by Adam LeBor
‘Do you believe them?’
‘Of course not. Nothing is destroyed here. Everything’s potential future leverage.’
Anastasia leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Something was nagging at her. She looked at Szilard. ‘Who was minister of defence in the 1970s and 1980s? Didn’t they call him the Magyar Gromyko, like the Soviet foreign minister who was always in the government? What was his name?’
‘Zoltan Pal.’
‘Father of Pal.’
‘The very same.’
THIRTEEN
Reka Bardossy’s office, Parliament, 12.00 p.m.
Attila Ungar: What about the Gypsy?
Pal Dezeffy: Keleti didn’t work. He met someone from the ABS this morning.
Attila: Who?
Pal: Someone. It doesn’t matter who. What matters is that you get rid of him. Make it look like an accident. Use a knife. They like knives. Everyone will think it’s some kind of Gypsy feud.
Reka Bardossy pressed the pause button on the digital recorder and looked at Balthazar. ‘I received the sound file this morning. But it isn’t news to you.’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘No. It’s the second time I’ve heard it today. The boss has it as well.’
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Reka.
Sandor Takacs said, ‘Take down Pal, obviously. We’ve talked about this with Balthazar. It’s something, but it’s not enough on its own to arrest him.’
‘No,’ said Reka, ‘it’s not. But he’s crossed a line and there will be consequences. When we take him down, and we will, he goes down for good.’
Sandor replied, ‘That’s fine with me. But in the meantime I have a detective in serious danger. What are you – we – going to do about it?’
Reka said, ‘Firstly, of course, I am concerned about Detective Kovacs’s personal security. That is the priority. These are the measures we will take.’ She looked at Akos, who started writing as she spoke, then back at Balthazar and his boss. ‘It’s clear you are being followed, by someone working for Pal. We will make it clear to Pal that if anything happens to you, involving knives or anything else, this recording will be publicly released by the prime minister’s office, together with a statement that we are assured of its authenticity. Even if Pal denies it, the damage will be done. I will also make sure that the funding which has been arranged for his think tank and comfortable life in political exile will evaporate – and that he knows that. You are probably right that it is not enough to arrest him. But it is enough to shred his reputation and destroy any attempt at a political comeback. We will also share it with our allies.’ She glanced at Akos again, who was writing rapidly. ‘Akos, make sure that Celeste Johnson at the British embassy and Brad Miller at the US embassy get copies of this recording.’
Akos stopped writing for a moment. ‘The Germans, French, Israelis?’ he asked.
Reka thought for a moment. ‘Yes. Give them all a copy. They should know who they have been dealing with. We will also share it with Anastasia Ferenczy, if she does not have it already. The ABS need to up their game, improve their counter-surveillance. She should have spotted that the two of you were being watched when you met last week. Where did you meet her, by the way?’
‘Kadar, on Klauzal Square.’
Kadar was a Budapest institution, decades old, still serving traditional Jewish food on red-and-white chequered tablecloths, washed down with soda from old-fashioned heavy glass siphons. Reka’s face brightened with pleasure. ‘I love that place. It’s like time travel. We went there all the time when I was a student. I’ll take you there for dinner, once this is all over.’
Balthazar started with mild surprise. Was the prime minister flirting with him? He was certainly getting a lot more attention from women, he noticed, since the footage of him taking down Mahmoud Hejazi had gone viral on the Internet. ‘Sure. As long as nobody has used a knife on me,’ he quipped.
Reka’s voice turned serious. ‘That is not going to happen.’
There were four of them in the room: Reka, Akos Feher, Balthazar and his boss, all sitting at the end of a long mahogany table. A Zsolnay set of a coffee pot and gold-rimmed cups and saucers stood in the middle, together with a crystal jug of iced water, and two large plates of small cakes and pogacsas, small savoury scones, without which no Hungarian meeting was complete. Despite her determination, the prime minister looked exhausted. Her hair was dry and stiff and her face was pale. Small crows’ feet shot out from the sides of her eyes, and her blue eyes were rimmed with red. She wore a plain black business suit, with a cream blouse, a tailored jacket, a below-the-knee skirt and flat Gucci loafers. A grey silk scarf covered the base of her neck. Yet despite her wan appearance, Balthazar could see that she was still an attractive woman.
Reka caught Balthazar’s eye and smiled, as if reading his mind, paused for a moment, then looked around the room, a politician in complete charge of her brief. Balthazar watched her with growing interest, sensing the steel core that brought Reka Bardossy through a career in politics, to its very summit – and her determination to stay there. Reka continued speaking, ‘But connected to that are also wider issues, matters of national security. Solving one will take care of the other.’ Reka turned to Sandor, leaned forward and rested her hand on his arm. ‘But for that I will need your help, Commander Takacs.’
Sandor smiled. ‘So formal, Madame Prime Minister. How can I help?’
Reka said, ‘Sanyi bacsi, Uncle Sanyi, can you please lend me Detective Kovacs for a special mission?’
Balthazar’s eyes met those of Akos, whose eyebrows almost imperceptibly moved upwards. The same thought went through both their minds. Sanyi bacsi?
Sandor sipped his coffee for a moment, knowing full well what the two men were thinking, enjoying the moment. ‘Prime Minister, it is kind of you to even ask. I could not say no, even if I wished to. And I don’t. But perhaps you could tell us a little more about what you have in mind.’
Reka looked around the room, at each man in turn. Could she trust them? In fact, she had no choice. Normally she would deploy Antal Kondor for this kind of work, but for all his skills, his very appearance had ‘state or government operative’ written all over it. Balthazar Kovacs, she was sure, could get into places that Antal never could, and talk to people who would run a mile from her head of security. Reka began to speak. She explained how she and Balthazar had a common interest in finding whoever had killed al-Nuri. Balthazar because the Qatari had died in his brother’s day spa, as she delicately put it, and she because al-Nuri was trying to negotiate a new investment package from the Gulf, one with no strings attached or requests for passports for Islamic radicals, one that would allow her to modernise Hungary’s parlous infrastructure and healthcare system. Al-Nuri’s death would eventually reach back to Pal, she was sure. Pal, more than anyone, benefited from the Qatari diplomat’s death. It would be Balthazar’s job to find and document the connections. Then they could arrest Pal, charge him with conspiracy to murder. Reka would issue Balthazar with a special warrant, issued by the prime minister’s office, that provided legal immunity from anything he needed to execute his mission – apart from killing people or causing serious bodily harm or injury, she hastened to add, unless in self-defence.
‘We have your word on that?’ asked Sandor.
‘Not just my word.’ Reka turned to Akos. ‘Please show him the draft warrant.’
Akos opened his folder and slid a piece of paper across the table to Sandor. He read the document slowly. ‘OK,’ he said as he passed it to Balthazar. There were three paragraphs filled with long sentences of turgid legalese and a large round stamp underneath with Reka’s signature. The stamp, he knew, was the most important thing. Balthazar skimmed the text, which seemed fine, but he was not a lawyer. If it was good enough for Sandor it was good enough for him. He put the warrant back on the table. ‘Is this dangerous?’
‘Quite possibly.’ Reka paused and looked him in the eye. ‘But the truth is you are already in danger, D
etective Kovacs. Pal and Attila Ungar tried to kill you once. You are unfinished business. We will warn Pal off, as I said. And I have other plans for Attila, for the whole Gendarmerie, in fact. But Pal does like to tie up his loose ends. Thankfully, he does not always succeed.’
Balthazar said, ‘May I speak frankly, Prime Minister?’
Reka nodded, ‘Please do.’
‘A cynic might wonder if you are exploiting my personal connection to this case to use me to ensure that your rival can never return to the political stage.’
Reka’s blue eyes locked on to his. ‘A cynic might. But a realist might say that we both have a community of interest in ensuring that, ideally, Pal is put away for a long time and, at the very least, leaves the Hungarian political scene for good.’ She gave him a bright smile. ‘So why not work together?’
She was completely right, thought Balthazar, but he was not about to agree so quickly. Things acquired easily were never properly valued. ‘Can I think about it, Prime Minister?’
‘OK. But not for too long. I would like your answer today. Or else I will have to make other arrangements.’
‘I’ll need a weapon. Something more powerful than the usual police-issue.’
Reka nodded. ‘Sure. That won’t be a problem.’
Balthazar sipped his coffee for a few seconds, just enjoying the moment. He glanced at his watch. A week ago, around now, he was being knocked to the ground and punched senseless at Keleti Station by a group of Gendarmes. Now he was drinking coffee out of gold-rimmed Zsolnay crockery with Hungary’s first female prime minister, who wanted to task him with a special mission. He was not exactly licensed to kill, but he was authorised to get the job done. Balthazar reached for a pogacsa. ‘Prime Minister, I am honoured that you have asked me here to talk about this. I will certainly respond by the end of the day.’
Reka said, ‘Thank you, Detective Kovacs.’
Balthazar took another pogacsa, suddenly hungry, and looked at the row of portraits of the prime ministers, the stern old men staring at him. What were they thinking? he wondered. Who is this Gypsy and what’s he doing here in the inner sanctum? Or, your government is requesting your assistance, Detective Kovacs, we hope you will wish to help? He knew his answer, of course. He had already spent a decade in public service as a policeman. He knew his duty as well as anyone. But he also knew enough to leverage something back. ‘However, if I did accept, I would have one condition of my own. Two, in fact.’
Reka said, ‘I expect you do. I’m listening.’
‘I’m flattered that you would like to give me a medal and a reception for my work last weekend. I don’t really like being in the public eye. But I am, so there’s nothing to be done. However, I suggest that we postpone this medal ceremony until the current events are resolved. It’s a little early to be celebrating, especially if I am to accept your mission. That’s the first condition.’
Reka nodded. ‘That makes sense. And the second?’
‘A reception is a good idea. I will attend. But one not for me, but for deprived and socially excluded children. A good number of whom will naturally be Roma.’
Reka glanced at Akos, who shrugged as if to say, ‘Why not?’
Reka said, ‘A party? Lots of kids running around, shouting and having fun? Sure. Let’s do it. This place is far too stuffy anyway.’
The telephone on the desk rang twice before Akos picked it up. He listened for a moment, then replaced the receiver. He turned to Reka. ‘Madame Prime Minister, your next appointment is ready.’
The four of them rose and walked to the door. Reka turned to Balthazar and shook his hand. ‘I look forward to hearing from you,’ she said, holding his hand for longer than was perhaps necessary as they walked through the door. She gave his palm a quick squeeze before she released it. As Balthazar stepped into the ante-room for a second he did a double take. Sitting on a sofa, leafing through a news magazine, was Eniko Szalay.
*
The sight of Balthazar and Reka Bardossy walking out of the prime minister’s office hand in hand into the ante-room threw Eniko completely. She put her magazine down as she stared at them from the sofa. Reka gave Eniko a brief nod of greeting, then turned around and returned to her office. Balthazar and Sandor greeted Eniko and she managed to mumble a reply as the questions tumbled through her head. What were they doing here? What was going on? Why was Tazi holding hands with the prime minister? Despite Eniko’s consternation, the biggest surprise was how pleased she was to see Balthazar, her pleasure shot through with a distinct sense of relief. At least here, in person, he would have to acknowledge her. Eniko stood up. Normally she would greet both men with a kiss on each cheek but she quickly sensed that this was not the right place or time for such informality.
At the same time Akos was watching all this with great interest, she saw, instantly sensing that there was some backstory here, trying to work out the personal connections. Sandor was as friendly as ever, but Balthazar was reserved, making sure to keep his distance. He actually took a small step away from her, Eniko noticed, feeling a sliver of hurt. One part of her wanted to say, ‘Sorry I had to hang up on you, but someone’s secretly filming me and I’m scared and guess what, Tazi, I found a sniper’s bullet cartridge in the roof of our office building.’ Another wanted to tell him simply, as a sophisticated woman would, that it was a pleasant surprise to see him and that she would call him. Instead, to her annoyance and growing embarrassment, she stood there like a gawping teenager.
At that moment a pale young woman in her late twenties with a bob of black hair and finely sculpted eyebrows walked in from Reka’s office. She introduced herself as Kati Tolma, the prime minister’s personal assistant, and beckoned Eniko forward. Eniko turned, mumbled a goodbye as Akos escorted Balthazar and Sandor out. Kati guided Eniko into Reka’s suite, then left.
Eniko fixed a smile on her face, pushing thoughts of Balthazar aside, trying to take control of her emotions as she looked around the room. This was not the 555.hu office, the bar of a ruin pub or some dusty eyrie overlooking Blaha Lujza Square. She had been summoned by the prime minister of Hungary. For some reason she kept thinking about the spent cartridge. Eniko had remembered to put it away, in the back of one of the drawers of her desk at the office. But had she wiped it clean of her fingerprints? In all the excitement of the morning she could not remember. She would do so again, as soon as she was back at the office. She could only imagine what would have happened if she had arrived at Parliament with a piece of used ammunition in her handbag. Whatever. She would deal with it later. Now be professional.
Reka was sitting at her desk and rose to greet Eniko. She gave her a quizzical look. ‘You look a bit frazzled, Eniko, but it’s still too early for gin and tonics. So I can offer you tea or coffee.’
Eniko tried to clear her mind of bullets, snipers and videos of her journey to work. She looked around the room, taking in the row of portraits, the wooden panelling, the heavy furniture, the spectacular view over the river and Buda. It was her first visit to the prime minister’s private office and she forced herself to smile, hopefully naturally. ‘Tea, please.’
Reka pressed a button on the telephone on her desk and put it on speakerphone. ‘Some tea, please, Kati.’ She looked around the office. ‘So what do you think of my new work quarters?’
Eniko wondered how to answer. The room was overwhelmingly male and very old-fashioned, all dark wood and walls and glowering old men with luxuriant moustaches. But she could probably speak her mind. It was not as if Reka had decorated it herself. Previously Eniko had met the prime minister at her house on Remetehegyi Way in Obuda, ushered in through a side entrance in the garden. Rather like Mahmoud Hejazi, she thought, suppressing a smile. Reka’s house had been much more to Eniko’s taste: light and modern with some stylish designer furniture. She would answer honestly, Eniko decided. ‘It’s fine for a British gentleman’s club in Piccadilly, I guess. All you need is some old bacsi in an armchair sleeping off a good lunch. Or for Hungary a
hundred years ago.’
Reka laughed. ‘You are so right. I want to redecorate the place, and the ante-rooms. Bring Parliament into the twenty-first century.’ She gestured at the row of portraits. ‘They’ve got to go. I might keep Lajos Kossuth, but that’s it. There’s plenty of room in the National Museum for the others. What else would you do?’
Eniko frowned. Had the prime minister called her in to discuss interior decorating? Maybe she needed a woman’s input. Lord knew, there were few enough of those around the Hungarian Parliament. She looked around the room, walked across to the desk and rested her fingertips on the wood. ‘I’d keep the desk. It’s a symbol of power and continuity. It positions you as the latest in a series of prime ministers. But I’d get some modern rugs, get rid of the portraits, as you said, find some works by young Hungarian artists, get some decent lamps. Lighten the walls. Basically, bring in whoever designed your house. They did a pretty good job.’ She paused, her voice puzzled. ‘But Prime Minister, why are you asking me this?’
Reka smiled. ‘Because I have a proposal for you. Perhaps a request would be a better word. And if you accept, which I very much hope you will, not only for my good but for that of our country, I would like you to feel at home in your new workplace. But first, why don’t we sit down,’ she asked, guiding Eniko to the corner nook.
*
A few minutes later, Eniko sat sipping her tea as she pondered Reka’s offer, trying to process what she had just heard. Acceptance would bring every journalist’s dream: a ringside seat at the epicentre of power and unrivalled knowledge of how it was exercised. But at a high price: of no longer being a journalist. It would be a kind of sweet torture. Knowing so much, but never being able to write about it. Perhaps in thirty years, she could get clearance for her memoirs, but nothing until then. ‘I’m flattered, Prime Minister. Really, I am.’
‘But? I hear a but.’
‘We call it going to the dark side,’ said Eniko. ‘Controlling information, instead of disseminating it. PR companies, governments, whatever.’