Page 19

19

Will

T he Budapest Town Hall had all the warmth of a mausoleum and twice the paperwork.

The interior was vast and dim, lit by a few grudging bulbs and one grand chandelier that hadn’t been dusted since Horthy fell from grace. Paint peeled from every corner, and the stone walls carried the chill of a crypt. I half expected to find a clerk frozen into the floor, still clutching a carbon-copied form from 1934.

I’d been there seven minutes, and already my breath fogged in the stairwell.

The clerk at the main reception desk was a woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and an expression that suggested she’d personally survived multiple empires and hadn’t been impressed by a single one.

“Good morning,” I said, offering my most diplomatic smile. “I’m Hank Calloway of the U.S. State Department. I’m here to inquire about municipal power allocation decisions.”

She stared at me. Said nothing. Just blinked once.

Did she not speak English? Was I babbling into a wall?

“I have a letter of introduction,” I added, lifting the perfectly forged stationery from my folder.

She took it like it offended her fingertips.

“Basement records. Archives. Room 17,” she said in flat, flawless English. Then she gestured with the faintest flick of two fingers as if to say, “Go. I can’t stand the sight of you a moment longer.”

So much for my irresistible charm.

The basement smelled like damp regulations and moldy paper one might find shredded in the bottom of a rodent’s cage. I descended the stairs, my footsteps echoing off the walls. Each floor down dropped a few degrees in temperature and at least one level of hospitality.

When I reached Room 17, I knocked on the frame and peeked inside. It looked like a bunker designed by bureaucrats, filled with rows of battered filing cabinets, heavy steel drawers labeled in smudged Hungarian, and a single radiator groaning in the corner like it hated its job.

Three women sat at desks near the back, sorting papers with the robotic rhythm of lifelong government workers. They looked up in unison when I entered. All three wore wool coats. All three had the posture of statues. None of them smiled.

“Good morning,” I tried again, all diplomatic brightness. “I’m hoping to review some records on energy infrastructure and municipal distribution planning.”

They stared at me.

There was no recognition, no familiarity, in their gazes. Unlike the woman upstairs, none of these ladies spoke my language—and I most definitely didn’t speak theirs.

What the hell am I supposed to do now?

On a whim, I switched to my almost-terrible Russian and asked, “Where are your records regarding energy infrastructure and municipal distribution planning?”

Two of the women were unmoved. The mouth of the third twitched, as though it wanted to form a smile but couldn’t remember how. After an eternal moment, she lifted a hand and pointed to a row of filing cabinets.

None spoke to me in English, Russian, or any other language that required more effort than the flick of a forefinger.

I made my way to it, unstacked a few folders, and took a seat.

For the first hour, I played the part, leafing through decades-old reports, pretending to read blueprints, scribing meaningless notes. I asked an occasional question, just enough to maintain my illusion. The mouth twitcher answered, eventually, with Cyrillic syllables so clipped I wasn’t sure they were actually words.

I tried small talk once.

“It’s cold down here,” I said.

Silence.

Thoughtless blinking.

“I imagine summer’s no better.”

Nothing.

Barely even eye contact.

“I haven’t seen any rats down here. That’s a plus.”

The nearest one looked up.

Her eyes were like the Danube in February: deep, unforgiving, and frigid.

I smiled again, more tentative this time.

She blinked and returned to her folder.

Not long after, I heard the scuffing of boots in the hallway outside. Men moved through the hallways above and beyond the doorway. Always wearing suits two sizes too large, with lapels like sails and ties of unfortunate patterns that reminded me of Arty’s mother’s lamps. One wore a hat indoors. One smelled of onions so strongly I caught the scent from a dozen yards. One passed the doorway three times in half an hour and never once looked at me.

Not directly.

Which was worse than if he had.

Was I being followed? Were they watching me? Had I been noticed?

Yes.

And also no.

That was the trick of it—we never really knew until we were already in the trunk of a car.

I leaned back, stretched, and feigned boredom. A woman passed behind me with a stack of dossiers, and I caught her glancing at the fake embassy seal on my folder.

Just once.

Then she moved on.

By the fourth hour, my fingers were numb, and my eyes ached. I was certain my butt would never have feeling again. Even the ink from my pen refused to dry, as if the air itself had stopped trying.

By my fifth hour in the dungeon, I decided the only thing more dangerous than Soviet surveillance was the Hungarian filing system.

When I emerged into the street, the sun had dimmed to a muted smear behind the clouds. Snow hadn’t started yet, but the air tasted like it might. I tucked my scarf higher and walked two blocks before hailing a taxi. The driver looked at me like he knew too much. Or maybe I was just tired.

“Gellért Hotel,” I said, voice soft but sure.

He nodded, and we pulled away from the curb, Budapest’s city hall folding itself behind us like a closing book.