Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  Reka said, ‘Eniko, tell me, why did you become a journalist?’

  Eniko looked down into her teacup for a moment, smiling to herself, as though it contained a younger and more idealistic version of herself. ‘To expose wrongdoing. To do good. To make a difference, I suppose, all those things that naïve young reporters believe in. And to be on the inside track, enjoy the gossip that most people never get to hear.’ She stared into the distance, as though seeing something fade away in front of her. ‘That feeling when you are on a story, the adrenalin’s pumping, the deadline’s pressing, the editor’s yelling and you are the only person in the world who can write it. When you press the send button, and there it goes, it’s out there and soon afterwards, the whole world can read it. And maybe, just maybe, it will make a difference.’

  Reka leaned forward, her voice, her body language almost entreating. ‘You can have all of that here. You can do good. Make a difference, be on the inside track. Just think of me as your new editor, controlling what you can and cannot say. You can enjoy the spectacle – why not? Just on the other side. Instead of asking questions at press conferences you will be answering them. It’s not such a big difference. Eniko, I’m offering you a six-month contract. If it doesn’t work, you can go back, of course you can. We can spin it, you were temporarily seconded during a period of national crisis, or something. We already have a mutually productive relationship, don’t we? This is just the next step.’

  For a moment Kriszta Matyas’s voice echoed in Eniko’s head. ‘You are a reporter, not Reka Bardossy’s spin doctor. If you want that job then why don’t you apply?’ Now it seemed she did not even need to apply. The job was being offered to her on a Zsolnay plate. She paused for a moment, her eye falling on a portrait of Jozsef Antall, Hungary’s first prime minister after the change of system, an old-fashioned conservative and a fundamentally decent man. Antall stared back, frozen in time. ‘That next step is a very big one. It would be the end of my career as a journalist. There’s no going back.’

  Reka leaned forward. ‘Really? I’m not sure about that. Lines are blurring nowadays. Just take a long holiday afterwards. Or move abroad for a while. Or become a media consultant. You will have very valuable inside knowledge.’

  One part of Eniko listened, almost ready to be persuaded, another watched with detached, professional interest at a very skilful operator at work. Reka continued speaking, ‘There is no dark side any more, Eniko. Only varying shades of grey. We are all in the information business. We all want to control the flow. You do the same and so do your editors. Your website has an agenda, to provoke, be rude and irreverent as well as inform. That’s fine. I also have an agenda. To bring this country into the twenty-first century. To modernise government. To update the infrastructure. I’m not asking you to work for a tobacco company or an arms dealer. I’m asking you to work for your government, to serve your homeland.’ Reka leaned forward, her voice urgent now. ‘Eniko, this is a national crisis. Terrorists are using us, this city, our country, as a gathering and transit point. We have to stop that. Journalism is a form of public service. So is being my communications chief. Somebody has to manage that relationship, with the public and with the media. I think you would do it very well.’ She paused. ‘The truth is, I need your help. There’s nobody else I can trust. And Pal won’t go down without a fight.’ She looked at Eniko. ‘Can you fight, Eniko? Because it’s going to get pretty dirty. Pal’s people are still in charge of state television, radio and the state news agency. He went to school with Gergely Matics, the editor in chief.’

  ‘Why don’t you sack him? Pal sacked his predecessor when he came to power.’

  Reka looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I have thought of that, of course. But so far Matics has steered a fairly even course. He’s waiting to see how events play out, and who wins. In any case, I don’t have a suitable successor lined up yet. There will be a lot of empty desks if I start purging everyone who worked for Pal.’

  ‘Matics doesn’t control the Internet. There’s 555, all the other websites.’

  Reka laughed. ‘Eniko, why would they bother? You all do great work at 555, but how many people outside downtown Budapest are reading it? What does the most recent reader survey show?’

  Eniko and her colleagues knew that most of their readers were in the capital, but still the results had come as a shock. ‘Almost seventy per cent are in Budapest. The rest are divided between the big provincial cities and foreign countries, especially Britain and Germany.’

  Reka nodded. ‘Where much of your generation has moved to. So you can expect some unpleasant coverage. But it will pass.’ Reka continued talking, sat back and looked around the office as she spoke, gestured at the portraits of the prime ministers. ‘But more than that, these gentlemen have had their turn. Now it’s ours, don’t you think?’ She looked down at her desk. ‘Would you excuse me for a few moments, Eniko, while you think things over? I have some pressing things I need to deal with.’

  Eniko nodded as Reka turned to some paperwork. Reka was surprisingly passionate and convincing. But more than that, there was her own self-interest to consider. Journalism was a very fickle trade. Eniko was a star now, yes, but much of that rested on the migrant crisis and her access to Reka. The migrants would eventually stop coming, especially once the new border wall was built. Eniko knew that if she said no to Reka’s offer the prime minister was unlikely to keep feeding her the information that made her stories the most popular on 555.hu. Sooner or later she would have to leave 555.hu and start anew, somewhere else, not an easy prospect in Hungary’s shrinking media landscape. And there was the whole question of her personal security. Reka already knew that Attila Ungar had taken her off the HEV, the suburban train, last Saturday. Afterwards she had had to take refuge in Balthazar’s flat while Sandor sent police officers to protect her mother. At first, she had thought that with the death of Mahmoud Hejazi the crisis had passed and she would be safe. But she was still being followed and filmed. Maybe Reka should know that. It was already getting dirty. At least if she was on the staff here she would get security.

  Eniko took out her telephone, making sure that she called up the video of her movements, which she had transferred earlier in the day, and not the photographs of Mahmoud Hejazi leaving Reka’s house. Eniko asked, ‘Prime Minister, may I show you something? It’s already getting dirty.’

  Reka put her pen down. ‘Of course.’ Eniko slid her iPhone across the table and pressed the play symbol on the video file.

  Reka watched the clip until the end. ‘That’s a threat. Do you have any idea who sent it?’

  ‘Not precisely. The Gendarmes, or someone connected to them?’

  ‘If it was Attila and his boot boys, we’ll soon know. If you give me a copy of the file I will hand it to our security people, see what they can find. You will get the results, whatever you decide. If you do come on board, I can’t guarantee your safety here, but I can certainly greatly improve it. And if you don’t, we can also take measures to keep you safe.’

  Eniko thanked her, put her iPhone away and watched Reka write a note to herself. She could try it for six months. Reka was right. If it didn’t work out, she would take a holiday, maybe move back to London. Either way, former head of communications for a prime minister was certainly better on her CV than editor of a gossip website. She looked around the room at the row of beards and moustaches. Perhaps Reka was right. Now it was the women’s turn.

  Eniko asked, ‘What terms did you have in mind?’

  Reka smiled. The conversation was moving in the right direction. ‘They are generous, but not extravagant. The position is paid according to a civil service grade. A million forints per month salary, five weeks’ paid holiday, plus all public holidays, use of Parliament’s gym, holiday home at Lake Balaton, subsidised canteen and a car. All the free tea and coffee you can drink. But I’ll be honest with you, Eniko. This is not an eight-to-four job. You will be on duty or on call 24/7. There are no guarantees, even if you are o
n holiday. As you know, being in the news business.’

  Eniko thought for a moment. One million a month, about 3,000 euros, was more than double her current salary. She could save a deposit for a flat. Her mother’s arthritis was getting worse. The doctor had recommended a stay at a thermal spa in Heviz, but they didn’t have the money. If she took the job, they could afford it. ‘If I accepted, when would I start?’

  ‘Ideally, in a couple of hours. But tomorrow morning is fine. We open for business at 8 a.m.’

  Eniko started with surprise. ‘That soon? That barely gives me time to clear out my desk. How about next Monday?’

  Reka shook her head. ‘No. We are making an announcement tomorrow, which I expect will cause quite a stir – and mark the start of a new era. So either you are here for that, or not at all.’

  Eniko smiled to herself. Reka was already taking control. ‘Can I know what the announcement is?’

  Reka tilted her head to the side for a moment, made an unnecessary adjustment to her silk scarf and thought for several moments. She nodded to herself, reached into her portfolio, took out a sheet of paper and slid it halfway across the table, keeping her hand on the sheet. ‘I have your word that if you do not take the job I won’t read about this on 555.hu. Or anywhere else.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Eniko. Reka lifted her hand and let Eniko read through the paper, once, then twice.

  Eniko sat back and looked at Reka. Working for the government already looked more exciting than she had imagined. ‘I’m in.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, soon after Eniko left Reka’s office to be escorted out of Parliament by her assistant Kati, the double doors to Reka’s office opened unannounced. An elderly man slowly walked in. He wore a beige shirt with a large, fraying collar and a brown jacket with wide 1970s lapels, flecked with large scales of dandruff, that hung loosely from his bony shoulders. His cheap plastic shoes were worn and scuffed. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips.

  He walked over to the two easy chairs in the corner, sat down and beckoned Reka over to sit with him. ‘Hello, Doshi. Did she accept? I assume she did. There was something wrong with the sound system. I couldn’t hear your conversation.’

  Reka hated being called Doshi, especially by the man in her office, whom she wanted out of her workspace, out of her life and out of Hungarian political life. The smell of his cigarette made her feel sick. So did his very presence. But that battle would have to wait, until she had consolidated herself and had mustered enough forces to rout this relic of the old system. She stayed where she was, standing, leaning against her desk. ‘Sorry,’ she said, not sounding very sorry at all. ‘Technikai okok miatt, because of technical reasons.’ That catch-all phrase in Hungarian covered everything from a catastrophic power failure to running out of coffee. In this case it included Antal Kondor that morning removing and destroying the hidden microphones that fed from the prime minister’s suite to the Librarian’s room in a far corner of the building. ‘Yes, she did accept.’

  The man known as the Librarian fixed Reka with his watery blue eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s scared. Attila and his thugs are tracking her. She thinks she will be safe working here.’

  ‘And will she be?’

  Reka’s voice hardened. ‘Yes. But she would be safe whether she is here or working somewhere else. Even if she leaves after a week. This is Budapest. Not Moscow. There are limits. Are we agreed on that? I have your word that you’ll pass that on?’

  The Librarian smiled, revealing two rows of yellow, angled teeth. ‘Yes, Doshi. I’m touched at your concern. But you have my word. She is safe.’ He walked over to the large desk and tapped the leather inlay. ‘I trust you are not letting your history with Pal cloud your judgement. It’s winner takes all now. There is no room for sentiment.’

  Reka shuddered inside. Had he heard them having sex on the desk? She guessed so. She and Pal had both known the room was bugged. Somehow that had made it even more exciting. For a moment she felt a flash of guilt, until she remembered her husband’s legion of ‘assistants’, the female voice in the background this morning and his reluctance to return home from Qatar. In any case her affair with Pal had taken place in another life. She looked down at her broken nails. ‘Pal sent someone to kill me. I have very strong feelings about him. But they are definitely not sentimental.’

  ‘Good. When will Eniko Szalay start?’

  ‘Tomorrow. We will announce it tonight. She asked for the rest of the day to tell her colleagues and clear her desk. Are you sure this is such a good idea? I had Miss Szalay under control. The media narrative was being shaped just as we wanted. Now someone else will take over the story.’

  ‘That would not have lasted for much longer. She’s restless, been making noises about feeling used. Her editors want more critical coverage of you. She would have broken out, written something critical, just to prove her independence. Then you would have to find another pet reporter. We think we know who her successor will be. A naïve girl from the countryside. We can manage her.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘I told you. We have it under control. Did she show you the video clip?’

  Reka nodded, part of her feeling almost ashamed. ‘Was that really necessary, to follow her, to frighten her? I think I could have brought her on board anyway.’

  The Librarian’s voice hardened. ‘You think. You think you could have. But what if you could not have? And what if she wrote up a story today with the photos of Hejazi waltzing in and out of your house that she received this morning? How long do you think you would stay in this office? And how long before the Brits and the Americans had you on an aeroplane to who knows where, with an extradition warrant signed by Prime Minister Pal Dezeffy?’

  Reka exhaled, looked down at her desk. She had always planned to recruit Eniko as her head of communications as soon as she was appointed prime minister. But not like this. It was all very grubby. ‘But whoever sent her those photos can send them to anyone else. There are dozens of journalists who would love that story.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We can shoot that down, say they are digital forgeries, photoshopped, whatever. They have the most effect if Eniko Szalay uses them. She owns this story.’ He drew on his cigarette for a moment. ‘Much better to have her inside the tent. It would have been… difficult if she had refused. Things might have got quite unpleasant. But now, thankfully, we don’t have to.’

  Reka looked up. ‘Meaning?’

  The Librarian laughed, a hollow sound. ‘I don’t have to spell it out, do I?’

  ‘I’m not comfortable with this.’

  ‘Boo hoo. What do you think this is? Where do you think you are? In a therapy session where you talk about your feelings? Your comfort, or otherwise, is irrelevant. Do you understand what is at stake here, Comrade Bardossy? Pal is not sitting there, through his own greed and stupidity. So now you are. But that too can change. If scaring Eniko Szalay is the only difficult thing you need to do to stay there you can consider yourself very fortunate. And put the microphones back.’

  He paused, his pale-blue eyes glinting. ‘It would be a mistake to think of me as a fool, Doshi. Your dear father could explain that to you, if he were still with us.’

  Reka felt a chill course through her. Was this a threat? Her father, who had served as minister of the interior in the years before and during the change of system in 1990, had been killed in a skiing accident in Austria the following year. The cause had never been properly explained. For some reason, Hunor Bardossy, normally a very cautious man, had gone off-piste where he had crashed into a tree. Reka’s mother had never recovered from her grief and had died of a heart attack two years later.

  The Librarian picked his cigarette from his mouth, looked around the room. ‘Have you got…?’

  ‘An ashtray. No. There’s no smoking in here any more.’

  ‘Really? No smoking,’ he said, his hoarse voice full of wonder. He smiled, a smile that did not reach his watery ey
es, drew hard on his cigarette, then blew out a stream of smoke. ‘You know, Doshi, the problem with newly appointed generals?’

  Reka coughed and shook her head, although she had an idea what was coming. ‘No. But I guess you are about to tell me.’

  ‘They are too eager. They want to fight on too many fronts at once. They spread themselves too thin, and they cannot control their territory.’ He fixed her with a cold gaze. ‘We both know what’s coming, Doshi. The new versus the old. The upstart protégé turning against the elderly master.’

  Reka stepped away from the smoke, ‘I don’t know what you are…’

  The Librarian laughed. ‘Let’s not waste each other’s time, Doshi. I welcome it. One generation fades away, another advances.’ He coughed, a wet rattle deep inside his chest. ‘That’s how we move forward. I don’t know how much longer I have. But let’s make it worthwhile. A proper fight. So here’s some advice, for free. Power must be acquired before it can be used.’ He stepped closer. ‘Marshal your forces, Doshi. Then you can go into battle.’ He wiggled the cigarette in his fingers. ‘Until then…’

  Reka looked around. The cups from her meeting with Eniko were still on the occasional table. She walked across the room, picked up one and handed it to the Librarian. He dropped his cigarette into the slops at the bottom.

  FOURTEEN

  Balthazar’s flat, Dob Street, 12.40 p.m.

  Reka’s driver dropped Balthazar on the corner of Dob Street and Klauzal Square. He sat for a moment on a bench just outside the park, stretched his legs and yawned, wincing at the dull ache that still coursed through his jaw. The concussion from last week’s beating at Keleti had more or less worn off and his headaches were fading away. But his back and shoulders still ached from the blows he had taken. Add the stress levels of the last few days, especially the events of this morning, and it was no wonder that a tidal wave of exhaustion was hitting him. He had been woken at dawn, seen a dead body and watched it taken away, in a house that always gave him the creeps; sensed for certain that his brother Gaspar was somehow up to no good and there was more family trouble ahead; had breakfast with an operative of state security who was tracking his movements; and had then been taken to see the prime minister, who had issued him with a special warrant. A warrant to find enough evidence to bring down Pal Dezeffy – a former prime minister who had tried to have him killed, who still had powerful friends – once and for all. Oh, and on top of that, he had an uncomfortable surprise encounter with his ex-girlfriend. Who, to his weary acknowledgement, still made his heart beat a little bit faster – and judging by her bumbling behaviour, he still had some kind of effect on her.