Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  Eniko glanced at him, taking in his focus, the familiar way his eyes narrowed when he was concentrating. ‘What’s all this about, Tazi?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘What file? What party? What happened over twenty years ago?’

  He glanced inadvertently at the photograph of Virag. Eniko noticed. ‘Is this something to do with Virag?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

  ‘Is that the file Reka was talking about? Did you ask for it?’

  Balthazar looked at her before she answered. She looked a little less lost now. The old feisty determination to get to the bottom of a story, the tenacity that had also attracted him to her, was starting to show again. He half smiled. Should he tell her? Why not? ‘Yes. I asked for Virag’s file today. I got it and it was empty. That’s all.’

  Balthazar watched her face, which was creased in concentration, glance down at her notebook. ‘I’m glad you still have your reporter’s instinct.’

  ‘Thanks. It doesn’t go overnight.’ She looked at him, her blue-green eyes open wide. ‘Actually, I think I’ve made a terrible mistake, Tazi.’

  Balthazar’s stomach flipped. Was this it, the big confession of how she blew up a good and deepening relationship for no reason at all? He asked, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve thrown away a quite successful journalistic career to be spokeswoman for someone who will probably be Hungary’s shortest-lived prime minister.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘This whole thing is a disaster. Did you see the press conference footage?’

  Balthazar nodded, feeling a mixture of disappointment and relief. ‘Yes. The same clip is all over the Internet. Reka walking out, you behind her, while the world’s media are on the other side of the room, looking out over Kossuth Square. What did she say to you afterwards?’

  ‘That she hadn’t prepared enough. That she needed more backing. She is going to talk to her own party and to some of the opposition MPs. She also said she had another idea, but she needed to think about it first.’ She paused for a few moments. ‘Tazi, there’s something else I wanted to show you.’

  Balthazar nodded. ‘OK.’

  Eniko took out her phone and called up Twitter, showing it to Balthazar. He scrolled through a stream of tweets, read one out loud to himself. ‘Buszatlan komcsi kurva, unfucked Communist whore,’ then handed the phone back to Eniko, his face creased in distaste. ‘Jesus. That’s hideous.’

  ‘It doesn’t even make sense,’ she said, half smiling. ‘Look Tazi, I’m not such a sensitive flower. I’m used to getting rude and nasty tweets. But this is a whole new level. There’s lots more like that.’

  ‘Does Reka know?’

  ‘I showed her. It’s nothing compared to what she’s getting.’

  ‘Sure, but she’s the prime minister. Can’t she get you some protection? There are lots of places she could ask.’

  ‘She has. But she’s being stonewalled. The Parliamentary Guard has more or less collapsed. Some of them have joined the Gendarmerie, or at least gone over to their side. The police say they don’t have any spare manpower at the moment.’

  ‘Wait. Let me call Sandor.’ He dialled his boss. The conversation was brief. Balthazar asked for a squad car to be parked outside his flat, then asked what other news Sandor had. Sandor spoke for a while. Balthazar thanked him and hung up.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Eniko.

  ‘The consensus is that Reka is finished. The minister of the interior will resign tomorrow. He controls the police. He’s told them to stand back, not get involved in the stand-off with the Gendarmes, unless there are actual incidents of violence or law-breaking. But as you can see on the news, at the moment the Gendarmes are being very friendly. Just parked on Kossuth Square, hanging out, smoking cigarettes and taking selfies with tourists.’

  ‘They don’t need to do anything else. The message is clear enough,’ said Eniko. ‘They control her front yard.’

  ‘Precisely. But the chief still has allies, especially in the District V police station.’ For a moment Balthazar remembered his drive to Parliament that morning, passing down Szalay Street, watching the stand-off between the police on one side of the street and the Gendarmes on the other. ‘They hate the Gendarmes and the feeling is mutual, especially after the District V cops rescued you and Reka last week at the Four Seasons. They’re sending a squad car. It will be parked here all night. So you’re safe.’

  ‘Thanks, Tazi. Thanks so much.’ She glanced at the television, which was still tuned to the BBC. ‘Oh, shit, look. Now what?’

  Theodore Nichols was standing on Kossuth Square, illuminated under a standing floodlight, talking to a stocky, red-faced man in his late fifties wearing an expensive leather jacket.

  ‘What?’ asked Balthazar, also turning to the screen. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Gyorgy Moscovitz. The leader of the Social Democrats parliamentary fraction. He can’t stand Reka.’

  Balthazar picked up the remote control and raised the volume. Nichols asked, ‘So when will you submit the vote of no confidence?’

  ‘The first thing on Monday morning, as soon as Parliament opens for business.’

  Nichols said, ‘And you say you have cross-party support?’

  Moscovitz nodded. ‘We do. From left and right, and, of course, our own Social Democrats.’

  ‘But why would you want to bring down a prime minister from your own party and topple the government?’

  Moscovitz gestured around the area. Small bonfires now blazed by the side of the tents. Plumes of smoke rose over the square. The harsh chords of Pannonia, a Hungarian far-right metal band, sounded in the background. ‘What government?’

  Balthazar turned down the volume. ‘Good question. Where is she?’

  Eniko shrugged. ‘Dunno. Gone to ground somewhere. Writing her resignation statement, maybe.’ She put her teacup down and turned to him. ‘Tazi…’ she said, her voice uncertain. ‘I want to tell you something.’

  He sat still before he answered. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Going to work for Reka Bardossy was not the only mistake I made, Tazi.’

  Not now, Eni, he wanted to say. Maybe once all this is over. But not now. Instead he said, ‘Let’s go out onto the balcony, get some air.’

  Eniko followed him outside. He leaned on the railing staring out over Klauzal Square, hyper-aware of her presence, his gaze falling across the familiar scene: the row of green Budapest Bubi bicycles, the metal fence, the children’s playground and the benches on each side. A large SUV was parked in one corner, its headlights on. The air carried the sound of the night-time city: the rattle of a tram trundling down the Grand Boulevard, distant laughter, revellers in the corner bar on the other side of the square. Carried the smell of her too, her perfume, heavier than he remembered, almost musky, the scent of shampoo on her hair. She looked at him, her mouth slightly open, her pupils huge in the semi-darkness. He felt his heart speed up. The air between them turned dense, charged with electricity.

  She moved closer to him. ‘You’re missing your cues, Tazi.’ She laid her hand on his right arm.

  He willed himself not to turn to her, fully knowing what would happen next if he did. Instead he stared out across the Klauzal Square, suddenly alert at what he saw. The SUV was moving now, down the side of the square, towards the corner of Dob Street. It had black metal grilles over its windscreen and windows. It was a Gendarmerie vehicle. Balthazar turned to Eniko. She looked at him expectantly, a half smile on her face. Instead he said, ‘We need to go inside.’

  Her smile widened at first, then the tone of his voice – taut, brisk – registered. She looked down into the square and saw the Gendarmerie SUV slowly cruising around Klauzal Square. ‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

  They stepped back inside and sat down on the sofa, this time keeping their distance from one another. Eniko asked, ‘When will the police car get here?’

  ‘Soon. A few minutes.’ He turned to her, his voice reassuring. ‘You’ll be fine.’ A telephon
e rang, interrupting him. Balthazar looked down: it was Anastasia’s burner. He took the call, listened intently then said, ‘OK, I’m on my way.’ He turned to Eniko. ‘I have to go. I’m sorry.’

  Eniko’s eyes widened as she watched Balthazar put on the shoulder holster, pick up the Glock and slide it in.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked, her voice tight. ‘Oh. Of course. It’s her again.’

  The two women had met the previous Sunday morning. After Eniko had been interrogated by Attila Ungar, Anastasia had arrived to talk about the plan for the operation that day against Mahmoud Hejazi, standing at the door with Eva neni who was carrying a plate of her famous pancakes.

  Eniko turned to Balthazar. ‘Look, Tazi, just tell me if you are seeing someone. I came here because I was scared. But you don’t have to let me make a fool of myself as well.’

  He tapped the grip of the Glock. ‘I don’t usually take weapons on dates. Eni, it’s work. That’s all. Pal Dezeffy is organising a coup. That’s why your press conference was a disaster, why Kossuth Square is occupied by the Gendarmes, why Moscovitz is bringing a no-confidence motion and why Anastasia Ferenczy, officer in the state security service, is down there. We have to stop it.’ He put his hand on Eniko’s arm and gently rested it there. ‘And now I have to go. Stay here tonight. You’ll be safe. You can sleep in Alex’s room, where you were last week.’

  ‘Alex’s room,’ said Eniko, her voice flat.

  You dumped me, he wanted to say. I introduced you to my son. I let you into my life and you walked away. But he said none of that. Instead he replied, ‘Eni, stay inside and don’t open the door to anyone.’

  ‘Not even Eva neni?’ replied Eniko, a rueful smile on her face.

  ‘Her, OK. But only if she has pancakes.’ He opened the door, and left.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Corner of Kis Diofa Street and Klauzal Square, 10.30 p.m.

  ‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’m sorry – it’s bad news,’ said Anastasia.

  For a moment Balthazar’s stomach lurched. ‘Gaspar?’

  Anastasia was sitting in the front of the Opel, Balthazar next to her. ‘No. He’s fine. All your family is fine, Balthazar. And before you ask, Alex is safe at home with his mother,’ she said, anticipating his next question. ‘We are keeping an eye on all of them.’

  Balthazar exhaled with relief. ‘Thank you. Then who?’

  ‘Kinga. Kinga Torok.’

  He turned to face her. ‘Kinga? How?’

  ‘A hit-and-run. She was on her way to work tonight. She lives quite far out, in District XV. She was walking down an unlit street to the bus stop. A car hit her from behind and drove away.’

  ‘Intentionally? Or just a terrible accident?’

  Anastasia sighed. ‘There’s no CCTV. A neighbour heard her scream but by the time the ambulance got there she was dead. There’s no real pavement, just a rough track in front of the houses. And it’s very dark, hardly any streetlights. But it’s clear enough where the road is. I don’t think there are any terrible accidents at the moment, Balthazar. Especially involving anyone connected to Pal.’ She rested her hand on his arm for several seconds. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Balthazar did not reply for a few moments, just looked ahead. He could see up Dob Street, all the way to where the thoroughfare bent, en route to the Grand Boulevard. As usual at this time on a Friday night, the pavements were crowded with revellers laughing, shouting, some holding bottles of beer. A wave of sadness coursed through him for the nights like this that Kinga would never know. She was barely in her twenties, had her whole life ahead of her. For a moment he saw her standing defiant, sweaty, tousled in front of him, explaining that she would do this for a year, until she had enough money put aside to leave Hungary and apply to university in England. ‘So am I.’ He turned to Anastasia. ‘Why? Why would Pal have her killed?’

  Anastasia took out her iPad mini. ‘We found some footage.’ She opened the video viewer and pressed play. The frame showed Kinga chatting with half a dozen other smartly dressed, attractive young women, waiting outside the Royal Salon at the Buda Castle. ‘They are the hostesses for last week’s government reception for Gulf investors. Pal was the host.’

  Balthazar nodded. ‘Yes. I know about that.’ He watched Reka Bardossy walk by and greet the hostesses, head-turningly attractive in a dark, long-sleeved cocktail dress, with a light-coloured pashmina over her shoulders for modesty’s sake. She looked calm and confident, utterly unaware, of course, that later that evening she would be fighting for her life and kill her assailant with the very high heel of one of the shoes on which she was walking. The footage jumped to another scene. Kinga was outside, leaning against the castle wall, talking to a striking young man. He wore a black polo shirt, looked to be in excellent shape, and had spiky blonde hair and wide-set, light-coloured eyes. The night-time illumination glinted off an expensive-looking watch. ‘Who is he?’ asked Balthazar.

  Anastasia leaned over towards him. ‘Adorjan Molnar. Director of communications at Pal’s Foundation for the Relief of Inequality.’

  ‘He doesn’t look like he’s suffering from inequality.’

  Anastasia smiled. ‘He’s not. So, you see the foundation is working. Anyway, watch what happens now. There’s no sound, but you don’t need it.’

  Adorjan handed Kinga a blister package. She shook her head. They argued for some time, then Adorjan pushed her against the wall and spoke in her ear. Her pretty face turned fearful. Adorjan stepped back, mouthed a question. Kinga nodded. He left first, and a minute or so later, Kinga slipped the pills into her handbag and went back inside.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Balthazar.

  ‘We lip-read his mouth. He told her to make sure that al-Nuri took at least two. She asked how. He said al-Nuri would turn up sooner or later at the brothel and ask for her. And then he said if she mentioned this to anyone, or failed to give him the pills, she would be killed and her little sister would disappear forever.’

  ‘And then they killed her anyway.’

  ‘Yes. Tidying up their loose ends.’

  ‘We have some zoomed-in shots,’ said Anastasia. She took the iPad from Balthazar’s hand and opened a new viewer window. The frame showed the blister pack in Adorjan’s hand, the small pills.

  ‘Look familiar?’ asked Anastasia.

  ‘Very. I’m guessing that’s not Viagra.’

  ‘No. The forensic results have come through. They were MDMA, super-high strength, just designed to look like Viagra, but mixed with a sedative and anti-seizure medication to prevent fits. The combination is a dangerous mix with cocaine. Your heart doesn’t know what to do, whether to speed up or slow down. One of those and the coke would have been more than enough to kill him.

  ‘Al-Nuri was Reka’s best hope. He liked it here,’ said Anastasia. ‘His colleagues have already left. Took the first flight this afternoon to Dubai. There’s nobody else for Reka to negotiate the investment with now.’

  Balthazar felt a cold rage course through him. The life of another young woman casually ended, for the convenience of Pal and his henchmen. For a moment he thought of Virag, alone and fearful in a house full of rich, powerful people. Nor did al-Nuri deserve to die like that. They both watched as the Gendarmerie SUV slowly drove past, breaking his chain of thought. ‘How long has that been here?’ asked Anastasia.

  Balthazar shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. At least half an hour. Just driving round and round.’ He glanced across the street at his flat. Eniko was back outside, standing on the balcony, looking out over Klauzal Square. He watched her head turn until she found what she was looking for: the white Opel with Balthazar and Anastasia sitting in the front seat, parked nearby on the corner of Kis Diofa Street. Go inside, he willed her, it’s not safe. She did not move. He reached for his telephone, about to call, when she stepped back into the flat and closed the balcony door.

  Anastasia said, ‘We don’t have much time, Balthazar. The Gendarmes are all over the city. We are in their comms. They will s
tart setting up more roadblocks soon, take complete control of the major transport routes and intersections and start shutting them down. The government will probably collapse tomorrow. They plan to arrest Reka. We still haven’t found the two Arabs. We think Pal is planning something. Which is why we need to hurry.’

  A young couple appeared, walking down Dob Street, then turning into Klauzal Square. The boy was in his late teens, his girlfriend around the same age. Both were laughing, happy to be going home together after a fun night out. They stopped laughing as they saw the SUV heading towards them down the side of the square. Two powerful beams of bright light erupted and for a moment both stood still. The driver had switched on the headlights and roof-mounted spotlights on full beam. Balthazar could see the fear on their faces. The boy and girl broke into a run, heading down Klauzal Street, away from the SUV as fast as they could.

  But the driver was not interested in the teenagers. The SUV inched forward, then accelerated away, towards the corner where Anastasia’s car was parked. He flashed his headlights and also put on the light inside as the SUV crawled past Anastasia’s car, so Balthazar could get a good look at the two men. He recognised both of them: the driver shaven-headed, his companion with slicked-back black hair. The driver waved at Balthazar with a clenched fist, pointed at his head and laughed, before starting another circle of the square.

  ‘Do you know them?’ asked Anastasia.

  ‘They were at Keleti, part of the group that attacked me,’ said Balthazar. ‘Now what?’

  Anastasia took out her iPad mini and called up the photos of the two Arab men who had been travelling with Mahmoud Hejazi. ‘We need to find these two. They are the key. Whatever Pal is planning.’