Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  Roland continued, ‘Perhaps, Kriszta, if you had tried hard to work together with Eniko, to encourage her, instead of making snide remarks, I wouldn’t be losing my best reporter.’

  Kriszta said nothing, her face bright red now. Eniko watched her pour herself a glass of water, her hand trembling as she raised it to her face.

  Eniko had had enough. Leaving a job in which she had invested an incredible amount of emotion was like breaking up with someone, she was quickly learning. Now she just wanted to get away, as smoothly as possible. ‘Roland, it’s nothing personal. It’s not Kriszta’s fault, or anyone’s fault. It’s a decision I’ve taken. I am organising a leaving party tonight at Retro-kert.’ She looked at Roland and Kriszta. ‘I hope you can both come,’ she added, although they were the last two people she wanted to spend her evening with.

  ‘We’ll be there,’ said Roland. He turned to Kriszta. ‘Won’t we?’

  She nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  *

  A minute or so later Eniko was standing in the women’s toilet, leaning forward with her hands on the cracked white sink, staring at herself in the worn mirror, wondering why she had just ended one of the most successful and high-profile journalistic careers in the country. Because your prime source was about to dry up, your editors would, sooner or later, have put you on the celebrity beat, and your personal safety has been compromised, she told herself. And because now you will be sitting right by the hearth, instead of getting brief glimpses of the fire. More than that, you can pay for your mother to get the medical treatment she needs. Eniko exhaled long and hard, told herself doubts were entirely natural, ran the cold tap and put her hands into the flow. Just as she was splashing her face and neck Zsuzsa walked in.

  Her friend stood next to her and stared at her in the mirror. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’

  Eniko nodded. ‘Yup. How did you know?’

  ‘I had a good teacher. One who taught me how to look, how to watch. I saw you go into Roland’s office for the second time today. The door stayed shut. There were lots of emotions playing on your face when you came out. And then you came straight in here. Did you jump or were you pushed? I can’t imagine they sacked you.’

  ‘They didn’t. I jumped. You always had a good eye for detail. At least I did something right. Come here.’

  The two women hugged, briefly.

  Zsuzsa stepped back. ‘Where are you jumping to? I heard Reuters and Bloomberg have been reading all your stuff with great interest. Or is it one of those glamorous international television networks that keep interviewing you about the migrants? BBC? CNN? London or New York?’ She dropped her voice an octave, adopted a faux-American accent, ‘Tonight, with Eniko Szalay, live from Keleti Station…’

  Eniko laughed. ‘Neither. I’m not going very far. I’ll be working at Parliament.’

  ‘Politics. That makes sense, with your contacts. Who for?’

  ‘Reka Bardossy. The prime minister.’

  Zsuzsa frowned. ‘I don’t understand. You have a new job just covering the prime minister? I know she is a brilliant contact, but what if she stops talking to you?’

  Eniko turned around and leaned back against the sink. ‘I’m sorry, Zsuzsi. I’m not being very clear here. My new job is as Reka Bardossy’s spokeswoman. From 8 a.m. tomorrow, I’m in charge of all government communications.’

  ‘What? You won’t be a reporter any more? You’re changing sides?’ Zsuzsa stared at Eniko in amazement, as though Eniko had just told her an alien spaceship had landed on Blaha Lujza Square. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

  Eniko took Zsuzsa’s hand. ‘I’ll tell you later; it’s quite a long story. I’m going to announce it in a few minutes so keep it to yourself for now. I’m having a leaving party tonight at Retro-kert. You’ll be there?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Eniko carried on holding Zsuzsa’s hand, suddenly fighting to keep her feelings under control as they surged inside her. ‘I’m sure I’ll see you at government press conferences. And you can call me anytime for off-the-record briefings. We’ll still be friends, of course.’

  Zsuzsa stepped back slightly but squeezed Eniko’s hand. ‘Of course. You’re not going to cry, are you?’

  Eniko sniffed. ‘Of course not.’

  Zsuzsa was about to say something else when her telephone rang. She looked at the screen, glanced at Eniko, her head tilted to one side as if newly assessing her, and let go of her hand. ‘Sorry, gotta take this. See you tonight,’ she said and walked out.

  Eniko watched Zsuzsa leave, suddenly guessing who was probably calling and why. The wide-eyed country girl was rapidly morphing into a smart city operator.

  *

  A couple of minutes later Eniko stood on her desk, tapping on the side of a mug with a teaspoon. At first the tinny clink was absorbed in the general clamour, but once the reporters and editors looked up at the spectacle they fell silent. She felt their eyes on her as she started to speak. The air was already electric with anticipation. It was almost impossible to keep secrets in a room full of journalists. Neither Eniko nor her editors had said anything, but several of her colleagues, not just Zsuzsa, had seen her twice walk in and out of the editor’s office and close the door behind her. And after that she had disappeared into the bathroom for a long time, then Zsuzsa had gone in and out, while Eniko stayed inside. Something was up, that much was obvious.

  At first Eniko had planned to give a quick speech, to talk about how much 555.hu meant to her, the valuable work they were doing, the importance of a free press at a time of national crisis. But when she looked around the room, at the worn, dull parquet, the grubby walls, the line of trophies lined up on top of the fireplace and the tatty poster of H. L. Mencken, her colleagues’ silent faces looking at her – all except Zsuzsa, still ensconced with the editor – she swallowed hard, took a deep breath and said instead, ‘It’s my last day here. I start work tomorrow as the prime minister’s chief of communications. But before that I’m buying you all a drink tonight at Retro-kert. It’s short notice I know but the bar tab opens at 7 p.m. Thank you.’

  Eniko stepped down to scattered applause, looks of amazement and several cries of ‘No!’ A good-humoured chant started, ‘Dark side, dark side, dark side,’ until the whole newsroom joined in. Eniko swallowed again, wiped her eyes, suddenly overcome with emotion. Someone handed her a tissue and she blew her nose. A glass of palinka appeared in her hand. She gratefully knocked the shot back in one go, feeling the rough spirit sear her throat and the alcohol course through her. The door to Roland Horvath’s office opened and Zsuzsa came out, followed by the editor. Zsuzsa glanced at Eniko, gave her a hesitant smile. The chant faded away and then stopped. Roland looked at Eniko still standing on her desk. ‘We are really sorry to see you go, Eniko, but the show must go on.’ Roland looked around the newsroom. ‘Back to work, everyone.’

  The atmosphere eased, the charge faded away and the reporters returned to their screens and keyboards. Eniko climbed down, sat at her desk for a few moments, gathered her thoughts and started to sort her stuff out. First on the list was one item in particular. She slid her hand into her desk drawer and took out the contents: piles of old press releases, handouts from conferences, publicity sheets about new companies, political parties, glossy flyers for new restaurants, worn and ragged reporters’ notebooks. She placed the papers on her desk, made sure the drawer was emptied then eased her forearm into the space, her fingers tracing across the back of the desk. It was empty. A knot of anxiety sprouted in her stomach, but she told herself to be calm. Maybe the cartridge had got jumbled up with her papers, was caught in the spine of a notebook or something. She slowly and carefully sorted through the papers, double-checked the coils at the top of each notebook. All she found were several bent paperclips. Had she definitely put it there? She was sure that she had. Then where could it be? And had she wiped it? She had been in such a rush, she wasn’t sure. And even if she had, there was probably DNA on it, or something.

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sp; She sat back, closed her eyes and retraced her movements since she had come down from the eyrie in the roof. There was the bad-tempered meeting with Roland and Kriszta that morning. She definitely had the bullet in her pocket then – she had still felt it pressing against her leg. And of course she had taken it out before going to Parliament, otherwise she would have set off the security scanners. She slid her forearm back into the drawer, methodically tracing her fingers along each edge, then sweeping back and forth. There was nothing there. Eniko took her arm out and dropped to her knees, crouched under her desk and started scanning the surrounds. There was nothing to be seen. The knot in her stomach grew in size and seemed to come alive. Somewhere in the 555.hu office, or anywhere, if someone had taken it, was a used cartridge, probably the one which killed Mahmoud Hejazi, with her fingerprints all over it. Unless she found it, and quickly, her new career – any career – was likely to be over before it even began.

  Zsuzsa walked over and bent underneath Eniko’s desk. ‘Hallo, spokeswoman. I hope you aren’t having second thoughts already. You can’t hide from us under there. 555.hu will find you wherever you are.’

  Eniko tried to laugh, not very convincingly. ‘I’m still a reporter for another’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘three hours. And I’m not hiding. I’m sorting out my stuff.’

  Zsuzsa said, ‘Come out onto the balcony.’

  That meant Zsuzsa wanted to talk about something in confidence. Eniko nodded and followed her across the newsroom. The two women stepped outside into the thick, warm air. By this time in the afternoon the office had turned into a heat trap, but Zsuzsa closed the door behind them anyway, ignoring the shouted protests from her colleagues. Eniko looked out onto Blaha Lujza Square, watching the crowds disappear into the metro station, clamber on and off the trams, the stream of traffic heading downtown towards the Elizabeth Bridge and north towards Keleti. Memories tumbled through her mind: watching Balthazar take down Mahmoud Hejazi, the line of international journalists waiting to interview her at Keleti, the look on the face of Maryam Nazir when Eniko showed her the photograph of her dead husband and the way she had fainted and slid off the sofa. This was her world, her corner, her place on earth. Journalism was her life, the only profession she knew, the only job she’d ever had. And she had surrendered it so quickly. For a moment she felt dizzy, almost nauseous. She leaned on the marble top of the balcony wall, her finger tracing a pattern in the cracked surface, then turned to her friend. ‘Tell me honestly, Zsuzsi. Do you think I am making a massive mistake? Maybe I should go back in, speak to Roland and Kriszta, get my job back. Or any job.’

  Zsuzsa looked down at Blaha Lujza Square, did not reply for a moment. ‘I’m not the one to give you advice any more, Eni. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Eniko, although she had already guessed the answer. Roland and Kriszta had moved quickly. So had Zsuzsa. But then, what did she expect?

  ‘They’ve given me your beat. I’m going to Keleti later this afternoon. Any contacts you would like to share?’ Zsuzsa asked, half defiant, half entreating.

  Alkotmany Street, District V, 1.00 p.m.

  Marton Ronay had finally arrived at his accommodation, where he was unpacking and arranging his clothes – white-and-blue button-down business shirts, pastel-coloured polo shirts and chino trousers – in the wardrobe of the flat that Pal Dezeffy’s office had arranged for him. He put his soap bag in the bathroom, yesterday’s Wall Street Journal and Financial Times on the coffee table in the lounge, walked into the small kitchen and dropped a bronze-coloured capsule into the coffee machine.

  Today, he knew, was the toughest. Jet lag was always worst flying west to east. The last thing his body needed was more caffeine, but all he needed to do was get through the next six or seven hours then he could go to sleep. The bed, a large and firm king-size, beckoned from the other room. But he knew very well what would happen if he surrendered now. He would sleep for eight or nine hours then wake at two or three in the morning and be all messed up the next day and for days after that. The cycle had to be broken. The machine clicked, hissed and rumbled and he took his drink then strolled through the apartment. The place was huge, with two enormous bedrooms, and a lounge the size of his entire place in Washington DC. It was too big for a couple, let alone a single person, but was very centrally located on Alkotmany Street, on the corner of Honved Street, a couple of blocks from Kossuth Square.

  Some company would be nice, he thought, his mind flicking back to the policeman at the airport. Mr ‘Welcome in Hungary’. What was his name? Ferenc, that was it, Ferenc something. Could he find him? He couldn’t see how. There must be dozens of policemen on duty at the airport. Ferenc was a very common name and he couldn’t remember his surname. He could hardly go there and start asking questions. Pal’s people, he was sure, could get Ferenc’s details. The guy used to be prime minister so could doubtless find out anything. But that was the last thing he wanted, to give the client – especially that weird, creepy old guy – something personal on him. In any case, it was probably best to keep it zipped while he was here, avoid any potentially compromising situations, especially on a sensitive assignment like this one. So he told himself.

  And even if the apartment was too big it was spectacular. The late-nineteenth-century building was certainly the most grandiose place he had ever stayed: the huge double doors to the building were at least fifteen feet high, the foyer was covered with black-and-pink marble and the lift even had a red upholstered bench along one side. The high-ceilinged rooms were decorated with ornate plaster cornices, and patterned roses in the centre of the ceiling, where chandeliers hung. The furniture was all curved, gilded, lacquered wood with firm green-and-gold upholstery. The floor was extraordinary: wide slats of pale, gleaming parquet that looked as though it was about to host a ball and probably had.

  He walked outside to the balcony. Even that was built like a mini-temple. Two ridged columns stood on the front corners, holding up a small roof above the space, while a gleaming, ornate black metal fence ran across the front. Curved buttresses underneath held the balcony in place. Marton felt as though he should be looking down on a military parade, or taking a salute or something. He looked down Alkotmany Street, towards the neo-Gothic splendour of the Parliament building. The size of the building was amazing, especially considering there were barely ten million people in Hungary, and only 200 members of Parliament. He looked again at the patches of grass on either side of the building. It looked as if two tents had been pitched there, one to the left and one to the right. For a moment he thought he must be seeing things. A tent by Parliament would be like someone camping on the White House lawn. He looked again, squinted into the afternoon sun. He was right: there were two small blue tents pitched on the grass. Whatever… every country had its quirks. Maybe camping out by the seat of government was one of them. Another was the white clouds of steam or mist that floated up from the square’s stone slabs every half an hour or so, drifting across the square.

  For now he needed to focus on the job at hand. His task sounded simple enough: provide ‘strategic communications advice’ to help replace the current occupant of the prime minister’s office with the previous one. If only it was that simple. In the age of social media, the term ‘strategic communications adviser’ meant anything you wanted. In his case his job was to shred Reka Bardossy’s reputation. The client was supposed to be a modern politician but was clearly years behind the curve, with his leaflets and monkey-like caricatures. Social media: fake Twitter, Instagram accounts for the younger target audience, Facebook for the older ones, could do the job quite quickly and efficiently. He was especially pleased with the hashtag #honestreportingHungary. Eniko Szalay’s credibility was already dented. There was enough dirt on Reka Bardossy to bring her down. The problem was how to avoid collateral damage. Pal’s career, and his fortune, was inextricably linked to Reka Bardossy’s. They had been linked in other ways, too, if the rumours Marton had heard were correct, which made things even more c
omplicated. Politics and the bedroom were never a good mix – especially among rivals for the same job. He sipped his coffee and watched a black Gendarmerie vehicle head towards Parliament, almost knocking over a cyclist in its wake. How to take down one without the other?

  He drank the last of his coffee, put the cup down and leaned forward. Something pressed against his leg. He looked down, realising it was his passport, which he had left in his trouser pocket. That was slack, and could only be because of the jet lag. He stretched and yawned, hoping the oxygen and the coffee would rejuvenate him. Considering he was standing in the heart of downtown, the air was surprisingly cool and fresh. The biggest surprise was how quiet it was. This was the government quarter, with half a dozen ministries in walking distance, but apart from groups of Gendarmes on one side of the road, and police on the other, the wide streets and pavement were almost deserted. Compared to Washington DC, apart from the tourists taking selfies on Kossuth Square and the occasional government car, it was a dead zone. Marton turned around, walked back into the flat, took his passport out of his pocket. He was about to put it away, when a slip of paper fell out. He bent down and opened it. The note said, ‘Welcome in Hungary’ next to a smiley-face emoji, the letter ‘F’ and a mobile telephone number underneath, ending in 53807.

  Just as Marton picked up the paper his own iPhone rang. He glanced at the screen before he answered and saw with pleasure that the incoming number ended in 53807.

  ‘Ferenc, is that you?’ he asked, a broad grin on his face. ‘I just found your note. But how did you get my number? You cops can find out anything, I guess.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ said a male voice with a harsh New York accent. ‘I’m not Ferenc. But I am someone you need to talk to.’

  SIXTEEN

  Jozsef Street, District VIII, 2.30 p.m.

  Balthazar sat in the front passenger seat of Anastasia’s Skoda, the rain hammering on the roof like drumsticks, fat droplets smashing across the windscreen, thin, wet trails spidering across the glass. Thunder rolled and boomed under a carapace of dark clouds. The windows were open but the thick, hot air did not move. He put his hand out, palm up at first, felt the rain wash over his skin, turned his hand around until both sides were soaked, ran his fingers through his damp hair. Jozsef Street was the last place he wanted to be. He felt he could not breathe, would suffocate under the weight of what he was learning that afternoon. As if his mother’s confession was not enough, there was this: the video clip he had just seen on Anastasia’s iPad. Did anyone else have a collection of relatives like his? How could he protect his brother now? He closed his eyes for a moment, swallowed hard.