under the fluorescent lighting. Reacting to a handwritten notice held high on an umbrella point, he weaved his way through the throng with some difficulty.

  “I’m Anderson,” he said to the man holding the sign bearing his name.

  “Welcome to Budapest, Mr. Anderson. May I take your luggage? Your car is not far away. Allow me,” said the dark-suited chauffeur politely. A man in his fifties, he was a good decade older and a head taller than anyone else holding a nameplate.

  Bud Anderson ceded control of his suitcase, but gripped his carry-on. With his bags finally stowed in the trunk of a sleek car, Bud slid into the rear seat of the sedan.

  “To your hotel, sir?” asked the driver loudly.

  “Yes, please, I believe the service told you which one.” The chauffeur shut Bud’s door, took his seat, and eased the car into the knots of airport traffic.

  “How are you holding up, old friend?” asked the driver. “I’m sorry we’re meeting like this.”

  The two men’s eyes met in the rearview mirror. Bud managed a wry smile. “I’ve certainly been better, John. Didn’t think I’d be seeing you
again so soon after our little reunion in Amsterdam. Thanks for all this. You know it means the world to me.”

  “Not a problem, Bud. We still can’t grasp what Cait’s mixed up in. I’ve had a couple of chaps working on it since you phoned yesterday but there are no concrete leads. There’s been no answer to any of our calls; her phone’s been without a signal. Can’t even locate it. Either the chip’s been removed, or her phone’s in an area with no coverage. There are a few hereabouts. We’ve established she’s not at the university; she didn’t show for class today. No answer at her apartment. She didn’t check in at the Gellért last night as you suggested she might. My chaps are checking with other hotels, as well as the hospitals and police stations. Covering all bases, you know the drill. We’ve got about thirty minutes before we get to the office. Glad we were able to help get you here so quickly. And informally.”

  “Me too. Thanks for everything. You’ve been thorough, but I’m going to try her cell myself in any case.” Bud checked for reception.

  “Local systems can take a while to pick up. Use the phone in the package I put back there for you. It’s untraceable.”

  “Thanks, John.” Bud dialed. “Voicemail. Where can she be?” He cursed quietly. “Guess I’d better let my parents know I’m here safe and sound.”

  “The dutiful son.”

  “John Silver, you old goat, watch it. I’m not in the mood. I told them Cait had been taken ill and I had to get out here fast, but I don’t want them to be worried about me, or Cait. Not fair on them. You’ve been doing this multiagency, undercover stuff long enough to know how it is with our families; keep ’em happy by keeping them in the dark.”

  “You’re right. Go ahead. I’ll be the dumb driver for a few minutes.”

  Bud dialed, spoke, listened, hung up.

  “News?” John Silver nudged the vehicle forward, changing lanes.

  “Cait called my parents’ house yesterday. They reckon it must have been around one o’clock local time there, because that’s when they were out having Sunday lunch. I’d have been at the airport at the time, waiting for my flight to get here. Cait left a few messages for me. Dad’s given me his passcode so I’ll call right back to pick them up, but he told me one thing he could remember—he said she was staying the night at the home of Tamás and Klara Örsi in a place with a name he couldn’t pronounce but he said he thought it started with a B. I know they’re Zsófia Takács’s great-aunt and uncle. Can you get someone to trace the call to my parents’ number and get an address?”

  “No need. We have it already.” John loosened his tie, then indicated to change lanes again. “They’re out in Budakeszi. It’s a village not far from the city. Near a game park.”

  “A game park? You mean with giraffes and tigers?”

  “No, not that sort of game. Wild boar, lynx, wolves, and the like. Areas with no cell coverage out there. Might explain a lot. If that’s her last known location, I’ll head in that general direction. The tablet in that package is completely clean, except for what we’ve put on it. Örsi, Tamás, will be on the contact list; if you could pull up the specific address, that’ll help.”

  “Okay,” replied Bud pulling out the tablet, “but then I’ll pick up her other messages—that might give us some critical information.”

  He did as he’d said, and listened, twice, to the messages his wife had left, tapping notes into the tablet as he did so.

  “So?” asked John when Bud had finished.

  “She’s mixed up in something big, I think, John. Does the name Patrik Matyas mean anything to you?”

  “It does. Though he’s had a few names over the years. Always kept the same initials. No idea why they do that.”

  Bud allowed himself a wry chuckle as they took a sharp turn and his tablet slithered across the back seat. “This coming from John Silver, aka Jack Simmons, aka Julian Stirling?”

  “Not my choices, Bud. Not my choices. Maybe, like me, our Patrik Matyas has overlords with poor ability for invention. To be fair, your chaps weren’t much better. I recall I was first introduced to you as Brian Andrews.”

  “So who is he, this PM guy?” asked Bud, gathering up the tablet again and tapping in Matyas’s name.

  “As far as I can recall we have him on file as likely KGB. Or FSB now. I don’t have your wife’s photographic memory, and we do tend to keep tabs on rather a lot of people. Found him on that thing yet?”

  “Yep. More likely to be SVR than FSB, it says. But you and I both know how the world has changed, John. The old alphabet soup doesn’t count for as much in these days of digital terrorism and global threats. Whichever agency he answers to, he might have any number of handler affiliations. I think the main thing is, he’s not who he pretends to be, and never has been. And Cait reckons he’s been keeping a close eye on her.” He recounted his wife’s messages to his colleague.

  “I still don’t see how a professor’s wife getting her head bashed in at UVan in 1976 connects with a KGB operative embedded in an academic institution here,” said John. “Unless he was sent to shut her up. As I recall, assassination isn’t on the list of PM’s accomplishments, though.”

  “No. He looks to have always been an infiltrator, disseminator of misinformation, and all-round bite-the-hand-you’re-pretending-to-feed-from kind of guy.” Bud’s voice cracked with worry. “Got a file here on the Seszták woman?” he asked, tapping again.

  The weak daylight was fast disappearing, as were most signs of civilization. “Not long now,” announced John, checking his GPS screen. “And yeah. That one I did read up. Örsi was her name before she married.”

  “I see she was a low-level listener and translator for the workers’ party. Brother was, what? Informer under duress?”

  “That about sums it up. Worked for a newspaper that was nationalized. So essentially was a propagandist and information manager for the party. However, as the file says, a few periods unaccounted for.”

  “Which is another thing Cait asked me to follow up on. Any ideas? There’s nothing here.”

  “If it’s not there, then no. Sorry. I can get the chaps at the office onto it ASAP. In fact, why don’t you call them and put it on speakerphone. I can get them to haul in Matyas and dig into Örsi.”

  Bud made the call, then the two men remained silent for a few moments while he read the file. “Ilona Seszták unlikely to be a viable KGB target, your file says.”

  “We don’t believe she’d have had high enough clearance to get to hear, or see, anything worth killing her over. Though, to be honest, those listeners and translators can happen upon some juicy stuff when it’s least expected.”

  “You calculated her security clearance by checking her salary?”

  “It’s a technique that usually works. Okay, now we’re getting pretty close. Heads up.”

  The sleek car’s tires left deep tracks in the slushy snow as it squelched along a muddy track. The headlamps eventually threw their ghastly light upon a small house. It appeared to be deserted.

  “If anyone’s in there they’ll have seen us coming a mile off,” observed John. “Might as well use the lights to our advantage now. Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” replied Bud. “This is the first time one of these ops has been personal for me. Though I know I shouldn’t really call it an op.”

  “I know,” answered John, sliding from his seat. “And you’re right. Not an op. One friend helping another find his wife, who said she was here. All above board.”

  “Got it.”

  John made his way to the rear of the house, moving with an economy of motion borne of experience. Bud waited a moment, then knocked at the front door. Ten minutes later, the men had searched the entire small house. “Back door lock was easy to pick. They won’t even know we’ve been here,” said John as they stood inside the front door, his tiny flashlight playing on the worn carpet of the hallway.

  Bud shone his light on the two pieces of paper pinned to the back of the door. “The note left by the Takács
girl tells us they left Cait here alone, and why they did it. It looks like they never came back. Cait’s note tells us she was planning on walking to the main road to try to get a ride, or a bus, around eight this morning. So why didn’t she make it back to her place, or to the university? Why didn’t she just phone for a cab?”

  “Landline’s dead. I checked.” John continued, “If this Valentin Örsi chap is deathly ill because he’s tried to top himself, might Cait have gone there? You know her, Bud, what would her priority have been? Work, or this family?”

  “Work,” replied Bud without hesitation. “She was due to deliver a lecture. I’ve seen her drive off to do that when she was so sick she should have been in bed. She’s utterly professional in that respect. Something must have happened to her. I know it, John.” Not for the first time, Bud’s voice cracked with emotion.

  Bud’s friend and sometime-colleague laid a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “We’ll sort this out, old chap. Rely on me for that. You’ve saved my life twice in the past decade. I owe you at least this much. Come on. Let’s follow the road we’ve just traveled, the one Cait must have walked along, and see what we can find.”

  Taking the front passenger seat, Bud strained his eyes as they progressed slowly, their full-beam headlights bouncing off the remnants of the snow, which had begun to freeze. “Stop!” he shouted.

  John slammed on the brakes. “See something?”

  “Don’t know,” said Bud, leaping out of the car. “Pull back a bit and shine the lights over this way, will you?”

  John complied and Bud walked slowly, bobbing his head, bending and crouching at times. Finally, he gestured for John to join him.

  “Here.” Bud pointed at the side of the road. “Blood. See it? There.”

  John crouched too. “Yes. I see it. It’s not much. Which is good.”

  Bud played his flashlight along the ground, indicating a trail. “Something was bleeding, and was dragged along here. See the disturbance?” He pounced forward and grabbed something from the inner edge of a small ditch. Holding the item in the beam of the flashlight, he sniffed it, cursed quietly, then turned to his friend. “It’s Cait’s glove. Look, it’s torn. Ripped. There’s blood.”