by Larry Bond
“What kind — personal or professional?” Hradetsky grinned tightly. Were Dozsa and his toadies finally catching on to him?
“The EurCon kind. Connected to this upcoming demonstration I keep hearing about.”
Hradetsky sat back in his chair. He’d been wondering when Rehling would step in to play a more active part in the ministry’s somewhat disjointed preparations for the May 16 rally. General Dozsa and the other high-ranking officials were in a dither, moving riot control troops in from outlying cities almost as fast as they could find transport for them. But the colonel found the attitudes of those below the upper echelons extremely interesting. Heartened by the reappearance of a viable political opposition, fellow officers who had once seemed prepared to go alone with EurCon were increasingly willing to show their true feelings. And men who had once shunned him in the corridors now went out of their way to shake his hand.
He spread his hands. “So what have you got?”
Silvanus shrugged. “Bits and pieces, and none of them reassuring, I fear.” He stubbed his cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray and rubbed his eyes. “I’ve been kept busy running errands the last few days — playing travel agent for our lords and masters.”
Hradetsky waited patiently for him to come to the point. Silvanus had a pleasant voice, but sometimes he liked to listen to himself talk just a bit too much.
“Most of my work has come in making arrangements for several groups of special visitors to our fair city. Airport pickups, rental cars, and hotel reservations. That sort of thing. Curious thing about these men, though: they’re all young and they’re all flying direct from Paris. I’ve also been ordered to issue them special identity cards and weapons permits. Interesting, eh?”
“How many?”
“Around fifty.”
Hradetsky pondered that. Fifty Frenchmen, even fifty security agents, didn’t sound like much of an invasion. Still, they could cause a lot of trouble by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He frowned. “Who commands; them? The German?”
Silvanus shook his head. “Rehling isn’t in charge. This Interior Secretariat of theirs is flying in someone special. A Frenchman. A man named Duroc. You know him, I think?”
Hradetsky nodded grimly. “I know him.” Hie felt cold. First Sopron, now here in Budapest. And everywhere this Duroc went he seemed to bring death with him. Maybe EurCon was getting ready to take the gloves off. If so, he would have to warn Kusin and the others — tonight, if possible.
He rose to go. “My thanks, Bela. You’ve done me a great service. I’m only sorry I have no way to repay you.”
Silvanus waved a hand. “Never mind. I am owed enough favors.”
Hradetsky frowned. “Still, giving me this information is dangerous…”
“I’ve already decided to take an ‘early retirement,’ my friend. The Germans have been sniffing around too much, and I’m getting tired of being Rehling’s stooge.” Silvanus grinned. “So I’m going to strike my own blow for Hungarian independence by letting them try to run this place without me!”
Hradetsky had to smile at that. “When do you leave?”
“My letter will be on the generals’ desks tomorrow morning, and by dawn my wife and I will be halfway to a little place we have northeast of here — up in the Matra Mountains. No television, no telephone. Just a little fishing and a little reading. You see, that’s the other reason I wanted to see you. We just held my going-away party.” The administrator’s grin faded. “I have a feeling that Budapest could become a very unhealthy place to live in the near future.”
The colonel nodded. “You’re probably right.” He shook the other man’s outstretched hand and turned away.
“Oh, Zoltan?”
Hradetsky paused with his hand on the door.
Silvanus reached into one of his desk drawers and tossed him an armband — one dyed in Hungary’s red, white, and green national colors. “Tell your friends to be a bit more careful when handing these out. After all, some of the people in this building still work for the generals.”
Hradetsky nodded somberly and stuffed the armband in a coat pocket. “I will remind them of that.”
Evidently Kusin and the others were casting their nets further and faster than he had imagined.
MAY 16 — ON THE RADIAL AVENUE, NEAR HEROES’ SQUARE, BUDAPEST
They were lucky in the weather. May was usually one of the wettest months in Hungary’s capital, but this day dawned clear and sunny with the promise of moderate temperatures later on.
Hradetsky stood with Kusin and Kiraly, watching his countrymen streaming in from every direction — tens of thousands of them, maybe more. The general strike they’d called was holding. Most businesses and factories were shut down, either voluntarily by patriotic owners or because all their employees were on their way here. The only parts of the public transit system still operating were the buses and Metro subway trains ferrying people to the march. As they arrived, opposition workers assigned as parade marshals shepherded the men, women, and children into places along the wide, tree-lined avenue. Others circulated through the crowds, handing out flags and placards.
Hradetsky idly fingered the armband around his blue uniform jacket. Appearing like this, in full uniform and at the head of the march, had been Kusin’s suggestion. It was one way to show the people they were not alone — that some of the government’s own officials were turning against it. Of course, if the military regime stood firm against the combination of this march and the general strike, showing up among the demonstrators would make him a hunted man.
He shrugged. So be it. He was tired of playing a double game.
The colonel ran his eyes over the swelling crowd. At least he would have plenty of company on the run. There were several other policemen and even a few army officers scattered in the front ranks — all of them in uniform. Most of them looked very nervous. Well, that was understandable. He’d had more time to come to terms with betraying an oath for the love of his country.
They weren’t the only uniformed men present. Small groups of patrolmen were stationed at nearby intersections, hanging well back. From time to time, demonstrators walked right up to them, trying to talk them into joining the march. Sometimes it worked. Hradetsky could see several police squads already wearing the tricolored armbands that showed they were siding with the opposition.
There were still no signs of the government’s riot control troops or Duroc’s French security men, though. They had to be further ahead — hidden somewhere among the buildings lining the avenue. Waiting for a signal. But waiting for a signal to do what?
He turned to Kusin. “I’ll say it again, sir. If you must march, at least march further back in the column. Let Oskar and me and more of his men go first.”
Kiraly nodded. “The colonel is right, Vladimir. This insistence on staying so close to the front is not sound. It’s too…”
“Dangerous?” Kusin finished for him. “Perhaps it is.” He nodded toward the milling crowds behind them. “But it is dangerous for all of us. And the people have a right to see those who would lead them taking the biggest risks.”
He saw their frustrated looks and laughed gently. “Come, my friends. You cannot protect me from myself or others forever. Besides, I’ve already agreed to carry more than my fair weight today, eh?” He patted his shirtfront.
At Kiraly’s insistence, Kusin was wearing a bulletproof vest under his suit. With luck it might stop a shot fired by a sniper or other assassin. But that was the only compromise Hradetsky and the security chief had been able to persuade him to make. When they’d pressed him on the need to play it safer, he’d only smiled and clapped them both on the shoulder. “When you match your strength against a foe, gentlemen, you can’t afford a show of weakness. We go forward, not back.”
To Hradetsky, this march was taking on a whole new aspect. It was changing rapidly from a “test of strength” to the kind of crazy game called Chicken he’d seen played out in American movies. The kind o
f game where two automobiles raced straight toward each other — with each driver betting the other would flinch first.
Kusin looked at his watch, took a deep breath, and looked up with a confident smile on his careworn face. “It’s time, gentlemen. Oskar? Will you do the honors?”
Kiraly nodded. He started relaying orders to the marshals scattered up and down the still-growing crowd, using a handheld portable phone. The phones and dedicated cellular circuits were the gift of opposition sympathizers inside the city’s telephone center.
Slowly, with several fits and starts, their march got under way — picking up speed and support as they tramped down the avenue. Within minutes, more than 100,000 Hungarians were heading for the Danube and the government offices around the Parliament building. Thousands of colorful banners and flags waved above the crowd, streaming proudly in a light, westerly breeze.
They were led by a thin line of Kiraly’s toughest men, all army or National Police veterans, holding large Hungarian flags spread out on poles between them. Kusin, Kiraly, Hradetsky, and other opposition leaders followed right behind. Many sought actively by the security services wore placards that said simply, “Outlawed — For Loving Hungary.”
Rank after rank of Budapest’s citizens came after them, sometimes organized and sometimes not organized at all. Men in business suits mingled with laborers in hard hats and dungarees. Policemen, some wearing opposition armbands, paced them. Mothers pushing infants in strollers walked side by side with their next-door neighbors or with people they’d never seen before. Bands deployed at regular intervals played a mix of stirring marching songs that set a brisk, purposeful pace and lifted people’s hearts.
Striding along beside Kusin, Hradetsky carefully scanned the faces of his fellows. He saw determination, fierce joy, and very little uncontrolled anger. They were off to a good start.
SPECIAL OPERATIONS COMMAND POST
Another watcher saw the same crowd, but with a very different set of emotions.
Major Paul Duroc leaned forward, almost touching the glass window in a third-floor office overlooking the Radial Avenue. He’d “borrowed” the office from the aging, homesick manager of a French-owned firm. Now it served as his command post.
The command post was small, just himself, a radioman, and one assistant to answer the phones and run any errands. That was enough, though, to manage the platoons of Hungarian riot police and French security agents under his immediate control. And if he needed more men, he could get them with a single phone call. The head of the DGSE had made it clear that the Hungarian government itself would answer to Duroc’s orders if he wished it. Dismayed by their own inability to control events, the generals were ready to grasp at straws.
He would have preferred making a preemptive strike by arresting Kusin and the other opposition leaders before they could organize this protest march. Unfortunately the Hungarian regime’s incompetence and sloth had made that impossible. You couldn’t capture people you couldn’t find.
Duroc sneered at the sight of the massive, ragtag mob coming down the street. Numbers meant nothing. He had sufficient strength in hand to crush this demonstration, and more important, the minds behind it. Any fool could use force to break up a rally. The key was to move so quickly and so violently that those you hit were left stunned, unable to defend themselves or strike back. But he had bigger plans. His orders from Paris were clear: His superiors wanted him to do more than just temporarily restore order to Budapest’s streets. They wanted him to smash Hungary’s political opposition once and for all.
Well, he thought, that should be simple enough. Kusin and the others on his list were positioned close to the front — out in the open and out of hiding at last. That was brave, but foolish. They would be easy pickings.
Still, years of experience had taught him to plan for the unexpected. That was why he’d stationed Michel Woerner and five men armed with automatic weapons in the building’s central stairwell. They would provide security against any unwelcome intruders if things went wrong.
He leaned closer to the window to get a better view.
The first rows of marching morons were almost in the noose he’d fashioned. Kusin and his followers were just moving into Kodaly Circle — a major intersection surrounded by ornately decorated buildings whose façades curved to follow the circle. The other streets feeding into the circle were a maze of businesses, small hotels, and apartment blocks.
Small knots of tough-looking men loitered near the intersection. They weren’t hiding, but they kept to the corners and to the early morning shadows. Although they were dressed in plain, workingmen’s clothes, no one could possibly mistake them for civilians. They were too quiet, too disciplined.
Beyond them, out of sight, were trucks and armored cars full of riot police. Once his men had the king and other important pieces in hand, the Hungarians could clear the board of the pawns. With their leaders gone, the mob out there would run like sheep — not roar like lions.
Duroc watched the approaching crowd draw nearer, noting the individuals in it but not really seeing them as people. They were simply obstacles he had to overcome to complete this mission. Three stories below, the line of Hungarian flags crossed into the circle. Now. He turned to his radioman. “Proceed with Phase One.”
KODALY CIRCLE
Hradetsky swore suddenly as the men he’d been watching suspiciously sprang into action. Long-handled nightsticks and blackjacks came out from under windbreakers and long coats as thirty to forty of them formed into three squad-sized wedges and charged. Others hung back, apparently armed with short-barreled grenade launchers. Without waiting for further orders, they aimed and fired.
He whirled to shout a warning. Too late.
Tear gas grenades whirred overhead and exploded in the crowds further back — bursting in puffs of white, choking smoke. Panic spread backward along the avenue as the CS gas drifted east on the wind. Marchers stumbled and fell, overcome by acrid fumes that left them retching on the ground or crawling away with tears streaming down their faces. In seconds, Hradetsky, Kusin, Kiraly, and several hundred others at the front of the march were isolated — cut off from their supporters by a rising wall of tear gas.
Nightsticks rose and fell as the first wave of plainclothes security agents smashed into the flag bearers at the front. Men spun away from the melee, clutching bloodied faces, fractured ribs, and broken arms and legs. Torn Hungarian flags fluttered to the pavement. Shouts, curses, and guttural snarls echoed above the fray — some in Hungarian, others in French.
The first Frenchmen broke past, breathing hard as they sprinted toward Kusin. Two of Kiraly’s marshals tried to tackle them and went down — clubbed brutally to the ground. Bastards!
Hradetsky moved to intercept Duroc’s men, sensing others running with him.
One of the Frenchmen saw him coming. Hradetsky dodged a quick, flickering jab from a nightstick, grabbed the agent’s outstretched arm, and whirled, pulling the man off his feet. As the Frenchman’s head slammed into the pavement, the colonel kicked him hard in the ribs and turned away, looking for a new opponent.
Kodaly Circle had turned into a battlefield. Bodies sprawled on the street, some moving and others unmoving. Blunt-nosed Csepel lorries appeared at the far end of the intersection, crammed with helmeted riot police.
Hradetsky caught a glimpse of Kusin’s white hair through a tangle of struggling, swearing men and headed that way. He could see Kiraly pulling the older man back, trying to shield him from blows raining down on all sides.
A taller, heavier Frenchman blocked his path, teeth bared in sharp defiance and blood-slick stick at the ready.
The colonel ducked under the man’s first vicious swing, struck at his exposed stomach, missed, and backed away. They circled, each looking for an opening.
Duroc looked sourly at the melee developing below him. He’d underestimated the ability of the Hungarians to defend themselves, and now he was running out of time. Bands of enraged protesters were alrea
dy streaming back down the avenue to the intersection, braving the tear gas to close with his struggling plainclothesmen.
Damn it, where were Kusin and his top lieutenants? With the opposition’s leaders in custody, his men could pull back, clearing the field for the riot squads already deploying in several of the surrounding streets. Without them, he had nothing.
“Major! Captain Miklos wants permission to advance!”
Duroc spun away from the window, his face dark with anger. “No! Tell him to wait!”
He remembered Miklos. The young, black-haired captain was one of the Hungarian police officers under his command for this operation. He was also a man the French security agent viewed with some suspicion — one with several black marks in his dossier for allegedly criticizing both the government and the new Confederation. Confronted by Vladimir Kusin’s unexpected ability to mobilize the people, the generals were being forced to rely on even their most unreliable officers.
Duroc scowled. He had the uncomfortable sensation that events were sliding beyond his control.
Down in the street, Hradetsky blocked a wild swing with his left forearm and got inside the tall Frenchman’s reach. Ignoring the pain rocketing all the way up to his shoulder, he rabbit-punched the security agent in the throat. The big man dropped to his knees, choking on a broken larynx.
Now what? He looked wildly around, trying to spot Kusin or Kiraly. He doubted it would do any good to shout for them. Not in a confused mess like this. More and more protesters were flooding into Kodaly Circle, intent on getting to grips with the men who had turned a peaceful march into a bloody free-for-all. With their comrades locked in a confused melee, the Frenchmen armed with tear gas launchers had stopped firing and joined the fight.
“Colonel!”
Hradetsky half turned toward the yell, just in time to see Oskar Kiraly knocked off his feet by several club-wielding men. My God. He took a step in that direction and felt the back of his head explode.
The agony drove him down to his hands and knees as the security agent who had hit him from behind struck again, this time slamming the nightstick into his side. His awareness danced away toward a world of darkness and shrieking pain. Dimly, through half-closed eyes, he saw his attacker tackled by one of Kiraly’s marshals. Five or six protesters crowded in, jostling each other as they kicked and pummeled the Frenchman senseless. Some of them were policemen wearing opposition armbands.
