Cauldron

by Larry Bond

  It was signed by the National Police commander, Brigadier General Dozsa. An attached sheet showed a new organizational diagram. Rehling and Dozsa occupied identical boxes at the top of the page. Every other line on the chart ran upward toward these two, joined, then split into two lines. One said “local” and led to Dozsa. The second line was labeled “all others” and went to Rehling.

  Hradetsky stared down at the memo in shock. This was worse than before! Instead of simply interfering in Hungarian affairs, the French and Germans were installing a duplicate chain of command. More ominous still, this Rehling wasn’t even a real policeman. The BfV was Germany’s state security service.

  His country had been conquered, sold for bread and jobs.

  MARCH 16

  Rehling’s arrival had done nothing to soothe Hradetsky’s growing fears. If anything, it brought them closer to the surface.

  The Hungarian frowned, remembering his first glimpse of the new EurCon “liaison” at a special ceremony three days earlier. The German was a colorless man, with close-cropped gray hair and a bland, round face. He seemed unimpressed by everything and everyone around him, including Dozsa and the other ministry officials there to welcome him. Their tide of effusive speeches had washed right over the German security service officer and left him unmoved and unsmiling.

  Hradetsky’s stomach tightened when he thought back over the scene. Despite Rehling’s cold, contemptuous manner, Dozsa and the rest had still crowded around him. Like all good lackeys, they were ready to lick any master’s boots in the hope that he might toss a few crumbs their way. He grimaced. Their opportunity was his purgatory.

  He’d had to spend the rest of that morning down at the police pistol range, squeezing rounds into anonymous targets just to regain a semblance of control.

  Today, still torn by what he was seeing, he’d wandered upstairs from his windowless cubbyhole for a short visit with Bela Silvanus, one of his few remaining friends inside the ministry.

  An unashamed bureaucrat, Silvanus smoked incessantly and looked older than his years. The two men had gone through the police academy together, but their different temperaments had led one to the streets, the other to a desk.

  With their careers running on different, though parallel courses, they had bumped into each other from time to time, but never frequently — at least not until recently. Although they had never been particularly close, at least the bureaucrat wasn’t afraid to talk to him. Hradetsky occasionally tried to get the administrator out from behind his desk and into the gym or the pistol range, but right now he just wanted to blow off some pent-up steam.

  Silvanus had an office on the ministry’s top floor — one that was well appointed, especially for austere times like these. It wasn’t luxurious, because luxury bred resentment. The administrator believed in making friends, not enemies. Instead, the room was neat, with freshly painted walls and a good carpet. His office equipment was new, including a very impressive-looking computer. Prints and photos on each wall and rich wood furniture gave the room the look of a private, comfortable den. Visitors invariably came away with an impression of efficiency and quiet, unobtrusive personal power. In fact, the office had only one flaw — the constant, acrid reek of cigarette smoke.

  Silvanus was hunched over a computer keyboard, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, swearing, when Hradetsky knocked on the doorjamb. The small, pudgy man turned, his scowl changing to a smile when he saw who his visitor was. “Zoltan! Come in and have a seat. It’s good to see someone I can complain to.”

  Smiling almost against his will, Hradetsky eased himself into a well-upholstered leather chair. “Everything screwed up as usual, Bela?”

  The little bureaucrat threw his hands up in the air, almost knocking over an ashtray in the process. “No, not like usual, ten times the usual!” He leaned forward, looking Hradetsky in the eye. “Today, my friend, I wish I was on the streets, chasing thugs and robbers and all the other wonderful people a policeman meets.”

  Suddenly all the anger seemed to flow out of him, like air leaving a balloon. His expression softened to one of sadness. “I like my job, Zoltan. I’m good at it. I made the system work, first under the communists, then under this National Salvation Government. I know where the bodies are buried, which wheels turn and which ones just spin, and I’ve done well for myself.”

  Curious, Hradetsky waited. Silvanus was a cheerfully contentious individual, an able and powerful administrator. He had excelled in making connections, storing up favors. He’d survived three separate changes of governments and won promotion each time. He was well liked, by those who hadn’t tried to cross him anyway. So what could be bothering him?

  “I can talk to you about this, Zoltan, no one else. Everyone else around here is wearing a happy mask, afraid of losing their ration book.” The bureaucrat paused and sighed. “I am, too.” He motioned toward the door. Hradetsky quietly pushed it closed.

  Once the latch snicked shut, Silvanus took a deep drag on his cigarette before going on. “This German, Rehling, is starting to give orders. Troubling orders.

  “Not only are all cases involving foreigners being routed to his office, he’s also making major personnel shifts. Our police and plainclothes detectives are being pulled from other cases to protect French or German executives and businesses. Here in Budapest, for example, almost half our people are being assigned to look for what are being called ’subversive elements’ in the work force.”

  “My God!” Hradetsky didn’t hide his surprise. Shut away down in the training command, he hadn’t heard about any of this. “That’s crazy!”

  “It gets worse. The budget is being altered, too.” Silvanus screwed up his face and adopted a mock German accent. “Never mind the regulations! Never mind efficiency! Take money away from enforcement and operations! Push it into little holes labeled ‘Intelligence’ and ‘Security.’” Nodding toward his friend, he said, “Even the training allocations are being cut back. Pretty soon you’ll have fewer cadets to count.”

  “How much of a cut?” Hradetsky asked.

  Silvanus waved his hand in the air. “Ah, what does it matter how much? What matters is that more criminals will go free because some German industrialist wants to know how many of our people hate him.”

  Hradetsky frowned. “But none of this makes any sense. Why put so much extra effort into looking for so-called subversives? Since the Sopron raid there’s been no major terrorist action against foreign interests. Is some new group targeting them?”

  Silvanus shook his head. “I haven’t heard anything.” A small smile crept onto his face. “And you can bet, my friend, that if I haven’t heard about it, it hasn’t happened.”

  He continued, “One more thing, Zoltan.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “There are going to be some personnel cutbacks. A real shake-up.”

  “How do you know?” Hradetsky felt suddenly cold. He was the deadest of deadwood. And where could an out-of-work police colonel get a job?

  “Because the printshop just got a rush order for a batch of end-of-service forms. We had a year’s supply.”

  “And I suppose you already know who they’re going to dismiss.”

  Silvanus nodded calmly and handed him several sheets off his desk. “I have a list. Don’t ask me where it came from. Don’t worry. Your name isn’t on it.”

  That was strange. His face must have shown his mixed relief and confusion, because the other man shrugged. “Don’t ask me why. Maybe they still want you where they can keep track of you, eh?”

  Hradetsky snorted. If they were afraid of him, Dozsa and the other ministry monkey masters certainly didn’t show any sign of it. Probably they’d simply forgotten he’d ever existed.

  He took the list and paged through it. Names he knew kept popping out at him. Emil Kornai, in homicide. Imre Zarek, in fraud. Was there a pattern? Not that he could see, but he knew that many of these men were damned fine policemen. If he wasn’t on this hit list, what the hell were they using as a cri
terion?

  Silvanus saw the question on his face. “I don’t know how those names were picked, either, except that the order will be signed by Rehling, not Dozsa, and that there are a lot of good people on that list.” A touch of anger crept into his voice.

  There were two raps on the door, and it opened. A thin, blond man with an angular face leaned in, saw Hradetsky in the office with Silvanus, and said in accented Hungarian, “Excuse me, please. I will come back later.”

  The door closed behind him.

  Hradetsky raised an eyebrow. He nodded toward the door. “A German?”

  Silvanus nodded. “One of Rehling’s people, one of his spies. But he won’t be back. He probably just wanted to see who I was talking to.”

  “I’m getting you in trouble, Bela. I’d better leave.”

  Silvanus waved his hand airily. “Don’t worry about it. The special commissioner and I have already crossed swords. He can’t touch me. Not yet anyway. He knows he needs me to keep this place running.”

  But Hradetsky could hear the uncertainty in the other man’s voice. He didn’t know which worried him more: the sudden, radical changes the EurCon appointee was making or the fact that even Silvanus — Silvanus the Survivor, people called him — was growing fearful.

  Something had to be done. And fast. This new Confederation was like a cancer cell growing inside Hungary. The time to deal with it was now — before it spread too far for simple treatment and required radical surgery.

  Hradetsky made a decision. One of the options he’d been exploring seemed worth pursuing further. Perhaps reform could still come from within the system. He lowered his voice. “Look, Bela, I need proof of what you’re telling me. Documentation on these cutbacks and firings. And on anything else you think is strange. Something I can show people.”

  Silvanus sat forward. “Why?”

  “Because I think I may know a way to get Rehling’s orders retracted.”

  MARCH 17 — NEAR FREEDOM SQUARE, BUDAPEST

  The church domes and spires dotting Budapest’s graceful skyline gleamed in the pale, cool sunlight. That same sunlight sparkled off the Danube and cast long shadows down Pest’s broad nineteenth-century avenues and Buda’s narrow, hilly medieval streets. Green leaves were budding on trees that had escaped being cut down for firewood. Hungary’s capital was coming alive again after a long, bitter winter.

  Its people were out in force, too. Some were the unemployed, moving from district to district in search of work. Others were shopping, hunting from store to store for the food, clothing, and other necessities their government promised them. Soldiers and policemen were visible on every street corner. The military government wanted to be sure its citizens knew they were being watched.

  Hradetsky moved through the crowds with ease. Even years spent working in provincial cities and towns couldn’t erase the skills he’d learned as a young boy growing up in the twin cities. But he couldn’t help noticing the hard looks and angry stares turned his way by some he passed. Clearly many of his fellow Hungarians again regarded the blue and gray police uniform as a visible sign of tyranny.

  Normally he enjoyed walking the city streets for exercise. Today was different. Today he was taking the morning off to run an errand. A dangerous errand.

  His errand was at the Prosecutor General’s Office, a few blocks away from the Ministry of the Interior.

  Several years ago, he had worked with someone in the Prosecutor General’s Office. Anthal Bartha had impressed him as competent, energetic, and dedicated. If he, too, had favorable memories of Hradetsky, he might be able to give him an entry to someone higher up — maybe someone with access to the prosecutor general himself.

  Unlike the Justice Department in the United States, the prosecutor general and his subordinates controlled all criminal prosecutions in Hungary. Under the constitution, they were also responsible for reviewing the legality of all government actions. He was hoping that would give them enough power to stop Rehling before EurCon’s special commissioner rode roughshod over the whole police force.

  The Prosecutor General’s building stood out like a sore thumb among its more graceful, elegant neighbors. It was a drab, featureless concrete structure originally erected by Russian engineers hastily repairing bomb damage after World War II. Hradetsky suspected Hungary’s old communist puppet government had housed its lawyers in such a place to foster the notion of grim, faceless state authority. Bureaucratic inertia kept them there even after the communists fell from power.

  Still, the foyer was bustling — crowded with attorneys and legal clerks coming and going on court business. Feeling out of place and conspicuous in his uniform, he brushed past them to an information desk where a lone, harried clerk reluctantly provided a building directory for his use.

  Finding Bartha’s office number, he rode the creaking, manually operated elevator up to the right floor, got off, and walked down a hall painted a fading tan. To save electricity, every other light fixture was empty, creating pockets of shadow. The dingy gloom made Hradetsky faintly uneasy, almost as though he were committing a treasonous act in coming here. He squared his shoulders, rejecting the notion. Certainly he was going outside the normal channels of communication, but the idea of appealing to that drone Dozsa was ludicrous.

  He stopped in front of an old-fashioned frosted-glass door. Black lettering told him the office belonged to “Anthal Bartha, Assistant to Budapest Prosecutor.” He knocked, waited a moment, and then went in.

  The room’s only occupant sat at a desk facing the door, surrounded by piles of folders and bound documents. More paper filled the bookshelves on either side. The impression was not one of disorder, but of a tremendous work load.

  The man at the desk was younger than Hradetsky by several years, but his black hair was already more than half gray. He was taller, too, but Hradetsky was used to that. He had a narrow face that looked up at his visitor in mixed puzzlement and expectation. “Yes? What can I do for you” — keen dark eyes took in the three silver stars on his shoulder boards — ”Colonel?”

  “Solicitor Bartha, I’m Zoltan Hradetsky. We worked together a few years ago in Sopron — on the Andorka case.”

  “That’s right.” Recognition and pleasure replaced Bartha’s previous expression.

  Hradetsky nodded toward the only other chair in the room. “May I?”

  “Please.” The lawyer waited for him to get settled. “So what brings you here today? I assume you have more on your mind than pleasant reminiscences.”

  Hradetsky cleared his throat. This was where things got tricky. “I must ask you a question before I tell you my business, Solicitor.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Will you swear to keep this meeting private, until I say otherwise?” Even in Hradetsky’s ears that sounded melodramatic. Nevertheless, he couldn’t see any other way to proceed. With eyes-only documents that could be traced back to Silvanus in his attaché case, his wasn’t the only career at stake.

  “Of course,” Bartha answered, his curiosity evidently piqued. “I am quite used to sensitive matters.”

  “Not like this, I am afraid.” Hradetsky shook his head. “I’m here to ask your help. I have information, some documents, that I must get into the right hands. I believe this new EurCon liaison, Rehling, has plans to turn my service into another secret police force, another AVO!”

  Bartha’s eyes opened wide at his mention of the hated Stalinist-era security service. Used to smash all dissent during the first years of communist rule, AVO troops had even fired on their own people in the 1956 revolution.

  “Brigadier General Dozsa is doing nothing to stop him, and my own situation inside the ministry is so tenuous that I cannot take any action myself.”

  “What? But you’re full colonel. A man with years of honored service. How can this be?”

  Hradetsky sketched in the details of his clash with the French in Sopron and his subsequent exile to the ministry’s bureaucratic depths. Reliving the humiliating events o
f the past few months ate away at his self-control. By the time he finished, his voice was tight with anger.

  “So now this Rehling appears and suddenly rules us by fiat. If he has his way, real criminals will wander unchecked while we become just guards protecting French and German businesses! Just another group of thugs hunting down our own people who object to all of this!” The memory of Sopron leapt into his mind again.

  His face full of concern, Bartha nodded his understanding. “You mentioned some documentation of these charges?”

  Hradetsky passed him the printouts he’d been given and waited in silence while the lawyer perused them, carefully scanning each page.

  When he’d finished, Bartha handed them back, shaking his head unhappily. “Is this all you have? There is nothing else you can show me?”

  “Isn’t this enough?”

  “Not for my superiors or me to take action.” Seeing Hradetsky’s puzzled look, he hastened to explain. “Yes, a few regulations have undoubtedly been broken, but these are all internal police organizational matters. They aren’t even misdemeanors.”

  “I wasn’t looking for an indictment,” said Hradetsky. “I just wanted to show these to someone who could cancel them, or stand up to this German. Dozsa certainly won’t.”

  “Nor will anyone in this building. I can tell you right now that my superiors would throw you out of their offices.” Bartha jerked a thumb toward the ceiling. “Your commander isn’t the only one who’s running scared of our new ‘allies.’”

  Hradetsky spread his hands. “I have nothing to lose.”

  Bartha’s tone hardened. “Yes, you do. Your freedom.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We have our own problems here in the Prosecutor General’s Office. The government has been quietly issuing new decrees for the past several weeks. They allow the arrest of anyone labeled a subversive — on very shaky legal grounds. As a lawyer, I would challenge these laws if I were ever asked to enforce them.”