A wheelchair for Lajos!
The reality hit Viktor hard. Őrült had turned Lajos, his only living son, into a cripple. Feeble and infirm. How could he lead an army from a wheelchair?
Viktor waved a hand at one of the men.
“Help them.”
It took two men forever to pull a limp Lajos from the SUV and settle his near-lifeless form into the wheelchair, and even longer to carry him and the chariot up the steps and onto the flat entranceway.
Viktor would have to order the building of a ramp. A ramp. The compound needed wheelchair access for his crippled son! The embarrassment of it made his skin crawl. No, he would have them build the ramp around the back, out of sight. It would become the entrance for the servants and the infirm. The underlings.
The driver wheeled Lajos forwards and stopped in front of Viktor. Andris looked down on him, sorrow filled his eyes. Andris had been with Viktor since long before the birth of both Vadik and Lajos. He had warm feelings for Viktor’s son.
Another reality sank in.
Viktor had been too quick to think badly of Andris, his one true friend. He had been far too quick to apportion blame. The grief of losing Vadik had worn Viktor down. It had made him suspicious, irrational. Such unwarranted suspicions would eat away at his sanity. On the other hand, being wary had kept him alive for so many years. He sixth sense for danger had given him the edge over so many of his fallen rivals.
Yes, Viktor would keep his eyes and ears open. The potential for treachery lay all around.
“What took you so long?” he demanded of Andris.
“My apologies, főnök, but Lajos cried out in agony at each bump in the road and at each turn. It seems the painkillers they gave him have worn off. I ordered the driver to slow down to walking pace.”
“Okay,” Viktor grunted, nodding, “but you should have telephoned.”
“Once again, I am sorry, főnök. But Lajos fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.”
In his shabby wheelchair, Lajos stirred. His head lolled, lifted, and turned to face Viktor. Pale blue eyes, the same eyes as his harlot of a mother, met his.
“Papa?”
Viktor stood tall. He would not bend the knee to his son in front of the men. Such actions would show humanity—and weakness.
“Yes, Lajos?”
“Papa, they hurt me. They cut off my arm and shot me in the leg. My ankle is broken. They hurt me, Papa.”
Viktor hid the sneer that started to form and turned it into a cough. Pataki men did not bawl in public. In the face of pain and danger, Pataki men were strong and brave. They suffered though discomfort in stoic silence. Even though Vadik was a bastard son, a half blood, when he met his end Vadik would not have been such a pitiable coward.
“I can see that, Lajos. Be strong, boy. I have sent for a doctor. He will arrive soon. As for painkillers, there are drugs aplenty in the house. You will be pain free very soon.”
Lajos sniffled. Tears fell from his pale blue eyes and his chin trembled.
So feeble. So pathetic.
This coward was no longer a son of Viktor Pataki.
“Thank you, Papa. Thank you.”
Viktor turned to the driver. “Take him to his room. I will visit soon.”
Andris held out his arm to stop the man wheeling away the cripple.
“Főnök,” he said, speaking quietly, “shall I ask one of the housekeepers to make up a bedroom on the ground floor? It will be some time before Lajos can manage the stairs.”
Viktor sniffed and considered the suggestion. Although a good idea, Andris should not have countermanded the orders of his főnök in front of the men. It was unacceptable!
“Very well, Andris. Have them use one of the rooms in the back. One overlooking the garden.”
Andris dipped his head and said, “Immediately, főnök.” Only then did he lower his arm and allow the driver to wheel Lajos through.
Viktor waited for the driver and another man to disappear into the bowels of the house before striding towards the main room. Andris followed close behind like a good hunting dog walking to heel.
A hunting dog, yes. But what or who was his prey?
Viktor headed towards the small table. The dolt Viktor had sent earlier had followed instructions and replaced the empty pálinka bottle with a fresh one. Viktor broke the seal and poured himself a full measure.
“Andris,” he said, “a drink?”
“Please, főnök,” he said, nodding. “It has been a long day.”
Viktor poured a stiff measure and held up his glass.
“To Vadik,” he said.
Andris took his glass from the table and clicked it against Viktor’s. “And Balint,” he added.
“Vadik and Balint,” Viktor announced. He downed his drink in one swallow, as did Andris.
Viktor refilled both glasses, and this time, they sipped. He crossed to his favourite window. Once again, the hunting dog followed close. The servants had left the floodlights burning, as they always did while Viktor was awake. The lawn, cut to stripes in the English fashion, stretched out before him as though nothing had changed.
“What happened out there, Andris?”
“At the warehouse?”
Viktor sipped again and nodded.
“They must have been waiting for us.”
“They? More than one man, you think?”
Andris stared deep into the golden liquid before answering. “It had to be many. Balint knew what he was doing, főnök. As did his men. They were all skilled hunters. Experienced. It would have needed many men to take them out so swiftly and so efficiently.” He drank deep of his pálinka, emptied the glass, and offered it up for another refill.
Before Viktor could tell him to pour for himself, someone knocked on the door.
“Come!”
It opened and one of the maids entered. The girl was one of the not-so-pretty ones. She curtsied and waited by the door, expectantly.
“Well? What is it?” he bellowed.
The ugly girl clasped her hands together and held them tight against her stomach.
“E-Excuse me, főnök,” she stuttered, “the sickroom is ready and Master Lajos has asked to see you.”
“Did he?” Viktor asked, trying to make it seem as though he cared.
“Y-Yes, főnök. He told me to tell you he had a message from the one who killed Vadik.” She curtsied again. Her French maid’s outfit shimmered as she trembled under his gaze.
A message, szar!
The Englishman mentioned a message. It had slipped his mind. With so much going on, how could Viktor be expected to remember it all?
Viktor slammed his glass down next to the bottle on the table and marched across the room. He brushed the terrified girl aside and asked, “Where is he?”
“The blue room, főnök. I will take you.”
“I know where it is, girl!”
He hurried past the staircase, heading for the small room favoured by the whore who birthed Lajos. She used it as a breakfast room. However, it did overlook the garden as Viktor had instructed, and it made an appropriate sickroom.
Footsteps behind him confirmed that Andris still followed. Ordinarily he would have told his right hand man to stay outside, but Viktor wanted to keep him close. He needed to gauge the reaction Andris had to whatever Lajos said.
Andris was one of the worst poker players Viktor had ever faced. He could never hide his emotions. If he had something planned that would upset Viktor, Andris would show it in his dark eyes and on his mobile face, and Viktor would have his proof. What he did with that proof, however, Viktor would decide at an appropriate time.
As Viktor burst into the room, the housekeeper jumped up from her chair in the far corner, but remained silent. She had been with the family for many years, and she knew her place.
In rapid time, the servants had removed the dining table and chairs and replaced them with a single bed, the head of which had been pushed against the wall opposite the French doors that
granted access to the gardens. In the bed, a pitiful-looking Lajos lay, propped up on three fat pillows. His face was even paler than usual. It appeared drained of blood as though he had suffered the attack of a vampire. His right arm ended above where the elbow joint used to be, the stump swathed in fresh, clean bandages. A cage beneath the bedclothes lifted them from his damaged leg, taking away their weight. The wheelchair in which Lajos arrived stood to one side, an ugly thing made of chrome, its plastic cushions cracked and torn. It was all Lajos deserved.
The boy looked up, his tear-filled eyes alight with the arrival of his papa. He tried to sit up, but whimpered and grimaced in pain. Viktor raised his hand, and Lajos settled back into the pillows.
The housekeeper remained silent until Andris closed the door behind them and Viktor nodded his permission for her to speak.
“Főnök,” she said with all the reverence he deserved, “I have made him as comfortable as possible.”
As though I care.
“Good, good.” Viktor nodded, but maintained his distance from the sickbed. “And the doctor?”
“On his way, főnök. We expect him within two hours.”
“Two hours? Why so long?”
“He travels from Tatabánya, főnök. The doctor in Győr refused to make the journey.”
“Dr Paiva rejected my summons and my money?”
The housekeeper lowered her gaze. “Yes, főnök.”
“After all the business I have given him over the years, he dare refuse me now?”
Viktor roared. It made the woman tremble and Lajos wince once again. He took a moment to calm himself.
Viktor glanced behind him. “Andris,” he said with exaggerated calmness, “when we are finished here, send someone to Dr Paiva. Demonstrate what happens to people who reject the invitations of the Giant of Győr. Make an example of him.”
“Certainly, főnök. I will go myself.”
“No, Andris. Send one of the others. Depending upon what Lajos has to say, I may have something else for you to deal with.”
Andris nodded and clasped his hands in front of his belt. He edged away and stood with his back to the wall, defending the room.
Viktor waved a hand to dismiss the housekeeper. She scurried away and would only return after he had gone. He approached the side of the bed but kept his distance from the taint of weakness.
“What message do you have for me?”
Lajos swallowed, and his, “I am thirsty, Papa,” sounded dry and raspy.
Viktor stiffened. He snapped his fingers at Andris, who rushed forwards and helped Lajos take a sip of water from a glass someone had placed on a side table. He then returned to his position by the wall and resumed his role as guardian.
“Better now?” Viktor asked.
“Yes, Papa. Thank you.”
“Okay, speak. What did the Englishman say?”
Lajos blinked twice and then raised his head from the pillows to speak.
“The man wants no war with you, Papa. He returned me as a sign of his good faith. He says he has taken Mrs Prentiss to a place of safety and she is under his personal protection. He also says this ends here.”
“He said that?”
“As near as I can recall, Papa. He says if you take no further reprisals, he will leave us alone.”
“You hear that, Andris?” Viktor asked, turning sideways and stepping back so he could see both bodyguard and cripple without having to strain. “The Englishman kills Vadik and Balint and all the others, and he expects no reprisals! He is a coward, running in fear, with his tail tucked tight between his legs. No reprisals, he begs. No reprisals in exchange for returning Lajos alive, but in this condition? What answer should I give to him, Andris?”
Andris opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, saying nothing.
“Yes, Andris. You are right. There is no answer. There is only action. No reprisals he says? Ha! We shall see.”
“Papa?”
“Yes, Lajos. What is it now?”
“The Englishman,” Lajos said and paused to take a breath. “He said one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“He … told me his name.”
“His name?”
“Y-Yes, Papa.” Lajos glanced from Viktor to Andris and back again. He swallowed deeply, but said nothing further, as though too scared to say the name of the man who had murdered his brother.
Such a coward.
“Well, boy? Tell me his name!”
Lajos lowered his eyes. “Ryan Kaine, Papa. He is Ryan Kaine.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sunday 7th May – Viktor Pataki
Pataki Compound, Outside Győr, Hungary
“Who?”
Viktor turned to Andris for the answer.
“You know, főnök. The plane crash last year, in the North Sea. Dozens died at the hands of the terrorist, Ryan Kaine. He is ex-military. A man of pure evil.”
The news images returned as Viktor recalled the story. Ryan Kaine was an enigma. A fugitive. A vicious killer. Police forces throughout Europe were searching for the man, but none had found him. Not one sign of the man in so many months. Ryan Kaine was a ghost.
“Ryan Kaine, the terrorist? Do not be ridiculous. Why would a man such as he offer his protection to a nobody like Marian Prentiss?”
“I-I don’t know, Papa.”
“Describe him. What did he look like?”
Lajos closed his eyes. “A-Average height. Wavy hair, flecked with grey at the temples. Full beard, also greying. He has around forty years of age.”
“His build? Is he big, like me, or slim, like Andris?”
“Not so tall as Andris, but just as wiry. And his eyes, Papa. Brown and lifeless. There is cold death in his eyes.”
“As there is in mine, Lajos?”
“Yes, Papa.”
“Shorter than Andris, you say? And thin? No, that is not possible. Ryan Kaine is a Royal Marine Commando, yes? A member of the SBS?” Viktor aimed the question at Andris, who nodded. “Commandos are powerful men the size of poor Balint. The man who held you is lying. He is using the name Ryan Kaine the same way as parents use tales of the Mumus or of Zsákos Ember to scare their children into obedience. He is trying to scare the Giant of Győr! As if that were possible. It is pitiful. Yes, Andris?”
“Yes, főnök,” Andris agreed. “It is as you say. I doubt the real Ryan Kaine would ever risk his freedom or his life for the Prentiss family. The English őrült has decent military skills, but he is not Ryan Kaine. And even if he were, it would not matter.”
The dead-eyed stare Andris gave Viktor, along with his bunching jaw muscles and his white-knuckled fists, said everything. Andris would spend the rest of his life seeking vengeance for the man who killed Balint and Vadik, be that man Ryan Kaine or the Devil himself.
“Papa. What … what will you do?”
Viktor ignored the question and spoke instead to his man, Andris. His good, loyal man.
“We will call the man Őrült, not Ryan Kaine. For that is what he is—a crazy man. Agreed?”
“Yes, főnök.”
“Lajos?” Viktor glowered at Lajos and waited for the cripple to nod his agreement before continuing. “Good. Őrült has hidden Marian Prentiss from us for the time being. He has taken her under his protection and has destroyed my money. We will find a way to punish her and, perhaps, draw him into the open.”
“What do you propose, főnök?”
Viktor paused to let his mind race through the various options. The plan came quickly. He was born for such moments.
“If we cannot hurt her directly, we will do it indirectly.”
“How, Papa?”
“With the help of the dead Wilfred, Cousin Ido created a dossier on the extended Prentiss family. He has the names and addresses of both sides of the family of Robert Prentiss and Marian Turvey. Mothers, fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins, and their children. I understand there are thirty-seven in total. I want them all dead before the end of this month.
Andris, you will go to England and supervise the pogrom. Wipe these people from the face of the earth. Will you do that for me, Andris?”
Andris stiffened. “Happily, főnök. I will leave straight away.”
“Take with you any man you require.”
Andris sneered and shook his head. “There is no need, my főnök. With your permission, I will act alone. Vadik was a son to me. I will avenge his death, and the death of Balint, too.”
“Good, good. Your targets are unsuspecting civilians. None will present a challenge to your particular skills. Make their deaths as painful as you see fit. And bring me photographs of each kill for my album.”
“Of course, főnök. It will be my pleasure.”
Andris bowed to Viktor, nodded briefly to Lajos, and left the room grinning wide. Light had returned to his eyes, the light of excitement, the light of retribution. He would take great delight in completing his new task.
Viktor rubbed his hands together—something his crippled son would never again manage—and breathed in deeply. He had been too quick to doubt Andris, who loved Viktor and looked upon his sons with the kindly eyes of an uncle. Andris loved his role as the Pataki family enforcer, and was almost as highly skilled and efficient as Viktor himself.
Yes.
Andris could be trusted and was now totally restored into the favour of his főnök. All was right with the world.
“Papa?”
Viktor glanced at his son, almost unable to look at the invalid in his pitiful sickbed. “What?”
“I-I would never question your orders in company, but ….”
Viktor waited for him to continue, but the cripple remained silent, his head turned away, chin on his chest.
“But what?”
Still, the cripple refused to speak.
“Speak, boy!”
Lajos lifted his pale blue eyes and found those of Viktor. “M-May I speak openly, Papa?”
“Of course, my boy.”
For the moment.
“What did you want to say to your Papa?”
On the Hunt Page 27
