by Adam LeBor
Balthazar looked at his watch. ‘It’s almost eleven o’clock.’
‘We need to find them now. There’s something planned for tomorrow, we think.’
‘Where? And who is we?’
‘We don’t know. We is me and our American and British friends.’
‘What leads do they have?’
‘Only one, I’m afraid.’
‘Which is?’
‘Gaspar.’
Bardossy home, Remetehegyi Way, 10.30 p.m.
Sandor Takacs walked over to Reka and took the television remote control from her hand. She was watching the same footage on the BBC that Balthazar and Eniko had just viewed, of Gyorgy Moscovitz, her erstwhile party ally, announcing the forthcoming no-confidence vote. Sandor pressed the off button and the screen went dark. Reka turned and looked up at Sandor, her face a mix of anger and resignation. ‘Is it over?’
‘How long have we known each other, Prime Minister?’ asked Sandor.
‘Reka, please, Sanyi bacsi.’
‘How long, kedves Reka?’
‘Since my grandfather plucked you from obscurity and brought you to the big city,’ said Reka, her voice affectionate.
Sandor leaned in, sounding mock-pompous. ‘The village of Kunhalom is not obscure. It is a regional metropolis. Of 722 people.’
‘Absolutely. Maybe I will move there. Next week.’
Sandor shook his head and sat down next to her. ‘I think you know that if we don’t win, you will be moving. But not to Kunhalom. To somewhere a lot less pleasant, at least if you stay in Hungary.’
‘I’m not going anywhere. Whatever happens will happen here: in Hungary, in Budapest, in Kossuth Square.’
‘Good. What did you say, yesterday, to Eniko, Prime Minister?’ He did not wait for her to answer. ‘“We’re going to war. Are you in?” So are you? Or are you giving up?’
She shrugged. ‘Is there any point? I can’t govern the space ten yards in front of my office. How can I run a country when I cannot control Kossuth Square?’
‘You’ve lost a battle, Reka. Not a war. Did you think this would be easy? That Pal would say, “OK, I lost, step this way for the PM’s office, Reka, and here’s how the coffee machine works?”’
Reka laughed, the first time that evening. ‘Maybe not. And the coffee machine is in the ante-room, not my office.’ She ran her hand through her hair, sat back and exhaled hard. ‘To go to war, we need a strategy.’
‘That’s why we are here,’ said Sandor. ‘Prime Minister,’ he added, emphasising each word.
Reka looked around at her remaining allies. There were three of them: Sandor Takacs, Akos Feher, her chief of staff, Antal Kondor, her chief of security, all sitting in the front room. Beneath the banter ran an undercurrent of tension. All three had nailed their colours to Reka’s mast. Sandor because he believed in her – and because he was the archetypal survivor. He had a genuine affection for Reka and her family. He also had extensive files on both the Bardossy family’s wealth and its sources, as well as a similar dossier on Pal. If Reka went down, he would, they all knew, find a way to avoid going down with her. Akos was there because, while he had grown to admire Reka in her brief week in power, he had nowhere else to go. The former point man for the corrupt passport scam run by Reka and Pal, he was thoroughly tainted. The tension was highest between him and Antal Kondor. Just a week earlier Antal had ordered Akos to take the fall for the passport scam, and to go to prison. When Akos protested, Antal had threatened his family. Events had overtaken both of them, but neither man had forgotten. Which was why just after Sandor had finished speaking, Reka gave her security chief a pointed look. Antal and Reka’s family too had their own history, which reached back to the early 1990s and the era of vadkapitalizmus. There were reasons why Antal had fled Hungary and joined the international brigade of the Croatian army, and none of them were good.
Antal nodded, turned to Akos, extended his hand and said, ‘I owe you an apology. I should never have said what I did about your family. It was inexcusable. But I hope you can forgive me.’
Akos leaned forward for a moment and took a long swig of his beer. He put the bottle down and said, ‘I can. And I suppose I will.’ The fact that Antal was a messenger for Reka, that she had decided he would go to prison, was left unsaid. Akos and Antal shook hands, and the atmosphere eased.
‘Thanks, gentlemen,’ said Reka. ‘Now let’s get to work.’
The Bardossy home was a large early 1940s villa on Remetehegyi Way, a residential road in District III, on the Buda side of the river. The house like many in the Hungarian capital, had once belonged to a Jewish family and had been nationalised after the Second World War, like most of the property of Hungary’s once-thriving bourgeoisie. The Bardossys had lived there since the 1950s when Reka’s grandfather, then the minister for heavy industry, had acquired it, simply by asking the state property agency to hand it over. Ministers’ requests then were not usually denied. Reka had recently employed a Swedish interior designer to remodel and redecorate the villa. The designer had executed her task with taste and style, working around the panoramic picture windows and long, curved balcony that looked out over the Danube and the Pest side of the city. The clean, minimalist lines were accentuated by the abstract works of art by modern Hungarian painters that hung on the pale cream walls.
Reka and Sandor were sitting on a black leather armchair, while the other two were perched on a matching sofa, all grouped around a 1980s Philippe Starck coffee table, a square of thick smoked glass resting on four legs, each topped with a black rubber ball. The table was one of Reka’s favourite pieces. At the moment it was crowded with two coffee pots, half a dozen empty or half-empty cups, bottles of beer, mineral water, a fruit basket, and several trays of gourmet sandwiches. The table was much stronger than it looked and the rubber balls gave it extra stability and resilience. It was, Reka thought, as good a model for her next moves as any. She looked around the room. All three were watching her expectantly. She had a choice to make: surrender or fight. If she fought, she still might lose, but at least she would be able to look herself in the mirror the next morning. Reka continued talking, ‘And to do that, to go to war, we need to understand what forces are in play, and which are available.’
Sandor said, ‘That’s more like it.’
Reka looked at the three men, one by one, before she spoke. ‘Sandor will brief us on the police, Antal on the security services and Akos on the political situation. Sandor, if you could start, please.’
Sandor leaned forward as he spoke, blushing noticeably. ‘I’m sorry to say that most of my colleagues, apart from the District V station, have decided to sit this one out. The guidance from the minister of the interior is that the police are neutral and will not intervene in a political dispute.’
Reka frowned, her voice tight with annoyance. ‘Even though laws are being broken?’
‘So far, they are quite minor. Civil transgressions.’
Akos said, ‘An illegal paramilitary force occupying Kossuth Square is a civil transgression?’
‘There’s no violence. Nobody is being beaten up. It’s all very Hungarian,’ said Sandor. ‘And the Gendarmerie has issued a statement that its members are simply doing their job and protecting the organs of state. In any case, as you know, the interior minister has issued an opinion that the executive order dissolving the Gendarmerie needs to be ratified by Parliament.’
Reka turned to Antal, who began speaking. ‘The security services are divided. Pal has plenty of allies on Falk Miksa Street. But so do you. They are like the police. They won’t come down on one side or the other until they see how the crisis is unfolding. The consensus is that they let your ally Anastasia Ferenczy and a couple of her colleagues try to help you. If Anastasia’s operation works, and it looks like she can bring down Pal, the rest of the security service will come out for you. If not, they will go with Pal.’ Antal picked up his coffee and took a long drink, before nodding appreciatively. ‘This is very good. Wher
e’s it from?’
‘It’s blended for me in a small shop around the corner,’ said Reka. ‘I’ll get you a lifetime’s supply if we win. And the army?’
Antal put his cup down. ‘I put some feelers out, to see if they would come out for you. They could surround the Gendarmes on Kossuth Square quickly and easily, and disarm them.’
‘So why don’t they?’ asked Reka. ‘We could wrap this up tonight.’
‘Same as the police. They want to back the winning side. And they are not sure who that is yet.’
Reka nodded, turned to her chief of staff. ‘Give us the political perspective, Akos.’
He nodded, leaned forward as he spoke. ‘It’s not good, I have to report. You’ve obviously seen all the media reporting, the Gendarmes on Kossuth Square, the far-right activists camping out. The optics are not favourable. Your own party is preparing a vote of no confidence on Monday. Most of the opposition, from the far right to the centre-left will vote with them. They want a new election. Everyone thinks they can win it. Everyone except the People’s Alliance.’
The People’s Alliance, a coalition of environmental, liberal and social activist groups, was the fifth largest in Parliament with twenty-seven MPs out of 199. It was not strong in parliamentary politics, but was strongly supported by voters who were heartily sick of the old left–right divide and the way the establishment of both sides sliced up politics and the economy between them.
Reka raised an eyebrow. ‘The People’s Alliance will vote for an old komcsi like me?’
Akos said, ‘Not exactly. You have some support there because you are a woman. They will abstain.’
Reka laughed. ‘So the police, the army and the security services are all sitting on their hands, waiting to see which way the wind blows, while all of Parliament will either vote to no-confidence me or abstain.’ She turned to the three men, ‘Gentlemen, if you want to leave now, I completely understand and no blame will be attached to any of you.’
Sandor said, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Akos said, ‘Me neither.’
‘Nor me,’ said Antal.
‘That’s good,’ said Reka. ‘Because I do have a plan.’
All three stared at her expectantly as she began talking.
TWENTY-THREE
Corner of Kis Diofa Street and Klauzal Square, 10.40 p.m.
‘Really? That’s it?’ Balthazar turned to Anastasia, his voice mildly incredulous. ‘Gaspar?’
Anastasia shrugged. ‘Yup.’ She raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. ‘And al-Nuri did die in your brother’s… establishment. In normal times that would be enough to bring him in for a lengthy interrogation. There are some other leads, but Gaspar is our best chance. He met Omar Aswan and Adnan Bashari here in Budapest, and recently.’
‘But he has already told you what he knows, which is not very much.’
‘There must be more. He probably doesn’t even know what he knows, or how important it might be. We’ll try again. We have to find these people, Balthazar. Gaspar’s at home now. Call him, please, and tell him we are coming over and he should stay there.’
Balthazar dialled Gaspar’s number. Anastasia was correct. Gaspar was at home. The two brothers chatted briefly. Gaspar informed Balthazar that Laszlo, their father, was also there. Balthazar hung up. He would deal with that once they got to Jozsef Street. ‘OK,’ he said to Anastasia. ‘Let’s go.’
Anastasia switched the engine on and glanced in the mirror. She and Balthazar both saw the Gendarmerie SUV speed up and pull in directly behind the Opel as she pulled out and turned right. The route to Jozsef Street took them to the very end of Klauzal Street, where it met Rakoczi Way, across onto Blaha Lujza Square via a circuitous turn through a car park, then right again onto the Grand Boulevard, past Rakoczi Square, then a final turn onto Jozsef Street. It should be a fifteen-minute drive, perhaps less in favourable traffic conditions.
Klauzal Street was a narrow, one-way thoroughfare, barely wide enough for three cars. Like its neighbours, the street was in a rapidly changing state of flux as legions of hipsters moved in. They drove past several blocks of drab grey-fronted pre-war apartment houses. The paint was peeling from grubby window frames, the ground-floor shop fronts locked up for the night, protected by rusty metal bars, the walls covered with graffiti. On the next corner, on the ground floor of a carefully restored art nouveau apartment building, the newly-opened Boho bar beckoned. Its retro 1970s typography offered several dozen craft beers while a blackboard listed six types of zsiros-kenyer – lard-bread, the cheapest snack available – on as many types of bread, including gluten-free. The zsiros-kenyer was ironic, of course, but there had been plenty of times in Balthazar’s childhood when that had served as supper for the whole family. Still, even he had to smile when he read that the lard was sourced from organically reared animals and there was also, somehow, a vegan option. Perhaps he could bring Sarah and Alex here on Saturday to stop by for a quick snack. But when he looked in the driver’s mirror, he stopped smiling. The Gendarmerie vehicle was still right behind them.
‘You know we’re being followed,’ Balthazar said.
‘Yup,’ said Anastasia, sounding unconcerned. She quickly glanced at the new GPS screen attached to the dashboard. A blue dot represented her car slowly moving along Klauzal Street. She looked ahead. The end of Klauzal Street, leading onto Rakoczi Way and the southern end of Blaha Lujza Square, was just visible, a few hundred yards or so ahead.
Anastasia slowed as they approached the corner of Wesselenyi Street, the first of two cross-streets before they reached Rakoczi Way, losing more speed than seemed necessary to Balthazar. She then stopped the Opel just before the crossroads. A dirty blue Nissan saloon with a very noisy engine coughing out plumes of exhaust smoke pulled up at the end of Wesselenyi Street. Anastasia revved the engine of the Opel. As soon as the Nissan indicated to turn right onto Klauzal Street, she jammed her foot down on the accelerator. The Opel skidded forward, the Nissan jumped out then slid in directly behind the Opel. The black SUV was now behind the Nissan, engulfed in grey clouds of exhaust fumes.
‘Interesting move. Who’s in the blue car?’ asked Balthazar.
Anastasia said nothing, slowed down, reached into the driver’s-side door pocket and took out a burner telephone. Balthazar looked down. It was primed to send an empty text message. ‘Press the green button,’ she said.
‘That’s it?’ asked Balthazar.
Anastasia glanced at the GPS screen. There was one more cross-street to go, Dohany Street, about thirty yards ahead, a few seconds away. ‘Please, Balthazar, just do as I ask.’
Balthazar shrugged and pressed the send button. He looked in the mirror as a couple of seconds later the blue Nissan’s engine sounded even louder, there was a crunch of missed gears, and the car juddered and shook, then stopped amid great gusts of oily smoke. The Gendarmerie SUV stopped a few inches behind the Nissan, barely in time. The parked cars on either side of the vehicles blocked any passage forward. The bald Gendarme opened the door of the SUV and marched up to the Nissan and began knocking angrily on the window. The driver, tall, pale and stooped from too much time spent in front of computer monitors, sat inside, supremely unconcerned, then called up a number on his mobile phone. A couple of seconds later Anastasia’s telephone rang. She put it on speaker.
‘Sorry, boss. I think the car’s gone for good.’
‘Nice work, Szilard. Don’t worry. It was a write-off anyway.’
Anastasia drove along Klauzal Street, passed Dohany Street, then pulled out into Rakoczi Way, a six-lane thoroughfare that reached from Keleti Station, through downtown, onto the Elizabeth Bridge. She looked left and right and made a sharp left turn, her tyres screeching. Rakoczi Way was near empty, giving her a clear run to Blaha Lujza Square. Then they both saw why. The crossroads, one of the most important in downtown Budapest, had been closed. A line of Gendarmerie vehicles blocked the whole width of Rakoczi Way and both sides of the Grand Boulevard where the tw
o roads intersected. On each side of the square, there was enough space for a single car to pass through, flanked by uniformed Gendarmes checking drivers’ papers and identities. Balthazar turned around and looked down Rakoczi Way in the other direction towards Astoria. The same line of black vehicles was clearly visible on the corner by the Astoria Hotel.
‘We’re blocked at both ends,’ he told Anastasia.
She nodded, slammed the brakes on so hard the Opel skidded, then executed a perfect three-point turn, driving the wrong way down Rakoczi Way in the face of oncoming traffic, barely missing a number-seven bus, whose angry driver hooted long and loud. Balthazar braced himself as she spun the wheel around and sped across the car park, tyres screeching as the car turned into Somogyi Bela Street, a back road as narrow as Klauzal Street. Balthazar glanced at Anastasia, her face locked in fierce concentration, then at the GPS screen. Somogyi Bela Street ran parallel with the Grand Boulevard and from there they would cross Gutenberg Square, then turn onto Jozsef Street. They sped past the second-hand clothes store, the 500-forint shop where everything on sale was marked at that price, the dark, narrow borozo where wine was served by ladle from aluminium tureens, and the cheap lunch place where locals filled up on starchy noodles and fozelek, flour-thickened vegetable stews.
They did not notice the grey, dirty Volkswagen parked near the end of Somogyi Bela Street, just before Gutenberg Square, and nor was there any reason for them to do so. Anastasia’s was a decent plan and might have worked had not Somogyi Bela Street been blocked at the entrance to Gutenberg Square by three Gendarmerie SUVs. As soon as she saw the line of black vehicles parked by the curved pavement around the Rabbinical Seminary, Anastasia slowed the car. The street was too narrow to execute a three-point turn, so she slammed the Opel into reverse. At that point, just as the Opel started to move backwards, a short, stocky man stepped out of the grey Volkswagen and threw a spiked chain across the road. Anastasia was moving too fast to stop in time. She drove backwards onto the metal prongs, which shredded the car’s tyres. The Opel skidded to the left, the metal wheel rims screaming as they met the pavement, then hit the side of the kerb, where the vehicle finally stopped. For a second she watched the Gendarmes running down the street towards them. She pulled out her phone, sent a text message, then deleted it.