by J. F. Penn
“Look, up there. Is that a man on the top of the arch?”
Zoltan looked up, squinting to see further. Then something moved and they clearly saw a figure crawl across the top of the stone tower.
“What’s he doing?” Zoltan said, as the man leaned over the edge, holding something in his hand. Blue spray paint started to etch its way across the stone as the man carefully began his graffiti.
“Oh no,” Morgan said. “He’s spraying a blue star of David, so whatever happens here next will be blamed on Jews.”
“And it’s not likely to be just graffiti,” Zoltan said, as he swung himself up over the railing and onto the cable. “I’m going up to get him.”
Cars began to slow on the bridge as rubberneckers stopped to watch, and Morgan held her breath as Zoltan climbed higher. The man sprayed faster, his lines more shaky as he completed the fourth line. The star was almost finished as Zoltan reached the platform high above the bridge, pulling his body up and holding his arms out to steady himself. Morgan clenched her fists with the tension of watching them as Zoltan rushed the man and threw a punch. The man ducked and then ran to the end of the tower platform. He glanced down towards the Danube, gave a cheeky salute and jumped.
Morgan gasped as the man leapt into space, his legs cycling in the air and then a mini parachute extended from his backpack, slowing his fall. He drifted down onto the boat below as the tourists exclaimed and snapped photos. Morgan saw Zoltan freeze at the top of the arch, looking down at them and then bend to something at his feet. Whatever he had found, she was going after the man who had left it. She clambered onto the ledge of the bridge, assessing the fall to the tourist boat below. She saw the summer awning still hanging above the top deck of the boat. If she could just land on that, it would cushion her fall, but she had only seconds left to decide.
She could see the man from the bridge stripping off his parachute, laughing with the tourists, and posing for photographs, seemingly unconcerned about being identified. The moment slowed in Morgan’s mind. Part of her hesitated, a physical brake applied by the ancient lizard brain that protected the body from harm. That part didn’t jump from great heights or take physical risks. But then she glanced to her right and saw the people gathered at the Shoes memorial. She imagined the bodies of those murdered earlier that day floating in the freezing river and their echo sixty years ago, a reflection of the atrocities of the past. Morgan thought of the people trapped by the mob in the synagogue, the potential for violence that hung over the city. She jumped.
CHAPTER 7
The rush of cold air on her face was bracing as Morgan jumped off the edge of the bridge, looking out to Margaret Island so that she didn’t pitch forward as gravity pulled her downward. She knew how to fall from her Krav Maga martial arts experience but also from the years that she had spent rock climbing and canyoning in the hills of Israel. Her muscles remembered the sensation of jumping from the top of waterfalls into icy dark water beneath. She breathed out heavily to try and stem the flood of adrenalin, glancing down to see the canopy of the tourist boat rushing up to meet her. She heard the shouts of the people below, and just before she landed she saw the man turn and spot her. His eyes narrowed and then she lost sight of him as she landed heavily on the canvas.
Morgan felt the air whoosh out of her as she slid towards the deck, turning and grabbing for a hold on the cloth. There was shrieking from the tourists below as she landed with a thump onto the wooden boards, her fall slowed and cushioned by the canopy. It took her a second to reorient herself, and then she heard the revving of a powerful motor. She stood quickly, brushing off the concerned comments of the tourists, pushing through the throng. She hopped up onto the side of the boat and looked towards the source of the noise. At the stern, the man ditched his parachute and was standing, waiting to jump onto a fast-approaching speedboat.
“Hey,” Morgan shouted. “Stop him.”
But the tourist crowd was more interested in taking photos of this strange incursion than joining in. The man turned at her shout and she saw his hawk-like profile. It was the Raven himself, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile, as Morgan began to fight her way to the back of the boat.
The speedboat pulled alongside, and the Raven leapt deftly in, his step light. Morgan reached the stern just as the boat pulled away, the sound of his laughter just audible above the engine’s roar.
***
High above the Danube, Zoltan examined the large package that the man had left. The explosives were encased in clear solid plastic and a prominent timer counted down from five minutes. It was a taunt for anyone who discovered it, for there was no way into the package to stop the bomb going off. Zoltan felt a cold calm descend as he analyzed his options. The bomb wasn’t big enough to cause severe damage or destroy the bridge, but it would be a symbolic attack on a nationalist icon, and the media would infer responsibility from the almost complete blue star graffiti. He had to do something, and fast.
The timer ticked into four minutes remaining.
CHAPTER 8
The Széchenyi spa baths had always been a realm of magic for Elena, a place that transformed her mother from tyrant to soporific princess. During the summers of her childhood, while her mother lay relaxing in one of the hot pools, Elena would play in the shallows, her mind weaving stories of bath nymphs and fairies. She would sink under the water, eyes open, gazing at the hazy figures beneath. Legs loomed like sea monsters and the giants of legend while she fought battles, waiting for the reward from the Bath King who would let her sink down into the blue forever. These moments helped her to forget the packages passed in the changing rooms, and how her mother would duck into the toilets afterwards, her daughter forgotten. She would emerge smiling, rubbing her nose, her body riper somehow.
As Elena walked into the baths today, her body heavy with the false pregnancy stomach she wore, she thought back to those times and how so much had changed. The fairytale of earlier days had been but a dream before the nightmare of her real life had begun. But today, she hoped to escape.
As a child she had discovered that the goodwill from the baths only ever lasted for a short time and then Elena found herself backhanded into silence as she tried to tell her mother of the nymphs. After a while, she didn’t mention them anymore. When her breasts had begun to show just before her thirteenth birthday, it was her mother who noticed first.
“Come, Elena,” she had said. “We’re going shopping.”
Elena remembered how excited she had been, for her clothes had been the subject of ridicule at school, hand-me-downs that ill suited her. Now it seemed that her mother would dress her like one of the popular girls. Elena had been confused when the only shop they had entered sold swimwear and her mother had picked out a tiny bikini. Elena was embarrassed but her mother just adjusted it around her newly formed curves and whispered, “Good, you’ll do just fine.”
On the next trip to the baths, her mother had kept a tight grip on her hand, making sure that Elena changed into the bikini. In the changing cubicle, her mother had clutched her arm tight, fingernails digging into her arm.
“Now, Elena,” she had whispered, her eyes dull. “We need money and you have to earn it. You’ll go with someone today and you’ll do whatever they want. Don’t make a sound or you won’t be coming home with me. But be a good girl and there will be money for nice things.”
Elena had felt confused, but she would do anything to avoid the beatings her mother doled out. So when the attendant lady had come to fetch her, she had walked behind carefully, following her to the door of one of the private spa rooms.
“I’ll get you in thirty minutes,” the woman said, her eyes flicking over Elena, dismissing her with one glance. “Go in, then.” She pushed open the door and shooed the girl inside the darkened space.
Elena barely remembered what had happened that first time, she had been so terrified. But by the end, her new bikini lay discarded on the floor and her insides felt bruised. The baths had always been a place to
get clean, so why did she now feel so dirty?
After the third time, Elena had spoken up, telling her mother she wouldn’t go again, that she wouldn’t let the men do what they did, that she would scream and tell the police. Her mother had twisted her arm in a Chinese burn, making her listen as she told her daughter that she was a whore, she was ruined and she was nothing. This was her only life choice, this or be sold to the sex trade, and even that would be too good for a little bitch like her. Elena still wondered why her mother hated her so much.
Then, one day, she had entered the spa room and there was a new man in there, his hair a gleaming black. He had wrapped her in a towel and said he only wanted to talk, that he would pay the same amount but he just wanted to speak with her. As he had asked about her school and what she enjoyed doing, Elena had been surprised, but after a few sessions, she began to trust the man and to look forward to time with him. Her mother was none the wiser. A few weeks ago, he had asked her if she wanted to escape the life she led, that if she did one thing for him, he would get her out. She would have money to leave Budapest, to change her life. Did she want that?
Elena wanted that very much, which was why now, nearing her sixteenth birthday, she found herself wearing a false pregnancy stomach, heading into the baths for an antenatal pool session. Earlier, she had gone to an address the man had provided and listened as he told her what to do. “You must wait, stay with the package until it’s collected,” he had told her. He had made up her face, giving her a wig so that no one would recognize her. It was kind of exciting, like the movies and Elena wanted to do a good job for him. As she left, he had kissed her forehead and she had felt his love. Perhaps he would look after her, rescue her like she had wished the King of the Baths would do in her childhood fairytale.
Wrapping her hands around the pendulous belly, Elena leaned back and looked up at the grand Neo-Baroque entrance. Its pillars and domes were so familiar and yet today, it was as if she saw them with new eyes. The daily stream of visitors was heading through the gates, into one of the largest spa complexes in Europe, with eighteen pools and myriad saunas, steam chambers and corners to relax in. She went through the ritual of entry, her feet following a well-trodden path. The mustard yellow walls dripped with condensation from the steam that billowed through the changing area and Elena felt sweat pool beneath the false stomach. She wondered again what was inside it, knowing not to ask, only hoping that its delivery would secure her freedom.
Inside the baths, she went to her locker and then to the spa room where she had met the man, right next to the pool where the antenatal class was starting. Elena shrugged off the false stomach and placed it beside her on the bench. It looked like a grotesque sack of flesh. Would it hurt to have a look inside it?
She heard the chimes of the clock as her hand reached for the zipper on the side. Elena heard a click and there was a flash of light, a burst of pain and she thought no more as the bomb exploded her young body into a million pieces.
CHAPTER 9
Aware of the seconds ticking away, Zoltan peered down at the cars streaming over the bridge and assessed the danger from falling masonry. He looked further out at the boats on the Danube, suddenly noticing that Morgan was now on one of the tourist barges, staring out after a motorboat that was speeding away. He didn’t know how she had got down so fast, but he half smiled. She certainly knew how to look after herself, and it was damn attractive.
He glanced down again, feeling a little vertigo. The Danube seemed the only option, for the package wasn’t held in place on the bridge. Zoltan picked it up, as gently as he might a precious child, careful not to dislodge any parts. He walked slowly, barely breathing, to the side of the arched tower. Looking down, he inched his way closer to the edge. His heart thumped in fear, for he didn’t know the power of the bomb, only sure it would be better off at the bottom of the Danube.
Peering over, he saw a gap in the boat traffic on the river. With a gasp of effort, he threw the package out and away from the bridge. It turned end over end in the air and Zoltan flinched, his muscles tight, expecting an explosion. But the package plopped into the river, floating for a moment and then sinking as the water leaked into the casing. Zoltan looked at his watch, reckoning that there would be just over two minutes remaining.
He stood for a moment looking out over the city, his anger welling up, for he would defend this country he loved to the death. He was a Jew but he was also Hungarian, like he was a son and a brother. A man could be many things, and one aspect did not define him. He would not deny any part of himself to conform to some crazy definition of who was considered a ‘real’ Hungarian. So he would fight those who tried to divide this glorious city. Zoltan clenched his fists as the time ticked into its final seconds and then he waited, holding his breath.
But nothing came, only the bellowing horns of the boats below, and the hum of the traffic across the bridge. Zoltan exhaled in a long rush as the seconds continued to tick by. He watched the boat that Morgan was on dock at the Vigadó tér pier and turned, heading for the pylon and the tricky climb down. He felt relief flood his body that they had managed to stop at least one of the plans laid for this chaotic day.
Just as Zoltan started his descent, he heard a muffled explosion. His head jerked towards where he had thrown the bomb, but there was nothing there. No plume of water, no ruined boats. The sound had come from the East and he looked in that direction, suddenly seeing a plume of smoke rising above the skyline as the police sirens began to sound.
***
A short distance down Vigadó tér, Zoltan could see the final passengers emerging from the tourist boat. He ran hard towards the pier, pounding the street like he wanted to thump the terrorists who had set off the bomb. Had the bridge just been a decoy? Or was it meant to be a symbolic attack, drawing attention while innocents were targeted at the same time? Zoltan felt a surge of frustrated anger that he channeled into a burst of speed. How dare these people attack his country, his culture, which had already suffered so much?
He slowed on the approach to the ferry pier and stood getting his breath back, waiting for Morgan to disembark. Tourists gabbled away in various languages, some pointing to the plume of smoke evident in the sky to the East. Some were taking photos with a frisson of excitement at being so close to something significant, as if they were somehow immune to the vagaries of attack. Zoltan shook his head, for they didn’t realize how arbitrary terror had now become. They should be thanking God that it wasn’t their city at the mercy of madmen.
Morgan walked briskly up the metal walkway, having finally extricated herself from the interrogation of the boat’s captain. Her face was serious, her eyes fixed on the dark smoky clouds blooming in the sky. As she drew closer, Zoltan noticed the slash of violet in her right eye, almost a burn across the cobalt blue. Her dark curls were tied back and she moved with economy, the grace of a woman who knew how to fight, and how to dance. Who was she really, Zoltan wondered. He had heard of ARKANE, the name mentioned in a whisper when the Jewish elders met to discuss evacuation plans. He knew that the group had an academic side, well represented at conferences, but it was this secret militant arena that he was interested in. Because Dr Morgan Sierra was clearly not just an academic. He hadn’t seen her jump, but he didn’t know if he could have done the same thing.
“It was the Raven, and the bastard got away,” Morgan said, as she joined Zoltan at street level. “I’m sorry.”
Zoltan shook his head, dismissing her concern.
“You jumped from the bridge to go after him. I don’t think anyone could fault your dedication. What were you thinking?”
Morgan gazed back towards the water.
“I thought I saw the bodies in the Danube, floating there in the water, calling for justice. Those who died today, as well as the ones from seventy years ago.” She paused, looking into the eddies of the fast-flowing river. “Did you find anything up there on the arch?”
“There was a bomb, but I threw it in the Danube bef
ore it timed out. It was encased in plastic, tamper-proof.” He gestured upwards to the smoke dissipating in the sky above. “But seeing that, I suspect it was a decoy anyway.”
Morgan nodded.
“They were playing the local news on the boat. The bomb was at the Széchenyi Baths. Twelve dead.” She paused. “It was during an antenatal class, so there were pregnant women amongst the casualties.”
Zoltan clenched his fists, willing his rage to a simmer, but there was nothing he could do to help those people now. He and Morgan had to focus on what must surely come next.
“There was an anonymous call to the TV station,” continued Morgan. “The bombing has been claimed by a previously unknown Jewish group, in retribution for the Danube murders.”
Zoltan snorted, shaking his head. “As if it could have been organized so quickly. They’ve set this up so well. Whoever is behind this must have been planning it for months.”
“That guy from Eröszak is calling on the government to boycott Jewish businesses until the perpetrators are brought to justice. Of course, he’s not advocating violence officially but his supporters are calling for a march tonight, in solidarity with the victims.” Morgan put her hand on Zoltan’s arm, her voice urgent. “We need to find the Holy Right, it’s the only way to stop a bloodbath after dark.”
Zoltan gazed across the water at the Palace, a dominant presence that loomed above the city. On the edge of the battlements, he could just make out the giant statue of the Turul, the divine messenger bird of Magyar origin. In the myths of the beginning, it had perched on the top of the Tree of Life, along with the spirits of unborn children in the shape of birds. It was a symbol of power, strength and nobility, a bird of prey with a beak that could rip the hearts from the chests of men, sacrificed on its blood-spattered altar.
