He stood in the battered Szepmuveszeti in front of his favourite painting in the world. Whether it was a self-portrait of El Greco or a St. James he didn't much care: the lean bearded figure stood in the shimmering borealis of the soul, cast down, human like few other paintings. He had been there already an hour, and was happy to spend another hour if that was what it took. But it wouldn't. He could hear the clickclack of Marina's shoes as she came up the staircase, and he stifled a sudden wish that it would be Annette who would appear at the top, and that they would forget all this and the coming war, and the secret that was consuming them all.
But it was Mariana: beautiful in her own way, certainly stylish, certainly Romanian in the old sense -- what someone once called the Latinate peasant. The guard who had fallen asleep, woke up, and grunted his approval.
"Ah, El Greco," she said, striding up to him. "Another damned saint".
"Actually, Mariana, that is very acute. He does look like a damned saint."
They embraced. Curioso said: "Lunch or just talk?"
"No time for lunch today, Her Majesty is with the American ambassador. Munich has of course thrown us all for -- what is it Americans call it -- loops?"
"A loop."
"A loop."
They went arm in arm down onto the teeming street. Behind them, at a marginally discrete distance, a constant shadow followed them.
He shouted at her above the streetcar noise: "It is safer to talk out here in the street than anywhere else!"
Mariana replied: "Her Majesty is very grateful -- " a streetcar whooshed past -- "is very grateful for services rendered. She wants you to know --" the lights changed, and they moved with the stream of pedestrians -- "that the Orange did get sent to your cousins in London."
Curioso gripped her arm. "Tell her, tell her, it means a lot, more than she knows."
"Oh, you are always going on about the importance of this, and the importance of that. Why don't you enjoy yourself a bit more?"
"I seem to recall that it was you who couldn't stay for lunch."
"I didn't say anything about dinner."
"Oh, I have an appointment I can't break, Mariana." They came down the fashionable side of the great Josefs Boulevard, still full of beautiful clothes and objets d'art, the sun everywhere in a darkening world.
"You are a bad liar, Curioso. That woman and that train are still 24 hours from here."
"And you seem to know everything."
"Budapest, my dear Curioso, Budapest. " She turned and gazed dryly at him. "Well, if not, not. I must turn in here." They embraced again. She put her hand on the golden bar leading into the Golden Restaurant, and looked back over her shoulder.
"Oh, one important piece of information you might be curious to know, Curioso, you faithful soldier. Villeneuve was murdered on the Orient Express last night. Goodbye."
Curioso stood in the street, the waves of humanity passing either side of him, the cars and the horsecarts passing by. He looked back down the street. The shadow lingered. There was nothing for it. He had to be patient. They had planned it all out, there was no going back, she would carry it off with her usual panache. He hoped. He looked at his watch. Istanbul had to be told, and the submarine alerted.