by Adam LeBor
Eniko watched as Attila looked Tim up and down, like a butcher considering how to debone a particularly appetising joint of beef. ‘Please don’t hit him,’ Eniko said in Hungarian.
Attila smiled. ‘Nobody is hitting anybody.’ Instead he leaned close to Tim and whispered in his ear for several seconds. Tim turned pale, trembled, apologised to Eniko and left.
Eniko asked, ‘What did you say to him?’
‘That he would have more fun in a different part of the bar.’
‘In English?’
Attila nodded. ‘I speak English. Not as well as you or our friend Balthazar. But enough.’
Suddenly Eniko wanted to be away from this place and from Attila most of all. But before that could happen, she needed to see the confirmation of what he had – although she already knew. ‘Show me what you want to,’ she said.
Attila smiled, reached into his pocket and took out a small, transparent, plastic evidence bag. Inside was a bronze coloured metal cartridge.
Balthazar’s flat, 11.30 p.m.
Balthazar and Gaspar sat with their feet up on the coffee table, watching a rerun of a black-and-white Hungarian comedy from the 1980s, featuring a bumbling detective and his junior sidekick. The film unfolded in a world so different, so innocent, that it was hard to believe it had been made in the same country: the two cops were investigating the case of a party official at a wood factory in the countryside who was selling off lumber on the side. He denied everything but had used it to build a wooden holiday home on the shores of Lake Balaton. Each plank still had the mark of the factory franked on one side. The house had been built with the marks on the outside. When the investigating police officers asked him why, he replied, ‘Because it looks nicer when we are at home.’ Balthazar had seen the film many times. For a moment he was back at the family home on Jozsef Street, a ten-year-old boy with his family, staring in wonder at their first television, a small colour set, perched in the corner of the lounge. Balthazar was still smiling at the film when he turned to Gaspar, ‘Do you remember the first time we saw it? We couldn’t stop laughing.’
The answer was a soft snore. Balthazar turned to see Gaspar sitting back on the sofa, his mouth open and his eyes closed, an almost-empty bottle of Dreher beer in his right hand. His brother had called earlier in the evening and asked if he could come over. He had arrived a couple of hours ago, with three pizzas and half a dozen beers. The pizza boxes and beer bottles covered most of the table, leaving a small space for the brothers’ feet. Balthazar had eaten one of the pizzas, and drunk a single beer. Gaspar had eaten the two other pizzas and sunk the rest of the beer. For a moment Balthazar thought of waking him, but he decided to let him sleep. He took the bottle carefully from his brother’s hand and added it to the other empties on the coffee table. He was glad of the company, and it was comforting to have his little brother nearby, even if he was snoring. It had been a long day for both of them. Gaspar had talked at length with Anastasia. Balthazar had sat in, and, as far as he could tell, Gaspar had told her everything he knew: the date and time of his meeting with Mahmoud Hejazi, Adnan Bashari and Omar Aswan in the flat on Klauzal Square, the three men’s manner and demeanour, the plan for the VIP service out of Hungary, which had been run by an official in the Ministry of Justice, although Gaspar did not know his name, and everything else he could remember. Anastasia had stuck to her word. Gaspar’s migrants had been allowed to cross the border unimpeded. He had agreed with her request that there would be no more transports, at least until Omar and Adnan had been tracked down. In any case, border security at official and known illegal crossing sites was now on high alert in case the two Arab scientists tried to leave the country.
The credits rolled for the film and Balthazar switched channels to Tonight, the late-night news round-up on state television. He had noticed that so far the government media – television, radio and the news agency which fed stories to the local and regional radio stations and newspapers – had steered a fairly neutral line between Reka and Pal Dezeffy, probably because it was not yet clear who would triumph. But sooner or later they would come down on one side or the other. The news show started with the headlines. The newsreader, Erika Fekete, an attractive brunette in her late twenties, sitting behind a curved desk, seemed unusually excited, barely able to sit still. The reason became evident as soon as she started speaking: ‘This is Erika Fekete, bringing you tonight’s news. Our programme tonight has exclusive footage of Prime Minister Reka Bardossy and Eniko Szalay, her new spokeswoman who will start work tomorrow. Until today Eniko Szalay was the star reporter at 555.hu, known for her incisive reporting on the migrant crisis’ – Erika stopped speaking for a moment, leaned forward to emphasise what she was about to say – ‘and her unusual access to Reka Bardossy after she became prime minister.’
The show cut away from the studio to a still shot of Reka and Eniko sitting at a table in the corner of the bar at the Four Seasons Hotel. The newsreader continued talking, ‘We can reveal that a week ago, she and the future prime minister met to plan how to manipulate future media coverage of Ms Bardossy’s deep involvement in the passport scandal that has been used against the former Prime Minister Pal by his political enemies.’ Balthazar sat up straight, fully alert now. The line had been decided, and not in Reka’s favour. Gaspar murmured something, opened his eyes, looked at the newsreader, coughed, then went straight back to sleep. Erika continued talking, ‘The meeting took place last Saturday night at the Four Seasons Hotel, where the two women enjoyed gin and tonics which cost 3,000 forints each.’ In a country where many teachers barely earned 300,000 forints a month, that was a smart touch, thought Balthazar. ‘The footage we have obtained reveals that while Eniko Szalay presented herself as an objective reporter on the passport and terrorism scandal, she had agreed in advance – with one of the main subjects of her reporting – to slant her coverage in a way that was advantageous to Reka Bardossy, in defiance of all norms of journalistic objectivity.’
The studio shot was replaced by footage of a waiter bringing Eniko and Reka their drinks and the two women clinking their glasses. The footage then showed Reka asking Eniko, ‘As I understand it, the time to frame a story, to shape how it is covered, is when it is first reported. Is that correct?’
The camera then zoomed in on Eniko as she nodded. ‘Broadly, yes. The way it is projected stays in people’s memories. That is how they perceive it. But any story can go in different directions afterwards. Once it’s out, it’s impossible to control.’
The shot switched to Reka as she replied, ‘Of course, but its initial impact, the first impression – that can be managed?’
Eniko replied, ‘To some extent, yes.’
The report moved back to the studio, where a middle-aged man with receding grey hair, wearing a blue shirt, now sat facing Erika Fekete. She looked at the camera as she said, ‘Gabor Novak is the editor in chief of Magyar Vilag, the country’s best-selling daily newspaper,’ then turned to Novak. ‘Gabor, you are a veteran editor. What are your thoughts when you see this footage?’
Novak sat back, exhaled and slowly shook his head, revealing a substantial paunch pressing against his shirt. ‘First of all, I’m shocked. Shocked and disappointed. Eniko Szalay is – was – one of Hungary’s best reporters. I would never have expected this kind of ethical corruption.’
Erika nodded in agreement. ‘And now she has a new job, as spokeswoman for our prime minister, Reka Bardossy. Can she last? Is it feasible for her to represent our new government?’
Novak looked doubtful. ‘That’s a question for Reka Bardossy. But I think we all know the answer.’
EIGHTEEN
Corner of Radnoti Miklos Street and Pozsonyi Way, 7.00 a.m., Friday 11 September
Eniko stepped out of her building to face the scrum of reporters. The crowd spilled out on both sides of the entrance, in some places two or three deep. Several familiar faces stared at her. Theodore Nichols, the correspondent for the BBC, stood chatting to Gerald Palin, his coun
terpart at the Associated Press. She knew both men, had worked with them during the refugee crisis, admired their smart, well-informed reporting. Klara Fenyvesi, the Reuters television correspondent, waved with one hand as she immediately moved her camera to face Eniko. They all advanced as one as Eniko stepped forward, yelling questions – Will she resign? Did she agree to cover up for Reka Bardossy? How can anyone believe anything she says now? – waving microphones at her, telephones and television cameras recording her every move.
For a moment, Eniko stood still. She felt hunted, cornered, under attack. She had not even started her new job yet but somehow she had become the news. Would every day be like this? ‘Just breathe,’ she said to herself, forcing a calm, ready-for-anything expression onto her face. Kata Kiss, a lanky brunette in her late twenties, the star reporter of state television, was in prime position at the centre of the crowd. As Eniko walked out onto the pavement, Kata advanced with her microphone in front of her, shouting questions. Kata, Eniko knew, was broadcasting live. Which meant that Reka would also be watching. A number-73 trolley bus lumbered past, drowning out Kata’s voice, giving Eniko a couple of seconds to compose herself. Once the vehicle had passed Kata began again, ‘Eniko, when will you resign? Will your first day at work be your last?’
That was a good question, Eniko thought, although she was hardly about to agree. She had barely slept all night, kept staring at her phone screen as it glowed in the darkness, bringing a stream of reports, gleefully linking to the footage of her and Reka, which was now up on YouTube as well as every Hungarian news site. Reuters, Associated Press and the BBC had also put out short stories about her, linking to the video, all quoting journalists and analysts who questioned whether she could take up her post, and if she did, how long she could remain. Not very long, was the consensus.
By any standard the video footage of her and Reka was a story, Eniko knew, but still she was an experienced enough reporter to sense that there was something, or someone, behind this. Many of the tweets, she noticed, used the same hashtag: #honestreportingHungary. Someone had thought that up, but who? Reka had called Eniko immediately after the story had gone out on the late-night bulletin, offering to send someone round to get her and put her up in a government guest house, but Eniko had declined. She knew the pack would be doorstepping her in the morning, and she needed to face them. Scuttling off to a safe house would send the wrong message and, in any case, she did not want to leave her mother alone. Several reporters, or people claiming to be reporters, had rung the entry-phone buzzer asking to speak to her the previous evening. Eniko had hung up on each one. Some time after midnight, Eniko had called Reka back and offered to resign. Reka had laughed, told her not to be silly. ‘We’re going to war, Eniko. Are you in?’ she asked. Eniko replied, ‘Of course.’
Reka had called again at 6 a.m. They had agreed the wording of a short statement, that Eniko now held in her hand. This time Eniko accepted the offer of an escort and a government vehicle to bring her to work. A black Audi A6 with tinted windows was parked on the corner of Radnoti Miklos Street. Antal Kondor stood leaning against it, wearing a black suit, a coil of white plastic wire dangling from one ear. He pointed at himself and then at her, asking if he should come and stand by her. Eniko shook her head. She did not need a bodyguard. She would do this on her own or not at all. She’d been here before, she told herself, many times, just on the other side of the scrum.
Eniko held her hand up, staring at the faces, the television cameras and telephones pointing at her. She stayed silent and the shouted questions faded away. Not saying anything, making the crowd of reporters wait, allowed her to take a measure of control. She made sure to keep her breathing slow and steady as she looked out over the faces, making them wait for several long seconds. Inhale through the nose, exhale through the nose. She felt her chest rise and fall. Today she had dressed in her only power suit: a black Donna Karan skirt and jacket she had bought in London when she was working for Newsweek and a fitted white blouse from Max Mara. The smart clothes helped, surprisingly so, and almost felt like a kind of armour. She saw that Theodore Nichols and Gerald Palin were looking at her expectantly. Kata Kiss was directing her cameraman how best to frame Eniko, the sun glinting on his lens. Theodore nodded and smiled encouragingly. Eniko looked down at the paper in her hand for a few moments. This was it, she told herself. Her new career would be decided in the next minute or two, if not the next few seconds. Either she would take control of the hack pack or they would take control of her, and Reka Bardossy would soon be looking for a new communications chief.
Eniko took a deep breath and started to speak. ‘Last Saturday, Reka Bardossy and I met for drinks. At the time I was a journalist and she was minister of justice, a confidential source. We’ve all had those kinds of meetings. That meeting is no longer confidential.’ She looked out over the crowd, the faces hanging on her every word, the cameras and microphones pointed at her. ‘As you know. It’s not only not confidential. It’s all over the Internet.’ She grinned. ‘I guess I need to get used to making the news instead of reporting it.’
She paused again while the laughter faded away. The journalists were still staring at her, some with an almost rueful smile on their faces. There was no need for Eniko to spell it out: every reporter there was suddenly imagining that one of their meetings with a confidential source was suddenly in the public domain. Something shifted in the mood of the crowd, a lightening. Somewhat to Eniko’s amazement she found she was almost enjoying herself.
We’re going to war, Eniko, are you in?
Her voice strengthened, gained confidence as she continued speaking. ‘As you well know, journalists meet sources all the time. I am now the spokeswoman for the prime minister. I will be – I am – one of your sources. That’s how it works.’ She looked over the sea of faces staring at her. ‘That’s it. We have no further comment on this. If you want a proper story, then I hope to see you all at noon for a press conference in Parliament. We will be making a major announcement.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Trust me. It’s going to be big. Much bigger than a couple of gin and tonics at the Four Seasons.’ A small ripple of laughter sounded. Eniko glanced down at her watch, then out at the crowd. ‘So see you in just over four hours.’
The journalists looked at each other for a moment, processing what Eniko had just said. A fresh barrage of questions erupted, some of them about the press conference. Eniko ignored them, spun on her heel and walked over to the Audi. Antal gave Eniko an appraising look, nodded slowly and opened the door. ‘Nice work,’ he said, as Eniko slid inside the car.
The vehicle smoothly pulled away and drove down Radnoti Miklos Street, towards the Danube, before turning left along the riverbank towards Parliament. For a moment Eniko closed her eyes and exhaled long and hard. Her phone beeped and she checked the text message, for a moment wondering if Balthazar too had been watching. The message said:
Welcome aboard. R
Whatever test that had been, she had passed, Eniko thought, pleased that Reka had bothered to write. But would every day be like this? She had expected a bumpy ride, indeed Reka had warned her that it would be difficult, but not this tough and not so soon. She glanced at her watch: 7.19 a.m. Only another twelve hours or so to go. And even then she would not be off duty. In fact she would never be off duty. Her iPhone glowed in her hand, its screen pulling her in as though she had lost all control over it. She surrendered, checked Twitter once again. A stream of commentators, analysts and journalists were still firing off their opinions about the footage of her and Reka. A handful were saying that it was too soon to judge, but the overwhelming consensus was that she still had to resign.
Scattered among the criticism, she saw, were already a couple of tweets about her encounter with the press a couple of minutes ago. The BBC and Associated Press were reporting that she had stood her ground. She smiled when she saw that Palin had tagged his tweet #baptismoffire. It had been a clever idea to turn the story back on the journalists, point out that
Eniko had simply done her job, as they did theirs. Once the shock of the leaked footage, the media campaign against her, had worn off, she realised to her pleasant surprise that she was not intimidated. She understood that she herself was not that important, merely collateral damage in the battle between the former and current prime ministers. And she worked for the prime minister now. She was not going anywhere, except to her office.
Even so, someone was behind this, she was sure. The footage had been leaked on purpose to force Eniko to resign and to score a point against Reka Bardossy. The oldest question was still the most useful – who benefits? That answer was fairly obvious: Pal Dezeffy. What was it Balthazar used to ask: who has the means and motivation? Pal had both. As a former prime minister he would still have access to the kind of operatives who could – who probably had – covertly filmed her and Reka. Once the footage was gathered it was simple to leak it to state television, where he doubtless still had allies. The car approached the edge of Kossuth Square, turned left into the underground car park. Several blue tents were now pitched on the green area, near the Kossuth statue, she noticed. She would have to ask Reka about that. The prime minister wanted to put some distance between her administration and that of her predecessor. Pal had banned demonstrations on Kossuth Square. Reka was allowing them. But an encampment of protestors around the seat of power did not look good, especially while Reka’s government was still fragile. How could she control the country if she could not even keep the area around Parliament in order? Eniko watched a skinny man in his twenties step out of his tent, yawn and stretch. He wore ripped jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned in the red, white and green of the Hungarian national flag, with the words ‘Magyar Szabadsag Mozgalom’ – Hungarian Freedom Movement – whatever that was emblazoned underneath. He had something in his hand: a mobile telephone, she thought at first, but then she saw he was talking quietly into a walkie-talkie. Why was he using one of those? The Audi drove slowly down the ramp into the underground car park and she lost sight of him.