Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

Zsuzsa looked at her friend, her eyebrows arched. ‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You filed your story by early Sunday evening. It was online twenty minutes later. It’s three stops on the metro from here to Kossuth Square. They were going to a burger bar on Oktober 6 Street, which is another five minutes’ walk away. And even if you had to come back to work, how long does it take to eat a burger?’

  Eniko did not reply. She had no good answer. Why hadn’t she gone to have dinner with Balthazar and Alex? Instead she had sent an SMS apologising that she could not make it, and had sat in the office, reading and re-reading her story after it was filed, when there was no need to make any more edits, then planning the next day’s follow-ups. She had spent the rest of the evening standing on the same balcony, with a couple of colleagues and a can of warm beer for company, watching the column of migrants slowly proceed down Rakoczi Way. Was she really so scared of what she had rediscovered the previous weekend about her feelings for Balthazar? However much she tried to deny it, maybe she was. It was certainly starting to look that way. She was behaving like a teenage girl, running away from her emotions.

  ‘Do you think he will invite me again?’ asked Eniko.

  Zsuzsa laughed, her wide blue eyes alight with humour. ‘After you dumped him then stood him up? What do you think?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘And then there’s all the other stuff.’

  ‘What other stuff?’

  ‘He is a Gypsy. He let you into his family, introduced you to his brothers, sisters, the whole clan. Family is everything for them. And then you said no thanks, and walked away. He won’t forget that. And neither will they.’

  Zsuzsa was right, Eniko knew. She had enjoyed the Kovacs clan’s riotous gatherings more than she had ever imagined: the music, the warmth, the tables laden with food, the endless flow of every kind of drink.

  Eniko shot her a wry look. ‘What’s happened to you? I thought you were supposed to be my friend.’ Eniko glanced at her watch. ‘And why are you in so early?’

  ‘Because I’ve got a lot to do. And I am your friend,’ said Zsuzsa brightly. ‘But sometimes you need to hear the truth, Eni. You dumped Balthazar. Then you stood him up, even though he is probably still interested. Then last week you didn’t want to go out with the best-looking actor in the city because he is boring. Half the women in this city would have elbowed you out of the way to eat sushi with him.’

  ‘Tamas Nemeth is boring. He just talked about himself the whole evening.’ She took off her trendy tortoiseshell spectacles and began to polish them needlessly on the end of her T-shirt. Should she tell Zsuzsa about the encounter on the tram and the memory stick? The more she thought about the events of the morning, the more unsettled she felt. She might have been followed from her flat on Raoul Wallenberg Street, in the heart of District XIII, to the tram stop on Jaszai Mari Square. And they – whoever they were – also had her new, personal telephone number.

  ‘A man who talks about himself. Imagine that,’ said Zsuzsa, dryly.

  Hungary had been a member of the European Union for more than a decade, but was still a very conservative society, especially outside Budapest. There were barely any women in public life, apart from a few celebrity reality TV stars and sports champions, and only a handful of women MPs. The passport scam aside, that ingrained sexism was another reason why many commentators thought Reka Bardossy’s administration would last a couple of weeks, if that. But the culture clash was growing between Eniko and Zsuzsa’s generation and their elders. Even at 555.hu, which was the country’s most liberal and irreverent website, the executives, most of whom were male, still dispensed a stream of compliments and remarks on their female colleagues’ appearance, to their increasingly vocal annoyance.

  Zsuzsa peered down into Blaha Lujza Square, her hand to her forehead, turning from side to side. ‘Do you see a line of Hungarian men down there, all waiting eagerly to go out with an independent-minded woman coming up to thirty, with a career and income of her own? Because I don’t. And if there was, that would be the biggest story in 555’s history.’

  ‘No. I don’t. But we can live in hope. What’s got into you this morning?’ She looked at her friend for a moment. Zsuzsa was a pretty, clear-skinned countryside girl, born in a small village on the puszta, the great plain. Her round, intelligent face was framed by long, wavy auburn hair. Several inches shorter than Eniko, she was slightly plump, and self-conscious about her figure.

  Zsuzsa’s voice softened. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’ve got so much to think about at the moment. I just don’t want you to be left on the shelf.’

  Eniko said, ‘Well you won’t, Zsuzsika, looking like that.’ Eniko had noticed Zsuzsa’s new look when they met in the office ten minutes ago, but had still been shaken up by her encounter on the tram. Now she was on home territory again and had relaxed a bit, she gave her friend the once-over again. Zsuzsa usually wore loose, baggy clothes. Today she was wearing a knee-length denim skirt and a black scoop-neck close-fitting top. Zsuzsa usually smelled of soap and shampoo but Eniko could smell some kind of perfume, almost musky. And she was getting more and more assertive. In Eniko’s experience such transformation usually had one cause: a new man. In any case it was time to move the conversation on from her own disastrous personal life.

  Eniko said, ‘I like your new look. It suits you. Almost vampy.’

  Zsuzsa’s confidence wobbled. She frowned, looked down at her cleavage and tight top, as if surprised at herself. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit… OTT?’

  Eniko laughed. ‘Absolutely not. We gotta use what we got.’ She looked Zsuzsa up and down. ‘And you are.’

  Zsuzsa blushed and swallowed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So why the new look?’

  ‘Csak.’

  Eniko smiled. ‘Who is he?’

  Zsuzsa blushed. ‘Nobody… someone.’

  ‘What are you working on? Can you tell me that?’

  ‘Sure. Migrants, mostly. I’m going to Keleti later. Wanna come? I need to do some research but I’ll do that later. The Internet is incredibly slow this morning. I could barely get onto the website.’

  Zsuzsa was a general news reporter, although recently, like much of the staff at 555.hu she had been working on the migrants story. This was her first proper journalistic job. She had graduated from Eotvos Lorand University with a degree in English and media studies and had worked as an intern at several newspapers and websites before starting at 555.hu. She was several steps below Eniko in the newsroom’s hierarchy, especially after Eniko’s recent scoops, but Eniko had taken her under her wing, given her a crash course in writing, interviewing and reporting. Thanks to the migrant crisis, and her talent and dedication, Zsuzsa’s career was progressing rapidly.

  Eniko said, ‘Good old Keleti. My second home. I’ve been off that story for a couple of days.’ For a moment she felt almost nostalgic for her time at the station – was it really just a week ago? – doing some actual reporting, speaking to real people, crouching down in the heat and dirt and dust, hearing human stories. ‘I’ve been too busy being Reka Bardossy’s de facto press officer as she drip-feeds me snippets about Pal Dezeffy.’

  Zsuzsa looked shocked. She knew journalists were cynical, of course, but this world-weary? ‘But your stories are going around the world. She’s an incredible source.’

  ‘An incredible source with an agenda. Let’s not talk about that.’ Eniko’s voice brightened. ‘I’ll come to Keleti with you if you tell me who you’re meeting.’

  Zsuzsa looked down from the balcony, suddenly intensely interested in the commuters and shoppers striding across Blaha Lujza Square. ‘Nobody. I’m not meeting anyone.’

  Eniko knew that Zsuzsa had broken up with her childhood sweetheart, Huba, a month ago. Huba was an engineer who hated Budapest, almost as much as he hated Zsuzsa’s job, and the idea of her going out and meeting an endless stream of strangers, some of whom were men. Once Zsuzsa had turned down his proposal of marriage, there was nothing more to say. He had mo
ved out the next day and returned home.

  Eniko laughed, ‘Mr Nobody? Come on, Zsuzsika, you can tell me. First date?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘Oooh. Lunch or evening?’ said Eniko, pausing for a moment, raising her eyebrows. ‘Evening, I guess.’

  ‘Early evening. Six o’clock. Cocktails.’

  Eniko laughed, gently mocked her friend. ‘Cocktails. Fancy.’

  ‘Yes. I know. Actually, I’ve never been to a cocktail bar.’ She frowned for a moment. ‘What should I order?’

  ‘Nothing strong. Vermouth or Campari soda. Where is it?’

  ‘A new bar. I’ve never heard of it. Zuma.’

  ‘When did you meet?’

  ‘On Monday.’

  ‘That’s only four days ago. And you are already on your second date. Serious. How did you meet Mr Nobody?’

  ‘We just got chatting.’ Zsuzsa pointed down to Blaha Lujza. ‘We were both waiting for the 4/6 tram.’

  ‘Name? Age?’

  Zsuzsa smiled, enjoying the moment. For once, Eniko was grilling her about a man. ‘His name is Adorjan.’

  ‘And what does Adorjan do?’

  ‘He’s an adviser. Something to do with politics. He promised to tell me more tonight.’

  Bajnok bar, Mikszath Kalman Square, 8.45 a.m.

  Csongor appeared from the kitchen, carrying two white, oblong plates laden with food. He placed them down on the table with a flourish. Csongor was in his early thirties, of medium height, wiry and muscular, with a wide forehead, a boxer’s nose that bent leftwards and a thin scar above both of his grey eyes.

  ‘Thanks, Csongi,’ said Balthazar. ‘I didn’t know you could cook.’

  Csongor smiled. ‘Neither did I. It’s my first breakfast. The wife usually does it but she’s away this week. What do you think?’

  Balthazar looked down at the plate. A pile of small fried sausages stood next to two fried eggs, spattered with paprika and two dollops of red and brown. The smell of the food was making Balthazar’s mouth water. ‘I think it looks great.’

  ‘Good.’ Csongor pointed at the coloured splashes. ‘Ketchup. Mustard. Jo etvagyat, I wish you a good appetite.’

  Anastasia laughed. ‘I’ve got one.’ She speared a sausage as Csongor walked back to the kitchen, bit the end off and chewed slowly.

  Balthazar realised he was ravenous. He ate most of the meal in a couple of minutes, then dipped the end of a sausage in an egg yolk and watched the golden liquid flow around the fried meat. Could he and Anastasia really work together? She was smart, tough, perceptive. But the ABS and the police were wary colleagues at best. They had different mandates and different agendas. The security service had far more powers than the police, had more technical and manpower resources. The ABS also had an annoying habit of letting the police do the hard work of investigating a murder or high-profile robbery then walking in and taking the case.

  On balance, though, he thought yes. He needed to find out how and why al-Nuri had died. If, as he was starting to suspect, the worst case was likely – that he had been deliberately killed at the brothel to target Balthazar and Gaspar – then he would need some help. It was conceivable that al-Nuri had simply died of a heart attack. It was not conceivable that the brothel’s CCTV system had failed, then reversed itself to show Balthazar, Gaspar and the others. That was clearly a message. Someone was inside the system. But who? The ABS, he was sure, had the means to do that. As did the Gendarmerie.

  Balthazar said, ‘Something weird happened this morning at the brothel.’

  Anastasia gathered more food on her fork. ‘You mean weirder than a dead Arab who might have been poisoned while pleasuring himself with one of your brother’s oromlanyok?’

  ‘Yes, even weirder than that,’ said Balthazar, as he gave a quick account of the CCTV malfunction.

  ‘That is strange,’ said Anastasia.

  ‘Was that you or your people?’

  ‘No. It was not. And we don’t send signals.’

  ‘So who was it?’

  Anastasia glanced outside before she answered, then pointed. ‘Them, I guess.’

  Balthazar followed her finger. Two black Gendarmerie vehicles had taken up position on the opposite corners of the square: one by Revitsky Street and another by Krudy Gyula Street. Each had tinted windows covered by black wire mesh. A white globe mounted on a stick on the roof slowly rotated, filming the square and its surrounds.

  ‘Attila’s keeping an eye on you,’ said Anastasia. She turned for a moment and waved through the window, before facing Balthazar again. ‘Meanwhile, I have something else to show you.’

  ‘Another video?’ asked Balthazar, as he demolished a fried egg. ‘Is anything in this town not being filmed?’

  ‘Not if it might be useful ammunition. At least this was not filmed by the Gendarmerie.’ Anastasia glanced down at Balthazar’s half-eaten breakfast. ‘I will show you once you have finished that. This one is not pleasant viewing. And if it ever gets out, as these things usually do, it’s the end of Reka Bardossy’s brief term as Hungary’s first female prime minister.’

  Balthazar smiled. ‘I’m a detective in the murder squad. I’ve seen plenty of actual bodies, many of which met a nasty end. But none of which were connected to Reka Bardossy, so now you have me really intrigued.’ He pointed at her telephone. ‘Show me, please.’

  ‘It’s an actual killing. A messy one. I’d eat up if I were you.’

  Balthazar speared the remaining sausages and ate them, before mopping the rest of the egg yolk with a piece of bread. Once the breakfast was gone, he looked at Anastasia and nodded. ‘Ready when you are.’

  Anastasia called up a video file on her telephone, pressed play and passed Balthazar the handset. He watched Reka Bardossy walking by ramparts of the Buda Castle, a man approaching her, Reka throwing something in his face, the two of them grappling on the ground, Reka’s right hand frantically scrabbling in the dirt, grabbing something and slamming it into the side of the man’s neck. The man froze, then toppled to the side, a dark pool leaking from his punctured skin.

  Anastasia was right. The footage was unsettling. The dim lighting and grainy quality gave it the look of a low budget horror film. Watching a recording of someone dying was as disturbing as being near an actual dead body. Many of the corpses he had encountered in his work were often already cold by the time he arrived. Nor was the sight of al-Nuri dead on his knees a pleasant start to the day. But Balthazar had not seen him die. Now he had watched a man twitch and jerk in his death throes. And a man, he realised, who looked familiar.

  Balthazar pressed play again and watched the film for a second time, stopping the video several times and zooming in on the frozen shots of the fight, especially the scenes where the dead man toppled over with the object in his neck.

  ‘He is dead?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘What did she stick in his neck?’

  ‘The heel of her Louboutin. Designer shoes. They cost hundreds of euros a pair.’

  ‘Who was the dead man? I think I’ve seen him before.’

  Anastasia reached inside her bag and took out a plastic folder containing several photographs. She slid them across the table to Balthazar. ‘You have.’

  The photographs showed the head of a burly male, probably in his early thirties. He had a knife scar under his right eye. Balthazar nodded. ‘Sure. It’s one of the Gendarmes who beat me up at Keleti last week.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. His name is Jeno Katona. An old friend of Attila’s, from their time as part of the ultras, the hard-core violent football fans.’

  ‘Where is his body?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘Who was Kaplan working for?’

  ‘That’s where it gets even more interesting. Pal.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  Anastasia tilted her head to one side. ‘We know all sorts of things. That’s what we do.’

  ‘Pal Dezeffy wanted to kill Reka Bardossy? But weren’t he and
Reka…?’

  ‘Lovers, friends, yes, they were both children of the party elite. They grew up together in those lovely mansions in the Buda hills. But while Pal was dealing with the Qataris he and Reka also had a side operation, selling Hungarian passports to traffickers. Unfortunately the traffickers then sold them on to the Islamists, who kept getting detained at British and American airports. The CIA and MI6 were on it. It looked like the whole thing was about to collapse. Pal thought Reka was about to go down, and would take him with her as collateral damage. So she had to go.’ Anastasia tapped the screen of her mobile telephone. ‘But she had other ideas. And there’s more.’

  Somehow, Balthazar knew what was coming next. ‘This is what you wanted to tell me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Gaspar?’

  ‘Yes. He’s mixed up in this.’

  ‘He’s not in that league. He just dresses up migrants in Gypsy clothes then drives them across the Austrian border. It’s a straightforward business deal.’

  Anastasia looked down for a moment, as if deciding how to phrase her next sentence. ‘It’s much more than that, Balthazar. Did you give him my message?’

  Anastasia had told Balthazar the previous weekend when they met for the first time to tell Gaspar to ‘get out of the travel business’.

  ‘I can’t remember. I think so.’

  Anastasia smiled. ‘You’re a terrible liar, especially for a cop. Don’t you know that the most important thing is to take a position and stick to it? So that means no. You didn’t tell him.’ Her voice turned serious. ‘Listen to me now, Tazi, and please pass this on. Your brother is way out of his depth. He really does need to get out of the travel business. Especially after last weekend. When is the next group due to leave?’

  ‘Today. I’m not sure when.’

  Anastasia looked doubtful.

  ‘Really, I don’t know. This morning I think. They change the times, don’t decide until the last moment.’ For a moment he could hear his brother replying to his question:

  ‘Why, ocsim, are you in a hurry?’

  Gaspar glanced at his watch, a gold-plated Rolex. ‘Actually, yes.’