Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  ‘Soon, I hope – tonight.’

  ‘What else, Tazi? I can see there’s something else on your mind.’

  Balthazar’s voice turned serious. ‘Boss, there is something else I want to talk about.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I want to re-open an old case. I’ll be honest with you. It’s personal.’

  TWELVE

  555.hu office, 11.45 a.m.

  Eniko had just handed the IBM laptop back to Vivi when she saw Roland Horvath looming over the front of her desk. ‘Can I see you in my office, please?’ he asked.

  Eniko said, ‘Sure, I just need to finish typing up my notes.’

  He shook his balding head. ‘No, you need to come now.’

  Eniko glanced at Zsuzsa, who sat at a desk nearby, well within earshot. Zsuzsa shrugged and gave her a quizzical look. Eniko said, ‘I’m on my way.’

  Eniko followed Roland across the newsroom to his office, the loose parquet rattling under her feet. He closed the door firmly behind him after they walked in. The space was the largest room in the former apartment, but sparsely furnished. The white walls were bare, as was his desk, apart from a computer, a keyboard, that day’s newspapers and a framed photograph of Wanda, his teenage daughter. On the other side of the room half a dozen chairs were arranged around a plain brown wooden table, where the senior editors gathered for conference. A silver laptop was open on Roland’s desk, its screen facing the editor. Sitting in one of the chairs was Kriszta Matyas, the news editor. Like her boss, she had recently arrived from the state media. Roland had worked as a political reporter for the state television channel, where he was known mainly for the softball questions he respectfully asked of ministers and government officials. Kriszta, a thin brunette in her forties, had worked on the foreign desk of the state news agency, churning out dutiful copy about the visits of foreign dignitaries and the latest trade deals. She was dressed in a formal blue jacket and skirt and wore heavy make-up, which made her quite out of place among the irreverent bohemians of 555.hu. Roland was dressed in his customary baggy jeans and an ill-fitting white shirt which ballooned out at the sides. Eniko and her news editor were not allies. Eniko spent much time rebuffing Kriszta’s demands to include ever more and longer quotes from officials in her stories, especially when they had embarrassed Pal Dezeffy or his government.

  Roland led Eniko to the table and bade her sit down in front, while he and the news editor sat facing her. Printouts of her stories were piled up in the centre of the table. This was not, she knew, good news. Eniko tried to force herself to concentrate, which was difficult with a used cartridge in the front pocket of her jeans. It was about five or six centimetres long and tapered at the end. Eniko did not know anything about guns, but she had seen enough films to guess that this was a rifle bullet, not pistol ammunition. Was this the actual cartridge of the bullet that had shot Mahmoud Hejazi? She guessed so, for there had only been one shot. It was a strange feeling to have something in her pocket that had taken a man’s life. Eniko realised now that she had almost certainly found the nest of the sniper who had shot Mahmoud Hejazi the previous weekend. What was surprising was it seemed nobody else had been there. Presumably it was not hard to work out the trajectory of the bullet. The slug, she knew, had passed through Hejazi’s body and become embedded in the tarmac, from where a forensics team had later dug it out. The 555.hu building was the only one in the neighbourhood with a round mini-tower above the roof. Video footage of Balthazar’s dramatic takedown of the Islamist terrorist had gone viral around the world. Eniko, like many reporters, had tried to follow up and find out more about the shooter but had been stonewalled. The city morgue had no record of the body arriving. All the police would say was that their enquiries were continuing. Her political contacts had nothing to add and quickly shut down the conversation when she started to probe further. How could the dead body of one of the world’s most wanted Islamic radicals just disappear after being shot dead outside her office? It all smelled strongly of a cover-up. She needed someone who operated among the police and officialdom and Budapest’s underworld. But only one person fit that bill, and she had to use subterfuge so he would take her calls.

  Meanwhile, judging by the stern looks on the faces of her editors, and the printouts of her stories, she had more immediate issues to deal with. Although she was not sure why. Thanks to her scoops about Pal Dezeffy and his resignation, 555.hu was the most-read news website in the country. Traffic was up to record levels and advertisers were pouring in. Some of her stories had been translated into English and there was even talk of launching a smaller, English-language version of the site. So why did her bosses look so severe this morning? If this was an ambush she had better go on the offensive. She sat up, smiled and said, ‘You both must be pleased. More readers, more traffic, means more advertising and more revenue. We’re doing well.’

  ‘Yes. But our website is not,’ said Roland. ‘It’s been out for most of the morning. And now there’s this.’ He turned the laptop around to face Eniko. ‘This is our home page. Or what you get if you try to reach our home page.’

  Eniko looked at the screen. Black letters on a white background that filled the screen proclaimed: ‘Stop the lies and propaganda. Tell us the truth about Reka Bardossy. #honestreportingHungary’.

  ‘I am telling the truth about Reka Bardossy,’ said Eniko, trying to sound as convincing as she could, but now feeling even more unsettled. First the film of her going to work, then the bullet, and now this: a website hack aimed straight at her. The hashtag was an especially smart move, she thought.

  ‘Are you?’ asked Kriszta. ‘Are you really?’

  She began to read from the top sheet of printouts: ‘A sting operation to catch Islamic radicals. Ms Bardossy is said to be fully cooperating with Hungarian and international authorities.’ Kriszta put the paper down and picked up another printout: ‘Western intelligence services confirm that Pal Dezeffy had direct links with Gulf financiers directly linked to Islamic radicals.’ Kriszta then read from a third sheet: ‘A source close to the government confirmed that the police are investigating Pal Dezeffy’s financial links to the Gulf.’ She put the papers aside. ‘We are not in the PR business, Eniko. This is a news website. You are a reporter, not Reka Bardossy’s spin doctor. If you want that job then why don’t you apply? I’m sure you’ll get it. She needs a new press chief. And then maybe we will get our website back.’

  Eniko felt a dull anger rise inside her, partly because Kriszta’s barbs had hit a nerve. But they would not go unchallenged. She stared at Kriszta as she spoke, ‘Spin doctor. One who manipulates the news, glossing over inconvenient truths.’ She picked up her mobile phone and quickly flicked through her emails until she found the one she wanted. Before Kriszta had arrived from the state news agency, Zsuzsa Barcsy had compiled some articles that she had edited. Eniko started reading, ‘Pal Dezeffy welcomed Abdullah Nursultan, the president of Uzbekistan, to Hungary, and said he was looking forward to further deepening political, economic and cultural cooperation between the two countries, before presenting him with the Cross of the Republic. Have you ever read an Amnesty International report on Uzbekistan, Kriszta? They boil dissidents alive.’

  Kriszta shrugged, ‘Sadly, we don’t live in a perfect world. Hungary is a small country and does not have the luxury of choosing its trading partners. And your reporting is far from perfect.’

  Eniko looked at Roland for support. He flushed pink and looked down at the table. Eniko then fixed her gaze on Kriszta as she spoke. ‘OK, let’s talk about my reporting. Have you ever been taken off a train by plainclothes Gendarmes in the pursuit of a story for this website, held and interrogated?’

  Kriszta blinked first and looked away. ‘No.’

  ‘Have you had members of your family threatened while working for 555.hu? Needed police protection?’ Been sent a video of your movements this morning, she was about to add, but then thought better of it, fighting to keep her anger under control.

&n
bsp; ‘No,’ said Kriszta.

  ‘Then please choose your words more wisely.’

  Roland began to speak. He was visibly nervous now. Roland was notorious for his hatred of confrontation, which had left a notable power vacuum on the editorial floor. A vacuum, it was now clear, that had been filled by Kriszta. He was also perhaps, Eniko thought, remembering their uncomfortable encounter the previous week at Retro-kert, a ruin pub in District VII, where he had insisted on meeting Eniko for a drink, before offering her the position of editor of szilky.hu, a gossip website. Roland tried to take a more conciliatory tone than Kriszta. ‘Eniko, we know how much traffic your stories have pulled in, and how our advertising revenue is up, in large part thanks to your reporting.’ He paused for a moment, re-arranged the sheet of printouts, then patted them. ‘There is some excellent work in here. But Reka Bardossy was minister of justice while this was going on. The jihadis’ passports came from her ministry, were supplied by her officials. Whether or not she was running a sting operation, she knew about it. There was a lot of money sloshing around. She was probably getting a cut. We need that as well.’

  Kriszta leaned forward. ‘Exactly. Take her for more gin and tonics. Find out how much. You’re a reporter. It’s your story. Get digging.’

  Roland said, ‘We want something to run on Monday next week. Or…’

  ‘Or what?’ asked Eniko.

  Kriszta said, ‘Szilky.hu still needs an editor.’

  Now Eniko felt like pulling the cartridge out of her pocket and standing it on the table, its tip pointing at the ceiling, and saying, ‘Here’s something I found in our roof this morning. The bullet that killed Mahmoud Hejazi. You can run that next Monday.’ That would shut both of them up. She was furious inside at the open threat, especially because part of what they said, about letting Reka off the hook, had an element of truth. But there was no need to show it, not yet. Instead she nodded, looked first at Kriszta, then at Roland, acknowledging the new power dynamic. ‘You’re right. I’m on it.’

  On Vaci Way, approaching Nyugati Station, 11.50 a.m.

  Sandor asked, ‘How old is this case?’

  The car stopped at a pedestrian crossing. Balthazar watched a woman in her mid-thirties cross, holding a toddler by the hand. About the age she would have been by now. ‘Twenty years ago. The summer of 1995.’

  ‘That’s a long time ago. I’m not even sure the files will still exist. Which one?’

  ‘Virag Kovacs.’

  Sandor blinked, looked out of the car window for several seconds before he answered. For a moment Balthazar thought he stiffened, but when he spoke, his voice was casual. ‘Opening a cold case that’s more than two decades old is a big hassle, Tazi. Why?’

  Balthazar knew that for now at least, after the events of the previous weekend, he had some credit. It would be very hard for Sandor to refuse his request. Especially when he explained why he wanted to re-open the case. ‘Virag Kovacs was my cousin. She drowned in the swimming pool at a villa in Buda.’

  ‘Your cousin? Whose party? Whose villa?’

  Balthazar looked at his boss as he replied. Sandor’s hand was gripping the arm rest, his fingers tight against the leather. Something was going on here. But what? These were the obvious questions and Balthazar had tried to answer them several times over the last few years. So far he had found out nothing concrete. It was almost as if the party had never taken place. The coroner’s report was barely more than a couple of paragraphs long and had said Virag’s death had been an accident. It did not even include the address where she had died, which was a basic error of omission. Balthazar would have liked to ask the coroner for more information, but he was long dead. All Balthazar knew – had heard, really, and could not confirm – was that the party had been some kind of society event, hosted by up-and-coming young politicians in the Social Democrat Party, which had recently won its first election. Balthazar replied, ‘I don’t know. That’s why I want to re-open the case.’

  Sandor lifted his right hand, ran it across his scalp, looked away for a moment. ‘Virag Kovacs. 1995. OK, I’ll look into it.’

  The car pulled up at the traffic lights by Nyugati Station. Two trams crossed in front of them, one heading to Margaret bridge, the other towards Oktogon. Four Gendarmes stood by the stairs that led into the station, checking passers-by and their papers. The Audi’s indicators were not on, so Balthazar knew that the driver would continue straight, down Bajcsy-Zsilinszky Way, and most likely make a right turn onto Alkotmany Street, into District V, home to most of the government ministries and Kossuth Square. He was right. The car soon turned onto Alkotmany Street, past rows of grandiose apartment buildings, an upmarket designer dress boutique and a shop with a tank of live lobsters in its window. Parliament stood at the end of the street, the green, red and white banner flag of Hungary rippling gently in the breeze.

  A block before Kossuth Square, the car turned right onto Vajkay Street, looping around behind the Ethnographic Museum, then turned left onto Szalay Street, a much wider thoroughfare. A black Gendarmerie van was parked on the left side, by the corner of the museum, two Gendarmes leaning against it, smoking and chatting. On the other side of the street stood a grey police van. Three male officers and one female police officer stood around the vehicle, warily watching the Gendarmes. One of the Gendarmes flicked his cigarette butt at the police, then gave the female officer the finger, raising his chin in her direction, as if to say ‘Come and get me if you dare’. Sandor and Balthazar watched as she was about to walk across the road, when one of her colleagues shook his head and gently held her arm to hold her back. She had bright red hair, Balthazar saw. She stopped and gave the Gendarmes the finger back twice, one from each hand. Balthazar smiled as she mouthed something that looked very much like fasz – prick.

  The long-standing hostility between the two forces was now barely contained. Both sides knew that open conflict was now inevitable.

  Sandor told the driver to stop for a moment, pressed a button so the window slid down. The police officers were suspicious and alert, and started walking over, but smiled when they saw Sandor’s face. The red-haired officer saluted Sandor and Balthazar, then asked, ‘How much longer do we have to put up with this, sir? I thought this was sorted out last weekend, at the Four Seasons.’

  Sandor smiled. ‘Not much longer, I hope. We are working on it, but we are not there yet.’

  Sandor glanced at the Velcro name tag attached to her tunic: Takacs. It was a very common name in Hungary. ‘Are we relatives?’ he asked. ‘May I ask your first name?’

  ‘Veronika, sir. You can call me Vera.’

  ‘Then probably not. But be careful, Vera.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, saluting again.

  Sandor nodded, closed the window and the Audi turned right onto Falk Miksa Street, past the ABS headquarters, until it could finally turn left onto Balaton Street, then left again onto Balassi Balint, where it followed the number-two tram line until Kossuth Square. Here too the street was lined with grand apartment blocks along one side of the tram lines, facing the river, garlanded with cherubs smiling and gargoyles leering from the roofs, corners wrapped in ornate balconies. On the other side a smart wooden fence, interspersed with stylised concrete reliefs of athletes, marked the Olimpia Park. Balthazar often came here with Alex who loved to climb around the new, modern playground. A gaggle of Chinese tourists stood outside the Amata shop, staring at the array of dark-wood art deco furniture in the window. The shop, run by an affable Russian, was substantially cheaper than its competitors a block away on Falk Miksa Street, and Balthazar had bought several items there over the years. A few yards away, on the other side of Marko Street, a security guard walked out of the high-end grocery store on the corner, carrying half a dozen shopping bags and loading them into the boot of a 7-series BMW saloon.

  A tram rattled by on the other side of the road, towards Margaret Bridge, as the Audi headed towards the edge of Kossuth Square. Entrance here was restricted to government vehicles
and those on official business. Behind the statue of Lajos Kossuth, a wide ramp sloped underground towards a car park for the use of MPs and government officials. Balthazar watched the two Parliamentary guardsmen standing on either side of the slope, clearly waiting for the arrival of the Audi. A small blue tent had been pitched on the green area in front of Kossuth’s statue. On the other side of the square tourists laughed and skipped as a cool white mist suddenly gusted up from the nozzles buried in the flagstones and rolled past the entrance to Parliament. One of the guardsmen touched the radio attached to the jacket of his olive-green uniform as the car approached, dropped his head down towards his shoulder and began to speak. Balthazar turned to Sandor. ‘Look at them: we’re really getting the VIP treatment.’

  Sandor smiled. ‘That’s because you are one now, Tazi.’

  The guardsmen stood watching as the Audi slowed down but headed straight towards a single black cylinder that controlled entrance to the underground ramp. Balthazar watched, wondering which would be more damaged, the car or the bollard, if there was a collision. A couple of seconds later the cylinder smoothly slid down into the ground. The Audi descended into the underground car park. The bright lights reflected off the dark-grey walls. Balthazar noticed CCTV cameras in every corner. He turned around to watch the cylinder slide back up behind them.

  The driver parked the Audi by the doors to the lift. Balthazar and Sandor stepped out of the vehicle. A slim young man with blonde hair, wearing a close-fitting blue suit, was standing by the entrance. He stepped forward to greet them. ‘Welcome to Parliament. My name is Akos Feher.’

  ABS headquarters, Falk Miksa Street, 11.55 a.m.

  A hundred yards or so away, Anastasia Ferenczy sat in her office watching her computer monitor as the CCTV feed over Kossuth Square showed the Audi carrying Balthazar and his boss disappear into the underground car park. That was a police channel and easy to access. But now the vehicle would be out of view. One of Reka Bardossy’s first acts was to close the Parliament CCTV network from all outside connections and greatly reinforce its security. It was impossible to access. That was a smart move by Reka, but one which this morning made Anastasia’s life more difficult. The beleaguered prime minister was getting good advice and Anastasia had a pretty good idea who was supplying it. Anastasia opened a new window, entered the personnel directory and called up the file for Antal Kondor. His photograph showed a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaven head and deep-set blue eyes. Antal was forty-two years old. Born in Nagykanizsa, a medium-sized town in the west of Hungary, he had studied law at Budapest University but had not graduated. Instead, he had joined the ABS, or rather one of its many previous incarnations. The name of the service seemed to change with every new incoming government, but its structure and mission, to protect national security, remained the same.