Traitors' Gate

by Dennis Wheatley

  They were some three score of the Magnates of Hungary; all nobles who could trace their ancestry back to the times when their forebears had held Hungary as the bastion of Christian Europe against the Infidel. Their costumes were those worn in Napoleonic times, or earlier, and marvellously varied; gold tasselled Hessian boots, silver braided doublets of green, blue, black and cerise, half-cloaks trimmed with sable, astrakhan, ermine or sea-otter, flat busbies surmounted by plumes and aigrets, dolmans, sabretaches, and great jewelhilted scimitars all jostled together forming a sea of colour, so that the eye was quite incapable of taking in the details of so splendid a spectacle.

  As Gregory thought of it again, he thought too of Sabine, who had stood beside him in the window that they had hired, holding his hand and telling him with low-voiced but passionate enthusiasm, as the procession moved below them, of the past glories of her country.

  From the small square dominated by the Coronation Church, in which reposed the Sacred Hand of St. Stephen, he walked through to the open space behind the church where a great equestrian statue of the Royal Saint looked out over the river and the city.

  This lofty emplacement was called the Fisher bastion and from it there was a truly marvellous view. To either side the red roofed houses of Buda seemed to be tumbling away down the steep slope on which the ramparts stood as though at any moment they might fall into the Danube. Seen from here the river looked even broader, and much more tranquil, as it wound its way between the twin cities. To the north it divided into two arms which embraced the mile-long Margereten-Insel.

  This lovely wooded island had been made into a private park by the Archduke Joseph; now it had on it Budapest’s latest luxury hotel—the Palatinos—an enormous open air bathing pool, and several café restaurants which after dark become night-clubs offering glamorous floor shows. In the opposite direction the river disappeared behind the lofty Citadel on its way towards distant Belgrade and Rumania. Far below, the famous Suspension Bridge linked Buda’s hill with central Pest, along the shore of which stood the Parliament House with its many graceful spires, the Donau Palota and numerous other fine modern buildings. Beyond them rose the three hundred feet high dome of the Leopold Church from a sea of office and apartment blocks stretched away into the blue distance.

  As Gregory sat there for a while he recalled that it was on one of these slopes that St. Gellért had met his fate. He was the Bishop who had converted King Stephen to Christianity; but certain full-blooded types had not approved the change, so they had put Gellért in a barrel and sent him rolling down the hill. As the barrel had spikes in it the unfortunate missionary could have been little more than a lacerated corpse by the time it bounced into the Danube.

  Not a very pleasant death, Gregory reflected; but, after all, perhaps not so bad, as it must have been quite quick, and easily a hundred times less prolonged and painful than that which he might himself expect should he ever have the ill-luck to fall alive into the hands of Herr Gruppenführer Grauber.

  Descending through the steep narrow streets, he recrossed the river, walked along to the Corso and, sitting down at a table outside one of the cafés, ordered himself a baratsch. This golden liquor is distilled from apricots and is the Hungarian national drink. It is made in every farmhouse in the country, and varies with quality and age from a fiery breath-taking spirit to a smooth and delectable liqueur. As it is unsweetened it is equally suitable for an aperitif or a digestive, and is drunk by all classes at all hours. While renewing his acquaintance with this invigorating tipple, Gregory considered the results of his morning’s ramble.

  Except perhaps for coffee, and other such items which came from distant lands, Hungarian larders were clearly not yet subject to the stress of war and, although prices had evidently risen considerably, there seemed no reason to suppose that for meat, bread, butter and other basic foods they were beyond the means of the workers.

  Petrol was evidently short, as there were many fewer cars on the streets than he had seen there in peace time. On the other hand, there were many more horse-drawn vehicles, including quite a number of private carriages which must have been dug out by rich people from old coach-houses. Hungary had been slower to adopt the motor than most nations as her roads were bad and horses cheap and plentiful. Horse breeding was one of her national industries and the great herds reared on the plain of the Hortobágy made it certain that however long the war lasted the supply would never fail; so the Hungarians had no need to worry about local transport. In the matter of fuel, too, they could have no great anxieties, as most of the houses and offices were still heated in winter by old-fashioned wood-burning stoves which could be kept going from their own forests.

  By the time Gregory finished his drink he had reached the conclusion that the chances of his mission being successful were far from good. Had he found a state of shortages and aggravating restrictions approaching those in Britain and Germany, there would have been reason to assume that a good part of the Hungarian people were war-weary and, not being so deeply committed as those of the two great powers to fight on to the end, might give ready backing to a movement for a separate peace. But that was not the case. So far, too, Budapest had not suffered a single air raid; so, apart from the comparatively few walking wounded to be seen in the streets, there had been little really to bring the war home to the people of the capital. In short, the horrors and privations of Hitler’s war were still unknown to it, and in its continued plenty and gaiety, its state was very similar to that which had prevailed in London for the greater part of the First World War.

  Having lunched off a gulyás of venison, washed down with a carafe of the rich Hungarian red wine known as Bulls-blood of Badascony, he took an aged open carriage along to the nearest end of Kertész Utcza, where he paid it off, then strolled along to No. 158.

  It proved to be a double-fronted shop in a rather dreary block, and the furs in the windows looked distinctly shoddy. Pushing open the door Gregory walked in. The shop ran back some way and was a much larger place than might have been supposed from the street; but it was three parts empty. Less than a quarter of the rows of hangers held coats, there were a few bundles of skins thrown carelessly on the floor, and the only person in it was a stout red-headed Jewess who was checking over raw pelts behind a long narrow counter.

  Going up to the counter Gregory told her in French that he wished to buy a fur that could be made up as a collar for his winter travelling coat.

  She replied first in Magyar, then in bad German, that she did not understand French.

  Ignoring the fact that she did understand German, he repeated his statement in deliberately poor English.

  As he had hoped, she again shook her head but, making a sign that he should wait, went to the back of the shop and through a glass door. A moment later she emerged again with a man of about forty. He was short, had a round face, curly black hair and a bluish chin, but he did not look particularly like a Jew.

  Gregory was wondering if this was Mr. Leon Levianski. However, he had no intention of asking, as the approach had to be made with the greatest circumspection. It was a possibility that one of Levianski’s more recent letters to his cousin in New York had fallen into wrong hands. If so, it was quite on the cards that he would have been arrested for conveying useful information to the enemy. Any stranger enquiring for him thereafter would at once be suspect; and the last thing Gregory wanted was to have a description of himself in such a connexion turned in to the police.

  The dark man came forward and said in passably good English: ‘If you please, sir, I have no French. Speak with me please in English and tell me what you wish.’

  In broken English Gregory once more enquired for fur which would make a warm collar to a travelling coat.

  The furrier shrugged his broad shoulders and spread wide his hands, ‘I regret. I have little to offer, sir. This time last year, yes. I could have given you choice of a dozen Sea Otter. Smartest and best wearing fur for gentleman’s coat. But now, some odd pieces of Per
sian Lamb which we could make up; otherwise nothing.’

  ‘Why have you become so short of stock?’ Gregory enquired.

  ‘Russia,’ came the prompt reply. ‘Our Hungarian troops, they go properly clothed for the war we fight. But the Germans, no. Hitler is everyone say a very clever man. Perhaps, but his judgment is not good when he expects to conquer Russia in one summer campaign. Winter comes and many thousand Germans they shiver, get frost-bite, die. Their Fraus and Fräuleins make sacrifice of vanity and send them fur coats. But it is not enough. Our Government orders that we hold nothing back from the German Mission that comes to purchase.’ After an almost imperceptible pause he added, ‘And as they are our Allies it is right that we should give best help. But it has left us deplete, very deplete.’

  ‘I quite understand,’ Gregory replied, ‘It was a Sea Otter that I wanted though; so I think I had better try elsewhere. Still, I’m sorry, as furs are tricky things; and I was assured by a Mr. Levianski of New York that your firm was a reliable one.’

  ‘You know my cousin, then!’ exclaimed the furrier. ‘But this is different. For you I will enquire of my friends in the trade, and somehow a Sea Otter find for you.’

  ‘Would you, perhaps, be Mr. Leon Levianski?’ Gregory now felt it safe to ask.

  ‘Why, yes. And that you should know my cousin is of much interest. Has it been long, please, since you see him in New York?’

  Gregory held the dark eyes only a few feet from his own with a steady glance, and said in a low voice. ‘I have never met your cousin; but I know about the letters that you write to him.’

  Levianski’s face blanched slightly, then he essayed a not very convincing laugh. ‘My letters! I am surprise that he should think it worth while to show to anyone. They are gossips only of things here which I think might interest him.’

  ‘Your gossip has been found interesting by good friends of his who wish well to Hungary,’ Gregory swiftly sought to reassure him. ‘And I would greatly like to talk to you about this. Could you meet me for a drink somewhere this evening?’

  ‘Yes, I could do that,’ Levianski agreed after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Where have you to suggest?’

  Gregory smiled. ‘It is always safer to discuss this sort of business in a crowd. Would six o’clock at the Café Mignon on the Corso suit you?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes, please. I am happy to make acquaintance.’ Returning his smile, the furrier bowed him out of the door.

  As it was a heavenly afternoon, Gregory decided to have a bathe. The Hungarians have a passion for bathing and, it is said, there are no less than one hundred and sixty public baths in Budapest to choose from. But he had no hesitation in having himself driven in another old fiacre across the bridge to the Margareten-Insel.

  The oblong pool there was as large as a small lake. Its sides, for twenty feet out, sloped very gradually so that hundreds of children could splash about along them without danger; yet there was still ample room in the middle of the pool and at its deep end for an equal number of good swimmers to enjoy themselves without undue crowding.

  Gregory dived and swam for about half-an-hour, then came out and lay sunning himself on the sand which had been brought from the shores of Lake Balaton as a surround for the pool. It was delightful there in the warm windless air, with the faint hum of conversation and occasional laughter coming from the groups nearby. The fact that millions of men, from the Arctic to the deserts of Egypt and the remotest islands of the Pacific, were at that moment desperately endeavouring to kill each other, when they might be enjoying something similar to this, struck him as both tragic and crazy.

  Yet his bliss was not entirely unalloyed, for he was subconsciously a little lonely. He would have given a lot to have had Erika there—or Sabine. A mental picture of the latter, as she had once sat beside him not many yards from where he was lying now, flashed into his mind. Only the more intimate parts of her slender golden-brown body had been encased in a white satin swim-suit, and she had been sitting with her hands clasped round her bent knees, from time to time shaking the dark hair which fell to her shoulders, because its ends had got a little wet under the bathing cap she had just taken off.

  As he thought idly of the fun they had had together he wondered where she was now, and if he would run into her. Then, with a little shock, he realised that such a meeting could prove highly dangerous. She knew him to be an Englishman, and her country was at war with Britain. She knew, too, that he had acted as Sir Pellinore’s secret agent in getting to the bottom of at least one conspiracy to sabotage British interests; so she would immediately jump to the conclusion that he had come to Budapest as a spy. Women who have parted with their lovers as good friends are, he knew, more prone to be ruled by pleasant memories than patriotic considerations; so he thought the odds were that she would not turn him over to the police, but one could never tell. There was, too, the nasty possibility that should they suddenly come face to face in the presence of other people she might, from astonishment at seeing him, give him away inadvertently.

  Much as he would have liked to spend a few hours with her again and hear from her what she had made of her life, he decided that he must keep a sharp look-out for her and, should he see her, beat a quick retreat before she had a chance to recognise him.

  While in the pool he had seen that there were many more women than men bathing and among them quite a number of pretty girls, some of whom had looked at him more than once with the sort of glance which invites conversation. But he had no intention of becoming involved in anything of that kind, even temporarily. It was just such dalliance with young women about whom one knew nothing which could have the most unexpected repercussions and, at times, lead men employed on his sort of work to an extremely sticky end.

  In due course he dressed, drank a baratsch at the pool bar, then had himself driven to the Corso. Sitting down at one of the tables in front of the Café Mignon, he ordered himself a stein of dark lager, and soon afterwards saw Levianski coming towards him.

  With a wave of his hand and a smile he called out as if to an old acquaintance, ‘Wie geht es Ihnen? Was wollen Sie trinken?’

  The broad-shouldered little Jew returned his greeting, said that he too would like a dark lager, then, sitting down, added in a lower voice, ‘So you do speak German?’

  Gregory answered in an equally low tone, ‘My pretending not to was only a ruse aimed at getting your assistant to fetch someone who spoke French or English. I hoped it might be you; and I was lucky. But we will speak German together from now on, so as not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves.’

  Nodding agreement, Levianski said, ‘Now tell me, please, how you came to see my letters, and what you want with me.’

  That he could not be expected to talk freely, unless he was trusted to some extent, was obvious. But Gregory did not mean to reveal his true identity. With disarming candour he replied:

  ‘My name is Etienne Tavenier, and I am a retired Major of the French Army. For some time I have been living in Switzerland. I am not a de Gaullist but my sympathies are with the Allies. Naturally they have an information centre there. I have an English friend who works in it, and he asked me if I would make this visit to Budapest. I agreed, but I do not come as a spy, to pry into military matters. I assure you of that. Although I have been a soldier I am at heart a man of peace; and my one wish is to help in any way I can to stop this terrible war before it destroys all Europe.’

  Having paused to light a cigarette, he went on, ‘Evidently the letters you wrote to your cousin were passed on by him, as I feel sure you must have intended them to be. Anyhow, copies of them were sent to the Middle Europe Section of the Allies’ information centre in Switzerland. That is how your name came to be given to me as a man I could trust, and one who might be able to help me with the answers to certain questions that I have come here to investigate.’

  Levianski’s dark eyes were quite expressionless as he asked, ‘What are those questions?’

  ‘They can really
all be embodied in one. What is the attitude of the Hungarian people towards the war?’

  ‘That is not simple to answer. The fact that I am a Jew does not make me any the less a Hungarian; but my attitude is very different from that of the average Catholic priest, big landowner or peasant.’

  ‘Naturally. But what I mean is, do you believe that the bulk of the people are convinced of the rightness of the cause for which they are fighting?’

  ‘I can only repeat that the views of the main elements which make up our population vary greatly. You see, Hungary is quite different from most other nations. Her classes are not integrated in the same way. By that I do not mean that we are torn by class warfare. In fact, in peace time, we suffer very little from labour troubles, and in all classes there is a high degree of patriotism. But, where international relations are concerned, there is no unity of opinion to bind us together; as, for example, the mutual hatred of the French and the Germans which is common to all classes in both countries.’

  ‘Please go on, and tell me about these conflicting interests.’

  ‘Well, to start with, Hungary has not yet really emerged from feudalism. The greater part of the land is still divided into vast estates which are owned by a hundred or so families. They lost them after the First World War, but the Bolshevik revolution led here by Bela Khun lasted only six months. That was not long enough to destroy the attitude of mind of the peasants, which had been engrained into them through many centuries. When the magnates returned from temporary exile, their peasants received them joyfully, restored their lands and went back to work for them.

  ‘By the Treaty of Trianon the size of Hungary was reduced by half. In that way many of these great magnates lost some of their estates; but most of them retained enough land and wealth for their way of life to remain almost unaltered. In their great country houses they keep staffs of up to fifty servants, and as many more outside to run their stables and their shooting parties. Up there, opposite to us, on the hill of Buda the great stone buildings that you can see are their town palaces. All of them hold priceless art treasures and fine libraries, for the Hungarian aristocracy is a highly cultured one; but it has the faults as well as the virtues of all feudal aristocracies.