Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers

by Diane Capri

  Morgan closed her eyes for a second, but the light from the tree had seared the names of the victims onto her eyelids, and she opened them again to meet his intense gaze.

  “My father was Jewish and I was brought up in Israel. He was Sephardi, from Spain originally, and secular for much of my childhood, but he found his God later in life. I never converted, but when I defend Judaism, as I did in the Israeli Defense Force, I defend him and the right to exist and believe as he did.”

  Zoltan’s eyes were piercing. “So you are a warrior, then?”

  Morgan felt the pulsing of her blood against the scars on her body, sustained in fighting against evil. The demon in the bone chapel of Sedlec, the assassins that hunted the Ark of the Covenant, these were battles she would carry forever.

  “I thought I could be just a scholar,” she replied, “but it seems that I am still called to fight.”

  The chanting outside was growing louder and more cohesive now, increasing in volume as if the crowd had become a mob. The edge of the harsh words cut through the air, and even though Morgan didn’t understand the language, she could discern hatred and destruction in their tone.

  “Then I may need your help today,” Zoltan said quietly. “I fear that the rabble will bring violence before the truth of the Basilica murder is uncovered.”

  At that moment, two security guards ran into the square, shouting to Zoltan. He spun and conversed with them quickly, then beckoned for her to follow.

  “We are gathering everyone into the main synagogue building. The gates are barred and locked and we’ve called the police but I fear there will be bloodshed if any Jews are caught outside.”

  Morgan raced with Zoltan back towards the front of the building in the wake of the security guards. The noise of shouting became deafening as they reached the metal gates that only a little while earlier had opened to a line of interested tourists. Now a mob of around fifty people jeered and roared their anger, faces contorted by hate, shouting for revenge in the wake of the Basilica crimes, rattling the gates as they tried to force their way in.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Zoltan pulled Morgan back against the wall as a glass bottle exploded on the ground in front of them.

  “Our community has been preparing for this day,” he said. “We knew it would come. We just need to get inside the synagogue and we’ll be safe there.”

  “What about the other people in this area?” Morgan asked, worried for the community.

  “They will have locked their doors and pulled down their shutters as soon as the news came out this morning,” Zoltan said. “Now we must run across the front to the entrance. Stay close to me.”

  Morgan smiled at his chivalry, and together they ran the few meters across the front of the synagogue. Bottles and cans were hurled over the fence, and the screaming of the crowd tore the air around them. Morgan could smell rubbish and the stink of feces as offensive projectiles burst on the ground. The doors of the synagogue opened as they approached and then shut firmly behind them. The shouting became a dull roar, but still, Morgan thought with a shudder, the sound of an angry mob intent on violence was enough to make even a veteran soldier afraid.

  Zoltan strode into the nave, where a small group of people huddled, some already swaying in prayer. He had a compelling air of authority, clearly ex-military, although he was younger than most of those present. While he gave instructions to those within, Morgan’s heart rate began to calm and she became more aware of her surroundings.

  The synagogue was immense and fashioned almost like a Christian basilica, with a mix of Byzantine and Gothic elements. Richly colored frescoes of geometric shapes were picked out in gold and red, dominating the ceiling, and tall arches framed the upper balconies. The Torah ark was surrounded by a towering white structure topped with a crown and, unusually for a synagogue, an organ continued the design upwards. It was a beautiful space, strangely decorative for a Jewish place of worship but, Morgan thought to herself, the people here had tried their best to fit in, even with their architecture.

  Morgan watched Zoltan as he organized the group, offering words of comfort along with his authority. One old woman sat to the side on a bench, her face expressionless, lips unmoving, staring into the distance. In the blankness of her eyes, Morgan saw that she had been through this experience before, that she was reliving some earlier terror.

  She caught Zoltan’s eye and moved to join him, speaking in a hushed tone so as not to alarm those present.

  “We have to get out of here,” she said. “We need to find the Holy Right and return it to the Basilica, because if this continues into the night, I fear for these people.”

  Zoltan’s eyes were hard. “And who are you, Morgan Sierra, to be of any use to me in this place?”

  Morgan met his gaze without flinching. “I know you must have a way out, and you need a partner who can operate in the field. You have to leave your security guards on duty here to protect these people and I can be useful, so put me to work.” She paused, laying her hand on his arm. “This is what I do, Zoltan. I find religious objects and I fight bad guys.”

  A glimmer of humor shone in his eyes. “And today, Budapest harbors these bad guys?”

  Morgan nodded. “Do you have weapons here?”

  Zoltan hesitated, looking back at the group. They were mainly academics and older people who volunteered at the synagogue. Morgan saw Anna comforting one woman, rocking her in her arms and stroking her hair as Ilona sat close by, eyes wide with fear.

  He shook his head slowly, and Morgan saw resignation in his eyes.

  “Follow me.”

  In one corner of the synagogue was an ornate screen. Zoltan stepped behind it and tapped into a keypad on the wall. The heavy door clicked and he pushed it open to reveal a smaller courtyard outside protected by high walls but still open to the sky. A large metal storage container loomed in the shadows.

  “This area is just outside the holy ground of the synagogue,” Zoltan explained. “But we keep the store close just in case.”

  He tapped in another code and pulled open the door, gesturing for Morgan to enter. There were several racks of guns, old but clean, and clearly well serviced. Morgan picked up a Glock 17 handgun.

  “Austrian,” Zoltan said. “Military issue.”

  “Thinking about it, I’m not sure that we should take weapons,” Morgan said. “We need to stay out of sight as much as possible. If we get stopped, carrying guns will get us arrested, which won’t help anyone here.”

  “Agreed,” Zoltan said, picking up a tire iron from a pile of tools, hefting its weight in his hand. “This will have to do.” He put it into a backpack with a couple of torches and some other basic equipment. “Our only chance to stop a riot tonight is to find the Hand.” He picked up a protective vest. “But will you wear this, just in case? It’s a spare.”

  Morgan nodded, reaching for it. Zoltan stripped off his own jacket and shirt, revealing a trim, muscled torso clad in a tight, white t-shirt, a criss-cross of white scars emerging from his right sleeve and continuing down his arm. Morgan watched for a second, resisting the urge to touch him, before pulling off her own coat and sweater, feeling the tension in her muscles. It felt good to move, the adrenalin pulsing through her. She claimed to be an academic, but this life of action suited her. By his eyes on her toned body, it was clear Zoltan thought so too. Their eyes met, danger sparking an attraction, then Zoltan broke the gaze as he zipped up the small backpack and they stepped from the lock-up.

  “There’s a tunnel we can use to get out of here,” he said, re-entering the code to secure the container. “It emerges a few streets away in the basement of a bar where we have friends.”

  A wailing scream came from the main synagogue and Zoltan dashed back inside. Morgan followed after him to find that the old woman who had sat in catatonic silence had broken down in hysterical weeping.

  “We must go now,” Zoltan said, his face stony, fists clenched. “I will not allow my people to go through this a
gain.”

  He led Morgan to a corridor that ran behind the aron ha-kodesh, the Holy Ark that held the Torah scrolls, and then into a small square room lined with books.

  “Now we go down,” Zoltan said, pulling aside a rug that concealed a trapdoor. He tugged it up revealing a dark and narrow hole. Morgan’s thoughts flashed to the mass grave outside, the bodies of those starved to death lowered into pits like this. Zoltan stepped down onto the ladder and then passed her up a head torch. “It’s not too far. My men have orders to bring the others this way if the synagogue wall is breached, but I fear that the elderly would struggle to escape down here.”

  He disappeared into the hole and Morgan watched him descend. She took a deep breath and followed him, climbing down about six feet. Zoltan was waiting at the bottom in a low tunnel, and as soon as Morgan’s feet touched the ground, he set off into the darkness, the light from his head torch illuminating dank earth reinforced with wooden planks. With barely enough room to stand upright, Morgan had to bend to walk quickly behind him.

  It must have been built after the Ghetto, Morgan thought, as back then these blocks would have been surrounded by a high fence and stone wall. No food had been allowed in, and rubbish, waste and dead bodies had lain on the streets unable to be collected. She walked faster, specters of the past chasing her through the dark tunnel, the bony fingers of the dead crying out for justice while the living wailed in the synagogue behind her. She felt claustrophobic, as if the very earth wanted to crush her. There was a light touch on her cheek and she let out a little noise of alarm.

  “Are you OK?” Zoltan’s whisper came back and he shone his torch at her feet.

  Morgan touched her face, wiping away a crumbling flake of earth.

  “Yes, sorry, just a bit jumpy.”

  “Only a little further.” He turned and they walked on until they reached another ladder, which Zoltan quickly climbed, pushing open the hatch above. Light flooded down into the pit as Zoltan reached down to help Morgan up. They emerged into a beer cellar in the basement of a local pub, with metal barrels piled up in one corner, the smell of hops in the air.

  “We need to find out more about the ultra right-wing Nationalist groups,” Zoltan said. “The relic theft is not the work of Jewish groups, but of a faction trying to stir up violence for their own agenda. With the elections only a few days away, there are those who would benefit greatly from a backlash against the Jews and a resurgence of Hungarian nationalism. I know someone who can help us … but you’re not going to like where he works.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  In another area of Budapest, the Jewish delicatessen of Erzsébetváros was busy, full of people gossiping about the murder at the Basilica, their voices a hubbub of interest tinged with fear. Alma Kadosa served a customer with fresh bread, wrapping it quickly with fast hands, unconscious of the actions she had performed so many times before. She heard snippets of conversation, rumors of a mob calling for blood and vengeance and she felt a dart of concern for her parents, who were at the synagogue. She would call them as soon as the shop quietened down. They were still faithful to a religion into which she had been born but didn’t really identify with. Alma was proudly Hungarian first, embracing all the opportunities the country offered hardworking young people. She only had to save a few hundred more forints and then she could afford her dream holiday, visiting the famous art galleries of Italy and France that she studied at night school.

  Suddenly, the sound of revving engines interrupted Alma’s thoughts and stilled the conversation around her. Brakes squealed to a halt and Alma could see men jumping out of a white van. There was shouting and the atmosphere in the shop shifted. Alma watched the old people shrink into themselves, some sinking silently behind display units as if they instinctively knew what was coming.

  “Quickly,” hissed Ferenc, the portly owner of the store, as he pushed open the back door of the shop and urged some of the customers to flee. Those closest to the door ran, leaving shopping bags full on the ground. Alma was trapped behind the bread counter and, although she felt fearful, she also didn’t understand what was going on. How could there be a threat to their little shop?

  She remained standing as the door banged open and, one after another, five men entered, their faces set in a sneer of malevolence, eyes shining with a lust for violence. Two carried baseball bats that they thumped from one hand to another and the others held guns in a relaxed grip.

  Their leader strode in behind them, his eyes obscured by sunglasses. His nose was sharp, like a beak, and his dark hair shone with wax styling. He was closely shaven and Alma could smell the spicy cologne that he exuded along with an air of sophisticated violence. His eyes fell on her and Alma felt her heart pound in fear and her muscles tighten.

  He walked forward, his eyes fixed on hers, while his men stood silently to one side as if waiting for a signal.

  “What are you looking at, Jew-bitch?” he asked, his voice almost an obscene caress and his mouth curving into a smile. Alma could read his intent, and her hand gripped the bread-knife in front of her. She thought of her grandparents, survivors of the camps, and her parents who had suffered under the Soviets. This was her fight now, and suddenly she felt proud of her heritage. She would not deny who she was, even though she had spent her lifetime avoiding the synagogue and her parents’ religious fervor.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” Alma asked, her voice shaky. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the customers frozen with fear. Nearest was old Mrs Karolyi with her gnarled hands who came in every day for fresh poppyseed cake. Her eyes were closed and her chest was heaving, as if she was having a panic attack. Behind her was a mother, clutching her young son to her chest, hiding his eyes and looking away, hoping that by not seeing what was happening, they would avoid the oncoming threat.

  “You Jews have helped yourselves for far too long,” the man snarled at Alma. “And now you have stolen the symbol of our country, the Holy Right, no doubt for some disgusting ritual.” He came close to the counter and leaned over it towards Alma. Everything in her wanted to thrust the bread knife at him, but she knew that his jacket would stop the blade and then she feared he would use the knife on her. Her heart pounded.

  “We don’t know anything about the Holy Right. We are Hungarian, just like you.” Alma’s voice trembled and the man smiled, his grin wolfish. He raised a hand and slapped her face hard, the crack resounding in the shop. Alma felt the pain a split second after the noise, her hand flying to her cheek and tears springing to her eyes.

  “Don’t you dare claim to be Magyar,” he snarled. “You are nothing, and we will show you what you are worth.”

  He signaled behind him and the other men started laying into the shelving and displays with their bats, smashing glass cases and bottles. The smell of pickled vegetables filled the air and the screams of the frightened customers were lost amongst the violent outburst. Alma heard Ferenc moaning from behind his till, shaking his head as his livelihood was destroyed, the perfect little shop with everything in its place smashed to pieces. Glass shards rained down on the customers, but although the men heaved their bats down right next to the people huddled on the floor, they didn’t hit anyone. Alma was shaking with shock and fear now. Could this really be happening in twenty-first century Hungary?

  “Today we are taking vengeance for the stolen Holy Right,” the man said. “But beating you to death doesn’t give the correct signal to the Jewish community. We want to cast a longer shadow into the past today.” He grinned and cupped Alma’s chin roughly in his bony hand. “You’re pretty, little Jewess. I’ll take you for sure, but we need several more for our little enactment. Will you choose, or shall I?”

  Alma stared into his eyes, dark pools showing no acknowledgment of her humanity. “You can’t do this,” she said. “The police will be here any minute. They’ll stop you.”

  He laughed. “Haven’t you noticed, idiot Jews?” He spun and addressed the cowering shop customers. “The police aren’t i
nterested in you, they only care about defending Hungary. And today, we’re doing their job for them.”

  He barked a command and each of the men grabbed one of the customers.

  “Now, Jewess, will you come quietly or shall I take someone else?”

  The man turned and his eyes fixed on the mother with her young son, and old Mrs Karolyi. He moved towards them and the old woman opened her eyes, a piercing blue that fixed on his.

  “Shame on you,” she whispered. “You bring dishonor to Hungary. This brutality should have died with the generation that started it.”

  The man laughed at her and then his face transformed.

  “It is you who bring shame.” He spat at the old woman. “We bring glory, for we are ridding this country of the unwanted Jews, Roma and dirty foreigners. Soon, we Magyar will be great again.”

  He reached for a tin of pickled gherkins from the shelf and used it to smash Mrs Karolyi in the face. There was a sickening crunch as her nose broke and a weak cry as she sagged in agony back against the young mother, who clutched desperately at her son and shuffled backwards from the violence.

  As the man leaned forward to hit Mrs Karolyi again, Alma stepped out from behind the counter.

  “Please, leave her,” she said. “I’ll go with you.”

  He turned back, his hand still raised with the pickle jar stained with blood. Alma knew she could never look at one of the green containers again without seeing the red specks. He flung the jar carelessly to the floor where it rolled under a display case.

  “So be it.” He shouted a command to the men and they thrust the five captives through the door, guns trained on the remaining customers.

  Alma was the last to be hustled into the van, all of them crammed into the back to sit on the floor, surrounded by the men with guns. As one of the women began sobbing quietly, Alma felt as if her brain was processing the situation on a totally removed level. She could see the tiny details of the scene as if time moved more slowly. A fly buzzed around the head of one man, landing on his ear as he flicked at it. There was a mole on his cheek shaped like the island of Crete, where she had spent one lazy summer. She noticed the broken zip of another man’s jacket, the thin material a cheap imitation of an upmarket brand. She saw the broken veins in the outstretched legs of one older woman, her skirt riding up as she tried to stay upright in the lurching van.