by Adam LeBor
Gaspar said, ‘What’s up, batyam? Something to do with this morning? Any news on the dead man?’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘Nothing. But there is something else. More serious. We need to talk, ocsim.’
Gaspar was about to answer when the theme tune to Mission: Impossible sounded across the courtyard. He glanced at his telephone and pressed the red button, cutting off the call. He looked at Balthazar. ‘It’s not a good time, batyam. There’s a problem at the border.’ He gestured over at the migrant families. ‘I need to get these people across into Austria. Everything is set up.’
Balthazar watched as Big Laci started handing out scarves to the migrant women, miming that they should exchange them for their head covering. The mother wearing the black-and-white hijab looked dubiously at the yellow cloth with its bright floral pattern. ‘This is a bad business you’re in, ocsim,’ said Balthazar, ‘and it’s about to get worse.’
Gaspar opened his arms expansively. ‘How can it get worse? This is just a small temporary difficulty. They are still pouring across the border. It’s better than girls. Better than anything. We are providing…’ He paused for a moment, looking for the right word, ‘a humanitarian service.’
‘Nobody is going anywhere, ocsim, at least for now.’
Gaspar’s face darkened with anger. ‘What? They’ve paid me thousands of euros. I need to get them out.’
Did you know, Balthazar wanted to ask Gaspar. Did you know that we had a sister and our parents never told us? Instead he held out the iPad mini. ‘Come here. You need to see this.’
Gaspar stood closer to his brother, close enough that Balthazar could smell fresh sweat, cigarettes and the fruity odour of palinka. Gaspar rarely drank during the day. Underneath the bluster, his brother was under pressure. Balthazar pressed the play button. Gaspar watched the murky footage of the two men, then turned to his brother. ‘Is that it? Is that why you’re here? Because someone filmed me talking to someone? Is that why today is so kibaszott, fucked-up?’
‘It’s not just someone. It’s Mahmoud Hejazi. What the hell were you doing having any kind of contact with him?’
‘Who? I dunno. All these Arabs are called Mahmoud or Mohammed or whatever. Who is he?’
Balthazar grabbed Gaspar’s arm, hard enough to make him wince. ‘Eleg, enough. You know full well who he is.’
Gaspar looked sulky. ‘OK. So what? Lots of people talk to me. I told you, business is booming. Anyway, you said yourself, he’s dead. You had your foot on his back when he was shot. So it doesn’t matter any more.’
Balthazar spoke slowly and carefully. ‘It matters.’ He tapped the screen. ‘This is proof you were talking to one of the world’s most wanted Islamic radicals. What the hell were you playing at? Did you meet the other people Hejazi was talking about?’ He called up the photographs of Adnan Bashari and his bodyguard and showed them to Gaspar. ‘These men?’
Gaspar looked down at the photographs, then at his brother, resentment and a certain nervousness playing across his face as he began to understand what kind of trouble he might be in. ‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t remember. Really.’
Balthazar shot his brother a look. ‘Try harder,’ he said, his voice hard now.
‘A flat. On Klauzal Square. Last week. Last Friday afternoon. All three of them were there. They wanted the new VIP service. We were supposed to launch it last week. Who are they anyway?’
Balthazar gave Gaspar an edited version of what Anastasia had told him about Adnan Bashari and his bodyguard. Then he showed him the photographs from Halabja. Gaspar scrolled through the photographs and seemed to slowly sag, as his bluster faded away. He looked at Balthazar, his red-rimmed eyes wide. ‘Are they real? They did that?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘Yes, ocsim. Like they gassed our relatives in the Poraymus.’
Gaspar looked across the courtyard at the migrants, the children laughing as they tugged their mother’s new headscarves, tied around the face and knotted underneath, the mothers brushing them away affectionately, or looking at themselves in handheld mirrors. ‘How can anyone do that to other people? To women and kids?’
Balthazar said, ‘Tell me about the VIP service.’
‘Government car. Official plates. Nice Audi A6, air-conditioned, driver, chilled mineral water, sandwiches, guaranteed smooth passage through the border, all the way to Vienna. Five thousand euros. Per person.’
Balthazar processed this. ‘A government vehicle?’
Gaspar looked regretful. ‘Yes, lovely car. V8 engine. Leather seats.’ He exhaled long and hard. ‘It was all set up with Pal’s people. But it never happened. Never will.’
‘Why not?’
‘Change of government this week, batyam.’ He smiled, revealing a mouth full of gold crowns. ‘You did know that?’
‘Ocsim, you need to come with me and talk to someone else.’
‘I’ll talk to you. Nobody else.’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Who? Police? Gendarmes?’
‘No. Neither. Be happy it’s the state security service. They won’t arrest you. But they do need to ask you some questions.’
‘Who is it? Your friend? The Duchess?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘Yes. You can trust her.’
‘When and where?’
Balthazar led Gaspar back across the courtyard and pointed at Anastasia’s grey Skoda, where she was sitting in the driver’s seat. ‘There. Now.’
Gaspar asked, ‘That’s it? Just her?’
Balthazar nodded. ‘That’s all. So far.’ He turned to his brother, stared at him. ‘But you must tell the truth.’
Gaspar looked down at the ground, then back up at Balthazar, his eyes wide and entreating. ‘Of course I will help. Am I in trouble?’
Balthazar sighed. ‘Yes. But nothing we cannot sort out, if you cooperate.’
‘OK. But you will be there with me, batyam?’
‘Right beside you, ocsim.’ Balthazar took his brother’s arm, gently this time, and led him to Anastasia’s car.
SEVENTEEN
Retro-kert, District VII, 11.00 p.m.
Zsuzsa looked down at her glass of wine, then back at Eniko, her face creased with worry. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind, Eni? It’s a big ask, I know.’
Eniko said, ‘Of course not. Why would I?’
‘Because if you give me your contacts, you are helping me to be a better journalist, which means I can ask you more difficult questions about the migrant crisis once you start your new job.’
Eniko sipped her froccs, a white-wine spritzer, before she answered. Froccs was a Hungarian summer speciality with multiple variations, from the hazmester, two-thirds wine and one-third sparkling water, to the hosszu lepes, or long-step, which was one-third wine and two-thirds water. This was Eniko’s third, or maybe fourth, hosszu lepes of the evening. It was a useful concoction that allowed the drinker to join in the alcoholic revelry with very little effect. Eniko felt quite sober. ‘They will be more informed questions, let’s say. And the better the questions, the more incisive the national debate on these vital issues. Which is good for Hungary, and good for all of us.’ She stopped talking for a moment, started to laugh. ‘God. Did I really say that? I haven’t even started yet.’
Zsuzsa smiled and sipped her wine. ‘You did, Eni. I think you are going to be a big success as spokeswoman. But we’ll stay friends, even if I do ask you some tricky ones?’
‘Of course. It’s just a job. Jobs come and go. Friends don’t.’
Zsuzsa looked relieved. ‘I’m so happy you think so. I felt really guilty all day for asking.’
‘Zsuzsika, stop worrying,’ said Eniko as she clinked her glass against her friend’s. ‘It’s no problem. Of course I’ll share. I’ll call my best sources, telling them you are taking over the story, ask them to help you,’ she replied, knowing that she would not do that, and at most would share a couple of think tank analysts who would talk to Zsuzsa anyway. Eniko’s be
st contact was Reka Bardossy and she was hardly likely to advise the prime minister to open a channel to Zsuzsa. She sipped her drink, smiling wryly to herself. You haven’t even started work yet and you are already lying to your friend.
‘Thanks so much,’ said Zsuzsa.
‘Now, let’s talk about something interesting instead. Like cocktails at six.’
‘And seven,’ said Zsuzsa, turning a slight shade of pink.
‘Did you try a Campari?’
‘No. He ordered something for me. With fresh mint. A mojito. It was really nice. I had a couple. Adorjan was so easy to talk to.’ She paused for a moment, looked down at her wine. ‘I’ve never met anyone so interested in me or my work before. He wanted to know all about me and what I do, how 555 works, how I report a story. All Huba wanted to talk about was engineering or football.’ She took another sip. ‘And he’s really good-looking,’ she continued, her eyes wide with wonder.
Eniko and Zsuzsa were sitting in the front seats of a pale-blue Trabant with no roof that was resting on four piles of bricks in the middle of the courtyard of Retro-kert, the city’s biggest and most famous ruin pub. Now a must-visit in every tourist guidebook, and for the stag parties that flocked to Budapest every weekend, Retro-kert was rarely frequented by Hungarians, especially urban hipsters such as the staff of 555.hu. There were newer, far cooler places on every corner of District VII and even District VIII. But Retro-kert had been the first ruin pub. Eniko had hung out here as a teenager when it had opened more than a decade ago. Even if the bar was jammed with drunken tourists, she still had a sentimental attachment to the place. She had brought Balthazar here a few times when they were together. Part of her wondered if he might still walk through the door. The Trabant was in keeping with the rest of the decor: old school benches and chairs, some still with wooden writing stands attached; office tables that had last been used before the change of system; raw brick walls covered with graffiti; a noticeboard bedecked in colourful flyers and handwritten notes. The slow sounds of Yonderboi, a chilled-out Hungarian musician and DJ, drifted across the courtyard.
‘Great. I’m really pleased for you,’ said Eniko. ‘So when is date number three?’
Zsuzsa blushed again. ‘Well, number two hasn’t finished yet. He said he would come and meet here later. About now, in fact.’ She looked around. ‘And here he is.’
Adorjan Molnar weaved through the crowd until he arrived at the Trabant shell. Eniko watched Zsuzsa trying, not entirely successfully, to conceal her pleasure and surprise that he had turned up. As Zsuzsa and Adorjan kissed hallo, Eniko quickly scanned his near-white blonde hair, striking looks and gym-toned physique before she glanced at his watch and his shoes, in her experience the two most informative tells: in this case a blue TAG Heuer chronograph and a pair of tasselled suede loafers. The watch was probably worth a thousand euros and the shoes several hundred more. He also wore a black signet ring on one finger, set in thick gold. Eniko immediately recognised Adorjan’s type: smart, smooth – too smooth – with easy access to the river of questionable money that flowed through Budapest, a charm that usually concealed a cold arrogance and ruthless determination. So what did he want with Zsuzsa? Her friend was certainly attractive and intelligent but she was a minnow swimming with sharks. Adorjan appeared to be pleased to see her, but his type usually went out with decorative, leggy models or the plaza-cicak, shopping mall chicks. Intelligence and an enquiring mind was not usually part of that girlfriend package. As for Zsuzsa – well, she was probably rebounding after her break-up, and still finding her way in the capital. She would, Eniko thought, be too easily impressed by someone like Adorjan, especially after Huba. Zsuzsa’s words resounded in Eniko’s head. ‘We talked for ages… He wanted to know all about me and what I do, how 555 works, how I report a story.’
Why would he want to know that? Something felt off here. Or was she just being too suspicious?
Adorjan introduced himself and he and Eniko shook hands.
Eniko felt him assessing her as he spoke, his smile revealing two rows of even, unnaturally white teeth. ‘I hope you don’t mind me crashing your leaving party,’ he said.
Eniko smiled back. ‘Of course not. Any friend of Zsuzsa’s is welcome.’
‘She told me about your new job. Congratulations. It’s nice to meet you in person. You’re in the news. Lots of websites are writing about you.’
‘Really?’ asked Eniko. The last time she had looked at the news was three or four hours ago. It was a relief to switch off for a while. ‘What are they saying?’
Adorjan held her gaze, for slightly longer than was polite, before he answered. ‘All sorts of things.’
‘Nasty or nice?’
‘A bit of both. You know the Hungarian media, how polarised they always are. Take a look.’
‘Later, maybe. I’m having a few hours off now before I start tomorrow. Budapest’s a small town. A new government spokeswoman is news. It will pass.’
‘Of course,’ said Adorjan. Eniko glanced at Zsuzsa, who was looking at Adorjan. It was time to leave them alone for a few minutes. Eniko turned towards the bar, said to Zsuzsa and Adorjan, ‘Can I get either of you anything?’
They both shook their heads. Eniko stepped away from the throng and walked over to the bar. She did not want any more alcohol, especially as she had an eight o’clock start the next morning, which she knew meant that she should be there at 7.30 a.m. Everyone had turned out to see her off, including, to her surprise, Roland Horvath and Kriszta Matyas. Roland had made a short but quite touching speech, praising her work, lamenting the loss of her unique reporting and voice, especially during the ongoing political and refugee crisis. There had been lots more jokes about Darth Vader and the dark side. Part of her was still full of regret that she was leaving. But another, larger part, was looking forward to being at the centre of the action in the ongoing political crisis. The question was, how long would she last? For a while in the hubbub and excitement and bonhomie she had forgotten about the missing bullet. Now it nagged at her. She looked down at her hands, once again feeling the smooth, cold metal between her fingers. She knew for certain that she had placed it at the back of her drawer. She could remember her fingers sliding over the notebooks and papers and placing it hard against the back of the drawer. She closed her eyes for a moment. That meant her fingerprints were definitely all over it.
But where was it? Maybe it had somehow rolled away in the confusion of moving out. That was bad enough. Or maybe someone had taken it, which was far worse, and looked more likely. Either way, there was nothing she could do about it now. She could hardly go back to the office now and start a midnight hunt for munitions. In any case she could not get back into the building as she had handed over her access card. Cheers and the sound of alcohol-fuelled bonhomie suddenly sounded, interrupting her reverie. She watched as a British stag party marched into the bar. The groom was dressed in a green fluorescent body suit over his chest and midriff, and a pink kilt. Half a dozen friends, all wearing pink-and-green T-shirts, emblazoned with their names, swarmed around him. Several shouted greetings at Eniko, offering to buy her a drink. She shook her head, laughing at the good-humoured spectacle. As she turned away, trying to catch the barman’s eye to order a mineral water, her gaze roamed around the room. What she saw caused her smile to fade instantly.
Attila Ungar was walking towards her, squat, muscled, exuding a purposeful menace. The bar was crowded and he was not speaking but he seemed to exude a dark energy, enough to clear a path through the revellers who moved away from him instinctively. Eniko’s stomach turned over but she stayed where she was as he came and stood next to her.
Attila smiled. ‘Szia, hi. We keep meeting in bars.’
‘Do we?’
‘Here I am.’
‘So I see. You keep turning up where I am. First the Four Seasons last week. Now here. Why?’ she asked, her voice cold. ‘Are you going to arrest me again? Drag me off to some shit hole on Csepel Island?’
Attila waved a finger at her. ‘Now, now, lippy-lany, Ujlipotvaros girl, don’t be such a Pesti snob. I told you, I grew up on Csepel Island. Congratulations on the new job, by the way. Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, thank you. Have you come to threaten me again? Or my mother? That was pretty low, even for you,’ said Eniko, drawing strength from the knowledge of the announcement she would make the following day at noon.
He opened his hands, showed Eniko his empty palms. ‘I come in peace. I’m off duty. Kedves Eniko, you really have the wrong idea about me.’
‘I don’t think so. What do you want?’
‘Just a little chat.’ He smiled again, his eyes glittering in a kind of triumph. ‘And to show you something.’
Eniko felt a quick stab of alarm. ‘What?’ she asked, too quickly, suddenly guessing the answer.
Attila patted his trouser pocket. ‘It’s quite small. But definitely not for public viewing. Come with me and I’ll show you.’
‘No. I’m not going to do that.’
Attila stepped forward again, so near Eniko could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. ‘Oh, but I think you are. You really need to see this.’
As Attila moved closer to Eniko she took a step back without looking, banged into a chair and nearly fell over. He grabbed her arm to catch her. She righted herself and immediately shook his hand off. The stag party was nearby, still waiting to be served. Eniko saw that one of the groom’s friends, a chubby, balding man in his early thirties, whose T-shirt announced his name as ‘Tim’, was watching the interaction between her and Attila.
Eniko gave her best smile before she spoke. ‘Attila, can you do something for me?’
He smiled back. ‘Maybe. What?’
‘Fuck off and leave me alone,’ Eniko said, her voice rising, in spite of her attempt to stay in control. At that very moment the music stopped and her voice carried clear and strong across the bar. Dozens of faces turned towards her.
Attila’s face twisted in anger and he stepped nearer to her again. Tim muttered something to his friends and walked over, slightly unsteady on his feet. Eniko stared hard at him and shook her head, trying to make him understand that he should not intervene. Befuddled by drink, he did not pick up on her signals. Instead he came and stood next to her. ‘Are you all right, love,’ he asked in a Manchester accent. He turned to Attila. ‘Is he bothering you?’