The Nearest Exit (32 page)

His reputation was built largely upon one piece, reprinted in many major newspapers, on the airbase in Taszár, Hungary, unimaginatively named Camp Freedom. There, the U.S. military trained three thousand Free Iraqi Forces, which they hoped would make their upcoming invasion look like natives returning to reclaim their birthright, rather than Western imperialism. Like the name of the camp, it was a failed exercise in optimism.

Many of the other clippings he came across, besides mundane pieces on trade deals in Central Europe and the Balkans, were less impressive: “The 9/11 Conspiracy—What the Commission Doesn’t Want You to Know” and “One World Government—Does It Represent You?”

Yes, there were mainstream articles attributed to Gray, but they drowned in the mass of his conspiracy pieces littering the Net. He took on bottled water companies, which had, assisted by the American government, convinced the world that they should be paying for what nature considered a free resource. He speculated on the Bilderberg Group, an annual secretive meeting of influential business-people and politicians that, according to him and some similarly minded people, were working steadily toward the implementation of a world government. Gray had no doubt that the CIA was behind 9/11, a proposition that Milo, despite his ambivalence about his soon-to-be-ex-employer, found unbelievable. Not because someone at Langley couldn’t have dreamed it up—some were paid solely for their ability to dream up the unthinkable—but it was unimaginable that the Company could have pulled off such an enormous ruse without getting caught; its track record wasn’t encouraging.

In the end, the picture he gained of Henry Gray was of a paranoid, rootless investigator into conspiracies, who hoped that they might someday explain away the dissatisfaction of his own life. People like that were a dime a dozen. Which raised the question: Why did someone using Milo’s name want to find him?

Even with such opinions, Gray would have friends in Budapest, because expat circles, particularly journalistic ones, are tiny. Milo gathered a list of British, Canadian, and American stringers based in Budapest, with addresses and phone numbers.

Though Schwartz had said Gray had been in a coma, Milo found very little to back this up beyond a brief mention in a sidebar of the August 8 edition of the
Budapest Sun:
“Local journalist Henry L. Gray is in serious condition in Péterfy Sándor Hospital after a fall.”

Of Gray’s girlfriend, Zsuzsanna Papp, there was little. He found some of her Hungarian-language articles for the tabloid
Blikk
. These,
as far as he could tell, covered the tensions between the nationalist Fidesz party and the socialist MSZP party, which now held shaky power.

Then he ran across Pestiside.hu, a satirical English-language news outlet on all things Hungarian, which spent as much time ridiculing the Hungarian character as it did the expats that filled its capital. February 28, 2008, yesterday: “Journo-Stripper Ends Humiliating Sideline; Quits Journalism.”

Fans of Zsuzsa Papp’s biting
Blikk
commentaries on political targets such as right-wing nut job Viktor Orbán and fey communist liar Ferenc Gyurcsány will soon have to discover their political opinions unaided. According to
Blikk
management, Papp has left the paper in order to pursue her first love, undressing in front of drunk English hooligans at the 4Play Club. Who ever said there was no such thing as journalistic integrity in Hungary? Not
us
.

In the morning, he took a bus to Oktogon Square, where he mixed with Saturday pedestrians around the gray Central European intersection. They leaned against the wind, smoking or hurrying to the next warm café. Milo faced the winds along the boulevard that marked a Pest-side circular route cut in half by the Danube, then turned right onto Szondi utca. Szondi was less kept up than the boulevard, and years of soot lodged in its crevices, but the buildings had an undeniable charm.

Number 10, one block in, was hidden by scaffolding swathed in black plastic netting to avoid tools falling on pedestrians’ heads. It wasn’t the only building undergoing renovation, and when he looked he saw these occasional black masks all the way down the street. He checked the buzzers and pressed the one with parkhall stamped on it. After a moment, a weary “Igen?” sounded over the speaker.

“Mr. Terry Parkhall?”

“Yeah?”

“Sorry to bother you. My name’s Sebastian Hall, and I’m looking into the disappearance of an associate of yours. Henry Gray. You think you could spare a minute?”

“You press?”

“No.”

There was a moment of static. “Then what are you?”

“A private investigator. Gray’s aunt, Sybil Erikson, hired me.”

“I didn’t know he had an aunt.”

“A lot of us have them, Mr. Parkhall.”

The heavy front door buzzed, so Milo pushed it open as Parkhall said, “Third floor. Take your time; I’m not dressed yet.”

The stairwell was a mess of dust and chunks of concrete and loose steel pipes left behind by construction workers out for the weekend. He mounted the stairs and tested the railing, but it wouldn’t hold a child if it came to it, so he continued up with his hands clasped behind his back.

He’d settled on the cover story during his walk here. Originally he’d thought that introducing himself as a new freelance journalist would do the trick, but on reflection realized that this would take too long—inevitably the way to greet a newcomer is to take him out and get him roaring drunk, not to answer questions about a missing colleague. Nor would honesty work—this man might have met the previous Milo Weaver, and wouldn’t believe that he had been fooled before. So a private investigator came to mind, and an aunt that would take days for Parkhall to realize didn’t exist.

There were two doors on the third floor, both with barred steel gates on the outside, but only one of these was open, so he stepped up to it and rapped on the wooden door. “Mr. Parkhall?”

From behind him, a male voice. “Wrong way.”

He turned to see a tall, thin man in a robe and pajama pants standing behind the bars opposite, rubbing his disheveled hair. He went to Parkhall as the door he’d knocked on was unlocked and an old woman peered out. “Mi van?”

“Nincs,” Parkhall said with a wave of his long fingers. “Bocsánat, Edit.”

As Parkhall unlocked his gate, Edit locked her own door, filling the stairwell with the echo of locks being turned. They shook hands, but Parkhall didn’t let him in that easily. “You have some kind of ID?”

“I left my investigator’s license in the hotel. Passport do?”

Parkhall shrugged, then examined the Hall passport to his satisfaction. Milo followed him into a large living room decked out in
IKEA and a muted television playing BBC News. The place had been nicely renovated from what must have been a ubiquitous chopped-up communist apartment. Parkhall grabbed a coffee and two pills from the coffee table and swallowed them. “Hangover. You’ve had Unicum?”

“Sure. It’s not bad.”

“Just remember moderation, or you’re in for a world of hurt.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

“Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough already.”

Parkhall flopped onto his couch. “Go ahead. Sit down.”

Milo kept his coat on and took a chair. “This should just take a few minutes. I mean, I have the background already. Gray was in the hospital before he vanished, wasn’t he?”

Parkhall nodded. “How did he end up in a coma?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve got conflicting reports. I’d rather hear what you, as a journalist, have to say.”

Parkhall shrugged. “According to him, an intruder in his apartment threw him off his terrace. Back in August.”

That was unexpected. “Did the police find the intruder?”

“You’ll have to ask them. As far as I know, they didn’t.”

“I’m visiting them next,” he lied. “So why ask me?”

“It’s good to cover your bases.”

A smile slipped into Parkhall’s face. “Particularly with Hungarians.”

“What about Gray? Did he have any idea who did it? Or was it just a random break-in?”

Parkhall considered him a moment, then stood up with his mug. “Sure you don’t want some coffee? I’m getting a refill.”

“Twist my arm. Thanks. Black.”

Milo followed him to the kitchen doorway. “What about Gray?”

Parkhall was filling the cups from a French press, and when he turned his expression was pained. “Henry has a lot of ideas—theories.

He’s that kind of journalist. A theory about everything. Conspiracy theories.”

“I saw a few things he wrote,” Milo admitted. “Kind of weird. To me, at least.”

“To the rest of us, too,” Parkhall said as he handed over a cup and they returned to the living room. “Honestly, the guy was a bit of a joke with us. That tsunami that wiped out Indonesia a few years ago? We were out drinking, and I joked that I’d heard of a document proving the CIA was behind it. Weather experiments. Everyone laughed except Henry—I mean, he really
bought
the story!”

“Unbelievable.”

“Yeah. So if you asked him who tossed him off his terrace, there’s only one possible answer, and it’s the one he spouted about as soon as he woke from his coma. The CIA had tried to kill him.”

“He told you this?”

“Called me after he woke up. Thought I would write something for the
Times
on it. Pure delusion.”

Milo set down his coffee. “Any reason the CIA would want him dead?”

“It’s called hubris, Mr. Hall, and Henry has it in spades. According to him, he received a letter that would have blown the CIA apart. The CIA knew he had it, so they decided to liquidate him. The guy really should be writing thrillers.”

Milo shared a polite laugh over that, then drew a serious face. “Any idea what was in this letter?”

“God’s own mystery. Disappeared when he was tossed off his terrace. When I asked what was in it, he said he couldn’t tell me. Know why?”

“Why?”

“He didn’t want them coming after me, too. Shocking!”

“But then he disappeared, didn’t he?” Milo said, trying to stay on topic. “Isn’t anyone worried about him?”

“Ah, hell,” Parkhall muttered. “I mean, the boys like him all right, but . . .” He frowned, thinking through his words. “But life hasn’t gotten much worse with him gone, if you know what I mean. No, we’re not worried, because we know he’s just holing up somewhere,
maybe in Prague, maybe Belgrade, with a bottle of vodka, waiting for the heat to blow over. An extended bender, probably. We’ve all had them.”

Milo nodded agreeably. “Listen, I heard something—maybe just a rumor—that just after he disappeared someone else came looking for him. A man.”

“Milo Weaver,” Parkhall said with some enthusiasm. “Nice guy. Works for AP, you know.”

“AP?”

“Associated Press.”

“Right, of course. I have a feeling I’ve met the guy before, but I’m not sure—can you describe him?”

“Sure. Blond. Tall. What else? Blue eyes—vivid blue. Jesus. Sounds like I’m describing a girl I’m hot for, doesn’t it?”

“Exactly,” Milo said. While it wasn’t much of a description, it was a start. “Speaking of girls, didn’t Gray have one? A Hungarian girlfriend?”

“Zsuzsa!” Parkhall exclaimed, sitting up. “If you believe him, they did sleep together, but ‘girlfriend’ is a stretch. Now,
she
was worried about him. Spent a while poking around. Zsuzsa’s all right, but she got obsessed to the point that she lost her job.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Maybe. But she takes her clothes off now for much better money.” He paused. “If you want to know about Henry, she’s the one to talk to. When you see her you’ll understand why none of us could believe he actually got her in bed. Me, maybe. But Henry?”

“That good, huh?”

“Better. Listen,” Parkhall said, straightening. “If I can get rid of this damned headache, maybe you and I should go see her. She’s dancing tonight at the 4Play. If you go alone, she’ll think you’re just some pervert . . . or from the Company. Which is the same difference.”

“Thanks,” Milo said. “That would be really kind of you.”

On the surface, Milo and Henry Gray were not so different. To an outside observer, Milo realized with despair, they might just look the same. Both viewed the world with a paranoid eye, were prone to sudden disappearances, and chose to leave their friends in the dark in order to protect them—this was what Milo had done to his wife. In the hours leading up to his eight thirty rendezvous with Parkhall, though, he concentrated on their differences.

While Gray puzzled over Masonic symbols to back up his conspiratorial premises, Milo looked at facts to find the connection, if any, between them, and
then
built up his theories. This distinction, though small, was crucial: For someone like Gray, Occam’s Razor did not exist, for his logic was already corrupted by assumptions. Milo’s, hopefully, began with as few assumptions as possible.

So he examined the facts at hand by breaking into Gray’s dusty Vadász utca apartment. He browsed Gray’s extensive collection of books (nonfiction with a small shelf of international thrillers), the elaborately renovated kitchen (which suggested a budding chef), the unopened box of twenty condoms in the bedside drawer (Gray lived in hope), and an enormous plasma television.