by Adam LeBor
The train slowed, then came to a halt between the stations. Eniko glanced at her phone again. Still no reception. Was someone blocking the signal? Or maybe she was being paranoid. She looked around, damped down her anxiety. Green fields stretched into the distance. A stork flew overheard, towards the riverbank. The young woman looked out of the window, raised her right hand and slowly scratched her neck. A loudspeaker crackled in the carriage roof, apologising for the delay, which was for ‘technical reasons.’ Eniko watched her stand up, looked out of the window again. Two large figures dressed in black were walking rapidly towards the train.
FOURTEEN
Rakoczi Square, 2.50 p.m.
Balthazar stood on the empty pavement outside the Tito Grill, took off his Ray-Bans, hooked them into the neck of his T-shirt, and glanced up. A CCTV camera on the outer wall pointed at the door. Where was everybody? Normally on a Saturday lunchtime, especially in the heat of an Indian summer, the place would be packed, with a queue of customers snaking back into the square. But the restaurant was shuttered and silent, the tables and chairs chained up and gathered together. A red light glowed softly underneath the CCTV lens. Balthazar stared at the camera and knocked once. After several seconds the door opened a fraction.
‘Are you alone?’ a male voice asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied.
The door opened wider and Balthazar stepped inside. A man in his thirties moved away from the door. He was short and wiry, with green eyes and two days’ worth of beard. He wore a white T-shirt and a shoulder holster that held a Glock pistol. ‘Hallo, Memed,’ said Balthazar. They two men shook hands, and Memed gestured that Balthazar should walk across the room.
Goran Draganovic was just where Balthazar expected him to be, sitting in the far corner of the room, flanked on either side by his other two lieutenants: Vladimir, from Belgrade, and Anton, from Zagreb. Memed was a Bosnian Muslim from Sarajevo. The old multinational Yugoslavia was gone forever, but here, at least, it lived on, in Budapest’s underworld. All three men wore the same shoulder holster. An Uzi machine pistol lay on the table in front of them, next to a large, full ashtray, half a dozen coffee cups, and two halfempty packets of Marlboro red cigarettes. A laptop showed the feed from the CCTV camera on the street. A clear-glass wine bottle, three quarters full of a transparent liquid, and half a dozen thick shot glasses stood by the computer.
Goran beckoned Balthazar to his table. The two men hugged, Balthazar trying not to wince at the contact. Goran gestured at Balthazar to sit down, which he did. Goran was in his late forties, over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp cheekbones, black hair, bushy eyebrows that met in the middle, and deep-set blue eyes. He had lived in Budapest for twenty years or so. Unlike many of his Serbian compatriots, Goran was not voluble. Balthazar knew he had served in both the Yugoslav and Bosnian Serb armies. Goran was a crack shot, often practised on a shooting range outside the city. There were rumours that he had been a sniper. Balthazar had asked him once about the wars. Goran had changed the subject immediately. Balthazar had not asked again.
Goran lit a cigarette, looked Balthazar up and down. ‘ Kak o’si? How are you?’ he asked, through a thick plume of smoke.
Balthazar had picked up a few words of Serbian on a trip to Belgrade, to investigate the murder of a Budapest gangster with Balkan connections, a few years before. ‘Dobro, hvala. Fine, thanks. Better than I look. The painkillers help.’
‘That’s good, because you look pretty rough.’ He gestured at the bottle on the table. ‘That’s the best painkiller. My grandfather’s sliva. He makes it from his own plums. Want some?’
Balthazar shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Goran sat down. ‘No serious damage?’
Balthazar pulled out a chair, sat down and shook his head. ‘Only to my pride.’
‘I saw it on YouTube. You did pretty well, five against one. It could have been much worse. They stopped very quickly once you were down. Did you get the message?’
Balthazar smiled. ‘What message?’ He glanced at the Uzi. ‘Expecting visitors?’
‘We already had some. They might come back.’
Goran Draganovic was the king of the region’s people-smugglers. Born in Subotica, in the far north of Serbia, his family had been smugglers for centuries, outwitting every kind of authority, from the Ottomans and the Austro-Hungarians to Tito’s border guards. He now operated a network that reached from Bulgaria, Macedonia and Serbia into Hungary and western Europe. Goran was not a trafficker: he did not transport young women who applied for jobs as barmaids and waitresses, then found themselves sexually enslaved to pay off a debt that could never be paid off. Rather, he considered himself a kind of travel agent. The posters around the bar advertised the destinations he offered. Anyone who paid for the journey but was stopped by border officials or did not make it was offered a full refund, or another attempt, until they got through.
Goran had worked with Gaspar, Balthazar’s brother, for years, bringing young women up from the Balkans and the former Soviet states to Budapest. Some stayed to work in Gaspar’s brothels or hostess bars, others went further west. Both men soon realised that the migrant crisis was a fantastic business opportunity. The Hungarian-Serbian border, the frontier to the Schengen zone of visa-free travel and western Europe, was now, in effect, completely open. Every day, hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people just walked through into Austria. In response, Austria had reinstituted border controls. But local people – or those the border guards believed to be locals – were rarely checked. Gaspar provided the clothes for the migrants to dress as Roma, Goran took care of the transport and the bribes for the border guards.
Balthazar looked around, asked Goran, ‘Where is Biljana?’
Biljana was the manager, a vivacious Serb in her late thirties, who kept the food and drink flowing smoothly even when every table was full. ‘I gave her the day off. And everyone else. So what brings you back to Chekago?’
Balthazar took out his phone, showed the photo of Simon Nazir to Goran. ‘His name is Simon Nazir. Did you know him?’
Goran picked up the bottle, gestured at Balthazar. ‘Sure you don’t want some?’
Balthazar shook his head. Goran poured himself a small measure. ‘Is this official, brat, brother?’ he asked, his voice wary.
‘Yes and no.’
‘Meaning?’
‘A man was murdered. Once I catch the killer, he will be officially charged and sent to prison.’
Goran knocked back his shot. ‘But you are working unofficially?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s easier that way.’
‘Because someone doesn’t want you to be on it all.’
Balthazar smiled. ‘That’s about it.’
‘That someone being?’
‘Attila Ungar. The Gendarmes have the case.’
Goran nodded. ‘That means the prime minister. Why does he care about a dead migrant?’
‘That is a very good question. So can we talk? Unofficially?’
Goran nodded. ‘OK. I never met your guy. But his name was on our list. Gaspar must have already told you that.’
‘Fat Vik did.’ Balthazar took out his notebook and showed the page with the telephone number to Goran. ‘Do you know this number?’
‘Have you called it?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to show it to you first.’
‘It’s good you did. It’s Black George’s.’
‘That figures. I saw his guys outside on the square. Three of them. Very cool, very confident. They are breaking the terms of the agreement.’
Goran said, ‘They’ve been here all week, dogs pissing in their corners.’
‘But these are also your corners. Does Gaspar know?’
‘Of course. He is ignoring it. He thinks it is just a provocation.’
‘But you don’t,’ said Balthazar.
‘No. Not when so much money is at stake and we are all in the same busines
s.’
‘What do you plan to do?’
‘Either we go to war, or we surrender. There are no other options.’
Balthazar looked at the bottle. ‘Maybe a small one.’ It was three hours since he had taken his painkillers. A small shot would not hurt and would certainly help oil the conversation. Serbs, like many Balkan men, were much more open over a bottle. Goran poured Balthazar a shot and slid the glass across. Balthazar took a sip, felt the warm glow as the spirit slid down the back of his throat, the taste of the plums expand across his mouth. ‘Dobro. Vrlo dobro. Good. Very good.’
‘Thanks. I will tell Grandpa.’
Goran slowly exhaled, shot Balthazar a knowing look. ‘Any other reason, apart from our long friendship, why I should help?’
‘To ensure a profitable business climate.’
‘This business won’t stay profitable for long.’
‘Why not? You have hundreds, thousands of potential customers.’
Goran said, ‘We also have a new partner. Not one I invited to join us.’
‘Who?’
‘Your friend, Attila Ungar. The Gendarmes are setting up a new border protection unit. They have off-road vehicles, night-yision goggles, heat sensors, all state of the art. And they are on a bonus scheme: 5,000 forints for every migrant they detain.’
Balthazar frowned. ‘That’s new.’
‘Very. It starts on Monday.’
‘What does Ungar want from you?’
‘Twenty per cent – of our total charge. Or we get hunted. We charge five hundred euros a crossing and on a good day we move several dozen people. After expenses, we probably clear around two or three hundred euros per person. So we instantly lose a good part of our profits. That’s his opening shot. You can be sure that it will increase.’
‘That’s why you and I should cooperate.’ Balthazar leaned forward. ‘First the Gendarmes shut down Simon Nazir’s case. Then they will shut down the murder squad. Then the police. All that will be left is the Gendarmes. And then they will shut you down.’
Goran said nothing, stubbed out his cigarette. He opened a new window on his laptop, turned it around so Balthazar could see the screen.
The monitor showed the CCTV footage of the restaurant’s dark and cramped rear office. There were two small coffee cups on the table. Goran sat at the table, another man in front of him. Hejazi. Even in the dim light it was clear that the top of his left ear was gnarled and discoloured.
‘Mahmoud Hejazi,’ said Balthazar. ‘Why was he here?’
Goran looked at Balthazar in surprise. ‘You know him?’
‘I know who he is. I have never met him. They call him the Gardener.’
‘Do they? We had a different name for him.’ Goran looked at Balthazar, puzzled. ‘How do you know who he is?’
Balthazar thought for a couple of seconds before he replied. Goran should know who he was dealing with. ‘Hejazi is an Islamic radical. He’s on watch lists in London, Berlin, even America. Some of his friends have been turning up in Britain, flying in on Hungarian passports.’ He turned to Goran. ‘What did he want?’
‘Austria. No dressing up. It had to be completely untraceable, he said. Through the green border, the fields.’
‘So? You do that all the time.’
‘Not for him.’
‘Good. This is way beyond business as usual, brat. Why not?’
A cloud passed across Goran’s face. ‘In the war, in Bosnia, I was captured by a unit of Mujahideen, foreign soldiers, Arabs mostly, Islamic radicals fighting with the Bosnian army. They held us in a POW camp in Zenica. It was supposed to be under the control of the Bosnian army, but the Mujahideen were in control. We called him the Butcher. He executed two of my friends. With a knife. I was due to be next, the following day. The Red Cross arrived that morning. We were swapped in a prisoner exchange. So the Butcher is now the Gardener. Whatever he is called, I told him we had more customers than we could handle. That we could not help him.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He asked if I had any partners, anyone else who could help. I told him I didn’t know anyone I could recommend, but he should ask around. The side streets around Keleti are packed with smugglers.’
‘Did he remember you?’
Goran pressed the play button. Hejazi slid his cup across the table, said, ‘The coffee in Zenica was better.’ The footage showed him walking out of the door.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Balthazar.
‘I wish I knew. He needs to get across the border. We won’t take him. The passports won’t work any more. He won’t trust the guys in the side streets around Keleti. So that leaves one option.’
‘Black George,’ said Balthazar.
‘I am seeing him tonight. He is putting on one of his shows. Do you want to come? You can ask him yourself.’
Balthazar drained the last drops of sliva from his glass. ‘Sure. Can you get me in?’
Goran nodded. ‘If I let them know in advance.’
Balthazar thought for several seconds. ‘Why do you think government officials are selling passports that end up in the hands of Islamic radicals?’
Goran laughed. ‘Is that a serious question? Money. Why else? Lots of money, more than they know what to do with. They don’t care where the passports end up. They just care about getting paid.’
Goran took out his iPhone, called up the Magyar Vilag website on his browser, and handed it to Balthazar. He had not seen the newspaper yet or checked its website. The home page showed a photograph of Pal Palkovics shaking hands with a tall Arab man wearing a pristine white dishdasha and headdress at a reception at the Buda Castle. The headline read: ‘Prime Minister Welcomes Gulf Investors.’ Balthazar speed-read the article. It detailed how a consortium of investors from Qatar, Kuwait and Abu Dhabi had promised to invest the equivalent of billions of euros in Hungary, to build new roads and railways, new docks and a port on the Danube. The investment package was the biggest in Hungary’s history. It would create tens of thousands of jobs. At the same time, the residence bond scheme was to be expanded and accelerated for senior management and officials involved in the investment package.
‘Check the last paragraph,’ said Goran.
Balthazar read through until the end. The investors would also have the right to nominate friends, relatives and associates for permanent residence. This was new. He remembered his conversation with Anastasia that morning, her explanation of how the Gulf investors wanted to use Hungary as a transit route to Europe, where they would dump their Islamic radicals. The residence bond scheme would allow the Gulf investors to set up a forward base in Budapest for anyone they wanted to bring in, then move them westwards.
Csepel Island, 3.25 p.m.
Attila Ungar carefully tore the page from Eniko’s black Moleskine notebook and placed it on the table between them. She looked down at the lined yellow sheet. Her handwriting spelled out his name.
‘Hallo, Eniko,’ Ungar said, his voice friendly and soothing. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again.’
‘Is it?’
Ungar smiled. ‘Well, I think so.’
Eniko suppressed a shiver. She had met Ungar several times while she was with Balthazar. She had never liked him, even less when Balthazar had told her about Ungar’s working methods. ‘Why am I here?’
Ungar leaned forward, pushed the sheet towards her. ‘Why is my name in your notebook?’
Eniko shrugged, told herself to remain calm. This was not good. Nobody knew she was here. But she had rights. Hungary was not a country where inconvenient journalists were swept off the streets and disappeared. Not yet, anyway. She looked down at her phone. There was still no reception. She asked, ‘Are you blocking the signal? Why doesn’t my phone work?’
Ungar laughed. ‘Who knows? I’ll raise it with the phone company. They are always keen to help.’ His face turned hard. ‘I’ll ask again. Why is my name in your notebook?’
She kept her voice steady. ‘I’m a journalist. There ar
e all sorts of things in my notebook. Which you have no right to look through or read, by the way.’
Ungar’s voice turned colder. ‘ Eniko. I’m not a cop, like Tazi. I am a Gendarme. We can do whatever we want, by order of the prime minister. Haven’t you heard? Our country is under siege. Thousands of illegal migrants are pouring across the border. We don’t know who they are or where they are going. You write about them. You are a Hungarian citizen. This is a national security emergency. You might have information that can help us.’
She looked around. They were sitting in an abandoned office in the grey, graffiti-covered concrete building by the side of the train line. A calendar was pinned to the wall showing the dates for January 1994. The single window was filthy, covered with so much grime it was almost opaque. The floor was bare concrete, the walls a muddy shade of beige, spotted with large patches of mould. They sat on plastic garden chairs, across from a rickety wooden table. A rusty metal filing cabinet stood in the corner. Despite the heat of the day, the room was damp and chilly. ‘If I am under arrest, you have to charge me with something. You cannot just keep me here.’
Ungar laughed. ‘Who says you are under arrest? We are just having a nice, friendly chat.’
Eniko made to stand up. ‘So I can leave?’
‘You can indeed. But if you don’t want to have a friendly chat, we can make things more... official. That will take much longer, of course. All that paperwork, forms to fill in, taking you downtown to the headquarters.’