by Adam LeBor
‘Thanks, Adorjan. But I cannot take credit for that,’ said Marton. Part of him was pleased at the praise, as any professional would be. But another was increasingly uneasy. He had been replaying his encounter with the mysterious Brad in his mind for much of the afternoon, before he had arrived at the client’s offices. The more he went over it, the less he liked it. His own government had blackmailed him into a bugging a client. And what if it all went wrong, if they found the bug, or he messed it up somehow? Brad, whoever he was, would not be rising to the rescue, that much was clear. Marton was flying solo, without a parachute. He glanced at the television for a moment, where a reporter from the BBC was interviewing a group of men outside one of the blue tents. Just as Brad had predicted, his mobile telephone had been taken from him before he entered the conference room, although he had not been searched. The bug was in a small box that felt enormous in his pocket. How the hell was he going to get it out of the box and drop it somewhere, without being seen, and without the bug being discovered by these ‘seriously bad people’, as Brad had described them? He glanced at the jug of water and the vague outline of a plan began to form in his mind. Lost in his uneasy thoughts, for a moment he suddenly realised all three men were looking at him, waiting for him to say something. ‘The helicopter was a master stroke,’ he quickly said. ‘Who’s idea was that?’
Both Pal and Adorjan glanced at the old guy. He barely acknowledged their looks, briefly scratched the side of his neck where the skin was cracked and flaking, then pulled out another of his foul-smelling cigarettes. ‘Mine,’ he rasped. ‘A prime minister who cannot control the space in front of her office, neither on the ground nor in the air, cannot govern a country.’
‘True. So what comes next?’ asked Marton. He reached for the jug of water, poured himself a glass and slowly drank it. The jug was almost empty now.
The old man lit his cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke, then coughed. ‘Plenty. And when we need your input, we will let you know.’
Marton realised he’d been dismissed. But the bug was still in his pocket. Department of Justice. Homeland Security. The Internal Revenue Service. The list of government departments bounced around inside his head. It was now or never. He stood up to leave, then leaned forward, almost losing his balance, then lurched back, blinking rapidly and sharply inhaling. Pal and Adorjan watched Marton swaying back and forth, then glanced at each other, both looking alarmed.
Marton said, ‘I’m sorry. It must be the jet lag. I don’t usually get it like this.’
Pal quickly agreed, relief on his face. ‘Yes, of course. You must be right. We brought you here virtually straight from the airport. You’ve had no chance to rest and gather your strength.’
Marton closed his eyes for a moment, gripping the end of the table, then opened them. Pal and Adorjan looked genuinely concerned. The old man was staring at him with an expression of irritation. Marton said, ‘Jet lag, plus my stomach ulcer. Not a great combination. It flares up when I’m tired. Could I just sit down on the sofa for a moment? It’s more comfortable. I just need to rest for a short while. Maybe even lie down. I’ll be fine, I’m sure.’
Pal stood up and walked over to him. ‘Of course. Take a little time out.’ He turned to Adorjan and the old man. ‘We can break for a few minutes, OK?’ They both nodded.
Pal led Marton to the sofa. Marton sat back and closed his eyes for several seconds. ‘Could you get me some water, please?’
Pal said, ‘Of course,’ walked over to the table, poured a glass of water and brought it to him. Marton sipped it slowly, once again feeling the box in his pocket pressing against his upper thigh. Pal and Adorjan stood nearby, watching him with concern.
‘Are you OK?’ asked Pal.
‘I’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ said Marton. He turned to them. ‘It’s been a long day. Don’t worry about me, please, grab a coffee, do whatever you need to do.’
Pal nodded. ‘Thanks. We’ll be back in a minute.’ He and Adorjan walked back across the room and out of the door.
Two down, one to go, thought Marton. He looked across at the old man. He was reading something, then as if sensing Marton’s gaze, looked up at him. ‘Sir,’ asked Marton, holding his empty glass in front of him, ‘I hate to ask, but would you mind? I still feel a little wobbly.’
The old man stared at him for several seconds, then stubbed his cigarette out, stood up and took Marton’s glass from him. He walked over to the table and picked up the water jug. There was barely any left inside. He stared at Marton once more, then walked out of the room. Marton did a quick mental calculation. He had about thirty seconds at the most, less if Pal or Adorjan returned before the old man. His heart thumping, he reached into his trouser pocket, opened the box, removed the lid, placed it on his trouser leg, lowered his arm down the side of the sofa and turned the box upside down before quickly bringing it back up. He glanced inside. It was empty.
At that moment Pal walked back in, the old man behind him with a full jug of water. They both looked at Marton holding a small box, the lid resting on his trousers. Pal frowned, but before he could speak, Marton smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m so stupid. The one day I need my anti-ulcer medicine, I forget to put it in my pillbox.’
CIA safe house, Filler Street, 10.10 p.m.
Anastasia Ferenczy, Brad Miller and Celeste Johnson sat at one end of a heavy antique wooden table in a kitchen that pre-dated the Second World War. The floor was covered with cracked linoleum in a red-and-black pattern and the walls were painted a faded shade of green. There were no fitted units, only a free-standing cooker and chipped white enamel sink, with a small gas boiler above it. A Hungarian nobleman with a fine waxed moustache seated on a horse, stared out of a gloomy oil painting, flanked on both sides by a Vizsla hunting dog. A laptop stood in the centre of the table, together with half a dozen used or half-empty coffee cups.
Anastasia suppressed a shiver before she spoke. Even after two months of a long, sweltering summer, the house felt damp and cold. The villa, with its long corridors of unused rooms and dark, heavy furniture covered in dust sheets, was haunted, she was sure. She glanced at the nobleman on a horse. She did not know the full story of the house, only that it had once belonged to an aristocratic family, something like hers, before being appropriated by the Communists after 1945 and then somehow ending up in the hands of the American intelligence services.
‘Shall we listen again to the crucial part?’ asked Miller. The two women nodded. He scrolled back through the digital file, then pressed play.
Pal: ‘It’s all happened faster than we anticipated.’
The Librarian: ‘Perhaps. But we can adjust to that.’
Adorjan: ‘She’s dead in the water.’ He paused before continuing. ‘How to finish off a government. Fly a helicopter over the Parliament while the prime minister is giving a press conference. Amazing.’
Pal: ‘Then set a trap so she announces a policy she cannot implement.’
Adorjan: ‘And have a paramilitary force occupy the seat of power, the symbolic heart of the country.’
The Librarian: ‘You may finish the mutual admiration. We are not done yet.’
Pal: ‘Are you sure? Is that really necessary? She’ll be gone in a few days. Her authority is destroyed.’
The Librarian: ‘Destroyed. Is it? Is it really? So was yours at the start of the week. And now it’s Friday evening and here we are, plotting your return to power.’ A pause. ‘Assuming you still want to return to power.’
Pal: ‘Of course. Of course I do.’
The Librarian: ‘Then we must deliver the coup de grace. As planned.’
Adorjan. ‘But so many? We could simply just… remove her. For good.’
The Librarian: ‘And then, just after the totally accidental car-crash, or whatever else you dream up, Pal rides back to rescue Hungary. That would not look suspicious. Not at all,’ he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘No. That won’t work. We need to destroy her authority, with her still alive. Once an
d for all. And we need to accelerate. For now, we have momentum on our side.’
Pal: ‘When?’
The Librarian: ‘Tomorrow night.’
Brad Miller stopped the file, turned to look at Celeste Johnson and Anastasia. ‘That was earlier this evening, after Marton Ronay dropped the bug in the room.’ He sat back, stretched his hands in front of him. ‘What are they planning?’
Celeste said, ‘Some kind of terrorist attack, I assume. But where, and what?’
Anastasia said, ‘They want to destroy Reka Bardossy’s authority. Make it impossible for her to govern.’ She looked at Miller and Johnson. ‘Where does her authority derive from?’
‘Parliament,’ said Johnson.
Celeste said, ‘Which is in Kossuth Square. Which is already occupied by the Gendarmes and the Hungarian Freedom Movement. And being buzzed by helicopters.’
Anastasia nodded, glanced again at the painting. The nobleman seemed to be staring at her, willing her on. Maybe the house really was haunted. God knew, enough of Hungary was. ‘Kossuth Square. The epicentre of the capital. That makes sense. And tomorrow night. It’s already a massive attraction for locals and tourists. There will be hundreds of people there by tomorrow evening.’
‘So what are they planning?’ asked Brad. ‘A bomb? A helicopter suicide mission?’
Anastasia gestured at the laptop. ‘Let’s take a look at it now. 555.hu has set up a live feed from Kossuth Square. Just Google it – you’ll find it.’ She glanced at her watch. Miller tapped away, then found the feed. He opened the browser window, then turned the laptop around so that the screen faced the two women.
The feed showed Kossuth Square from the left side, by the statue of the Hungarian for which it was named. The space was more crowded than ever but the atmosphere seemed almost festive. A group of Gendarmes lounged against their vehicles, eating slices of a pizza in a box on the bonnet. A teenage boy turned wheelies on his BMX. The regular police and the Parliamentary Guard were nowhere to be seen. Two young Chinese women wandered around, eating enormous ice creams. A few seconds later gusts of white steam erupted across the square, hissing upwards from tiny nozzles embedded in the flagstones, enveloping tourists and Gendarmes alike. The two Chinese girls happily ran through the mist as it swirled around them, coating their clothes and skin.
TWENTY-ONE
Balthazar’s flat, 10.15 p.m.
Eniko Szalay cupped her mug of fruit tea in her hands as she looked down at the coffee table, staring at the Glock and the shoulder holster. ‘There’s a gun there.’
‘Well spotted. I’m a cop,’ said Balthazar. ‘Hungarian cops carry weapons.’
She put the drink down, leaned forward, slid her forefinger under the holster’s leather strap and raised it above the table, letting it dangle under her multi-coloured nails. ‘I don’t remember usually seeing a gun around. Or you having three phones.’
‘These aren’t usual times.’
‘So I’m learning,’ said Eniko, with a wry smile. ‘It looks quite scary,’ she said, reaching for the weapon.
Balthazar’s hand was on hers in an instant. For a moment he felt the warmth of her skin under his fingers, then he let go. ‘It’s not a toy, Eni. It’s a Glock 17.’
She smiled, started to say something, read his face and instead stayed silent. Balthazar sensed her emotions, but looked away and picked up the black pistol. He pointed it at the wall and looked down the square-shaped barrel. The Glock felt solid and reliable in his hand. It had sharp, modern lines, an indented non-slip handle and a trigger guard that ended in a curved point. The Glock was a state-of-the-art serious combat weapon, the same model carried by the Gendarmerie
Eniko asked, ‘Are you in danger, Tazi?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Am I?’ she asked, her voice suddenly strained, almost fearful.
This time Balthazar looked at her before he answered. Her hair was scraped back in a severe ponytail. She wore grey jogging trousers and a baggy sweatshirt. There was no trace of the confident, smartly dressed government spokeswoman who had taken the lectern in the Kossuth Hall that morning next to the prime minister. She looked pale, miserable and exhausted. Their history was a mess, of love found, hopes dashed, miscommunications, all the tangles of a relationship that had crashed and burned. But still, they had a history. Perhaps a future too, a part of him still sometimes hoped. But now she was here with him, asking him for shelter and reassurance, which he would provide.
‘No, Eni. You are not in danger. Not while you are here with me.’
She put the holster down, then swallowed before she answered. ‘Thank you.’
Eniko had sounded almost tearful when she had called and asked if she could come over. He had agreed, of course, but now he wondered if it was such a good idea. She looked in severe need of a hug, and if he knew her, she would welcome it. A surprisingly large part of him wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and flow into whatever happened next. He was fairly sure that would lead them both into his bedroom. Another part of him told himself that that course of action, while momentarily pleasurable, would be an extremely bad idea. What might be a temporary moment of comfort for Eniko would trigger a large tranche of hopes and emotions in him that only now were finally fading. Maybe – maybe – he would explore that once this crisis was over. But for now, his emotions were the least of his priorities. There was the unfolding chaos outside, and there was his personal mission. He glanced over at the framed picture, staring out at him, a snapshot of Virag’s youthful beauty and innocence, frozen in time. Now he had a lead. Virag had died at Pal Dezeffy’s house. Reka’s warrant gave him the means to pursue it. And if things got really dangerous, as he sensed they were about to, he also had the Glock. He put the gun back down on the table and moved away from Eniko, slightly, but enough to be noticeable. ‘Don’t touch.’
She gave him a wan smile. ‘Don’t worry, Tazi. No touching.’ Eniko picked up her cup and took a drink of the tea. ‘Tazi, what’s going to happen? It feels like everything is out of control.’
‘It’s out of Reka’s control. But it’s very much under Pal’s control.’
‘I think you’re right. Who benefits from all this chaos? He does, most of all.’
‘You know I’ve got a special warrant from Reka Bardossy to investigate him?’
Eniko laughed. ‘Sure. Reka told me. I’m not sure why, though. I don’t think there’s anyone who knows more about Pal than her. They’ve been lovers on and off for almost twenty years. He was her first serious boyfriend, when they were still teenagers. They used to go to parties together in the Buda hills, in the fancy villas that the Communists took and never gave back. There were all sorts of rumours about them, back in the day.’
Balthazar thought for a moment, processing what Eniko said. ‘What kind of rumours?’
‘They were the elite, Tazi. They could do whatever they wanted and get away with it. If any laws were broken, there would be no repercussions. That did not stop in the early 1990s. I’m a rep—was a reporter. There were all sorts of rumours about dirty money. We were thinking of doing a big investigation on Reka at 555 when she was appointed minister of justice.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because our – the website’s – owner, who went to school and university and who once sat on the same national committee of the Young Communist League with Pal and Reka, and who subsidises 555.hu for reasons that are still not entirely clear, said he would have to reconsider his investment if we did.’ She put her cup down and gave Tazi a bright smile. ‘So we did not.’
‘Tell me about these rumours.’
‘I don’t know exactly, I just heard whispers. Doesn’t mean they are true. You know what a snake pit Hungarian politics is. Full of people hissing and slithering.’
‘Why don’t you tell me, and then I can decide.’
Eniko picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘Really, nothing specific. Money, corruption, the usual.’ She paused, then frowned as she reme
mbered. ‘But there was something strange today.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘It was when we went back to Parliament after the disastrous press conference. I was sitting at my desk and the door to Reka’s office was open. She was talking to someone and she sounded quite upset. At first I thought it was because of what had happened but then I could hear her, she was talking about something else.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know exactly, but she started raising her voice, saying, “Peter, this is a problem. You were there as well at that party. With me. Why the hell can’t you come back? If they invest, they invest. If not, not. I don’t care. I need you here now. Why is this coming up now, on top of everything else? It was twenty years ago. It was just a terrible accident. We were kids. This could derail everything.” Then she stopped speaking. Her husband is called Peter. She must have been talking to him. Then she said, “They told me the case was closed, that the file had been lost. So what does he need it for now?” Then she realised the door was open and walked over and closed it. That was it. I couldn’t hear anything else. You know these government office doors, they all have that thick padding on the outside so nobody can listen in.’
Balthazar sat up, alert now. ‘You are sure that she said that, about the case being closed, the file being lost, then she asked “why is he asking for it?”’
‘Yes. Completely. She sounded nervous. I thought it was strange, what with all the other things that are going on. Who cares about a police file from twenty years ago? Unless it’s something that could damage her now.’
‘And she said to her husband you were there, at that party as well?’
‘Yes, Tazi, I told you. I know what I heard.’ She blushed, reached into her black leather rucksack, took out a moleskin notebook and flipped through the pages before showing one to Balthazar. ‘I took notes while I listened. Dated and timed. I am still a reporter,’ she said, her voice a mixture of hope and defiance. He looked down at the page and the neat paragraphs of her handwriting, taking in the words.