Kossuth Square

by Adam LeBor

  Balthazar took his telephone out and called Gaspar. ‘Listen, ocsim, we’re on the corner of Somogyi Bela and Gutenberg Square. The Gendarmes are here. They will take us. Don’t come here.’

  Just as Gaspar began to answer, both passenger windows exploded, showering Balthazar and Anastasia with shards of broken glass. Two Gendarmes, one tall and wiry, the other shorter and stocky, stood on either side of the car, holding their pistols in their hands like a hammer. Both wore fine black leather gloves. They brushed the pieces of broken glass from the stock of their weapons and stood on either side of the Opel, now pointing their guns at Balthazar and Anastasia.

  ‘Phones,’ said the tall Gendarme. Balthazar and Anastasia surrendered their handsets. The Gendarme looked at Balthazar’s phone.

  Gaspar’s voice was sounding in the tinny speaker: ‘Batyam, mi a fasz van. Brother, what the fuck’s happening?’

  ‘This,’ said the Gendarme. ‘This is happening.’ He dropped Balthazar’s phone on the ground and stamped down on it, shattering the screen. He gestured to his colleague, who immediately did the same with Anastasia’s phone.

  ‘Get out,’ said the Gendarme. ‘You are under arrest.’

  Balthazar ignored the Gendarme and looked at Anastasia. ‘Are you OK?’

  She was carefully shaking her hair, one hand over her eyes, and pulling at her clothes to shake the pieces of glass off. ‘I guess so. You?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  There was, he saw, a small cut on the side of her face. ‘You’re bleeding. By your nose.’

  She looked him up and down. ‘So are you, above your eye.’

  ‘Shut it,’ said the Gendarme, still pointing his weapon at Balthazar. ‘I told you. Get out. Both of you. Hands on your heads.’

  Balthazar looked at him, then glanced at his hand on the trigger. He was young, still in his early twenties, with buzz-cut blonde hair, standing very still as he held the gun in his hand. Like all the Gendarmes, he was dressed in full uniform: black trousers, stab vest, shin and shoulder pads and shiny riot helmet with a rear neck protector, and a yellow taser on his belt. But beneath the violence and the bluster, Balthazar sensed that he was not completely sure of himself. It was not only the police, army and security services that were waiting to see who triumphed. The Gendarmes had aligned themselves with Pal Dezeffy. They were organising his coup, blocking streets, setting up checkpoints, arresting people. But what if Pal lost?

  ‘Are you sure about this?’ asked Balthazar. ‘What you are doing is called treason. It brings a life sentence.’ Balthazar watched the muzzle of the Glock waver for a second or two. ‘A whole life sentence.’

  The Gendarme blinked for a moment, then decided. ‘I told you to shut it, budos cigany, stinking Gypsy.’ He pushed the muzzle into Balthazar’s cheek. ‘And get out. Hands on your head.’

  It was an amateur’s move that brought the gun too close to the prisoner. For a moment Balthazar considered grabbing the weapon with one hand and smashing the Gendarme’s arm up against the window frame at the elbow, to shatter the joint. But there was no separate safety catch on the Glock. Instead the trigger safety was built into the firing mechanism as a separate, parallel trigger. That meant it was impossible to discharge accidentally. It also meant a sustained, deliberate pull on both triggers would fire the gun. The Gendarme had both triggers pulled back. A fraction of an inch and the weapon would discharge. Still, it might have worked if Balthazar was alone, and any bullet fired went wide. But Anastasia would almost certainly have been hit. In any case there was another Gendarme standing on the other side of the car, pointing his weapon at Anastasia.

  ‘Yes, officer,’ said Balthazar, stepping out of the car. ‘We are doing exactly what you say. Slowly and carefully.’ He glanced at Anastasia and saw that she too was obeying the Gendarme’s instructions. Balthazar looked up the street as he and Anastasia stood on either side of the Opel with their hands on their heads. The door in the middle of the black SUV blocking the road at the top of Somogyi Bela Street opened.

  Attila Ungar stepped out. He walked towards the Opel, shoved his hand inside Balthazar’s jacket, took his weapon from the holster, then slowly slid the barrel of Balthazar’s Glock down the side of his chin. ‘Nice gun, Tazi. We’ve got the same. Much better than that crap they gave us in the police.’ He paused, laughed for a moment. ‘Oh, I forgot. You still are in the police. Well, I think I told you that our offer still stands. You can join up whenever you like.’

  ‘I serve my country. I’m not a traitor.’

  Attila smiled. ‘You do, it’s true. Never more than last weekend.’ He paused, walking around Balthazar. ‘But you must have wondered why your country has so little interest in serving you. And the rest of your people.’ He gestured at the surrounding streets. ‘Remember when we were on the beat here, together? Back in the good old days. When life was much simpler.’ For a moment his voice softened. ‘You showed me parts of this city I had never seen. Backstreet tenements with families living ten, twelve in a couple of rooms, sleeping in beds on a rota, almost nothing to eat, electricity and gas all cut off, no money coming in. Like stepping back to the nineteenth century.’ He stepped closer to Balthazar. ‘All your people, Tazi. Who let them live like that? Who enriched themselves while half the country slid deeper into misery and poverty?’

  They were good questions, thought Balthazar, ones he had often asked himself. But he was not about to start discussing social exclusion and Roma rights with Attila. Instead he smiled. ‘Gosh, Attila, I’ve never heard you make a speech before. It’s quite impressive. To answer your question, Reka and Pal and all the other komcsis. They enriched themselves. You work for one, I for another. Two sides of the same coin.’

  ‘Where were you going, Tazi?’ asked Attila. He frowned for a moment. ‘Of course. You’re back in the ’hood. You must be going to see Gaspar.’

  Balthazar said nothing. Attila continued speaking. ‘Next time you meet, you can ask him a question: How did your family get that nice house on the hill?’

  Now Attila’s words hit home, as he knew they would. And that was a question Balthazar intended to ask Gaspar. The revelation from Marta, that Virag had died in Pal Dezeffy’s house, Eniko overhearing Reka Bardossy talking about a file, these were not yet evidence but they were the slow start of a pattern forming, of connections being made. And one possible conclusion that would change his relationship with his family forever. But none of that was for sharing with Attila. ‘You’ll go down for a long time for this, Attila. Is that where you want to meet Henrik? In a prison waiting room?’

  Attila’s face tightened at the mention of his son’s name. Back when they were partners the two men had spent much time talking about their sons. After the second disciplinary procedure against Attila for beating prisoners, his wife had left him, taking Henrik with her. Balthazar knew that Attila longed to be a doting father, missed his son more than anything, but could not find a way to connect with the boy.

  Behind the brutal facade was an intelligent, street-smart mind. Attila too knew he was taking a massive gamble. If Pal lost, Balthazar was correct. He would be arrested and this time the Gendarmes would be disbanded for real. He hardly saw Henrik anyway and could not imagine that his mother would let him anywhere near a prison. But it was what it was, and by this stage, there was nowhere else for Attila to go. He gestured to the stocky Gendarme. ‘Cuff them. Nice and tight.’

  Anastasia said, ‘I am an officer in the state security service. You have no jurisdiction over me. You are a uniformed criminal in an illegal, disbanded organisation.’

  Attila laughed, shook his head. ‘I keep hearing this. Illegal. Disbanded.’ He stepped closer, stopped laughing. ‘Listen, Duchess. It’s over. You lost. You backed the wrong horse. Your kind always does.’ He gestured at the stocky Gendarme. ‘I told you to cuff her. Are you deaf or stupid?’ The Gendarme reached for Anastasia’s arms and quickly plasticuffed her wrists in front of her. Attila then stood at right angles to Anastasia, pressed his le
ft hand on the front of her left shoulder, then quickly swept his boot behind her knees. She instantly collapsed onto the ground, landing on her side, before scrabbling up and righting herself.

  Balthazar said nothing as he watched, tried to keep his emotions under control and his reserves of energy in place. For now at least, there was nothing he could do. They were outnumbered and outgunned and they had no phones any more. He held his hands in front of him, tried to keep his elbows wide. A sharp twist and yank could snap a plasticuff, if done with enough leverage and strength, or at least damage the ratchet so it could be levered free.

  Attila watched. ‘Nice try, Tazi.’ He brought Balthazar’s elbows together and produced a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. The Gendarme slid the plasticuff over his wrists and pulled it tight. Attila then taped Balthazar’s elbows together, walked over and did the same to Anastasia. Attila stood very close to Balthazar, so close he could smell the cigarettes and coffee on his breath. ‘You going down, Tazi, or do I have to do it for you?’

  Balthazar looked across the street before he answered. An elderly lady in a worn brown coat was passing by on the other side of the road. She glanced at the scene and quickly scurried off. He crouched low, his cuffed, outstretched arms now resting on his knees. Attila turned to Anastasia. ‘You too, Duchess.’

  The two Gendarmes stood guard over them as Anastasia manoeuvred herself into the stress position. Balthazar watched Attila step away to make a telephone call. The position was bearable for a minute or so. After five, the pain in Balthazar’s thighs radiated from his calves to his thighs and up into the small of his back. For a moment he wondered if he could get inside the Rabbinical Seminary, hide somewhere with Anastasia and summon help. Balthazar knew the building reasonably well. There was a maze of tunnels underneath that dated back to the Second World War, when Jews had hidden there from the Nazis and their local Arrow Cross allies. The seminary had once been part of his beat. Over the months he had become friends with the Rabbi, David Stern, a Hungarian-born Jew who had been raised as an atheist by devoutly Communist parents, then rediscovered his heritage after the collapse of the old system. There was a synagogue inside the building but the Friday-evening services had ended several hours ago. Or maybe he could somehow make a run for it, across the square.

  Attila saw Balthazar turn his head to look at the seminary gates. ‘There’s nobody there, Tazi. Especially not tonight. Anyway, it’s the Sabbath. Your friends have all gone home for Friday-night dinner. You should have, too.’

  A second Gendarme SUV arrived, discharging another four men. ‘Now, Tazikam, I’ll ask you one last time. Are you joining us, or do we have to give you a taste of our hospitality?’

  ‘Join what?’ asked Balthazar. ‘Your organisation doesn’t exist.’

  Attila laughed, turned to the other Gendarmes. ‘And yet, here we are.’ His voice hardened. ‘And there you are.’ He looked down at Anastasia. ‘What about you, Duchess? We could use a class act like you.’

  Anastasia spat on the ground. ‘Kocsog.’

  Attila’s face creased in anger. This could not be laughed off. He had been humiliated in front of his men. He stood over Anastasia. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered.

  ‘I’m fine down here,’ she replied.

  Attila gestured to the Gendarme who had arrested Balthazar and Anastasia. They picked her up, held her steady on her feet while the blood supply slowly returned to her legs. A third stepped forward, unclipped his taser, pointed it at her shoulder and squeezed the trigger. A sharp snap sounded and her eyes opened wide as a projectile on a wire raced towards her. She clamped her mouth closed, determined not to shout or scream as the barbs sliced through her denim jacket and touched her skin. Her legs gave way and her eyes rolled back in her head. Just as she collapsed, the two Gendarmes on either side caught her and lowered her prone body to the ground.

  Attila turned to Balthazar. ‘Now then, see how gentle we are? We can be gentle with you, Tazi. Or rough, if you like.’

  Balthazar braced himself. He and the entire murder squad, as well as several other specialist units, had been put through taser training when the weapons had been introduced to the Budapest police force. The training had included the experience of actually being tasered, albeit with a five-second charge, the weakest of the shocks the machine could administer. He still remembered it as one of the most unpleasant experiences of his life, worse than being knocked unconscious at Keleti the previous week. There he had gone down fighting, giving as good as he could until the knockout blow landed. There was nothing to do against a taser, just wait for the hammer blow of total body pain to hit after the snap of the projectile as it flew forward. At least he, unlike some older colleagues, had not lost control of his bladder.

  Balthazar looked at Anastasia, crumpled and moaning softly on the pavement, her hair in disarray. For a moment he saw Alex’s face, heard his son’s voice saying ‘Hi, Dad’ while they hugged. He imagined Sarah and Alex at his front door the next morning, Sarah eventually giving up when there was no answer. Unless Eniko stayed. He hoped she had the sense to call Reka for help and get out, once he did not come home or answer his phone.

  Attila said, ‘Still waiting for your answer, Tazi.’

  He turned to Attila, a cold anger surging through him. ‘Like she said.’

  Attila gestured at the blonde Gendarme. He aimed the taser at Balthazar. Just as he pulled the trigger, Balthazar jumped up, raised his hand and shoved Attila into the path of the flying probe. It hit the middle of his stab vest, then fell to the floor, the four prongs still sparking uselessly. For a second Attila looked down in surprise. That was enough time for Balthazar to pivot on one heel and swiftly kick Attila in the groin with full force. Had the kick landed properly it would have felled Attila. Instead he skipped sideways, dodging most of the blow, but receiving enough to reel backwards.

  Balthazar dived forward. His right hand grabbed the barrel of the Glock, his left its stock. He raised the weapon and pointed it skywards in case it discharged. Even with his wrists bound together in the duct tape there was a small amount of room to manoeuvre his hands. He kneed Attila in the groin as hard as he could, making contact this time, and twisted hard. Attila grunted in pain. He wobbled, his grip on the gun loosened, then broke. Balthazar pulled the weapon away and out of Attila’s hand and let it slide into his as he spun around. Keeping the pistol trained on the Gendarmes, in a two-handed grip, he walked over to Anastasia. She groaned and opened her eyes, trying to process what she was seeing. Balthazar watched as she shakily stood up, all the while sweeping the pistol back and forth between the Gendarmes as he headed towards the square. But they and Balthazar both knew that six against a single gunman are poor odds, especially when he is helping a partner whose limbs barely worked.

  As the Gendarmes began to advance, one of their number peeled off to the side. Anastasia staggered alongside Balthazar into Gutenberg Square, while he was still covering the Gendarmes. Just as he noticed that there were only five now, the sharp snap sounded again. A sledgehammer hit him in the shoulder, the pain exploded through him. His muscles stopped working and he collapsed. The Gendarme fired again; daggers tore at his other shoulder, his body shuddered and he passed out.

  Under Kossuth Square, 11.45 p.m.

  Omar Aswan turned to Pal Dezeffy. ‘The money has been deposited?’

  Pal nodded. ‘Check your account. One million dollars for you.’ He turned to Adnan Bashari, ‘And the same for you.’ Pal handed both men burner telephones. ‘Call your people. One million each now, and the rest once the work is finished. Please, check.’

  Both men did as he bade, speaking in rapid Arabic. Satisfied with what they heard, they both cracked open the telephones, took out the SIM cards and crushed them underfoot, before removing the batteries, then smashing the handsets.

  The two Arab men, Pal and Attila Ungar were standing in a large chamber that stretched for twenty yards in each direction under Kossuth Square. The room was brightly lit and silent apart fr
om the distant humming of an air-conditioning unit. The walls were bare grey concrete, the floor covered with granite tiles. The air was damp and chilly and the room illuminated by neon striplights. A few yards away, in the centre of the room, stood a large yellow metal box, about two yards long, three yards wide and four yards tall. Tall brass pipes extruded from each end, each with a pressure dial a foot or so from the box. The pipes extended out into a web of fine tubes that were attached under the ceiling. The yellow box was an industrial-strength pump that converted plain water into a mist, the mist that every hour during daytime in the hot summer months gusted up from the ground on Kossuth Square, delighting and cooling the hordes of tourists. A computer-controlled timer panel on the side of the pump controlled the delivery time. It all ran automatically. The timer had a manual override switch in case of faults in the programming.

  ‘You can make this work?’ asked Pal, his voice slightly uncertain.

  ‘For four million dollars we can make anything work,’ said Aswan.

  Omar looked at Adnan, who followed him as they walked over to the yellow pump. On top of the metal covering was a wide plastic cap. Omar stood staring at the machine for several seconds, then gestured at Adnan, who unscrewed the cap. Omar peered down into the water chamber, then waved his fingers at the opening. Adnan replaced the cap.

  Omar shrugged. ‘It is simple. We add the mixture to the water. We adjust the timer. The mixture combines with the water. The mist is pumped out over Kossuth Square.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We will come back tonight. We need to wear proper suits and masks.’