“Potential situation, I should clarify,” I said.

  “Yes. Again, that’s why time is of the essence,” said Elizabeth.

  “I understand,” said Laszlo. “Let’s head back to my office.”

  We followed her down a hallway that featured photographs, in both color and black and white, depicting various highlights of Hungarian history over the last hundred or so years. The bigger the moment, the bigger the picture. The Hungarian Revolution of 1956, the Soviet Army officially leaving the country in 1990, Hungary joining NATO in 1999. Conveniently missing from the walls were some of the lowlights, particularly anything having to do with Hungary’s role in World War II.

  Barbara Tuchman said it best. History is the unfolding of miscalculations.

  After a left turn and a quick right, we arrived in Laszlo’s office. It was a bit like walking into a Pottery Barn. All the furniture looked as if it had been focus-group tested. Nothing was out of place, either. The room was spotless.

  “May I offer you something to drink?” asked Laszlo. “A bottle of water?”

  “No, thanks,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’m good, too,” I said.

  What I didn’t say was that in a few minutes I was going to change my mind and take her up on that water, or whatever it took to get Laszlo to leave her office, if only for a few moments.

  But first things first.

  Elizabeth and I glanced at each other. We were double checking that we’d each turned off our Druid simulators, the audio jammers. I did, Lizzie. What about you?

  She gave me a quick nod. Mine’s off, too.

  Let the show begin.

  CHAPTER 56

  Laszlo motioned to the two upholstered guest chairs in front of her desk. They looked to be positioned at exactly a forty-five-degree angle. I could practically picture her with a protractor making sure of it.

  “As I said,” began Elizabeth, wasting no time as we settled in, “Dr. Reinhart came to us with this information, so I think it’s best for him to walk you through it. Do you mind, Dr. Reinhart?”

  “No. Of course not,” I said. I cleared my throat and scratched my chin, the picture of hesitation. “I do want to mention up front that I can’t reveal the exact source of what I’m about to share because that could possibly put that person in legal jeopardy.”

  “I understand,” said Laszlo. “I wouldn’t want you to do that.”

  Not yet, you don’t.

  “A few days ago I was having dinner with a friend of mine who’s very well connected in the art world, particularly with the top collectors. After a couple of glasses of wine, he mentioned that he’d been approached confidentially about brokering the private sale of a certain painting,” I said. “So far, no big deal. Right?”

  Laszlo nodded. “Right.”

  You always know when you have someone hanging on your every word. They answer your rhetorical questions.

  I continued. “The reason my friend was telling me this story is that he was extremely conflicted. He was being offered an obscene amount of money in return for his discretion. This was no ordinary painting, it turns out. It has a history.” I waited a beat. “A Hungarian history.”

  I didn’t even finish the next sentence before Laszlo knew the exact painting, along with the exact history. All it took was one word out of my mouth. Monet. She didn’t flinch or nod. She didn’t do anything to let on—except forget to breathe.

  Laszlo sat frozen, but her brain, behind her perfectly straight bangs, was surely furiously churning out various questions to ask. Two key ones, in particular. Sure enough, she asked them both. Did we know who originally stole the painting from the Hungarian Parliament Building in Budapest? And who was it who approached my friend about now selling it on the black market?

  “My friend doesn’t know who originally stole it,” I answered. “As educated as he is about art, he didn’t know the background of this particular Monet when he was first approached. Only afterward, upon doing some research, did he learn the whole story.”

  I watched as Laszlo blinked a few times, digesting the subtext of my saying whole story. She clearly knew the circumstances of how the Hungarian government originally acquired the painting during World War II. Just like anything else having to do with her government’s alliance with Nazi Germany, this definitely wasn’t hallway material for the walls outside her office.

  “I know you don’t want to reveal who your friend is,” she said, ending the awkward silence. Awkward for her, at least. “But you can understand why my government would be extremely vested in knowing who’s in possession of this painting.”

  “Naturally,” I said.

  “Maybe there’s a way you can tell me without compromising your friend,” said Laszlo.

  “Maybe there is, but here’s the thing. I don’t know who has the painting because my friend doesn’t know who has it. The person who approached him was an intermediary.”

  “I see,” said Laszlo, unable to hide her disappointment. She looked more deflated than a party balloon the morning after. “I suppose that makes sense.”

  “Yes. I’m afraid it does,” I said.

  Laszlo fell silent, but within seconds I could see her brain churning again. She looked at me. She looked at Elizabeth. It suddenly dawned on her. There was one big question she hadn’t asked.

  “Why are you both here telling me all this?”

  That was Elizabeth’s cue.

  CHAPTER 57

  “Dr. Reinhart has actually worked with me and the Joint Terrorism Task Force on a previous case, although case isn’t really the right word. It was the attempted Times Square bombing,” said Elizabeth. “He’s too modest to say so, but he’s one of the foremost authorities on the study of abnormal human behavior. His insights have been invaluable for helping us understand the mind of a terrorist.”

  The fact that Elizabeth was able to call me modest without breaking character was worthy of an Academy Award.

  “Is that what you teach at Yale?” asked Laszlo.

  “Yes. I’m a professor of psychology, but I specialize in abnormal human behavior,” I said.

  “Dr. Reinhart contacted me after this dinner he had because of something that was said regarding the intermediary who had approached his friend,” explained Elizabeth. “We can’t divulge exactly what it was, but it concerned how the possible transaction for this Monet painting would be structured. Based on Dr. Reinhart’s experience with the work we do at the JTTF, it raised a red flag with him.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” said Laszlo.

  “We’re concerned that the proceeds from the sale of this painting will be used to fund terrorism,” said Elizabeth.

  That was now my cue.

  I let go with a slight cough. It was nothing. Then it became something, one of those “went down the wrong pipe” situations that you can’t control. My coughs were getting louder and louder. It was obvious what I needed.

  “Let me get you some water,” said Laszlo, hastily standing.

  I nodded. Perfect.

  Laszlo walked out of her office and my sudden coughing fit suddenly disappeared.

  “What are you doing?” asked Elizabeth. She sounded angry.

  “I needed her out of the room for a minute,” I said.

  “Why? You’re doing fine.”

  “I don’t feel fine. This makes me very uncomfortable. I still don’t know why we can’t tell her the truth.”

  “The truth? That a mob boss is the one who actually has their painting? We went over this.”

  “We don’t know for sure that Brunetti has it,” I said.

  “We know enough to think he does. More important, we know for sure he’ll sell it to the highest bidder, and the State Department doesn’t want that to be the Hungarian government.”

  “So we really just lie to them?”

  “If it means beating Brunetti to the punch, yes. It’s only a matter of time before he figures out the history of that painting. So we take the Hungarians out of the bidding before the process starts,” she said. “Exactly as I told you.”

  “You’re that sure they wouldn’t buy from terrorists?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because this meeting is our warning to them. That’s what we’re doing here. Making it very clear there’ll be hell to pay,” she said.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Even if I’m not it’s still the plan. The plan you agreed to.”

  “I know.”

  “Then stick to it.”

  I nodded to Elizabeth. She nodded back.

  End of scene.

  CHAPTER 58

  Elizabeth stared at me anxiously at the elevator bank after the meeting. She could tell there was a problem. “What’s he saying?” she asked.

  I checked my phone for the tenth time in ten seconds. “He’s not saying anything.” That was the problem.

  Where are you, Julian? Why aren’t you texting me back?

  I’d given him the go-ahead. We were clear from Laszlo. He was pinging the transmitter from Mr. Fix-It outside the consulate so he could tell us its location, where the Hungarian coffee cake had ended up within the building.

  “Is it the jammers?” asked Elizabeth. “Maybe they’re interfering with the GPS.”

  We’d already turned the Druid simulators back on, but that couldn’t be the problem. “No, it’s something else. There’s got to be an issue on his end,” I said. “Something he didn’t anticipate.”

  Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder. “In about another ten seconds we’re officially loitering.”

  I shouldn’t have looked back at the receptionist. Damn. We locked eyes. I casually stepped to my left to block her view of the unlit elevator button.

  “Are you two going down?”

  I turned the other way to see a man wearing a brown, ill-fitting suit and a puzzled look. He’d must have come from the opposite hallway. Without waiting for Elizabeth or me to answer, he hit the Down button.

  “Wow, that’s strange,” I said. “I could’ve sworn I’d pressed it.”

  “Yeah, that actually happens sometimes,” he said, glancing at our visitor badges. “Either the light doesn’t come on or it mysteriously goes off. It’s a really old building.”

  Maybe. But the security measures were anything but antiquated.

  I finally felt a buzz in my hand. Julian was texting. The news wasn’t good. I gave Elizabeth a quick shake of my head. Julian couldn’t get a reading on the transmitter. It was either blocked or not transmitting. Perhaps embedding it in a slice of Hungarian coffee cake wasn’t such a clever idea after all. Not if we couldn’t find the damn thing now.

  Ding.

  The elevator arrived, the doors parting open. The man in the brown suit took a step back, giving Elizabeth a clear path to get on first. He even stuck out a chivalrous hand as if to say, After you.

  Elizabeth looked at me. What do we do?

  Apparently nothing. The two of us froze. It was as if we actually had no idea how an elevator worked.

  “Are either of you getting on?” he asked, jamming his foot to keep the doors from closing.

  I glanced back at the receptionist again. She was now paying full attention, wondering what was going on with us.

  Quick, Dylan, think of something. And it would really, really help if it was a good idea.

  CHAPTER 59

  There were cameras everywhere. We couldn’t just be riding the elevator up and down, roaming around the consulate.

  Nor could we simply leave and say screw the damn transmitter. Elizabeth and I had to find it before someone else did. This wasn’t a gizmo we could explain away or deny. The trail would lead back to Eszter’s Pastries and, more important, Elizabeth. I could never let her take the fall for me. Not ever.

  “Is everything all right over there?” the receptionist called out.

  Her voice was a bit nasally but it was music to my ears. A good idea has a melody all its own.

  I spun around on my heels, heading straight for the reception desk. Elizabeth had no choice but to fall in line behind me.

  “What are we doing?” she whispered. “Where are we going?”

  The answer was right in front of us.

  “Hi, there. I’m Dylan,” I said, giving the young woman with a blunt bob my very best Midwestern smile. Never mind that I was neither born nor raised in the Midwest. “I didn’t catch your name when we first arrived.”

  “I’m Cynthia,” she answered.

  “No kidding. My favorite niece is a Cynthia.” I turned to Elizabeth. “Isn’t that right? I’m always telling you how much I adore Cynthia.”

  “Yes, all the time,” said Elizabeth, nodding with some quickly manufactured enthusiasm. “Definitely all the time.”

  “So, Cynthia, I was hoping you could help me out. I’m on this antibiotic that I’m not supposed to take on an empty stomach, but I haven’t eaten anything yet this morning. Do you know where I can get a muffin or pastry of some kind? The closest deli or bakery near the consulate?”

  Psychologists have long debated whether kindness is a learned behavior or an inherent human trait. What I’ve come to realize is that it’s actually both. We all have the capacity for kindness, but that doesn’t mean we always show it. Sometimes it requires the power of suggestion.

  Elizabeth and I watched as Cynthia thought for a moment, trying to make up her mind. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, you can do it…

  “I’m probably not supposed to do this,” she said, glancing left and right before leaning in, “but the ambassador has pastries brought in every morning to the conference room. Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 60

  “Well?” asked Julian, the second we got back inside Mr. Fix-It.

  “Piece of cake,” I said.

  “Very funny.” He smiled, though. Julian had known me for a long time. If I could crack a joke, he already had his answer. “You got it done.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “We got it done.”

  Elizabeth had distracted our new best friend, Cynthia, while I dug out the transmitter from the coffee cake in the conference room. We thanked Cynthia for her kindness and said good-bye. That was that. Until it wasn’t.

  A couple of minutes later, I returned from the lobby after explaining to a guard that my driver’s license must have fallen out of my pocket during my meeting with Laszlo. Silly me, I hadn’t put it back in my wallet after originally going through security. When we returned to Laszlo’s office, Elizabeth again played the decoy by chatting her up while I pretended to look for my license.

  “Desk?” asked Julian. Meaning, where I’d placed the transmitter.

  “Chair in front of it,” I said. “Underneath.”

  “Within ten feet of her?”

  “Easily.”

  “Good. Well done.”

  “No thanks to you, world’s greatest hacker. Give back the shiny medal they gave you, you’re obviously slipping.”

  “You wish,” said Julian. “And it’s not a medal, it’s actually a shiny trophy.”

  “Any idea what the issue was? Why you were blocked?” I asked.

  “Not for sure. I can’t think of a jammer on their end that would block a GPS signal. But if they can firewall that…”

  Julian’s voice trailed off. The silence that followed spoke volumes.

  “In other words,” Elizabeth said, “all this might have been for nothing?”

  “I honestly don’t know. Maybe fifty-fifty at this point,” he said. “But we’re about to find out.”

  Julian turned to his laptop, only to stop halfway. “Wait. Where did you say they had the pastries?”

  “A conference room,” I said.

  He snapped his fingers. “There you have it.”

  “Have what?”

  “Element 82,” he said. “Pb.”

  He was right. He had to be. “Lead-lined sheetrock?”

  “Exactly. Installed wall to wall, including the floor and ceiling.”

  “Across the entire building?” asked Elizabeth.

  Julian shook his head. “Lead linings wouldn’t make sense beyond a conference room. No one would be able to use a cell phone in their office.” He squared up to his laptop. “Our odds just got better.”

  A lot better. Julian had only been tapping away a few moments before we heard the crackle of the transmitter coming online, followed by the sound of Laszlo’s voice. It was a bit muffled by the ambient noise of her office. Not for long. He ran the sound through a souped-up audio filter, and suddenly we could hear every word, crystal clear. We were officially in. Julian had done it again.

  “Okay, you can keep the damn trophy,” I said.

  We listened just long enough to realize that Laszlo wasn’t on the phone telling the prime minister, or one of his key deputies, about her meeting with Elizabeth and me. Instead, she was making an appointment with her hair stylist. Something about a keratin treatment.

  Julian hit the space bar, muting the sound. “That’s enough of that,” he said. “We’re done here.”

  The days of stakeouts, with federal agents having to sit for hours and days on end in the back of vans, wearing headphones and taking notes, were long over. Well, it hasn’t been that long, but they’re still gone forever. Depending on your politics, we have the NSA to either blame or thank for that. Their Caltech nerds are the ones who first perfected the software that could cull through millions of phone conversations in real time. The rest of the world’s intelligence agencies eventually caught up.

  Everything Elizabeth and I said in Laszlo’s office when Laszlo left to get me water was surely recorded, but no human being was listening to it in real time. Instead, the conversation was being filtered through a program designed to detect certain trigger words. In the Hungarian consulate those words would include the surnames of all its top officials. The reason was simple. If a visitor to the consulate was referring to any ambassador or commissioner by their last name, it was safe to assume that person wasn’t in the room. What government wouldn’t want to hear that conversation?