- a legend Janson had created for himself, without notifying Cons Ops - was remembered fondly, his low profile and long periods of invisibility respected. Still, the men he contacted demurred, albeit reluctantly; all were cautious men, had made their fortunes and now had moved on. No matter. In the small world of such merchants, Janson knew, word of a serious buyer would spread; the one who arranged a successful contact could expect a commission on the transaction. Janson would not get in touch with Lakatos; he would contact those around him. When one of the businessmen he spoke to, a resident of Bratislava whose close ties with government officials had kept him safe from investigation, asked him why this Adam Kurzweil did not try Lakatos, he was told that Kurzweil was not a trusting soul and would not use anyone who had not been personally vouched for. Lakatos, as far as Kurzweil was concerned, was simply not trustworthy. He and his clients would not expose themselves to the risk of such an unknown. Besides, wasn't Lakatos too small-time for such a transaction?
As Janson anticipated, the haughty reproach filtered down to the porcine Hungarian, who bristled at being dismissed in those terms. Untrustworthy? Unknown? Lakatos was not good enough for this Adam Kurzweil, this mysterious middleman? Outrage was joined with pragmatic calculation. To allow his reputation to be thus impugned was simply bad business. And there was no more effective way to expunge any lingering aspersions than by landing the elusive account.
Yet who was this Kurzweil? The Canadian investor was cagey, obviously unwilling to say what he knew. "All I can say is that he has been a very good client of ours." Within hours, Janson's cell phone began chirping with testimonials on the Hungarian's behalf; the man had obviously been calling in favors. Well, the Canadian conceded, Kurzweil would be passing through the Miskolc area, near Lakatos's primary residence. It was possible he could be persuaded to meet. But everyone had to understand: Kurzweil was a very untrusting man. If he declined, no offense should be taken.
Despite the tactical pretense of reluctance, Janson's eagerness for the meeting bordered on desperation. For he knew that the one sure way to reach the ancient and entrenched enemies of Peter Novak would be through the Hungarian merchant of death.
Janson, seated at a tall leather chair in the hotel lobby, had observed Lakatos's arrival and deliberately waited ten minutes before joining him. As he approached the Hungarian at the banquette, he maintained a pleasantly blase expression. Lakatos surprised him by standing up and embracing him.
"We meet at last!" he said. "Such a pleasure." He pressed his breasty upper body to Janson's and reached around, his plump sweaty hands vigorously patting his back and then his waist. None too subtly, the effusive embrace served as a kind of crude security check: any upper-body holster - shoulder, small of back, bellyband - would have been detected easily.
As the two took their seats, Lakatos nakedly scrutinized his guest; avidity vied with no little suspicion of his own. There were, the merchant had learned, opportunities that were too good to be true. One had to distinguish between low-hanging fruit and poisoned bait.
"The libamaj roston, the grilled goose liver, is excellent. And so is the brassoi aprepecsenye - a sort of braised pork." Lakatos's voice was slightly breathless and fluting.
"Personally, I prefer the bakanyi serteshus," Janson replied.
The Hungarian paused. "Then you know this place," he said. "They told me you were a worldly man, Mr. Kurzweil."
"If they told you anything, they told you too much," he said, a trace of steel in his voice belying his half smile.
"You'll forgive me, Mr. Kurzweil. Yet, as you know, ours is a business based on trust. Handshakes and reputation substitute for contracts and paperwork. It is the old way, I think. My father was a butter-and-egg man, and for decades you'd find his little white trucks up and down the Zemplen range. He started in the thirties, and when the Communists took over, they found it was easier to cede these little shipments to somebody who understood the routes. You see, when he was a teenager he was a truck driver himself. So when his employees would tell him that this or that difficulty - a flat tire, a blown radiator - meant that their route would be delayed by half a day, well, he knew better. He knew just how long it took to fix these things, because he'd had