by Adam LeBor
Balthazar watched a white police launch race downriver, white water spilling in its wake. There were no other craft in sight and the boat’s pilot swerved from side to side, bouncing on the water, clearly enjoying himself. ‘That looks like fun. Maybe I should put in for a transfer to the river police.’ He turned to Sandor. ‘You would give me a reference, wouldn’t you?’
Sandor smiled. ‘Can you pilot a boat?’
‘Not exactly. But I’m sure I could learn.’
‘Which is the stern and which is the bow?’
Balthazar thought for a moment. ‘There’s one at either end. Of every boat,’ he added hopefully.
Sandor laughed. ‘Standard buoyage distance within the city limits?’
‘Erm… can I get back to you on that?’
‘Sure. Meanwhile we can talk about your knowledge of tides, currents, whirlpools, how to read the water…’
Balthazar brightened at this. ‘I know that the most dangerous place is by the stanchions of a bridge, because the same volume of water keeps flowing but gets forced into a narrower area so the currents there are much faster and stronger. That’s where most people drown, because they get sucked under. Like that case we had a year ago. The bankrupt banker whose creditors threw him off Margaret Bridge. So if you fall in, head for the shore as fast as you can.’
Sandor gave him a sideways look. ‘It’s a start. Swot up on the rest and I’ll let you know next time the river police are recruiting. Meanwhile, try not to fall into the water. Especially not before your reception.’
Balthazar watched a jogger in a lime-green vest running along the pavement of Arpad Bridge, braving the traffic fumes, before turning off onto the spur that led down to Margaret Island. ‘The reception. That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, boss. Do I really have to—’
‘— turn up, in your best suit and represent the Budapest police force while Reka Bardossy hands you a medal in a nice presentation box and then power-schmooze whoever she has invited? Yes. You do. You even get to choose some of the guests.’ Sandor raised an eyebrow. ‘Carefully.’
Carefully, Balthazar knew, meant no Gaspar or Fat Vik. ‘But—’
Sandor said, ‘Sorry, Tazi, but nothing. Anyway, what’s the problem?’
‘You know. Family stuff. It will draw a lot of attention. To them, as well as me. I might be a good role model. But they aren’t.’
Sandor’s voice softened for a moment. ‘Look, Tazi. I understand you don’t appreciate the limelight. And I understand why. But you are already bathed in it. You’re all over the Internet. Budapest is packed with reporters from every major newspaper, television channel and website from around the world. Hungary and immigration are the story of the moment. And you are the centre of that story, like it or not. The heroic cop who took down the world’s most wanted Islamist while he posed as a refugee at Keleti Station. So let’s find a way to make this work, for all of us. And, there is the whole… er…’ Sandor paused, as he walked over to his desk and picked up a carrot stick, bit off the end and ate it slowly.
Balthazar smiled, knowing full well what was going through his boss’s mind. ‘Gypsy thing?’
Sandor stopped chewing. ‘I wouldn’t put it like that, exactly.’
‘How would you put it, boss?’
Sandor smiled and looked upwards for a moment, as though remembering some lines recently learned. ‘Positive role models are one of the most effective ways to break down unhelpful stereotypes. The Budapest police is an equal-opportunity employer, equally committed to advancing all of its officers’ careers, including those from the Roma minority.’
Balthazar laughed. ‘You mean if I accept the medal and the reception it shows that we are not all pimps and prostitutes?’
Sandor flushed red. ‘That is not what I meant. And that’s not fair.’
Balthazar smiled. ‘I know, boss. Cheap shot. I’m sorry.’
Sandor nodded. ‘You’re forgiven. If you go to the reception.’
Sandor had been Balthazar’s patron throughout his time in the Budapest police. He had supported him from his time on the street, as he rose up through the ranks to become a plainclothes detective in the murder squad. The path had sometimes been bumpy. Balthazar’s colleagues reflected wider Hungarian society. Many officers, whose only encounters with Roma were when they arrested them, were suspicious of Balthazar. A few were hostile, openly racist. The more far-sighted were helpful, keen to show that law enforcement could offer a stable career and integration for a minority that was too often excluded and marginalised. Others were indifferent to Balthazar’s origins, which was how he best liked it. They judged him like any other colleague: on the quality of his detective work. The Budapest police force was trying hard to move with the times. Sandor had recently spent several days in London on a diversity training course, and the force had recently started its own training programme to make its officers more aware of how Roma society worked, and of the unbreakable bonds of family loyalty that shaped their interaction with the wider world. But for all his support, and seminars in London, Sandor was still a man who had spent his formative years under Communism, in a society sealed off from western ideas of anti-racism and minority rights. However loyal and supportive he was to Balthazar, and however hard he tried, older, more ingrained ideas still endured. Police work, by its very nature, involved contact and interaction with criminals. Most of the Gypsies Sandor had met had been lawbreakers – as was a large part of Balthazar’s family.
Balthazar’s voice turned more serious, ‘But it is a fact that my brother is the biggest pimp in the city. And my father used to be. And Gaspar runs a brothel where…’
Sandor held up his hand. ‘One thing at a time. The reception is also an honour for us, the Budapest murder squad. We can always use a few more tiles in our roof. Especially ones from the prime minister’s office.’ He paused, about to play his trump card. ‘In any case, Nora has already picked her outfit.’
Balthazar surrendered. ‘OK. Case closed.’
Sandor walked over to his desk and picked up a silver-framed photograph of himself as a much younger man in his police uniform, with a proud, pretty girl with curly brown hair on his arm. Among the police Sandor was a rare example of a man who was still happily married; he had three children and nine grandchildren, a good number of whom appeared at the family home for lunch every Sunday afternoon.
‘How many years now?’ asked Balthazar.
‘Forty next month.’ Sandor put the photograph down, his round, pudgy face softening in a smile. ‘Speaking of ladies, how’s your friend, Eniko?’ he asked, mischievously. ‘She’s a busy girl, bringing down the prime minister, giving non-stop interviews to the international press.’
Balthazar scowled. ‘I don’t know. And she’s not my friend. She’s my ex-girlfriend.’
‘Last weekend she was overnighting in your flat when we had to arrange protection for her. Haven’t you seen her this week?’
‘No.’
‘Shame. I always liked her.’ Balthazar had brought Eniko to a couple of social events at work. Most of his colleagues had shied away from her as she was a reporter. Sandor had not. He said, ‘She was smart and didn’t try to milk me for information. Chance of a reconciliation?’ Balthazar’s boss, like every Hungarian over the age of fifty that he was close to, made no secret of his opinion that he should remarry and have more children as soon as possible.
‘I don’t think so. I invited her to have a burger with me and Alex and Jozsi, the Gypsy kid who was with me at Republic Square, last weekend.’
‘That’s a good start.’
‘Doesn’t look like it. She said she would come, then didn’t turn up. She sent a text message saying she could not come.’
‘Shame. And Sarah?’
‘Actually, she’s being a little less difficult than usual. She brought Alex to meet me on Sunday and was quite friendly.’
Sandor’s shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘What does she want?’
‘Help with he
r dissertation. She’s worried she won’t get tenure at CEU.’
‘What’s the dissertation about?’
Balthazar concentrated hard for a moment. ‘I think I have this right. “Gendering the domestic bio-space: a study of inter-familial power dynamics in Roma society”.’
Sandor nodded slowly. ‘Which means?’
‘Gypsy women run the show in Hungary.’
Sandor laughed. ‘Not only Gypsies. And not only in Hungary. Maybe I should be a professor. And don’t worry about Eniko. She was probably busy working. Anyway, now that you’re famous, the girls will be lining up. There are plenty more fogas in Lake Balaton.’
Sandor squeezed Balthazar’s shoulder for several seconds. Balthazar closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of emotion, completely unexpected, breaking over him. He had never missed his father as much as in these last few days. The two men had not spoken for years. Laszlo Kovacs was so enraged when Balthazar had joined the police that he demanded that the Kris, the Roma communal court, rule that his son be ostracised. Such a punishment, the most severe in the Gypsy code, would have severed all of Balthazar’s connections with his family. For a Roma ostracism was a virtual death sentence. As a child Balthazar had heard stories, a mix of fact and fable – it was impossible to know which was which – about Gypsies, generations back, who had been ostracised, walked into the forest and had never been seen again. But Marta, Balthazar’s mother, had petitioned for him. Eventually the Kris had ruled that Balthazar could see his male relatives and return to the courtyard of the family’s apartment block on Jozsef Street whenever he liked, but female relatives, including Marta, could only meet Balthazar with Laszlo’s permission. Balthazar was banned from family events and needed his father’s permission to enter the actual family home.
All of that was manageable, more or less. Gypsies were not known for sticking to the rules, especially when close family was involved, even where the Kris had issued a ruling. Marta and Flora, Balthazar’s gallery-owner sister, met him away from Jozsef Street. Laszlo knew, of course, but his anger had mellowed over the years. And as Marta reminded him occasionally, like many Roma men, he had no idea how to cook or run a household. Recently several birthday parties had been organised in restaurants or the homes of friends and relatives, ostensibly for space reasons as the Kovacs clan grew in numbers, but everyone understood it was mainly so that Balthazar could attend. At the most recent celebration, for Fat Vik’s birthday a month ago, Laszlo had acknowledged his son with a terse nod, which Balthazar guessed counted as progress. The trickiest part, especially on days like these, was that the Kris had ruled that Balthazar would never share any information with the police on any investigation into criminal activity that was connected to his family. If that rule was broken, full ostracism would follow.
Balthazar swallowed, and tried to keep his voice light as he replied, ‘Sure, and those fogas have all got very sharp teeth. Boss, can we talk about something else? I am sure you didn’t call me in to discuss my marriage prospects. Because that’s a very short conversation. And we need to talk about…’
Sandor’s voice turned serious. ‘We will, I told you. Just be patient. So, the reception is settled.’
Balthazar looked again at the line of photographs of Sandor with the country’s prime ministers. Pal Dezeffy was still there, grinning with his arm around Sandor’s shoulder. Sandor was smiling, holding out in front of him a small, velvet-lined box that contained the Cross of the Merit medal, a great honour.
Balthazar looked at the photograph of Pal, then at Sandor. ‘There’s something I need to tell you about Pal.’
‘I’m listening.’
Balthazar took out his mobile telephone and played the sound file of Pal ordering his murder.
Sandor exhaled. ‘Micsoda kocsog.’ Kocsog literally meant ‘jug’, but in slang roughly translated as ‘prison bitch’. It was probably the worst in the very colourful litany of Magyar swearwords. Sandor’s face, usually jovial, hardened and his eyes narrowed. ‘So he wanted to kill one of my officers. We’ll see about that. The fake police officers who tried to take you in are still in hospital, that private place out near Huvosvolgy.’ Huvosvolgy was a rich suburb of Buda. ‘They must be working for Pal. They refused to give any identification or information. We cannot get to them. They are in a private room, and there are two Gendarmes on the door, twenty-four hours a day.’
For a moment Balthazar was back in Goran Draganovic’s Lada Niva, on a dark lane in the back of District X, heading back to the city after the cage fight last Saturday night when they had been stopped by Gendarmes driving Toyota SUVs who were pretending to be police officers. A car chase had ensued, resolved when Balthazar and Goran used thunder flashes and stun grenades to make sure the Toyotas crashed into each other.
‘So what are we going to do about it? Can’t we arrest Pal?’ asked Balthazar. ‘Conspiracy to murder. All here, captured on a sound file.’
Sandor shook his head. ‘No. It’s a start, but it’s not enough. It’s digital. His lawyers will shred it. Nowadays anything can be faked. Where did you get it?’
‘Where do you think?’
‘Anastasia.’
‘Of course.’
Sandor said, ‘Be careful of her. She’s very charming and helpful when she wants to be, but she and her bosses have their own agenda. It overlaps with ours but it’s not the same. We want to arrest the bad guys and put them away. They want to turn them, play games, plot with their friends in the CIA and MI6.’
‘So what are we going to do?’
‘For the moment, nothing, while we consider our options. The person we are going to see will be very interested to hear your recording.’ Sandor glanced at his watch. ‘Gyuri will be here in a couple of minutes. Let’s go.’
ELEVEN
Roof turret, above 555.hu office, 11.30 a.m.
Eniko stepped through the door and closed it gently behind her, the IBM laptop in her right hand, her iPhone in the pocket of her jeans. At first glance, the circular room – the inside of a small turret above the roof of the building – looked exactly the same as usual. The walls, once white, now a dirty shade of cream; the trio of closed, curved windows that looked out onto Blaha Lujza Square, their cracked frames shedding shards of white paint like a snake renewing its skin; a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling; and the small, brown 1960s armchair that Eniko had carried up the stairs one weekend when nobody was around, in its usual place, by the centre pane. This was her favourite place, an architect’s folly reached by a narrow, winding staircase, an eagle’s eyrie over the city, her private refuge. Somewhere she could admit, even if only to herself, that she was nervous and may even be out of her depth.
As soon as Eniko took a couple of paces and stepped into the room she knew that someone had recently been there. She had a sense for places, could pick up the vibrations of what had happened there. In somewhere like Budapest, where too much had happened, that was a curse as well as a blessing. The air in the room felt heavy, almost oppressive, charged with something. She breathed in slowly through her nose. The smell banished any doubts. The room’s base odour – dust, rusty pipes – was still there, but today there was something extra: a whiff of sweat and cigarettes. Only a faint trace of a man, but definitely there.
Eniko reached for the old-fashioned light switch that was mounted on the wall near the door frame: a small black peg, perhaps half an inch long, poking out of a round black Bakelite holder that dated back to the 1950s, if not before the Second World War. The switch was untouched, still caked in dust, but that meant nothing.
Eniko was about to switch the light on, when some sixth sense told her not to. If she was right, if someone else had been here, then why send a signal that she was now? The windows were covered with lace curtains, unwashed for decades – she often wondered who had placed them there, a pair of lovers, she liked to think, meeting secretly in the daylight hours – thin, but enough to mask her movements. Eniko walked over to her armchair and sat in it, closed
her eyes for a moment. The chair was low, barely a foot off the ground. That male tang was definitely stronger here, as though whoever had been inside the turret had spent more time by the windows, perhaps by even this window.
She opened her eyes, took out her iPhone, tapped out her passcode and opened WhatsApp. Three photos had arrived that morning, sent from ‘A friend’. Eniko had tried several times to call the number that supposedly sent the photos, but each time it was unobtainable. One showed the man she now knew was Mahmoud Hejazi, the Gardener, entering a modernist villa somewhere in Buda; another pictured him leaving the same place. The third showed him standing inside the house, talking to a woman. The woman’s face was clear: Reka Bardossy. None of this was proof of anything. The photographs, she knew, could be faked, or photoshopped. Nowadays the tools to create fake news, including fake images, were easily available. She could easily ask her colleagues in the photo department to take a look at the files and also check the metadata that was usually included in any digital image, that recorded the type of camera used and the date and time that the photograph was taken. But Eniko was reluctant to have the photographs leave her possession until she decided how to proceed. And in a way, nowadays it mattered less whether the images were genuine: in the age of the insta-smear they would be explosive, no matter how strong Reka’s denials. Eniko smiled for a moment, remembering once again her conversation with Reka in the Four Seasons Hotel: ‘As I understand it, the time to frame a story, to shape how it is covered, is when it is first reported. Is that correct?’ The story would be that Hungary’s new prime minister had met at home with one of the world’s most wanted Islamic radicals. And Eniko had it first. Now what?
