Heart of Lies Read Online Free

again, where the street name changed to Rue de la Paix. Destination: the Paris Opera. Leo wanted to compare this building with the elaborate opera house on Andrassy Avenue. He found the Paris house impressive, but dull by Hungarian standards. Too few flourishes, not enough gilt.
    Leaving the Place de l’Opera behind him, Leo once again headed west, determined to get at least a glimpse of the famous restaurant, Maxim’s. Many of his well-traveled clientele at the Bristol maintained that people-watching at Maxim’s provided better entertainment than any performance hall. On his way toward Rue Royal he passed by the Olympia music hall, world-renowned for its spectacular entertainment. The sight of it made him think of Erzsebet, telling him in her entertainingly silly way about a show she and József had once seen there. She always got the name of the performer wrong. He walked quickly past the theater.
    The street broke into another wide-open space, and Leo stopped short. He was gazing at an enormous Greek temple. A bronze plaque informed him that it was in fact the Church of Mary Magdalene. The classic refinement of the building created an oasis of perfect harmony amid the pandemonium of cosmopolitan Paris.
    At the edge of the square, across from the church itself, Leo spotted a lively café and went to investigate. Upon entering, he was struck by how similar the interior of this establishment was to that of the New York in its prime. Tall, gilt-edged mirrors covered the walls. Angels and nymphs created a Belle Époque pageant along the edge of the ceiling, the center of which was covered with a mural depicting an idyllic day in a rural Roman paradise. Ornate wrought iron chairs partnered dainty marble-topped tables. At the front of the shop was a small counter displaying the delicacies of the day.
    Leo chose a seat near the huge front window and ordered a hot chocolate. At four-thirty the winter sun was already fading. Matrons passed by with long, crusty baguettes tucked under their arms, making their way home to prepare the evening meal. Businessmen walked in pairs, their long black coats flapping behind them, buried deep in conversation about currency trades and the price of sugar beets. Children pranced along in cheerful clusters, full of plans for Christmas.
    Leo liked Paris. He liked the fervent, free rhythms of the city. This is what Budapest should have been, what it could have become, if our side had not lost the war.
    A young woman approached the window. Leo sat up straight. He caught her eye briefly but she immediately, modestly, looked away.
    Leo was used to seeing beautiful women, and he was used to having beautiful women look back at him, but the sight of this particular young woman sent little pulses of pleasurable excitement radiating through his whole body. Like a good tourist, she was reading the menu posted outside before coming in. Leo was fumbling for pocket change, to pay his bill quickly in case he had to follow her down the street in order to meet her, when she passed through the café’s double glassdoor. She moved with unconscious grace over to the front counter and studied the temptations spread out under the glass.
    Leo left his table and walked toward the counter until he stood just behind her. Her head barely cleared his chin. Amber-gold hair peeked out from under her cloche hat and curled against the base of her neck. He fought an impulse to kiss her right where the escaped ringlets rested.
    The young woman sensed someone close behind her. Without turning she pointed to a plate of small, golden, rectangular tea cakes, which Leo had already learned were named in honor of the church that adorned the square in front of the café.
    “What are these?” she asked politely. The words were French, but the accent was distinctly German. As she finished her sentence she looked back over her left shoulder to catch Leo’s response, and jumped slightly when she saw he was not a waiter.
    “Those are