Prologue

Budapest, 12 November 1994.

The book would not fit.

András Szalai turned it sideways, but the back cover caught on the edge of the opening. He pulled it out and tried spine first. The black leather scraped against the plaster.

A door slammed at the far end of the corridor.

András stayed motionless. He listened to the footsteps. Whoever had come in was not stopping outside the doors or trying the handles. They were heading straight for the processing room.

His desk lamp was still on in there. Before coming over to the storeroom, he had deliberately left it that way. He had also draped his coat over the back of the chair, as though he had only stepped out for a minute.

He knelt down. Resting the book on his thigh, he reached into the cavity. His fingers found a piece of mortar protruding from the masonry. That was what narrowed the space. Days earlier, he had measured the opening and prepared the cover, but he had not been able to bring the volume here then.

He strained against the piece. It did not move.

A bunch of keys rattled in the doorway of the processing room.