District VIII

by Adam LeBor

  She sat up, placed a thousand forints on the table and handed him a piece of paper with a telephone number written on it. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, Balthazar. Call this number when you have the SIM card. No need to say anything, just call and hang up.’ She looked hard at him. ‘And tell your brother to get out of the travel business.’

  He watched her walk out, her stride rapid and decisive, then glanced down at the piece of paper. Balthazar smiled as he saw that the last six digits spelled out his birthday. Neither of them noticed a bald, middle-aged man standing by the window of a second-floor flat on the other side of the square, watching Anastasia as she left the restaurant.

  TWELVE

  Bardossy home, Remetehegyi Way, 2.00 p.m.

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Reka.

  Akos Feher sat back on the white leather sofa, making himself comfortable. ‘Somewhere safe.’

  ‘Safe for who?’

  Feher smiled, enjoying the moment. ‘For me, very. For you, that depends.’ Fie stretched out his legs and placed his socked feet on the coffee table. ‘May I?’

  ‘I would prefer if you did not. It’s delicate.’ The Philippe Starck table dated from the 1980s. It was one of her favourite pieces, a thick square of smoked glass with round edges resting on four legs, each topped with a black rubber ball.

  ‘OK. It’s your house.’ Feher smiled, lifted his legs back off the glass and settled down on the sofa, his point made.

  ‘Would you like some coffee, Akos?’ she asked, making sure to keep her voice pleasant and steady. A crystal carafe of mineral water stood in the centre, next to a French coffee press and two bowls, one of fruit and another filled with biscuits. A MacBook laptop stood next to the food and drink, the open browser frozen on a YouTube video. Reka had dealt with plenty of unpleasant people during her legal and political career, but never in her own home. This current mess was, though, nearly entirely of her own making. Feher nodded, almost smirking now. Reka poured him a cup, resisted the urge to throw it in his face, and handed it to him instead. At least she had asked him to take his shoes off when he had come in.

  They were sitting in the front lounge of Reka’s home on Remetehegyi Way in District III, on the Buda side of the river. The Swedish interior designer had redecorated the large 1940s villas with taste and style, making the most of the curved balcony and picture windows that gave a panoramic view over the Danube and Pest. Bright summer sunlight streamed in. Abstract works of modern art by Hungarian painters hung on the pale cream walls. Reka was perched on a curved 1930s black leather armchair, her legs tucked underneath her. She had made a mistake last night. A major mistake. She should have told Antal to force Feher to hand over the heel. But she had been in shock and it’d been all she could do to focus on getting rid of the body. So now she had another problem to sort out. She definitely needed to talk to Feher, and they could hardly be seen in public together, especially considering the nature of the discussion.

  Reka looked him up and down. This was the first time she had seen him out of the office. She never socialised with colleagues, especially those who were involved in her darker operations. Feher was dressed casually in a blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt and navy skinny-cut chinos. His blue boating shoes stood by the front door. He looked fit and well and seemed relaxed. That was one reason why she had chosen him to be the insider for the passport operation. He was presentable, intelligent and calm under pressure. But she sensed his nervousness underneath. They both knew that their fates depended on this meeting. Feher wanted his life back. Reka wanted the heel of her Louboutin. They needed to trust each other. But long before Akos Feher had appeared in her life, Reka had learned the cost of trusting the wrong person.

  She sipped her coffee, a mix of Colombian and Ethiopian beans that were hand-blended for her by a small shop in a nearby Buda shopping mall. The caffeine invigorated her. This was her house. Akos Feher worked for her. His fate was in her hands. He would do as she bade. She asked, ‘Were you there all the time?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you help?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did nothing. You watched in the shadows. You would have let me die.’

  ‘I helped myself. Why would I intervene? You wanted to make me your fall guy. To destroy my life. To send me to prison. Your attacker was solving my problem.’ He paused, sipped his drink. ‘This is very good coffee. Actually, I was going to. That’s why I had the iron bar. I found it nearby. I was going to hit him with it while he was trying to strangle you. I draw the line at murder.’ His face turned serious. ‘But you don’t.’

  Reka was indignant. ‘It was self-defence. I had no choice.’

  ‘I don’t mean him. He deserved it. I mean your thug, Antal, the one that you sent to me. Mr Clean-up. He threatened the life of my child. Is that how you work now, Madame Minister? By threatening kids?’

  Reka started with surprise. ‘No, of course not. What do you mean?’

  For a moment Feher was back on the banks of the Danube, as Antal’s hand slid down the child-sized metal shoe at the Holocaust memorial. ‘He made it clear when I met him that he spoke for you. Then he made it even clearer that if I did not do what you wanted, he would kill my child.’

  Reka’s eyes widened. Even in her world there were limits. And this went beyond them. ‘Akos, please believe me. I didn’t tell him to do that. I didn’t know anything about that. I’m sorry. Whatever you... decide, your family will be safe. They are not in danger. I give you my word.’

  Feher snorted. ‘But you were ready to let me take the fall?’

  Reka nodded. ‘Yes, I was. We both play hardball when we have to.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Like you are now. And, kedves Akosom, my dear Akos, you are hardly the innocent here. You knew the risks. You were happy to take your cut. To enjoy your loft apartment downtown, your BMW and your Porsche, long-weekend and summer breaks at your Balaton-fured apartment. None of which could ever be paid for by your civil servant’s salary. If I go down, you come with me.’

  ‘Why? I didn’t kill anyone. You did.’

  She looked down at her hands, her nails, now clipped as short as possible, her skin stained brown where she had dabbed the cuts and abrasions with Betadine. ‘But you were there. You obstructed the course of justice. That’s a serious offence.’

  Feher was indignant. ‘How?’

  ‘One, you witnessed an attempted murder and did not inform the authorities. Two, you witnessed a killing in self-defence and did not inform the authorities. Three, you witnessed a body being illegally removed and the destruction and contamination of a crime scene and did not inform the authorities. More than that, you have in your possession the key piece of evidence.’

  ‘But you killed the man, and organised the clean-up.’ Feher paused for a moment. ‘So what we have here is mutually assured destruction. Two unusable nuclear options.’

  Reka laughed. ‘Something like that. So why don’t we find a way to disarm and move forward?’

  ‘Who was the dead man, anyway?’

  ‘A Gendarme.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  She leaned forward, turned the computer to face Feher, and pressed play. ‘I checked the Gendarmerie’s personnel files. Watch this. It’s the same guy. They don’t do anything without Palkovics’s say-so.’ The video of Balthazar’s fight at Keleti started. Feher watched until the end. ‘Balthazar Kovacs. That’s quite a pounding he took. Why did it stop so abruptly?’

  Reka looked away, suddenly embarrassed. ‘That’s a Grade One. The victim is to be taken down to the floor, suffer bruises and moderate lacerations but no broken bones or lasting damage. Kovacs was knocked out for a few seconds, but they weren’t supposed to do that.’

  Akos looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. ‘You mean there are...’ he asked, his voice incredulous.

  Reka exhaled hard. ‘Instructions, yes. Quite precise instructions. There are five grades of beatings. Five is terminal. It’s all in the Gendarmes’ manual, l
ike their interrogation techniques, based on the KGB’s methods. It’s highly classified.’

  ‘But you knew about this manual?’

  ‘Of course. I am the minister of justice.’

  ‘It’s revolting.’

  ‘Yes. It is. But it won’t last much longer.’

  Feher sat back, thought for a moment. She looked remarkably composed, considering she had fought off a killer last night, killed him instead, then disposed of the body. She wore a loose pair of cream linen trousers and a tight, pink, long-sleeved cotton top. It was too warm for the weather, but doubtless covered up the scrapes and scratches. Her hair was tied back and she wore no make-up on her face, but the foundation cream around the base of her neck did not quite cover the red line. She was right, of course. He had been a willing participant in the passport operation from the start and had enjoyed all the profits that followed. Now that the dead Gendarme had been disposed of – he had no idea how, but had no doubt that Antal and his friends would have taken care of the job – the heel was the only loose end.

  But the heel was also his insurance. Celeste Johnson, MI6, and the terrorist connection would not go away just because Reka Bardossy had killed whoever had been sent to kill her. The exchange was obvious. He would hand over the heel. She would make someone else the scapegoat. But what if he handed it over and then she reneged on the terms? And he was the only witness to the killing. For now, he believed Reka when she said that his family was safe. But what if he himself was not? He was sure that she had hidden all the details of the passport operation somewhere safe. Perhaps he needed to do the same, let it be known that if anything happened to him, they would be released. A glimmer of a smile flickered over his face... or sent straight to Celeste Johnson. He needed to think this through. He put his cup down on the table. ‘What do I get if I give you the heel? Where do we go from here?’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re partners now.’

  ‘Really? So we are splitting the profits fifty-fifty?’

  Reka laughed. ‘I like your chutzpah, Akos. But there won’t be any more profits on passports. That operation is done now. I know you met with Celeste Johnson at the British embassy. How much do they know?’

  ‘Almost everything. That the passports come from this ministry. That terrorists are using them. That bribes are being paid. She wanted me to spy on you and whoever else is involved, report to her.’

  Reka’s feeling of dread deepened. This was worse than she had imagined. ‘And you said?’

  ‘I’d think about it.’

  ‘What do you want, Akos?’

  For a moment he did not answer. He looked through the picture windows, at Budapest spread out below them. Paragliders floated in the distance, riding the thermals over the hills. ‘A written guarantee of immunity, that anything I did was authorised by you as the minister of justice as part of a law-enforcement operation. Signed by you.’

  Reka frowned. She hated signing anything, let alone a confession of guilt in criminal activities. She drank some more coffee, thought for a moment. In fact, it might be feasible. She could backdate it, then spin it with the Brits that the ministry had been running a sting operation with the people-smugglers to catch the Islamists. In fact, it was more than feasible. It could be a rather clever way out, but she would not let Feher know that so quickly. ‘I’ll think about it. What else?’ There would, she knew, be more.

  ‘My Porsche convertible.’

  Reka gave him a wry look. Boys and their toys. This was a minor matter. ‘Perhaps there is a way of importing it without too much paperwork. Or taxes.’

  ‘Ministry plates?’

  Reka laughed. ‘Don’t push it, Akos.’

  ‘The Balatonfured apartment?’

  Also solvable. ‘It will be transferred to your child’s name at the Land Registry. Nobody can take it from him. Anything else?’

  ‘The most important thing. A fall guy. Who is not me.’

  Reka smiled. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You prepare the paperwork. Immunity, the car and the Balatonfured flat. Then you get the heel.’

  Reka leaned forward, proffered her hand. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Akos shook her hand. She sat back, poured herself some more coffee. Would he stick to the deal? She thought so. Cars, holiday homes, even immunity were peripheral matters. What mattered was the fall guy. That plan was already part-formed in her head. It was clear, after this conversation, that it was her only option. But in order for it to work, she needed to see two people as soon as possible. The first, she was confident, would not be a problem. But Celeste Johnson would be considerably harder to persuade.

  ‘Who’s the lucky guy?’ asked Feher.

  He laughed when she said a name. It was a high-risk idea, very dangerous and quite beautiful in its simplicity – if she could make it work.

  Bajnok bar, Mikzath Kalman Square, 2.00 p.m.

  Across the river, in a backstreet in District VIII, somewhere far less salubrious than Reka Bardossy’s villa, Balthazar was asking the same opening question.

  Eniko leaned back, her arms crossed. ‘Where is what? Nice to see you too, Tazi. The afternoon I spent looking after you yesterday – you’re very welcome. Yes, I got home fine last night. Of course, I was delighted to get your text, asking me to meet you here with less than an hour’s notice. No, I didn’t have anything else to do this Saturday morning.’

  Eniko’s feistiness, her refusal to back down, was one of the first things that had attracted him to her. But he was a cop now, not a former boyfriend or even a platonic friend. And he needed to act the part, because they both knew that she had committed a crime. They were sitting in Bajnok, meaning ‘champion’, a gloomy bar on the corner of Mikzath Kalman Square in District VIII. The square itself had been recently gentrified, with new trees planted in the centre, modern grey-steel park benches, the facades of the nineteenth-century apartment buildings scrubbed and repainted. The side streets, dark, narrow, spattered with graffiti, were fighting a rearguard action with some success.

  Nowhere more than Bajnok. There were two rooms, one in the front that looked out onto the street, and a smaller one in the back, where Balthazar and Eniko were sitting. The owner, Csongi, stood behind the bar in the front room, keeping watch. Csongi was a former flyweight boxer, a childhood friend of Gaspar’s. The walls, floor and ceiling were varying shades of brown, stained with decades’ worth of nicotine. Framed photographs and faded news stories about Csongi’s fights provided splashes of colour. An array of cups, each carefully shined, stood on a small shelf above the cash desk. It was, Balthazar thought, as safe a place as any for the conversation he needed to have, and not somewhere that Eniko frequented or where she would feel in control.

  Balthazar sipped his coffee. Like that served in Sandor Takacs’s office, it was thick and tepid, strong, but not too bitter. The kind of brew he had grown up with and still preferred. ‘Thank you for looking after me yesterday, Eniko. It was good of you to give up your afternoon. And I appreciate that. But you still have something of mine. And I need it back.’

  He put his cup down, stopped talking, let the silence hang in the air as he kept looking at Eniko. It was an old policeman’s trick. Make the accusation, then let the suspect fill the gap. Eniko, he was sure, used the technique as well during interviews with tricky or obstructive sources. But it was irresistible, particularly when the other party had done something wrong. Eniko was looking especially pretty today. She wore a sleeveless white blouse and a pair of cream pedal pushers. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had very little make-up, except plain lip gloss and a light touch of mascara. Perhaps she was going to have lunch with Tamas Nemeth. He pushed that thought aside.

  Eniko caught Balthazar scrutinising her, was about to smile, then thought better of it. She looked around. ‘This is a cool place. Why didn’t you ever bring me here? It’s really authentic.’

  ‘Because then you would come back not with me, but with all your hipster friends.
And then it wouldn’t be very authentic any more.’

  Eniko winced. ‘Mee-ow. How are your bruises? Are you feeling better or worse than yesterday?’

  He stretched his left arm out, palm up, ignoring the flash of pain the movement triggered in his back and shoulders. ‘The SIM card?’

  ‘Why did you ask me here if you don’t want to talk to me?’

  ‘I do want to talk to you. About the SIM card that you took from my pocket.’

  She glanced down at the table for a second. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, Tazi.’ Her voice was flat.

  ‘I think you do. While I was asleep yesterday you went through my trouser pockets and took out an evidence bag that held a blue-and-white SIM card.’

  She kept staring at the table before she looked up and answered. ‘Why do you think that? You were in a fight. Anything could have happened. It probably fell out at Keleti.’

  ‘It did not fall out of my trousers.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I jammed it deep inside the ticket pocket. Because I remember checking that it was still there when we were in the taxi going home.’ He leaned forward, his voice serious. ‘This is not some kind of journalistic adventure, Eniko. A man is dead. This is a murder investigation. And you have the prime piece of evidence. I could, should have you arrested...’

  She slid her iPhone across the table. ‘The number for the police is II2.’

  Balthazar picked up the handset. ‘Good idea. I’ll need a female officer to search you, before you are taken into custody.’

  Eniko’s eyes widened. ‘You wouldn’t...’