Deceptions Read online

  Deceptions A Helena Marsh Novel

  Anna Porter

  Contents

  Praise for Anna Porter

  Also by Anna Porter

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Praise for Anna Porter

  Winner of the Shaughnessey Cohen Prize for Political Writing, the Nereus Writers’ Trust Non-Fiction Award, the Jewish Book Award for Non-Fiction, and the Canadian Authors Association/Birks Family Foundation Award for Biography, and shortlisted for the Taylor Prize.

  “Porter’s offbeat thriller yields tension and humour from its revolving perspectives as well as its deep bench of colourful supporting characters . . . . This peppy thriller from Porter (Kasztner’s Train, 2008, etc.) bursts with banter and tantalizes the reader with half-revelations and game-changing twists.” — Kirkus Reviews on The Appraisal

  “[A]n intelligent and exhilarating thriller . . . Porter’s stylish story vividly transports readers to Budapest and other European locales and keeps them hooked as her well-developed characters navigate corruption and deception.” — Publishers Weekly on The Appraisal

  “All of this is daring and mystifying fun, and includes along the way a tour through everything that’s fascinating about Budapest’s history, especially the appalling bits.” — Toronto Star on The Appraisal

  “If you want to take a quick trip to Budapest, this book is your ride. Anna Porter knows the byways and cafés of her native town and spins a web of mystery around an art heist, Ukrainian criminals, and money laundering. In short, we have everything we want in an Eastern European crime novel.” — Globe and Mail on The Appraisal

  “A gripping thriller set against the rich post-war history of middle-Europe where fortunes were reversed through war, revolution, and shifting political regimes and where the past itself cannot be trusted. Born in Budapest, Canadian writer Anna Porter generously shares her knowledge of time and place and impresses with detailed insights into the world of art history and appropriation, big money deals, and the quest for restitution.” — Staunch Book Prize on The Appraisal

  Also by Anna Porter

  Fiction

  The Appraisal

  The Bookfair Murders

  Mortal Sins

  Hidden Agenda

  Non-Fiction

  In Other Words: How I Fell in Love with Canada One Word at a Time

  Buying a Better World: George Soros and Billionaire Philanthropy

  The Ghosts of Europe: Journeys through Central Europe’s Troubled Past and Uncertain Future

  Kasztner’s Train: The True Story of Rezso Kasztner, Unknown Hero of the Holocaust

  The Storyteller

  Dedication

  For Lyla, Noah, Ava, and Violet.

  Chapter One

  She sensed him before she saw him. The smell of wet wool and cigarettes. He approached cautiously on rubber soles, a little breathless as he entered the salon and stopped a foot or so inside the door. She slipped the thin long-bladed knife from her sleeve, stretched her fingers over the handle, and waited a moment — it was, she knew, a crucial moment because sometimes a moment would be too long — but this was Paris, not Moscow, not Bratislava, and she was not working on a dangerous case. She glanced up at the large, burly figure. “Helena,” he said with a note of anxiety in his voice. The pedicurist, massaging Helena’s instep, may not have seen the knife, but he had. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Do I seem scared?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Do I?”

  “A little.”

  She noted his badly shaven face, his pale eyes still fixed on her sleeve, his burgeoning belly stretching the grey wool sweater over his corduroy pants. “Put on a little weight,” she said with a smile.

  “All that rakott krumpli,” he said, “but I will lose it on delicate French food and wine.” He spoke English with a soft Hungarian accent, pressure on the endings, but a great deal better than the last time she saw him. Must have been taking lessons. A pity, she thought. She had liked his accent first, even before she began to like him.

  “Would you have time for a coffee? Or a glass of wine?” he asked. “There’s a good place down the street.”

  “Le Buci,” she said. “And how the hell did you find me?”

  He shrugged, palms up, delighted with the implied compliment. “Am I not a detective?”

  “Back with the police?”

  He shook his head. His hair was cut short, his grin was as guarded as she remembered it, crinkling the skin around his eyes. More warmth there than he cared to give away. “Fifteen minutes,” she said. Much as she loved looking at them poking out at the end of her long claw-foot bathtub, she could skip the lacquer on her toenails. She would have to talk with Louise about letting someone know where she was. Anyone. Even when she suspected that the person was relatively harmless, and Attila was not exactly harmless. Louise, an otherwise very sensible woman, must have developed a weakness for slightly overweight Hungarians.

  She would not be the only one with that particular weakness.

  Café Le Buci was on the corner of Dauphine and de Buci, a short walk from Helena’s office, but she rarely went there. This neighbourhood, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, had been her father’s favourite arrondissement, and he had taken her to Le Buci on her first visit to Paris with him. He had wanted, he said, to take her to all the places he loved. This was the city of art, he told her, and as a student of art, she would become as addicted to the city as he had. She had resisted then, but later, when he had exited her life, she found herself drawn here.

  The outdoor seating area was on the sidewalk, where she could not have her back to a wall. Besides, this time of year there were still too many loud visitors occupying space. It was gloomy inside, but Attila found a banquette near the entrance with a bit of light, a narrow view of the street, and a seat for her against the brick wall with an old-fashioned placard advertising beer. Good to know that he had remembered her phobia, and charming that he would sacrifice his own comfort for hers.

  He had obviously planned this. Two glasses of white wine appeared on the table as soon as she sat down, as well as some sort of pâté with thin wedges of bread. “The waiter says it’s a Bordeaux,” Attila said, “and something about it having been a good year. Will you try it?”

  She settled with her back to the wall and examined the offerings. The waiter must have concluded that Attila was a tourist. The last good year in Bordeaux that was ready to drink was 2015, and the pâté looked like it had seen better days. She ordered an espresso. “What brings you to Paris?” she asked in a light, conversational tone,
as if they were almost strangers, as if he wasn’t a former lover, if only for a few weeks, as if he hadn’t sent flowers each week after she left, as if she hadn’t saved his life, as if she hadn’t missed him so much she had almost returned to Budapest . . .

  “A job, I think, but where I come from you can never be sure. Hired by my old sergeant at the Police Palace. You remember the man?”

  “Tóth?”

  “He wants me to watch over one of our esteemed Council of Europe representatives. Maybe our supreme ruler wanted to get him out of the way. Or to move him somewhere more pleasant than Hungary these days, as a reward for past service. It’s hard to tell until our man has made his first speech at the CE. Our ruler has been talking about defending our Christian culture against the Muslim tide, but what he means is defending himself from anyone who disagrees with him. About anything. My man has a chance to prove himself, pushing for general agreement on agricultural subsidies.”

  “Agricultural subsidies,” Helena said. “Is that a contentious issue?”

  “Only if you want to hand over the many millions of agricultural euros to your family and friends.”

  Helena was not particularly interested in the Hungarian political landscape. “And he is in Paris?” she asked.

  “He is. And that’s the official reason I am here, but the real reason is I wanted to see you again.”

  “Hmm. Why is he in Paris?”

  “He has meetings.”

  “Political meetings? And you are his babysitter? Or Tóth’s spy?”

  “It’s complicated,” Attila said, scratching the top of his head where the hair had almost begun to recede but not quite yet. “I could be both. And I am not sure why Tóth chose me for this. It’s the sort of job he would offer to his favourite people, and I am not on that list. All he told me was to watch my man and report whatever I see that seems out of the ordinary. I thought coming to Paris was out of the ordinary. But maybe he is only washing some money.”

  “Money laundering?”

  Attila grinned and stretched his hands palms up. “My English . . .”

  “It’s improved since the last time.” Last time was at Budapest’s Four Seasons Hotel, where she had overstayed her welcome, caused a major stir by confronting a Russian billionaire, and enjoyed some days with Attila walking along the Danube, watching the waves as his dog inspected lampposts. They had breakfast in bed in her room and shared dinner sitting on his dog-infested sofa in what must, at one time, have been a pleasant enough apartment in Pest, but now looked like it had been turned over by a mob. Although she hadn’t noticed in the beginning, his bed had smelled of dog in the mornings, and he had shown no interest in changing the dachshund’s sleeping arrangement. As for the state of the apartment, Attila had explained that his ex had taken all the good furniture, even the shelves that used to house his collection of books (that’s why they were in unruly piles along the walls), but the ex had left more than a year before. To Helena, who liked order in her own life, Attila’s lack of it had seemed incomprehensible. The moment she felt she thought she could belong there, she had fled. But it was still great to see him again.

  “And there is this painting,” he said. “Our man is divorcing his wife, and she claims her share of the painting is worth a million euros.”

  “Who is the painter?”

  “Gentileschi.”

  “Artemisia Gentileschi? Or Orazio?”

  “Artemisia.”

  “There is always a slim chance of another undiscovered work,” Helena said, “but not one that hasn’t been mentioned before. She has become quite the heroine for our times. Books, essays, reproductions. That massive retrospective in Milan, another in Paris, then the big one in London, two documentaries, a collection of letters by and about her. A feature film. A novel. And her value has gone up with her reputation. Her Mary Magdalene was sold some years ago for fifteen million pounds at Sotheby’s. Recently, I think, her Saint Catherine went for twenty-one million euros. Is she the reason you came to see me?”

  “Not the only reason,” he said defensively, “but I did hope that you knew something about her.”

  “Nothing you couldn’t have found out for yourself by looking up a few reliable sources, most of them online.”

  “It would take me years,” Attila said. “And I thought you might be interested in a small job, authenticating. The husband, my man, claims it’s a copy and worth nothing, or very little. He is talking here with some people in your business.”

  “Who?”

  “A man at the Louvre. European Collections. It’s where I left him this morning.”

  “Did he mention the man’s name?”

  “No.”

  Aubert? She wondered. He was supposedly an expert on the Baroque period, but he had left for London a couple of days ago on a buying trip.

  “The wife,” Attila said, “— and she would be your client — believes her husband is trying to cheat her out of a fortune. I thought she could use some help.”

  “You thought, or Tóth thought?”

  “Tóth doesn’t think. He follows orders. So, someone higher up who does think may suspect this. Or that she is trying to extract more from him than she has a right to expect. Why that would be their concern, I don’t know.”

  “But you are supposed to be protecting the husband, not the wife. Right?”

  “In a way, yes, but I think I am also supposed to watch over that painting. Tóth was very interested in what our man was doing talking to someone at the Louvre. He wanted me to insist I had to be there. Vaszary, that’s our man, wouldn’t agree.”

  “Do you know where they got their painting?”

  “They brought it with them from Budapest.”

  “You realize it’s quite unlikely that it’s a real Gentileschi. Gentileschis don’t just pop out of people’s attics in Budapest.”

  “This one is in Strasbourg, and she’ll pay you to look at it.”

  Since she had been left a small fortune, Helena did not need the money. What she did need was a bit of excitement, and the chance of discovering a real Gentileschi, however unlikely, was irresistible. Her last job had paid well, but it had been boring, three weeks in a Brussels lab examining paint chips with a spectroscope and x-raying bits of canvas with faded colours to date the overlays of a Poussin. A pastoral scene with shepherds. She had never liked Poussin and was somewhat allergic to his pastoral scenes.

  Curiosity, Helena decided, was one of her most dangerous personal traits.

  Chapter Two

  The great Strasbourg cathedral announced its ten o’clock mass by vigorously, and perhaps a little desperately, bell-ringing the faithful to prayers. If, indeed, it was prayers they craved on this thronging Sunday. There were no cars allowed here, and it was early October, still warm and sunny, perfect for hordes of indecisive dawdlers and harried, anxious guides. Helena ran along the Grand Rue, dodging pedestrians, cyclists, and dogs, her small black backpack bouncing on her shoulder blades. She had arrived at Gare Centrale a good fifteen minutes ago, giving herself time to drop her holdall at the hotel and scout the area before her meeting.

  There was no particular reason to be cautious except for her new client’s insistence on secrecy and a nagging feeling that someone had been following her. Mme Vaszary had declined the invitation to come to Helena’s office in Paris since both she and the painting resided in Strasbourg. However, she said she would be happy to meet Helena’s usual fee and, of course, her expenses. Paid in advance.

  The woman had chosen a strange way to deliver the message and the retainer. A plain brown envelope with no return address had arrived at Helena’s Rue Jacob office, where it lay unopened on Louise’s desk for a couple of days while Louise assessed whether its bulk contained anything lethal. It didn’t. There was a one-page document retaining Helena Marsh for the work of appraising an old painting, €20,000 in cash, a map of St
rasbourg with the Place du Marché aux Poissons circled in black felt pen, and the date of the proposed meeting in the same black pen, printed in capital letters with the promise of another €10,000 when she finished her report.

  * * *

  It was times like these that reminded Helena of Simon’s bottomless ability to make the wrong decisions. Usually egged on by his desire for more money and another adventure. Simon had been so good at what he did that money had never been a problem. He could afford his peripatetic life, the grand house in Toronto, and his daughter’s expensive education. He seemed to value money for what it proved about his abilities as the best in the business, so good that his commissions hung in the world’s most distinguished museums. That he had been a rare visitor to the house he had bought for Annelise and Helena in Toronto’s lush, leafy Rosedale — one of Canada’s best residential areas — left Helena with the impression that he was her mother’s occasional lover, an exceptionally close friend with far-flung interests that kept him from living with Annelise.

  Till the end of her childhood, she had no idea that he was also her father. No matter how much Helena had insisted, how often she had brought up the subject, her mother had consistently claimed that Helena was the result of a short-lived fling, a love affair that was never meant to last. Helena began to question other visitors to the house, but no one seemed to remember him. Annelise’s story was that Helena’s father had departed mere days after she was born to pursue a different life with, perhaps, a different family, and that he died soon after. How was it possible, then, Helena had persisted, that he had left enough money to maintain that large house, the antique furniture, and the grand collection of art spread over three floors. He had also left ample money for Helena’s private schools, her art and art history classes, and Annelise’s exquisite clothes and her European jaunts.