The God Hunter by Tim Lees Read Free Book Online Page B

force of this stuff. The quaint, novelty flavors were misleading. I thought I’d maybe get to marzipan, or strawberry fudge sundae. So I persisted. But I didn’t make it. One more drink, and then I tipped the barman, who by now seemed like an old and trusted friend, and staggered out onto the streets of Budapest.

 
    CHAPTER 9
    THE RESTAURANT
    I walked a fair way to a restaurant. The first ­couple I passed were full of conference minions, and the next two or three were too plush or bright or flashy, or at least it seemed to me that there was something wrong with them. So I started following the tram lines, out along the main road, till I found a bar. Lively, drunken. I had a pork steak with onions, garlic, and a truckload of boiled potatoes, with strips of smoky-­smelling fat for a side, which I left. I drank a lot of water.
    No one bothered me. I watched a woman dressed in peasant clothes, as big around as she was tall, filling her pipe from a tobacco pouch, carefully tamping it, lighting it . . . Later, she quarreled with a dark, mustachioed man, probably not her husband. There were bold, theatrical gestures, dramatic head turnings and declamations, until they left together, arm in arm, still bickering. The whole bar was like that. Loud voices, rapid motion, glasses downed; quarrels, but no hint of violence. Nothing like you’d see at home. It felt warm to me. It felt human. The language kept it distant, and I liked that, the fact I couldn’t really understand; that it was something I could sit outside of and enjoy.
    I finished with a kevert to keep the vodka crash at bay. It was barely ten when I got back to the hotel—­not the Hollywood this year, and not the swanky place that Shailer had been booked into, either. It was a quiet little backstreet venue, run by a ­couple in their forties who offered me enormous smiles each time I came in sight and spoke no English whatsoever, which suited me just fine.
    I sat around a while, then got undressed and went to bed. I read a few pages of Tolstoy because I thought I ought to, but I wasn’t really getting into it. So I put the book down, looked up at the ceiling for a while, then put the light out. I don’t remember getting sleepy. Just, I was asleep.
    Then, suddenly, awake.
    Alarm clock? No. The phone was ringing. I reached out, couldn’t find it. I scrabbled at the wall for a light switch. Found it, blinked in the sudden glare. I didn’t have a headache, but my throat was dry. I felt washed out, grubby. The phone was on the table near me, a big, old-­fashioned thing the size of a brick. I picked it up, convinced it was a wrong number and already irritated.
    â€œYeah?” I said.
    â€œCopeland?”
    No. Not a wrong number.
    â€œChris?” the voice said, sounding relieved. “Chris, it’s Adam. Where were you? I had to get your number from, you know, your ­people. Where’d you go?”
    â€œI went to my hotel. To sleep. What else?”
    Hesitation, just a moment. Then, “Chris, I know it’s been a while. But . . . look. You’re awake now. How ’bout I come on over? We’ve matters to discuss. I’d say come here, but it’s been pretty hectic, so best if I come there. More private, too. Open a bottle, huh? See you in—­oh, twenty minutes, OK? Twenty minutes.”
    And the phone went dead.

 
    CHAPTER 10
    A LATE-­NIGHT GUEST
    I stumbled out of bed. I dressed. It was a little after 2:00 a.m. I made coffee with the room’s electric kettle and the traveler’s pack of Nescafé I’d brought with me. My job’s never been regular hours, but this, I thought, was taking the piss. I put the TV on, flipped channels, caught part of a twenty-­year-­old cop show dubbed into Hungarian. Then the knock came at the door.
    Shailer looked—­well, rumpled is a nice way to describe it. Same suit, same tie, but he was not the cheery,