by Adam LeBor
Balthazar slapped Goran on the thigh, ‘Go!’
CIA safe house, Filler Street, Budapest, 8.45 p.m.
Five miles away, on the other side of the Danube, in a once-grandiose villa high in the Buda hills, Celeste Johnson waited until Reka Bardossy had finished talking. The British diplomat let the silence hang in the air for several seconds, then gave her a cool, appraising look. ‘Why would we agree to that?’ she asked, before glancing at the man sitting next to her.
He was in his early fifties, Reka guessed, with thinning grey hair, round shoulders, a pasty complexion, thin lips and watchful grey eyes. He wore a white shirt with a button-down collar that was stretched tight over a substantial paunch, crumpled cream chinos and dirt-streaked white leather trainers. Celeste had introduced him as ‘Brad, a colleague from the American embassy’. Brad – if that was his name – had apologised for not having a business card, but Reka thought it was pretty clear who he worked for. So far, Brad had not said a word. Next to Brad sat a tall, blonde Hungarian woman. She had showed Reka an ID from the state security service: Anastasia Ferenczy. These were two more people than Reka had planned on meeting, but it was rapidly becoming clear that she was not in control here.
‘Because I’ve done nothing wrong,’ said Reka, while mentally telling herself to stay calm, credible and persistent. ‘Pal Palkovics is the villain here, not me. I’ll give you everything I have on him. In exchange you guarantee my safety and freedom.’
Celeste reached inside her shoulder bag and took out two Hungarian passports. She laid them on the heavy oak table. ‘Really? Then how do you account for these? Passports issued by your ministry.’ Reka picked up the document, flicked it open to the photograph page, then the second and third. Zsolt Szabo, in whose name it had been issued, was very dark and lean like a Bedouin.
‘Or this?’ asked Brad, as he slid another passport across the table, open at the photograph page. Reka looked down at the name under the picture. Attila Hegedus had tight, black curly hair and light brown skin and looked like he was from Morocco or perhaps Algeria. ‘Zsolt Szabo, or whoever he is, is now being held at Yarl’s Wood Immigration detention centre,’ said Celeste. She glanced at Brad. ‘Mr Hegedus is helping us out not far from JFK airport, somewhere in New Jersey,’ he said, in his Midwestern twang, ‘while we find out who he really is.’
Celeste said, ‘You might have got away with it if they had stayed in the Schengen zone.’
Celeste was right, thought Reka, although she was not about to agree. It was still a source of amazement to her that it was possible to travel from the Flungarian border to the Atlantic coast overland without showing any identity documents. Even airport checks were cursory within the Schengen zone. Schengen fuelled the rapacious demand for Hungarian and all EU passports. Without it, she would only have been able to charge of a fraction of the price. Often the only people to open passports were airline staff at the gate, whose priority was to get the passengers on board, not to run security checks. Except when travelling to Britain, which was not part of Schengen, and which zealously guarded its borders. As far as she knew, the traffickers had been specifically ordered to tell their customers not to use the passports for entry to either Britain or the US. It was unfortunate that they had not listened.
Reka had called Celeste on a burner telephone, asking for an immediate meeting, even before she’d left the Four Seasons. Celeste had agreed. A second wave of police reinforcements had arrived a few minutes after the first. Attila Ungar had backed off, although barely able to control his anger. She could only imagine the level of his fury when he saw what had been done to his vehicles. She had made a very dangerous enemy. And this meeting was not going well.
Reka had wanted Celeste to come to her house. There Reka would have been on home territory and more in control. Celeste had declined, citing ‘security and confidentiality issues’. That was understandable. Celeste Johnson was instantly recognisable: there were not many tall, black women in Budapest, and certainly no others working for the British embassy. Nor did Reka want it known that she was meeting British and American officials. But she had to move quickly. She glanced involuntarily at the thin, white dress gloves on her hands that covered the scars, and shivered. Celeste had already stared curiously at them – Reka had told her she suffered from eczema, made worse by the heat, although this house was anything but warm.
The villa was enormous, two wings over three floors, divided by a central staircase. But even now, after two months of a powerfully hot summer, the place felt damp and musty, so Reka had no need to explain the silk scarf around her neck. They had entered through the back door, a small servants’ entrance, but it was clear that most of the rooms had not been entered for months, if not years. She had glanced inside the large reception room where white dust sheets were draped over the heavy, dark wooden furniture. They were sitting around a large wooden table in a kitchen that looked like it had last been used some time before the Second World War. A Hungarian nobleman with a long waxed moustache, seated on a horse, stared out of a murky oil painting, two Vizsla hunting dogs sitting nearby.
Brad asked, ‘How is it in our interest, in the interest of the United States and the United Kingdom, to allow you to get away with selling passports to people-traffickers that end up in the hands of Islamic militants?’
Reka replied, ‘As I said, Brad. It was a sting operation. That is what I agreed to. Pal Palkovics told me the aim was to draw out the traffickers and their networks. Once we had a clear picture, we would hand all the information over to you both. He is the prime minister. I had to take him at his word.’
Brad looked her up and down, considering her words. ‘You have that in writing? Some kind of evidence that Palkovics told you this was a sting operation?’
Reka shook her head. ‘No.’
Brad asked, ‘Emails? Recordings? Anything?’
‘Not about that.’
Celeste drummed her long, slim fingers on the heavy oak table. She wore a black Polo shirt and grey linen trousers. ‘Then why should we believe you? We could charge you in the UK with aiding and abetting terrorists, then request your extradition under a European arrest warrant. You are looking at a very long prison term indeed.’
‘Or we might do the same,’ said Brad. ‘Find you a nice, cosy cell in a super-max prison.’
Celeste continued talking. ‘It seems to me, Madame Minister, you are in no position at all to make any kind of deal. In fact, we expect that you might soon be facing a murder charge here.’
‘Meaning?’ she asked, although she already knew the answer.
Celeste took an iPhone from her pocket. The screen showed a video file. Celeste pressed play. The footage showed Reka on her back at the Castle, the would-be assassin sitting on her, her hand flying up to his neck, the man toppling sideways, Reka scrabbling to get to her feet. Celeste said, ‘Neat move, by the way. You could probably get away with self-defence if this comes out. You would even have public opinion on your side. I can see the headlines now, “The Stiletto Killer”. You might be able to walk free from court. But you might not. Either way, it would be the end of your political career. Which I am guessing you’re not planning yet.’
‘It was self-defence. And no, I don’t plan to retire from politics yet.’
Brad asked, ‘Then what use to us are you, Reka? What have you got? Because if it’s not good enough, there’s no deal. And you won’t be walking out of here.’
Unmarked road, District X, 8.50 p.m.
Goran yanked the steering wheel hard to the left as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The Lada bucked and jumped forward, clipping the tall policeman on his thigh as it screeched away. He shrieked in pain and collapsed on the road. The force threw Balthazar back in his seat as they bounced across the fields. He looked at Goran in wonder. The Serb was clearly enjoying himself. The Lada Niva was a trusty workhorse, could traverse the roughest terrain, manage potholes and steep banks, but was not known for its speed.
Goran turn
ed to him, laughed out loud and slapped Balthazar’s leg. ‘Turbo-charged, brat. They don’t stand a chance. Who were they?’
‘Gendarmes, I think. They had the Gendarmerie radios. And no municipal cops have cars like that.’
‘Or knives.’
‘Those too.’
‘Then where did they get the uniforms?’
‘They can get anything.’
‘How did they know we were here?’
‘Black George, I guess. He wanted to go into partnership with Gaspar.’
‘You said—?’
‘No, of course.’
‘Picku materina, that motherfucker.’ He glanced in the driver’s mirror. ‘We have a problem, brat.’
Balthazar turned around to see the two Toyota SUVs careering across the fields. ‘I think so. They are catching up with us.’
Goran glanced in the mirror, then gestured at the glove compartment. ‘Open that and give them to me.’
Balthazar reached inside and took out a set of militarygrade night vision goggles. The equipment resembled a camera, with two eyepieces at the back and a long external lens in the front, with a headset attached. He passed the goggles to Goran. He yanked the gearstick, dropped down into second gear. ‘Steer.’
Balthazar leaned across the gearstick and took control of the steering wheel. Goran switched the goggles on, placed them on his head and adjusted the sights. Once the goggles were properly in place, he switched the car’s headlights off and took the steering back under control, heading towards the copse. Balthazar felt as though they were hurtling blindly through the darkness, and would soon crash into the trees, but Goran seemed serenely confident. He flicked a switch on the dashboard. ‘Brake lights off. We are almost invisible.’ Balthazar thought back to the fake police vehicles. ‘But they might have night vision goggles as well.’
Goran nodded. ‘I hope so.’ He lightly side-punched Balthazar’s arm. ‘Don’t worry, brat. We’ll be fine. But let’s have some fun on the way.’
Balthazar watched the trees rush towards them, a dark army marching out of the gloom. He winced, almost braced himself for impact, when the Lada lurched to the left, skidded and stopped ten yards from the side of the copse. Goran kept the engine running as the two Toyota SUVs roared towards the Lada, one on either side of the vehicle, facing in the same direction. Just as they approached, Goran switched the headlights back on and reversed at full speed between the moving vehicles. A loud crack sounded across the field and the Lada shuddered for a second.
Balthazar looked at the right side of the vehicle. Goran laughed, grabbed the shattered wing mirror, now hanging on by a sliver of plastic, yanked it hard and hurled it into the darkness. The Toyotas spun around and roared across the fields, catching the Lada in their headlights.
‘What now, brat?’ asked Balthazar.
Goran kept driving, now headed in a wide arc around the SUVs. ‘Firstly, now they know that we are here, we can put the music on.’
Balthazar knew what was coming. ‘Bohan?’
‘Who else?’ Goran pressed a button on the ramshackle CD player. The Boban Markovic Orchestra filled the car, a blast of brass instruments with a thumping rhythm. Goran glanced at Balthazar. ‘Feel at home now?’
Balthazar laughed. ‘Totally.’ The band was the best-known Gypsy orchestra in the world. For a moment he was back at home on Jozsef Street, a teenage boy listening to his older brother Melchior as he explained how during the Ottoman empire Gypsy musicians had marched into battle alongside the soldiers, which was why, even now, bands like Boban Markovic had a distinctly martial rhythm.
A set of headlights cut across the field, illuminating the car. ‘Now what?’ asked Balthazar. Fie trusted Goran. But he also needed to know that the Serb actually had a plan. Balthazar had no desire to end the evening in police custody, or even worse, with Attila Ungar or any of his underlings.
‘We have a couple of choices. Option A, which is somewhere down here,’ Goran said, as he kept one hand on the steering wheel and rummaged in the door side pocket, ‘where are you, mojo mala draga, my little darling? Aha, got you.’
Goran pulled out a Glock pistol. ‘Option A.’
‘No,’ said Balthazar. ‘Definitely not.’ Gunplay, even just a couple of shots in the air, would not end well.
‘Really?’
‘Really. No guns. What’s option B?’
Goran looked disappointed but put the gun back. He spun the steering wheel, cut behind one of the Toyotas and sped back towards the copse. He pulled in close to the trees and quickly took off the night vision goggles. He stretched across Balthazar and reached into the glove compartment again. He took out two grey metal cylinders, each six inches long and three inches wide. There was a ring pull on the top of each lid.
Goran passed one to Balthazar, kept one in his hand. ‘Get out of the car. When I say “now”, pull the ring, count to three, and throw it at the cars coming towards us. Shut your eyes and cover them, drop down behind the car and stay there until you hear the second bang when I throw mine. The light will blind them. It wrecks the sensors in the night vision goggles. It’s even worse if they aren’t wearing them.’
Balthazar got out and looked across the field. The cars were about fifty yards away and closing in fast. Goran shouted, ‘Now!’
Balthazar pulled the ring and threw the canister. He dropped down and covered his eyes, but his left leg gave way from under him. He landed badly and his right hand flew out to break his fall. His palm scraped along the rough ground, taking off the skin. A loud bang thundered across the field. The flash of light was so strong he could see the outline of his fingers against his eyelids. A second explosion sounded and then another flash. Two seconds later another loud bang sounded, deeper and longer, followed by the noise of crunching glass and metal. Balthazar stood up, steadied himself, and looked across the field. One Toyota had spun around and was now facing in the opposite direction. There was a massive dent in the right front side, the bonnet was open and bent almost in half, and steam poured from the engine. The other car was still pointing towards the Lada, its front crumpled and its windscreen shattered. The sounds of moaning and swearing carried across the field.
Balthazar ignored the pain in his hand and started to walk towards the vehicles. Goran placed his hand on his arm. ‘They will be fine. Those cars have airbags, crush-zones, everything. An ambulance will be here soon.’
‘I don’t care about that. We need their phones and their radios.’
‘No, Tazi,’ said Goran as he directed him back to the Lada. ‘We’re done. And we need to get out of here.’
CIA safe house, Filler Street, 8.55 p.m.
Reka reached inside her Prada handbag, extracted two sheets of paper and placed them on the table. They were bank statements for a numbered account in the Seychelles, and showed a steady stream of six-figure payments coming in, and nothing going out.
Celeste picked up the sheet, scanned the details and the figures. ‘Pal Palkovics’s offshore bank account. So what? We’ve known for a long time he’s been taking pay-offs from Gulf investors.’
She passed the sheets to Anastasia, who flicked through the papers and shrugged. ‘We already have this.’
Reka took out another document, several sheets of close type stapled together. ‘Maybe you do. But you don’t have this. And you don’t know what he secretly promised the Gulf investors in exchange for their money.’ She handed them to Celeste who read through the first few paragraphs. Reka could see that she was interested. ‘These are transcripts of what?’ she asked.
Reka said, ‘Palkovics’s pillow talk.’
‘With who?’
Reka said, ‘Do I really need to answer that?’
‘No,’ said Celeste. ‘You have the recordings?’
Reka flushed pink. ‘Of this, yes.’
Brad asked, ‘Where did you meet?’
‘At home. My home, obviously.’
‘He didn’t sweep the place?’
‘Yes. Thoroughly.�
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‘So how did you make the recordings?’
Reka smiled. ‘His head of security is on my private payroll.’ Brad shot her a sideways glance, clearly more impressed than he let on.
Reka said, ‘Take a couple of minutes, please. Go through the transcripts.’ She laughed, a little nervously. ‘Don’t worry. There are only the parts that would interest you.’
Reka watched Celeste carry on reading. She had typed them up a few days ago. There was enough there to finish off Palkovics for good. She had recordings of him admitting that there was a secret annex to the Gulf investors’ deal: transit for Islamic radicals, recordings of him saying it was ‘not his or Hungary’s problem as long as they went west’, that a number of potential terrorists had already passed through Keleti and he had deliberately taken no action to stop them. That more were coming. A second copy of the transcripts and the bank account records were suspended in cyberspace. If Reka failed to log on to a specific website by midnight, the transcripts would be sent by email, first to Eniko Szalay, then, a day later, to every media outlet in Hungary and the foreign press corps, together with a recording of her telephone call with Celeste Johnson arranging this meeting. The nuclear option was no guarantee, but would doubtless trigger enough of a shake-up that she could negotiate something. But before the nuclear option, she had one final card to play.
Celeste, Brad and Anastasia left the room for several minutes. Reka stood up and walked around. The kitchen was like time travel, back to her own house, her childhood before the change of system. She ran a finger along the layer of dust on top of the dark wooden sideboard, bent down and opened the door. A Zsolnay dining set was stacked up inside. If she shut her eyes, she could almost see her grandmother sitting at the head of the table, calling the live-in servants to bring the soup for Sunday lunch.