by Adam LeBor
Two thin, minimalist microphones reached up from the lecterns. Eniko looked at Reka. The prime minister was wearing a navy business suit with a cream silk blouse, a knee-length skirt and black slip-on shoes with a modest heel. A light-blue patterned silk scarf around her neck covered the scars of the assassination attempt the previous week. There was video of that footage, Eniko knew, which sooner or later would find its way onto the Internet and she would have to deal with it. But not today, please not today, she prayed. Eniko then looked out over the rows of journalists, the crowded aisles as the chatter slowly faded away, and tapped the microphone. The room fell silent.
Eniko began to speak. ‘Thank you for coming today. As I explained this morning, and in the emails many of you have received, we have a major announcement to make.’ The revving of engines sounded louder, as though the vehicles’ exhausts were broken, or a squad of bikers was riding back and forth across the piazza, then faded away. Eniko decided to ignore the racket and continued talking, quickly looking across at Reka. ‘Prime Minister Bardossy will make the announcement in a few moments. Then we will take questions. You may have noticed that Hungary has been in the news lately.’ She paused while a polite ripple of laughter sounded. ‘I’m especially pleased to see so many colleagues from the foreign media here. So we will alternate between foreign and Hungarian media. I ask all of you to please keep your questions brief and to stick to the topic of the announcement. We will have plenty of other press events and I look forward to working with many of you in the future.’ She turned back to Reka and said, ‘Prime Minister, the floor is yours.’
Reka looked out over the room, at the rows of faces staring at her. The engine noise started up again, noticeably louder this time. Several of the journalists looked back at each other, all wondering what the racket was, before it faded away. Reka began to speak. ‘Six months ago, my predecessor, Pal Dezeffy, re-established a paramilitary police force, the Gendarmerie. At that time I was minister of justice. I opposed this decision, as did many of my political colleagues and adversaries in the opposition. The very name has a dreadful resonance. The Gendarmerie was responsible for rounding up Jews and Gypsies during the Nazi occupation and deporting them to their deaths. Everything about the force was designed to intimidate: its uniforms, its vehicles, its unprecedented legal powers, its headquarters at 60 Andrassy Way, above the former torture chambers of the Arrow Cross and the Communist secret police. Unfortunately all our fears have come true: the Gendarmerie has proved to be an arm of state repression. Its officers are brutal, violent and out of control. They do not enforce law and order. They disrupt it.’
Eniko watched the journalists: some writing, many recording Reka with their mobile telephones, others tapping at their keyboards, the black glass of the television cameras glinting as she spoke. All were intensely focused. It was not hard to guess now what was coming. Reka waited a few seconds then continued speaking, ‘Which is why I have issued an executive order, backed by my cabinet’ – she glanced at her watch – ‘that as of noon today, ten minutes ago, the Gendarmerie is dissolved.’
Reka stopped talking, allowing the news to sink in. A loud, collective intake of breath sounded across the room, together with several ‘Wows’ and a single, drawn-out, ‘Fuck, that is a story.’ The reporters looked at each other, nodding, tapping, writing faster, hunched forward, totally focused. Reka continued talking. ‘I have the power to do this, as the founding orders of the Gendarmerie make the force solely responsible to the prime minister. A previous prime minister re-founded this paramilitary force and, in effect, placed it above the law. This prime minister is dissolving the organisation and bringing it back within the reach of the law. All officers of the Gendarmerie are required to proceed to the nearest police station with their vehicles, and to surrender their uniforms and weapons within the next four hours. Any Gendarme who fails to comply with this order will be arrested. Thank you.’
The room erupted in a barrage of questions. Eniko tapped the microphone, until it quietened. ‘We have a handheld microphone and I will direct it to whoever is asking a question.’ She looked out over the room. Gerald Palin, the correspondent for Associated Press, had his arm up to get her attention. So did every journalist in the room, but Gerald had helped her out numerous times while she worked for 555.hu and she owed him a favour. One of Eniko’s assistants, a skinny young man barely out of his teens in a too-tight suit called Leonard, walked across the room and handed Gerald the microphone. He stood up before he spoke, first introducing himself. ‘I have a short and simple question for the prime minister.’ The correspondent for Agence France Press, a rival, said, ‘That makes a change.’ There was scattered laughter as Gerald waved him away. ‘Go ahead,’ said Eniko.
Gerald turned to Eniko. ‘You may have the legal right to dissolve the Gendarmerie, prime minister, but what if they refuse to be dissolved. How will you enforce this measure? The Gendarmerie are a very powerful paramilitary force, and have repeatedly proved themselves ready to use violence. You just said they will be arrested. What if they resist arrest?’
Reka nodded. ‘That is a good question.’ She leaned forward to emphasise her words. ‘I can promise you that the full force of the state will be deployed…’ The noise of revving engines sounded again, louder, faster, sharper now, drowning out her reply. Reka paused until the noise stopped, then continued speaking. ‘As I said… will be deployed to ensure that the law is complied with.’
The journalists looked at each other, the same questions going through their minds. What was this racket and why wasn’t it being stopped? How could she disband the Gendarmerie when she couldn’t even hold a press conference without being disrupted? Eniko and Reka glanced at each other. They had not prepared for this scenario. Eniko looked out at the journalists. Zsuzsa had her hand up. Eniko directed Leonard to hand her the microphone. ‘Who will arrest them?’ asked Zsuzsa. Eniko nodded to herself. A good question, just like she had taught her former protégé. Short and simple. And very much to the point.
Eniko glanced at Reka. Just as Reka was about to answer, the engine noise sounded up again. Reka started speaking but her answer was drowned out by the racket. She stiffened and tried to speak over the noise, her authority draining away with every syllable. This time the sounds of the engines did not fade away and was soon joined by another sound: the quick-fire thump of helicopter rotor blades.
A voice asked, ‘Are we being buzzed?’ The journalists ran over to the large windows. Several television camera operators took their equipment down from their stands, hoisted the cameras onto their shoulders and rushed over to the window. Others kept their lenses trained on Reka at the lectern.
The noise of rotor blades sounded louder than ever. A black helicopter was swooping low over Kossuth Square, then banked sharply leftwards and soared up above the Parliament building. The excited chatter fell silent as the journalists watched a stream of black Gendarmerie SUVs drive down Alkotmany Street, towards Kossuth Square. The vehicles fanned out and parked all around the square, in front of the concrete blocks, and down the sides. Tourists stood staring, some open-mouthed, many holding their telephones in their hands as they filmed the spectacle. Reka stopped talking, glanced at one of her bodyguards who had already stepped towards the window in the corner to scan the scene unfolding. He quickly muttered into his mouthpiece as he turned on his heel and walked over to the lectern. The other three bodyguards quickly joined him and boxed in Reka again, directing her out of the room, several television cameras following her exit.
Eniko, too, walked over to the window. Her first press conference would likely be her last. This was a total disaster, it was clear. But an organised disaster. A very well organised one. She could see right down into the centre of the square and watched as a squat, familiar figure stepped out of the lead vehicle, leaned against the door and lazily lit a cigarette: Attila Ungar.
Gerald Palin turned to Eniko. ‘They don’t look very banned.’
Underground car park, Szabadsag S
quare, 12.20 p.m.
Marton Ronay turned to the man sitting next to him in the driver’s seat of the scruffy Volkswagen. The car was parked in a distant, barely lit corner of the car park, a short walk from Kossuth Square. ‘Brad,’ as he called himself, said he was a diplomat but he didn’t look like one. All the diplomats Marton had met were sleek and smooth, carefully shaven, wearing well-fitted suits. If they smelled of anything it was an expensive cologne or aftershave. They presented themselves well, watched their posture. This man sat slumped in the car seat. He wore chinos with a grease stain on the left thigh, a crumpled button-down shirt that had once, perhaps, been white, and scuffed white leather trainers. He had a paunch, his long greasy hair was streaked with grey, and he smelled of cigarettes. And American diplomats didn’t drive cars like this, with Hungarian plates. So what was this about? Marton sat back, trying in vain to get more comfortable, feeling the worn springs of the seat give way underneath his weight, the hard metal pressing against his thigh.
‘How can I help you, Mr… er,’ asked Marton. He paused. ‘Actually I don’t even know your full name. What is it, may I ask?’
Brad laughed. ‘You can call me Brad. That’s enough.’
‘And why are we meeting here?’
‘Because it’s near our embassy. And near to your clients.’
‘OK, but how do I know that you even work for the embassy? I looked on the website. There are no employees listed who are called Brad. And nobody who looks like you,’ Marton said, his voice rising in indignation as he looked around the grey concrete walls and pillars. ‘Can I at least see some ID?’
‘ID, yeah, good idea.’ Brad pretended to rummage in his pockets, found nothing. ‘Oops, looks like I must have left it in the office. We could take a walk over there; it’s only a couple of minutes away but it takes forever to get through security. And all that time you would be visible to anyone passing by – who might wonder what the famous Marton Ronay, spin doctor extraordinaire, is doing there and who he might be seeing. Especially your clients, whose office is so nearby.’
Marton sighed. Brad, or whatever his name was, had a point. ‘Media consultant, please. OK. No embassy. But give me something. Who are you? Who do you work for?’
‘A government agency. Let’s say that if it makes you feel more comfortable.’ Brad turned to Marton, fixed him with pale-blue eyes that did not blink.
Marton looked away first. A black saloon cruised past on the other side of the car park as understanding slowly dawned. ‘Oh. A government agency headquartered in Langley?’ he asked, naming the township in Virginia where the CIA had its headquarters.
‘You said that. Let’s move on.’ Brad sat up, his voice brisk. ‘Now, we need your help, Marton. Or should I call you Marty?’
‘I prefer Marton, thanks.’
‘OK, Marton. You are a patriotic American? You will help us?’ said Brad, although it was a statement more than a question.
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘You are meeting your clients in an hour. At their office, on the other side of the square.’
Marton nodded. There was no point asking Brad how he knew that. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Normally we’d put something in your phone. But they are upping security. They will put your phone in a secure bag at reception. You won’t even be able to take it into the meeting.’
Marton sat back, blinked. ‘What? You want me to bug the meeting? Why? They are clients. I’m working for them. I’m not doing anything illegal. I pay taxes. Everything is declared.’
Brad laughed. ‘Calm down. We know that you are an honest corporate citizen. And you are very good at your job.’ He fixed Marton with an appraising gaze, nodded slowly. ‘That hashtag – #honestreportingHungary – that’s pretty clever. There is no personal attack on Eniko Szalay. Instead we have a broad consensus issue that also keeps the pressure on the target. Who doesn’t want honest reporting?’ He nodded slowly. ‘Subtle. I like it. Once this is all over, you and I should have another chat. We could use your talents, over there in Langley.’ His voice hardened. ‘Meanwhile, what your clients are planning, what they will be talking about once you have left, is definitely not legal. Not legal at all.’
‘What plans?’
Brad rummaged in his pocket, took out a crumpled packet of Marlboro Light cigarettes. He looked at Marton. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Yes. I do actually.’
Brad opened the car window, wound it down before lighting a cigarette and blowing the smoke outside. ‘How’s that?’
‘Fine. But what plans and why are you interested in them?’
‘You been to Keleti?’
Marton shook his head. ‘Should I?’
Brad looked at his cigarette, as though it held the answer. ‘You should. You’re a smart guy. Take a look. There are some genuine refugees there, families with kids. But look harder and you’ll see lots of single, military-aged men from Afghanistan and the Middle East passing through with no or false papers. What does that suggest to you?’ He drew on his cigarette, blew some more smoke out of the window. ‘I’ll give you a clue. It begins with the letter “T”.’
Marton sighed. Becoming a CIA asset, getting mixed up in terrorism, was not what he had signed up for. Nor did he like the way Brad had played him at the airport and afterwards. ‘OK. I get it. But that was a shitty trick you pulled with the telephone.’
Brad nodded sympathetically. ‘Yeah. You’re right. Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But we needed to make sure you took the call.’
‘What’s this got to do with my clients?’
Brad smiled, revealing a row of nicotine-stained teeth. ‘Well, Marton, that’s where we hope you can help us.’
‘And if I say no?’
‘Then you might find that the Department of Justice, Homeland Security and the Internal Revenue Service will be taking a keen look at Marton Ronay Consulting. And your own personal tax returns as well. Which somehow don’t mention your bank account in the Cayman Islands.’
Marton damped down his anger. There was nothing he could do except get this over with as quickly as possible. Whatever ‘this’ was. ‘And my job is?’
Brad reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic box. He carefully took the lid off. Marton’s smile faded when he saw what was inside: a metal object the size of a large pin-head with several wires extruding from the base.
‘Seriously?’ asked Marton. ‘There’s no other way around this?’
‘None.’
‘But you’re… whoever you are. You have people for this stuff. People who know what they are doing. I’m not a spy. Why me?’
‘Because that room is swept for bugs every morning. Then nobody gets in who does not work for Pal Dezeffy. Which is why America is calling on you, Marton, to do your patriotic duty. And because we don’t have time to find anyone else. This kind of work is all about improvisation. Using whatever you have. And we have you, who in a couple of hours will be in that room.’
‘But don’t I need something to attach it to? Some putty or something, to make it stick under the table or wherever?’
Brad laughed. ‘You’ve been watching too many spy movies. Just drop it on the floor somewhere. But not under the table obviously. Somewhere where it can’t be seen.’
Marton suddenly felt exhausted. Waves of jet lag were hitting him. ‘Sure. I’ll just take a walk around the room when they are distracted. Find a good hiding place.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Brad, his voice dry.
‘No, it does not. And if I say no?’
‘You can say no, of course. And then you can deal with the consequences which I believe I have outlined to you.’ Brad paused, fixed Marton with a cold gaze. ‘The truth is, Marton, you are in way out of your depth. And you are in danger of sinking hard and fast. These are seriously bad people. The less you have to do with them, the better.’ He grinned suddenly, slapped Marton on the shoulder. ‘But don’t worry. You got yourself a
lifeboat. As long as you follow the captain’s instructions.’
‘What if they search me, find it on me?’
Brad smiled, a genuine smile this time, ‘Well, Marty, better make sure they don’t.’
Kossuth Square
As Marton Ronay wondered how on earth he was going to bug his next meeting, a short walk away Kata Kiss and her crew were standing by a Gendarmerie vehicle. Her cameraman zoomed in on Attila Ungar as she asked her first question.
‘Why are you and your colleagues still here, in your uniforms? Haven’t you heard that the Gendarmerie has been disbanded?’
